As he did so the iron-shod doors in the blank stone wall beneath the lights opened with a clang, framing a white-coated manservant beyond whom Boselli could see a fountain playing in a green-fringed courtyard, like something out of the Arabian Nights.
'Signore.' The servant bowed deferentially to Audley. Boselli hurried round the car to take charge.
'I am Signor Boselli,' he snapped. 'Signor Narva is expecting me.'
The servant eyed him coolly, then inclined his head forward in what was little better than a nod.
'Signore—signori—if you will please follow me.'
They passed under the arched doorway, through a short passage and into the courtyard Boselli had glimpsed earlier.
Cascades of bright flowers tumbled down the walls out of the night sky, half obscuring the gaps between the slender columns on three sides of the square. The jet of the fountain in its centre sprang from a shell held aloft in the hands of a beautiful bronze nyrtjph whose breasts glistened wetly through the sparkling droplets of water. It was deliciously cool, almost cold, and Boselli had the impression that it would always be cool here, even on the hottest and brightest dummy2
day.
This was what wealth was all about, this privacy, this secret elegance designed to sustain no one but its master. The opulence of the scene pressed down on him, overawing him against his will, for although he was here as the representative of the State, with theoretical powers far beyond that of any individual, he had too often seen the way wealth and influence, wielded with more single-minded determination than the servant of some distant bureaucratic agency would dare to exert, could nullify those powers.
Nullify them—and maybe ruin the career of the servant in the process. Even as it was, Narva would be angered by the intrusion of policemen into his privacy, so it would be prudent for Boselli to maintain a low, apologetic profile, letting the Englishmen do the talking.
The servant led the way through a gap in the colonnade, down a broad stone stairway, and, turning sharply to the right at the foot of it, along another broad stone-flagged walk. On their right the house— the castle, Boselli supposed—
rose up sheer; on the left, beyond a low parapet, was more of that black emptiness from which he had cringed in the car, with the smell of the sea rising up from below.
The walk continued into a vine-covered loggia, set with wrought-iron chairs sharply picked out in the light which shone through wide-open French windows. Here the servant halted, gesturing them into the light. Boselli paused momentarily, gathered his courage, and then followed the dummy2
gesture into the room, screwing up his eyes against the brightness.
Eugenio Narva was like, and yet unlike, his picture in the files.
Like, because the big, aggressive nose and strong mouth, the high forehead and the thick iron-grey hair were all a matter of pictorial record.
But unlike, because when you'd documented everything and recorded everything, you still only had a two- dimensional portrait. Over the years Boselli, who lived in the midst of thousands of such facts and figures, had learnt that in the end. Partly it had come from his own observation, but most of all from his attendance on the General, who always seemed to set greater store by what men didn't say, or wouldn't say—or couldn't bring themselves to say—about others.
He had sometimes felt that the General expected his operatives to have the eye of an artist and the tongue of a poet in addition to their other attributes. Certainly, the compiler of the Narva file had not dared to describe how the man stood, squarely and solidly, as though he had roots in the rock under his feet . . . and that consequently anything made of flesh and blood which collided with him would very likely come off a poor second.
'Signor Boselli?'
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Boselli started, gulped, bowed.
'I am—Boselli, Signor Narva.'
Narva's dark eyes shifted towards the Englishmen.
'May I present Professore Audley and Cap—and Signor Richardson, of the British Ministry of Defence.'
'Gentlemen—' This time Narva inclined his head. 'You are not from the Embassy, then?'
'From England,' said Audley.
'To see me?'
'To see you, Signor Narva.'
'Then you have come a long way just to see me.' Narva turned back to Boselli, and back into Italian. 'And for this reason I have policemen on my grounds?'
'Indirectly, signore—for your protection.'
'So it was said. But it was not said from whom I am being protected. And I would like to know, Signor Boselli.'
'From the Communists, signore.'
A small frown creased Narva's forehead. 'I have the most cordial relations with the local Communists. And with the Communist Party. I certainly do not need protecting from them.'
'The Russian Communists, signore.'
'Indeed?' The frown was replaced by raised eyebrows and bland disbelief. 'That is surprising, since I have never had any dealings with them.'
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