The Memory Trap (3 page)

‘You go to Naples.’

‘
Naples?
’
If it had been Timbuktoo, it would have made no better sense.

‘Paul Mitchell will meet you—he’s already there. And Miss Loftus will also be there by the time you arrive. They will each brief you. But you are in charge, they know that.’

‘I should damn-well think so—‘ A disorderly crowd of questions jostled Audley’s brain, pushing in through the hole
Naples
had made in his concentration ‘—What’s Mitchell doing in Naples?’

‘His brief is to watch your back. But at the moment he’s looking for someone I want you to talk to. Someone you know, David.’ Butler stared at him. ‘Do you remember Peter Richardson?’

The disorderly crowd stopped jostling as Naples suddenly became at least partially explicable. ‘Yes, I remember him.’ He decided to leave it at that with his Neapolitan boarding light winking at him behind Butler.

‘I have his service record here.’

Audley accepted the buff envelope automatically. But then he found he could no longer leave it at that after all. ‘What has Peter Richardson got to do with Kulik? He retired years ago. And he wasn’t with us long, anyway.’

‘Kulik gave us Richardson’s name before he died. His name and your name again, David.’ Butler continued to stare at him. ‘Is there anything you know about Richardson that we ought to know—‘ He glanced down at the envelope ‘—that may not be on record?’

So that was why he was here: to ask the old 64,000 dollar question!

‘Without looking at the record … ‘ Then he shrugged. Obviously there wasn’t anything of significance in it, otherwise he wouldn’t have been given it. And the only thing he did know about Peter Richardson which wouldn’t be in there had nothing to do with security matters, but was well covered by his own word of honour. ‘But … I can’t think of anything. Only, I haven’t set eyes on him for years. Not since he up and quit on us. And that would be … ‘74, was it? Years ago, anyway. And I didn’t know him all that well, even then.’ He lifted the envelope. ‘Isn’t that clear from the record?’

‘He once pulled you out of trouble, in Italy.’

‘He did—yes.’ No use denying what was on record. ‘And he was there up north, on that job of yours at Castleshields. But I still hardly knew him—he was Fred Clinton’s man, not mine.’ It was Kulik’s word against his, it seemed. ‘Fred’s man—Fred’s mistake, wasn’t he?’ That would also be in the damn record, even if Sir Frederick Clinton himself was honourably dead-and-buried, so he didn’t need to labour the point. But Kulik’s word was final, of course: there was no arguing with a dead man. ‘So you want me to talk to Peter Richardson. So I’ll talk to him.’ All the same he was still more than puzzled. ‘You didn’t sweat all the way from the Embankment just to ask me if I knew more than was in this rubbish—‘ he held up the envelope again ‘—did you?’

‘I want you to bring him in, David. We can’t force him to come. But I think he may be safer under wraps for the time being. And he may listen to you, of all people.’

There was a sharp knock on the door. And, on cue, the Neapolitan boarding light had become desperate.

‘
Wait!
’
Butler gave the man outside his old Army voice. ‘When I said that it could have been you in Berlin I meant it. That’s why I’m giving you Mitchell to watch your back. And your front, too.’ The parade-ground volume had gone, but it was still Colonel Butler speaking, not Sir Jack. ‘Until I’m satisfied that that second bullet didn’t have your name on it I can’t be sure that there isn’t a third bullet still unfired, with Richardson’s name on it. So you must exercise due caution in Naples, David. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Jack.’ Or, as everyone was so fond saying,
See Naples, and die
! But, in the meantime, he had a plane to catch.

THEY WERE
waiting for him at Naples too, of course: they took him off the plane ahead of everyone else. Only this time, even though the stewardess treated him like a VIP, the rest of them were in two minds about him—even those who heard him addressed as
Professore
—

‘Professore Audley? This way, if you please, Professore.’

Everyone had looked at him when he’d arrived last and late. Now, regardless of the Italian custom of upping even the most cobwebby doctorate to professorial status, the suspicious expressions on the faces of those passengers nearest to him suggested that they were mentally bracketing him with
Professore
Moriarty, as another master-criminal caught at last.

But after that it was simpler, with no Heathrow labyrinth to negotiate, only a car waiting for him, with Paul Mitchell standing beside it.

Or, rather, three cars—

Or, rather … half the Italian army?

‘Hi there, David.’ In dark glasses and open-necked shirt Mitchell looked like any late-season English tourist, in striking contrast to Audley’s Italian escort, whose shiny crumpled suit had shouted ‘Policeman’ in confirmation of those recent passenger-suspicions. ‘Good flight?’

‘What are all those soldiers doing?’ Audley pointed past Mitchell.

‘Don’t worry. They’re not your reception committee.’ Mitchell waved an acknowledgement to shiny suit, who was hovering beside the rearmost car. ‘There’s some sort of anti-terrorist scare in progress … although they’re calling it “an exercise”, like the SURE one you must have seen at Heathrow.’ He re-directed the wave to the front car. ‘So everyone’s being screened and searched.’ Now he opened the passenger door. ‘Everyone except us, that is … Get in, David, there’s a good fellow … No, we’re cleared to go out by the back entrance, with these special branch types for protection.’

Audley regarded the small battered Fiat with distaste.

‘Yes … well, I’m sorry about the transport.’ Mitchell grinned ruefully at him. ‘Only, I wanted to drive you, so we could talk. And this was all they could find at short notice. But … it is unobtrusive. And I have put the seat back as far as it’ll go, anyway.’

‘What about my bags?’ Mitchell’s rather strained cheerfulness was almost as irritating as the Fiat. ‘And where’s Elizabeth?’

‘Elizabeth is chatting up the local cops and the
Guardia di Finanza
.’ Mitchell circled the car. ‘She’ll be meeting us along the coast. And your bags are being held at the airport. Don’t worry.’

So that was the last of his luggage, thought Audley. But, although he couldn’t see what the Italian customs service had to do with Peter Richardson, it was perhaps as well that Elizabeth was elsewhere, because there certainly wasn’t room for her in the back of this car. ‘I’m not worrying. Just tell me about Peter Richardson.’

The car started with a jerk which banged his knees against the dashboard.

‘Damn! Sorry!’ Mitchell struggled with the gear-box. ‘This isn’t exactly what I’ve been used to—it drives in Italian … or maybe Neapolitan—ah!’

Mitchell’s pride and joy at home was a second-hand Porsche, which he had got cheaply for cash after the stock market crash, Audley remembered. Tell me about Peter Richardson, Mitchell.’

‘Major Richardson—?’ Mitchell flogged the car to catch up with the unmarked police vehicle ahead. ‘I thought you were the expert on the elusive Major, David?’

Audley’s heart sank. So far from being an expert, he still thought of Peter Richardson as
Captain
, not
Major
. But, of course, that last promotion had been Fred Clinton’s work at the time of the fellow’s departure, as a sop to their mutual feelings of still more-or-less friendly regret. But that wasn’t what mattered so much as the adjective Mitchell had added. ‘What d’you mean “elusive”? Haven’t you found him?’

The Fiat juddered to a halt, within inches of the leading car which had stopped at what was now a heavily defended exit, complete with a brace of light tanks.

‘Yes … well … “yes-and-no” is the answer to that, David.’ Mitchell peered through the dirty windscreen, watching the Italian special branch arguing with the Italian army. ‘Or, rather, “no-and-yes”, more accurately.’

Audley felt his temper begin to slip, but then checked it. Of all his colleagues, apart from Jack Butler himself, he knew Paul Mitchell best. So now he could recognize the tell-tale signs under that accustomed casualness, for all that the man’s eyes were concealed behind sunglasses. And the 30-millimetre cannon which was more or less pointing at them at this minute no more accounted for those whitened knuckles on the hands of the steering-wheel than did the little car’s gearbox account for that bruising start.

‘Uh-huh?’ If Paul Mitchell was frightened, then perhaps Jack Butler was right—and perhaps he ought to be
properly
frightened too. But fear was in itself a debilitating influence, so whatever was scaring Mitchell, a display of Audley-temperament would serve no useful purpose.

‘Uh-huh?’ As Mitchell turned to him he just had time to compose his own expression into what he hoped was one of innocent inquiry. ‘Is he safe and sound, Paul?’

Mitchell frowned at him, as though such unexpected mildness was just another burden, and a rather unfair one. ‘I think … so far as I know he is—yes.’

It was going to be very hard to keep up this Butler-like equanimity. And, in any case, overdoing it would only worry Mitchell more. ‘You
think
—
?
’

Activity ahead mercifully distracted Mitchell. The police seemed to have convinced the army that they were not terrorists making their getaway, and barriers were being variously raised and moved.

Audley braced himself, but this time Mitchell recovered his Porsche-driver’s skill, launching them after the lead car as though they were at the end of a tow-rope, yet still leaving himself half-a-second in which to grimace at his passenger. ‘You know that all this has been happening rather quickly, David—hoicking you back from the States and me from … where I was—?’

Where Mitchell had been was probably Dublin, thought Audley. And that wasn’t a place for rest and recreation. So, until he’d met Elizabeth, he might actually have been cheering up. But after that he might suspect that he’d exchanged the frying pan for the fire. Only that wasn’t what he was about to enlarge upon. ‘Something’s already gone wrong, you mean.’ He tried to sound resigned to such an accustomed turn of events rather than angry.

Mitchell made a face at the thickening traffic ahead. ‘There was a misunderstanding, let’s say.’

‘Oh yes?’ Resignation was actually more appropriate: since no one yet understood what was happening, what else could be expected? ‘Go on.’

‘London sent an SG to Rome, warning them that I was coming—and that you were also en route, and that you wanted to talk to Major Richardson.’ Mitchell massaged the steering-wheel. ‘To be fair to them in Rome, David … the SG wasn’t all that explicit. It didn’t specify any sort of emergency in asking them to locate Richardson.’

‘It didn’t mention Berlin, you mean?’ That was hardly surprising. ‘So what did they do?’

Mitchell half-shrugged. ‘They had his address in Amalfi of course. And a bit more than that, seeing he’d been in the business himself in the old days. So they didn’t think twice about picking up the phone and calling him up with the good news that you were about to drop in at his
palazzo
—
‘
He glanced at Audley ‘—is it really a
palazzo
—
?’

‘They mentioned my name?’ Audley brushed the question aside.

‘They didn’t at first—‘ The slipstream of an enormous lorry made the little car shudder ‘—they didn’t actually get through to him, only to some servant at the
palazzo
…
what do
palazzos
have? Butlers—? Major-domos?’ The vision of a sun-bathed palace on the Amalfi coast, complete with a uniformed staff, animated a curiosity tinged with envy in Mitchell. ‘And it’s the old family place too, isn’t it? His mum was a
marchesa
or a
principessa
, or something, wasn’t she?’

‘They mentioned my name?’ There was no particular reason why Mitchell should know anything about Richardson. Except that Mitchell always knew more than was good for him.

‘Only when he played hard to get. I think they rather thought he must be an old buddy of yours, David. And when the … major-domo, or whatever … when he kept telling ‘em the Master was busy, or otherwise-engaged, and could he take a message
per favore
…
then I’m afraid they did name-drop.’

‘And what happened then?’ Audley still couldn’t put that “yes-and-no”, “no-and-yes”, together.

‘Then I arrived—in Rome. And I had a little talk with Jack. And, of course, he told me to play it by the book, and tell the Italians we were on their patch, looking to have a chat with an old comrade.’

Audley’s heart sank again as he imagined what the Italians would have on file under
Audley, David Longsdon
. It would have been all right if old General Montuori was still alive, albeit in well-earned retirement. But with no one to explain the truth between the lines recording his one-time Italian activities Montuori’s successor would inevitably expect trouble once that name re-appeared on his blotter—just as Peter Richardson might also have done.

Damn
! ‘Are you about to tell me that Richardson is now missing, Peter?’

‘Yes—yes-and-no, David—‘

‘And just what the hell is that meant to mean?’ As he turned on Mitchell the car plunged into a tunnel, startling him as it bathed everything in garish orange light.

‘It’s not quite as bad as it seems, maybe.’ The orange light flickered eerily on Mitchell’s face. ‘The Italians got a bit up-tight at first.’

Surprise, surprise
! ‘They did?’

‘Yes … They insisted on helping us—on finding Richardson themselves, and delivering him to us. I rather got the impression that he isn’t exactly
numero uno
in their popularity stakes.’

‘What—?’ They were in the midst of a deafening maelstrom of tunnel noise-and-traffic on a multi-lane autostrada which hadn’t existed in his old Neapolitan days—the days of General Montuori and
Captain
Richardson.
‘
Richardson
—
?
’