Richardson was glad he hadn't sounded too serious. It left him room for a touch of stupidity.
'Well, it's one hell of a coincidence, David.' He grinned.
'And the Russians don't go much on the old boys' network, either, surely?'
'Old boys' network?' Audley blinked. 'No, they don't... in fact there's probably nothing in it—'
And that touch left Audley room to wriggle out. Which he was promptly doing.
'—You're quite right, Peter. But either way it doesn't matter, because we can leave Korbel to Sir Frederick and Ruelle to General Montuori, anyway. They don't concern us, thank God.'
If there was one sure thing now, thought Richardson, it was dummy2
that Korbel and Ruelle concerned him very much indeed.
'We concentrate on Narva, you mean.'
Two sure things, rather: Audley still knew one hell of a lot more about Korbel and Ruelle than he was admitting.
'Right.' Audley bobbed his head in agreement.
'And 'we' means me, David.'
'Right.'
'And Boselli comes along for the ride.'
Shrug. 'If that's the way you must have it.'
'It's the only possible way.'
Audley raised both his hands, fingers spread, in acceptance.
'So— we all go to see Narva. Right!'
And thirdly and sadly: ex-friend David was one big ruddy liar.
XIII
AT LEAST THE General's new instructions made things easy
—that was one good thing: all he had to do was to make sure the Englishmen didn't make a run for it, which under the circumstances of the General's conversation with Sir Frederick Clinton they were most unlikely to attempt.
Nor was it the only good thing, by any means. One had to beware of optimism, particularly as Villari had not yet regained consciousness after his operation. But there was dummy2
hope even there, for if he survived his memory might well be vague about that last split second: the farther the whole episode receded into the past in Boselli's own mind the more vague the truth became and the more he felt disposed to believe what was now the official story. That was the way history was formed after all—by the acceptance of what people wanted to believe.
The important thing was that the General was pleased with him so far. Admittedly, some of that approbation was founded on his edited account of the interview with Richardson, whom he had represented as shrewd and tough and unco-operative, but from whom he had none the less extracted useful information about Narva and the political implications of his industrial espionage activities.
Privately Boselli was convinced that Richardson was by no means as formidable as he had suggested, but that like all the native inhabitants of these parts he was merely untrustworthy and overweeningly sure of himself—and his English blood had merely reinforced those defects of character.
The man Audley was a very different proposition. He had watched the fellow during dinner and had gained very little enlightenment beyond the confirmation of what had been recorded in the dossier: that superficial appearances were deceptive, and that behind the bulkiness of the athlete running to seed—that had been Villari's assessment— there lurked the sort of intellectual he instinctively feared.
dummy2
Yet Audley was undeniably nervous, where Richardson was smooth and relaxed. While both had been noticeably careful with the wine, the older man had merely picked at his food while the younger had gorged himself, scorning Boselli's warning that the local seafood sometimes tested foreign stomachs with the boast that his was the least foreign stomach at the table. Indeed, the two seemed to draw away from each other during the meal, the pure Englishman becoming more English, more monosyllabic, and the half-Englishman becoming increasingly Italian.
Boselli had been so fascinated with his study of them that he had forgotten his own hunger, and now as they snaked along the coast road its pangs were already gnawing at his delicate stomach. However, in the circumstances this was probably just as well, for though lack of food had never sharpened his wits—that was a lie spread by the satisfied to appease the starving—too much of it invariably dulled them. Moreover, on this particular journey he would have had difficulty keeping any respectable quantity of food in its proper place, for the road was carved out of the side of the cliff along a tortuous coastline and the police driver seemed desperate to impress his passengers with his skill: on every hairpin bend the black emptiness of the seaward edge was hideously close.
'How much farther?' The big Englishman lapsed into his native tongue, then quickly corrected himself into Italian by repeating the question.
'We must be nearly there now.' Richardson swung round in dummy2
the front seat and Boselli picked up the garlic on his breath once more. 'That was Praiano we just passed —'
They had all seemed identical, the little towns and villages through which they had come in the darkness, with the same people, the same houses and the same scenes momentarily illuminated. But for Richardson every place
