could have been even before he had gone to the university or during his studies (the famous guerrilla leader Lawrence had spied on the Turks while still a student, Boselli recalled with dummy2
a mixture of outrage and admiration. No doubt it was neither the first nor the last time the English had played that game).
What was certain was that he had never returned to the Army, but as the facts ran and reran through Boselli's memory he could reach no conclusion beyond that he had reached on first encountering them: the man was young, but he would be clever and tricky—and doubly tricky because that mixture of English and Italian blood was traditionally a bad one, prone to bring out the worst of each.
That was true of George Ruelle, certainly; it remained to be seen whether it was true of Captain Peter John Richardson.
When it came at last, it came quickly, out of the haze and straight down on to the runway, a compact little executive jet of RAF Air Support Command.
Once down it swung quickly to the right, directly towards the group by the perimeter fence, set its passenger down accurately and quickly no more than seventy-five metres away, and then swung back again on its direct path towards the main buildings.
The first warning was the man's grace. Boselli was always a little suspicious of too much ease of movement, too much physical confidence. That had been what Villari had had, and this man had it too: he gave the pilot a wave and then, as the aircraft left him, took one slow look around him before he started towards Boselli, a small leather travelling bag in one dummy2
hand and his jacket, slung negligently over his shoulder, in the other. He looked as if he owned everything he could see.
A small pain hammered just above Boselli's left eyebrow, a sickening migrainelike pulse. Already he did not like the half-Englishman.
'Signor Boselli?' The toothpaste-white teeth lit up the good-looking brown face, a totally Mediterranean face without a single Anglo-Saxon feature.
'Captain Richardson?'
'Not captain any more.' The smile remained in position as Richardson stared into Boselli's dark glasses. He breathed in the heat appreciatively. 'Thank God for a little warmth at last. It was raining when we took ofi.'
Boselli ignored the pleasantry. 'Your identification, if you please.'
'Of course.' Richardson handed over a plain black little folder. 'The mug shot's not a bad likeness, don't you think?'
The man's Italian was as faultless as his face, there was even an irritatingly added perfection in the hint of Neapolitan in it. He was smiling in the photograph, too.
'A formality,' said Boselli coldly, handing back the folder.
'Of course.' Richardson nodded. 'And yours?'
The request caught Boselli by surprise; he had never, in his entire career, been asked for his official card by anyone other than the guards on the department, and that only in the dim past. But although the half-Englishman's intention of putting dummy2
him in his place was perfectly clear he could see no way of refusing it without a direct confrontation, and the insolence beneath the smile was too well-hidden for that.
He fumbled for it in his wallet, but unfortunately it had long settled in the innermost fold and in extracting it he dislodged a dog-eared collection of small private objects, including the appalling snapshot of his wife and mother- in-law taken during the previous summer's martyrdom in Viterbo.
The snap fluttered down between them and Richardson bent effortlessly and gathered it up, offering it back as though in exchange for the card while Boselli hastily gathered up the rest.
'A formality also,' said the half-Englishman. 'Shall we go, then?'
Boselli followed him to the car seething with the knowledge that he had allowed himself to be overawed, even though it was the English who were in the weaker position. Yet he knew also that it was not the English who mattered, but the General. If he could only obtain results by seeming to abase himself to this nonchalant pig, then that was how the game must be played. At least it was a role he knew how to fill to the last humiliating syllable. Revenge could come later.
Nevertheless it would be a mistake to surrender too tamely, and he must take the initiative to start with.
'This is a serious business, Captain Richardson,' he began heavily.
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'You're telling me!'
'I am telling you, Captain Richardson. One of our agents has been killed and another lies gravely wounded.'
Richardson chewed on that for a moment before replying.
'I wasn't aware that we were responsible for any of that, signore.'
'It occurred as a direct consequence of the actions of one of your operatives.'
'An indirect consequence. That would be a fairer description.'
'Direct or indirect—the incident occurred and General Montuori is extremely angry about it.'
'So is Sir Frederick Clinton.'
'But General Montuori did not initiate this affair. He wishes to remind you further that Italy and England are treaty allies and that such actions as this could have grave repercussions within NATO.'
That sounded good, Boselli decided happily, because it sounded official. It was beside the point that it was
