Old Enemies (32 page)

‘So let’s get this over with, Mr Jones. I’m not sure what’s going on between you and Terri, and I’m not a man to moralize. On my old grandmother’s grave, if I were D’Amato I’d be banging her myself, but I told you before. Blood. Family. In the end, they’re the things that count.’

‘I agree.’

‘’Tis an awful long way to the gates of Heaven, Mr Jones, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be making the trip. Too many diversions along the way, things I didn’t get right. Just like a politician. A paratrooper, even.’

‘Let alone a Provo,’ Harry said, finishing off the thought.

‘That’s right. But you’d better be clear in your mind about one thing. I’m here in this place to protect my family, Mr Jones, not to sit back and watch you pull it apart.’

Harry raised his cup. ‘Then, to family.’

‘And to Hell with anyone who gets in my way.’

They left it there, for the moment.

The couple next to them vacated their table; a seagull swooped down on the breeze, eyeing the biscotti left on a plate. Harry’s ear was burning again. Perhaps it was the effect of the freshening wind, but he had an idea it might be in warning. He pushed aside his cup. ‘There’s one thing I don’t like about this, Sean.’

‘Just the one?’

‘We know how bloody dangerous the kidnappers are, even when everything was going well for them. Now they’ve had their plans kicked to pieces. They’re on the run, and rushing, too. Why the hell have they brought the deadline forward to Christmas?’

‘I wish to God I knew.’

‘It’s like they’re losing control. This isn’t a recipe for happiness on anyone’s part.’

Sean sucked his cheeks. ‘Been thinking along those lines myself. And something else that’s been nipping at my mind. In the rush to get out of the farmhouse, to escape, did they let Ruari see their faces? If he has, they’re not going to let him get away, not with him being able to identify every single one of the murdering bastards, no matter how much we pay them. You know how the game is played.’

‘We can’t be sure.’

‘In their place, would you be willing to take that risk?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Harry replied softly.

The seagull had set down on the nearby table and was scavenging. The waiter advanced, flapping his towel, the bird screeched and took off in fright, knocking the glasses to the pavement where they shattered into a hundred pieces of ice. Muttering to himself, the waiter stalked off in search of a broom. If only their mess could be cleared up so easily, Harry mused.

‘So,’ the Irishman said, ‘what are you thinking the next step should be?’

‘You asking me?’

‘Looks like it. Just this once.’

Harry didn’t answer immediately, staring instead into the dregs of his cup like a fortune-teller in search of an answer. ‘D’Amato and the police, you trust them?’ he eventually asked.

‘Trust?’ Sean raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t trust them with my shirt on a winter’s night.’

Harry’s fingers went to his ear. It was still burning, warning him of pain to come. He sighed. ‘In which case, if Ruari is to stand any chance, he’ll have to be got out, and quickly. Before the Christmas deadline. And we’ll have to do it, you and me; we don’t have time to wait for the good inspector to find his way out from inside his secretary’s knickers.’

‘Now there’s something amazing. Pretty soon, Mr Jones, you and I will be agreeing.’

‘But we haven’t any idea where Ruari is. Do you buy D’Amato’s idea that he’s not in Trieste, that this is the last place they’ll hide?’

‘The man’s about as much use as a chocolate teapot,’ Sean spat. ‘There must be some reason why they came to Trieste in the first place. They felt safe here, or they know it well, have friends. That’s maybe why they got warning of the raid. And wasn’t that exactly what we did back during the Troubles when we wanted to confuse the crap out of you lot? Hid right beneath your long British noses, so we did.’ Sean threw Harry a defiant rebel look.

‘And the speed boat?’

‘A feint, a false trail.’

‘So you think they’re here.’

‘Worth a look.’

‘May be a complete waste of time.’

‘Well, what choice do we have? We’ve nowhere else to be scratching around, now, have we?’

We. You and me. It wasn’t different camps any longer. They had slipped into a different place.

‘You know, Sean, you seem to understand the kidnappers’ minds pretty well.’

Sean shook his head, knowing where Harry was leading him. ‘I was never there myself.’ Then his face twisted, almost into a grin, an expression Harry had never seen on him. ‘Except for that feckin’ horse.’

‘What horse?’

‘Shergar. Remember that useless lump of horseflesh?’

Sean’s description was entirely ironic. Like most Irishmen he was a lover of the turf and Shergar had been one of its finest princes, a thoroughbred stallion who had won almost every major race he’d started, often by a record margin, and been worth a king’s ransom at stud. Which was why the Provisional IRA had kidnapped him, demanding five million pounds for his return. The horse had never been seen again.

‘What happened?’ Harry asked, intrigued.

‘A total and unmitigated feck-up, from the moment the nag woke up to discover Micky Ahern trying to stick a needle up his arse. Went wild, kicked himself to buggery, and poor Mickey, too. Buried both of them together.’

Sean allowed himself a brief smile, but it faded quickly. It didn’t seem a particularly good omen.

‘So where do we start, Sean?’

‘Only one place we can. The farmhouse. We start there. Go take a look for ourselves.’

Simona was perched on the edge of D’Amato’s desk, her skirt riding her thigh. The inspector was smiling, she’d just agreed to spend the coming night with him and was even going to book the hotel for him. She made things so easy. They were sharing a whispered joke when his phone rang. As she leaned across him to answer it, her blouse fell forward, leaving him wondering how he would ever find the willpower to hold out until the evening.

She listened for a moment, then held her hand over the receiver. ‘It’s the English,’ she said, in a manner that would have had Sean choking.

He hesitated only for a moment before shaking his head. ‘Get rid of them,’ he mouthed.

‘The inspector is not available,’ she said dutifully, then listened a little more before covering the mouthpiece again. ‘They want to visit the farmhouse.’

The inspector sighed in frustration, dragging his eyes out of their sockets in order to concentrate. ‘Tell them it is a crime scene, not just kidnap but murder, that forensics are still inside, it is not possible.’

Once again she repeated his message, before saying goodbye and placing the receiver back in its cradle. ‘They say they are going anyway.’

D’Amato flicked his fingers in agitation. ‘What do you think, my little bird? You understand men so well.’

‘I think they are going to be trouble,’ she whispered.

Sean, who had the keys, decided he would drive. They took the main road up to the Carso, their rented Fiat 1.4 never getting above third as they wound their way up the steep slope, passing the funicular as it hauled itself on a more direct route up to the plateau. Not until they approached the towering obelisk at Opicina were they able to slip into a higher gear. The monument had been erected by some long-dead Austro-Hungarian ruler to mark the spot where the Carso at last gave way to civilization, a milestone of happiness after the long haul across the wilderness of limestone. The views from the edge of the plateau were extraordinary. On their right hand were the snow-topped mountains of the pre-Alps, on their left lay the rugged forests of Slovenia, while in front of them the ground tumbled down towards the streets and the seafront of Trieste more than a thousand feet below, and beyond that still the gentle waiting waters of the bay that stretched out to the horizon where Venice lurked hidden in the mists. In most other countries the spot would be overwhelmed with souvenir stalls and trinket-sellers, but here there was nothing, just the view, understated and undersold like the rest of Trieste. Opicina itself was little more than a village and a stop at the end of the funicular, yet it was the most substantial spot on the Carso. It took them only minutes to pass through and get onto the winding roads that snaked through the scrub woodland and hard-won fields of the plateau with its ancient, crumbing stone walls and old Karsic houses. These houses had a strong, primitive style, and were squat, as though ducking from the wind, heavily shuttered with long balconies covered in vines and goodluck wreaths tied to the gates. At this time of year the wreaths had withered, and were the colour of rust.

They found the farmhouse without difficulty. Where its track turned off the main road a police car was parked. The occupants were sitting, heads tilted back, caps nudged down over their noses, unaware of Sean and Harry’s arrival until the Fiat had passed them and was bumping and swaying down the tree-shrouded track. They drove for several minutes before they came across an officer who was altogether more alert. He stepped out into their path, held up his hand, brought them to a halt. Over his shoulder, beyond the trees, they could see the farmhouse, scruffy, anonymous, forlorn, in desperate need of a little pointing and paint.

Neither Harry nor Sean had much Italian, and the officer no English. As they attempted to explain what they wanted, he kept shaking his head and uttering ‘
Non si puo
’ – it can’t be done. It seemed like his sermon. Behind him they could see no sign of the forensic teams that the inspector’s office had told them were crawling over the place, nothing beyond another solitary officer who was squatting hatless on the step, smoking and gazing languidly in their direction.

‘Looks like they’re dug in for a long siege,’ Breslin muttered.

‘Something tells me they knew we were coming,’ Harry added.

‘D’Amato,’ they both concluded as one.

There was no point in further argument. They stood at the side of the track in silence for a few moments. Two days ago Ruari had been here. Yet as Sean and Harry shared a private moment, there was one thought Harry knew the other man couldn’t be part of. This might be as close as he ever got to his son.

When they climbed back into the car they had trouble turning, the track was so narrow, hemmed in by tree stumps, and the policeman showed no inclination to help. As at last they set off again, the Fiat clattered into a deep pothole, struggling through it with a jarring clunk of complaint.

‘God help me,’ Sean muttered, ‘but that nice young lady at the car-rental place isn’t going to be happy with us for this.’

The car stumbled on. By the time they made it back to the main road, the two dozing officers were awake, waiting for them, watching with suspicion until they disappeared from sight.

‘Something tells me we’re about as welcome in these parts as a politician with the pox,’ Sean observed.

‘I’ll have to take your word on that,’ Harry replied.

It had been a long day since breakfast. They stopped in a nearby village, at a small
osteria
in the lee of an ancient church tower that had been built on the summit of a hill and dominated the surrounding area. As they pushed open the rough-hewn door they were greeted by the aroma of wood smoke and strong cheese; an elderly woman in a red-check apron bustled towards them. This was authentic Carso, Slovene not Italian, the simplest of establishments with green felt hats on the pegs, frills running along the edge of the lace curtains and painted plates hanging on the walls, a little chunk of Austria that had been dropped two hundred years and several hundred miles from its original home. They had no language in common beyond the woman’s few words of primitive English, but sign language soon brought forth a spread of prosciutto and neck ham along with farmhouse cheese, spiced sausage and a bowl of freshly grated horseradish. A basket of bread and two tumblers of blood-red Terrano were set down in the middle; the wine was a little rough, thick, and excellent for slicing through the fat of the ham. They ordered a second glass as they picked over the plates. They lost themselves in their thoughts, pondering what lay ahead, and it was some time before either of them spoke.