Old Enemies (28 page)

D’Amato knew nothing of three days. He hadn’t been told of any deal. A message would reach him eventually, through the labyrinthine processes of international police procedure, but it hadn’t yet. Even if it had, he would still have wanted to nail the kidnapping bastards, not turn a blind eye and let them wander free. There was no way he would have deliberately risked Ruari’s life but his motives would have been decidedly and perhaps dangerously confused. This was a crime, a sin, a stain upon the honour of Italy and D’Amato’s police record, one that required those who were responsible to have their balls burned upon the pyre of justice, otherwise there was neither glory nor advancement for him.

It was four in the morning when he stole from the bed, not yet five when he joined the officers of the Squadra Mobile unit who had gathered on the Carso. It was still as dark as pitch. The surveillance unit that had been keeping watch overnight had spotted a guard, one of the gang who was supposed to be alert, but indolence and complacency had taken a firm grip after two weeks and even the solitary guard had disappeared, presumably to doze by the fire. There was no sign of any other movement. The rest were asleep. Perfect. Take the bastards by surprise.

Only three doors, one front and back, and a side door leading to the outside toilet. On D’Amato’s signal, and with all windows covered, the twenty-man assault team would begin by blasting open the doors and hurling thunderflashes in front of them, screaming as they charged up the stairs, fanning quickly into every room, creating maximum commotion, and so quickly that those in bed would be taken by surprise, caught fumbling with their trousers, weapons lost in the dark, overwhelmed before anyone had the chance to react and escape, let alone kill their hostage. All over in seconds.

Yet as the doors to the upstairs rooms were kicked open one after the other, like the rattle of a machine gun, confusion took hold. There were fresh shouts. D’Amato was called. He bounded up the stairs, Beretta in hand, explored every room, opened every cupboard and hatch, kicked over every bed, but it changed nothing.

The farmhouse was empty.

There were many signs of a hasty evacuation. Clothes, books, toiletries, personal effects, were left discarded. Food had been left on a plate, a meal unfinished, with not even enough time for it to congeal.

Only when they got to the cellar at the back did they find their first significant clue. There they discovered not one but two bodies, their faces badly beaten and terrible wounds slashed across their throats.

They were the corpses of de Vries and Grobelaar.

His logic, de Vries had thought, was compelling, and with it he could cheat the Romanians on a handsome scale. Cosmin and the others had already been paid fifty per cent of their fee, and while the original agreement with de Vries had been that the other half, less their ‘fine’ of ten thousand dollars, would be paid on completion, he explained that there was now no chance of extracting any further money from their paymasters. And while de Vries said he was as mortified as any of them by this, he also offered them what he held out as good news. The job was over much sooner than anyone had expected, and they could walk away from it with one pocket full, at least, and without the police forces of several nations breathing down their necks. Home by Christmas. Not bad for a few weeks’ work that always held the potential for ending in disaster.

Yet the logic was only compelling if the facts were true, and Cosmin didn’t trust de Vries. Why should he accept half his fee, he said, when his nose had been fully broken? So the two of them had squared up to each other, in front of the fire, and had resumed their fight, except this time Cosmin had won. De Vries had been badly beaten, with much smashing of furniture, and after that Grobelaar went down with almost the first punch.

Cosmin had brought his own logic to the affair, which he explained as de Vries and Grobelaar lay bloodied and helpless at his feet. They had the boy and he was still a valuable commodity, worth a mountain of money to them, and far more than de Vries had ever offered. So Chombo could go shag his own grandmother, this kidnap wasn’t over, not at all. It had only just begun to get interesting.

And still Cosmin wasn’t finished, he pursued his argument like a hound hunts down a fleeing fox. With his boot pressing firmly down upon de Vries’s skull, he argued that whatever ransom they might manage to extract from the boy’s family, it would go even further if there were two less to share it. The arithmetic was very simple, the logic inexorable, the brutality swift and absolute. De Vries and Grobelaar never had a chance.

It didn’t take long for D’Amato to drag himself back from the depths of his disappointment. By the time he had finished his third cigarette he had summoned up two search helicopters, placed the railway station, docks and airport on alert, and ordered roadblocks on all major roads leaving the Carso. However, he wasn’t optimistic. It would take more than an hour to drag additional police officers up from Trieste, which stretched the kidnappers’ head start. He also had to face another considerable problem. It was all very well blocking the major routes, but there were miles of minor roads and hundreds of tracks that snaked through the Carso like the stretch marks on his wife’s belly. For officials such as tax collectors and policemen, it was like stepping into a maze of confusion. He was not optimistic, but he had to go through the motions to cover his official arse, and with that in mind he had already given the surveillance team the most ferocious bollocking of their lives. It was clear they had been incompetent and somehow alerted the gang, and if D’Amato could have his way they’d be dropped down one of the local sinkholes with rocks in their pockets; as it was, they’d be doing night shift stuck on guard outside the police barracks for a month. Somebody had to take the blame, but no matter how much he tried to offload it, he knew that most of it would fall on his shoulders. He’d already talked to the Border Police and would have to do the same with all the neighbouring police authorities and even the Central Operation Service and Central Directorate of Criminal Police in Rome, alert the lot of them, every sniggering bastard amongst them. Admit the failure.
His
failure. The walk from his office to the spot on the carpet in front of the commissioner’s desk back in the Questura would seem like a trek to the North Pole.

D’Amato’s frustration was extreme. It wasn’t just the professional disappointment and the sense of a lost career opportunity, both of which were intense, but also his feelings as a father for the boy they hadn’t saved. He wanted to make amends, but knew he was unlikely to get another opportunity. If he were in the gang’s shoes he’d have fled well away from the area, probably to the border with Slovenia, only three miles away. They were probably across it already, into the badlands. What they wouldn’t do was stay on the Carso, where even now every farmer, bar-owner, cheese-maker, pig-herder, carpenter and quarry man was being turned over by his officers, and in the process almost certainly being turned against them, too. D’Amato knew he and his men had already outstayed their welcome in these parts.

Oh, Mother of God, it would all take a mountain of paperwork to cover over the holes in this operation. That’s what police work had become nowadays – the distribution of blame. And paperwork. As he tossed away the stub of yet another cigarette, once again he offered up a prayer of thanks that at least he had Simona to handle all that for him.

Mary Mishcon had been chasing Harry yet again, no longer bothering to hide the frustration that was taking hold inside Downing Street. What’s your problem, Harry? For pity’s sake, yes or no? As it all ran through his mind he’d spent the night sleepless, thumping pillows. He knew he was ideally suited for the job of Foreign Secretary, thought he might be able to make a real difference in it, and most people would give various valuable parts of their anatomy for the chance.
So what is your problem, Jones?

There was also a compelling new factor. Getting stuck into a new challenge would give him every excuse he needed not to think about Terri. He was thinking a lot about her once again, but in a different light. All those years ago they had always met on their own, in a closeted world of unreality they had created for themselves during stolen days in Venice, Amsterdam, Edinburgh, even St Ives one blustery, sheet-winding weekend. And, of course, there was Paris. Yet all that was gone. He could no longer even think of her without seeing her with J.J., taking centre stage in a world of entanglements that had nothing to do with him and never would.

With that understanding came acceptance. At last his anger with her began to subside, he started to let go of that stubborn dream, although it left him profoundly depressed. It had been pointless, all those wasted years when he should have moved on, and thought he had moved on, until she turned up in Downing Street. But it wasn’t too late.

Yes, the time had come to cut himself off from Terri once and for all. Seeing her again, having her once more in his arms, feeling the storm clouds welling up inside him, had shaken him profoundly, quite apart from his involvement with her son. Typical bloody Terri, she’d always dragged catastrophe into his life. But he’d done as much as he could for her, and for Ruari. It was time to move on.

He’d been hoping for a phone call to tell him that the boy was at last coming back home, but as he waited he wondered who would make that call? A reluctant and remorseful J.J.? Sean, perhaps? Terri? Oh, he hoped not, not her. No, it would probably be that smug bastard Archer, dismissing him like a hotel valet. Harry knew he would be the last to know, bottom of the list.

He stayed longer in the shower than usual, letting the high-pressure stream beat the new day into him. As he towelled himself down he looked at the bedside phone, willing it to ring.
Come on, Jones, time to stop hanging around waiting for others, time to get on with the rest of your life!
Christ, he needed the distraction. Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs. It would take him half the day just to write out his job title. No more room for silly diversions. He made up his mind. He threw the towel into a corner and, sitting naked on his bed, he reached for the phone and dialled Downing Street.