October Men

time ago now—but there was a time when George Ruelle was considered to be a coming man, and a very dangerous one, too.'

He looked from one to another of them. 'That was after the war, when things were . . . very different from now. Tito hadn't shown his hand then, and Albania was Red, and it was touch and go in Greece. Those were the days when the bastard used to visit Moscow two or three times a year.' The General smiled suddenly and frostily. 'I rather think that if things had gone his way, then he might have been sitting at this desk. And I would have been very dead, that's certain.'

The frosty smile faded. 'But they didn't go his way. And when Stalin died, that was the end of him. They didn't want to know him any more.'

Villari frowned. 'But there's still a Stalinist Wing here—I saw Brusati in the Senate as large as life when I went to see my uncle there in the spring—'

'True, boy!' The General nodded. 'But Stalinism is one thing and Stalin's crimes are another. There are some things even the hardliners don't want to be reminded of, and that's what George Ruelle does to them: he reminds them of the dirty things they've done. So they've disciplined him and pensioned him off—and told him to keep the hell out of their way and ours. And so he did, until we spotted him again at the airport.'

dummy2

So it was even slimmer still. If Ruelle was a has-been, his presence in the car park at the time of Audley's arrival was probably no more than coincidence.

And as for Audley— Purpose of visit—holiday might well be the fact of it. The whole business was simply not worth following up, and the sooner the General was advised to that effect, the better.

'Well—' he began neutrally (the General liked to be shown at least two sides of any problem, no matter how many or how few sides there were), '—in my view—'

'Nothing to it,' Villari steamrollered over his words. 'If we acted on every chance meeting like this we'd never have time for real work. Ruelle obviously doesn't count any more—the Russians are working towards a detente at the moment, anyway, to take more of the stuffing out of NATO, so they wouldn't use his sort anyway. And—Jesus Christ!—the Englishman's got his family with him! It just adds up to a big zero.' He turned at last towards Boselli, but with offensive courtesy. 'Of course, Signor Boselli may have other ideas, I've no doubt. . . .'

The lump of hatred came back so fiercely, so suddenly, that Boselli felt the sweat start on his forehead in spite of the air conditioning.

'As a matter of fact, I have,' he heard himself say in the far-off distance.

There was a ringing silence in the room, as though even the dummy2

distant hum of the city had been stilled by his words.

But what ideas? he thought wildly.

Only that the bullying swine had pinched his words, just as he had stolen his information, and that he couldn't— wouldn't

— agree with him under any circumstances!

But he couldn't say that.

The General was looking at him expectantly, though: he had to say something.

And something which made sense!

'It's hot in here,' he said involuntarily, wiping his forehead with the silk handkerchief.

'Is that an idea?' asked Villari.

An idea?

'Yes, it is,' said Boselli suddenly, plucking his line of argument out of space. 'This is always the hottest time of year

—and the newspapers said yesterday that this is the hottest end of July we've had since 1794.'

'That's right,' the General nodded at him, interested curiosity written in his frown. 'I read that too.'

'He's well off, Audley is,' Boselli felt his earlier panic subsiding as he drew on the facts—and that financial fact was always a prime one in any dossier. 'At least, he's got enough money of his own not to have to worry too much. So he can afford to pick and choose where he goes on holiday—and when.'

dummy2

'I fail to see—'

But this time it was Villari who was interrupted, and by the General.

'You mean, only a fool would holiday in Rome at this time of year?' The General stared thoughtfully out of the big window at the midday glare. The sound of the city was hushed not only by the heat and the mezzogiorno, but because it was half empty: as many of the Romans as could abandon it had already done so, as they always did at this time of year.

'Mad dogs and Englishmen,' murmured Villari. 'It's a song of theirs.'

Boselli ignored him. 'Only a fool, or a beginner, or someone who had no other holiday time. And he's none of those. Or someone who had a job to do, a job that wouldn't wait.'

'With his family in tow—and his au pair?' Villari sneered.

Trust him to remember the au pair. But this time Boselli was ready to meet him sneer for sneer. 'The best cover in the world. It's still fooling you, anyway.'

He sensed Villari's hackles rising—the barnyard rooster insulted by a worm just out of its reach; or would the rooster become so incensed as to injure itself in a bid for vengeance?

But the man's instinct hadn't altogether deserted him—or it held him back for a moment, anyway, and in the next moment the General saved him.