Boselli looked about him wildly, clutching the precious tape recorder to his chest. Better a broken ankle than a broken tape recorder —it was small, but it had an expensive weight and feel to it even apart from its contents.
'My coat?'
'They're not blind, man. That white shirt of yours stands out like a surrender flag. Cover it up!'
The shirt blended in rather well with the stones, thought Boselli, and his jacket felt like an overcoat in the heat. But an order was an order.
The General lay full length in the dirt, half under a bush on the lip of the bank, a large pair of binoculars beside him.
Boselli began to scramble up, his boots slipping in the loose pebbles. When he had reached the level of the General's feet he stopped, steadying himself with his free hand.
'Beside me—here,' ordered the General, indicating a dusty patch just within the shadow of the bush. It was clear that he expected Boselli to prostrate himself similarly, which was all very well for someone in battle dress and combat jacket, but which would put the finishing touch to the suit's degradation.
Unhappily he edged his way up the last stage of the incline and stretched himself alongside his master.
'Good. Now have a look at the place,' said the General dummy2
briskly, offering the binoculars.
It was just as hot in the shadow as in the open, but the General showed no sign of discomfort. In fact quite the opposite: he radiated an air of well-being and good humour—
it was obvious that he was enjoying himself playing at being an operational commander again after so many desk-ridden years.
And so he might, thought Boselli, because no ordinary commander would have been able to cut through all the interdepartmental, inter-force rivalries so easily. When the General whispered, people moved; when he spoke they jumped; when he growled they broke the sound barrier. He had known this before, but he had never participated in it actively, and the memory of what he himself had achieved in the past few hours using the General's name steadied him now. There were morale-raising rewards in pretending to be a man of action, always provided one could keep out of the front line.
As if to support this conclusion came the distant sound of the spotter plane, making its second pass exactly on schedule. It droned high over their heads, corrected its course to pass directly over the hill and disappeared over the mountains beyond.
Boselli wedged his dark glasses above his brow, blinking for a moment in the harsh light, wiped his sweaty palm on his trousers, and accepted the binoculars.
It took him ten fumbling seconds to adjust them—the dummy2
General must be as blind as a bat—and then the hilltop came up in focus, first the vines, then the outbuildings, and finally the dilapidated farmhouse itself. But there was not a sign of movement anywhere, and he could see nothing more in close-up than he had been able to see with the naked eye half a mile down the gulley of the watercourse, in the grove of trees where the cars were hidden.
He lowered the binculars and stared at the landscape around.
The ground directly ahead was bare and scrubby for perhaps half a mile, maybe more, until the first row of vines. Away to the right he could see the naked line of the track which must lead to the farm from the road. It was poor country and the wine from those grapes would be harsh—a land of bare subsistence living.
'Well?'
Boselli shrugged. 'If this is the place—it looks uninhabited.'
'It is the place.'
'They could be lying.'
He realised that he didn't know—would never know—who
'they' were. It had been just a voice calling the number they had given from a public callbox—at the
'Disobeying an order coming all the way from the Kremlin?'
The General snorted. 'I really don't think that's very likely.
Besides, I know it is the place.'
Boselli waited for enlightenment.
'According to the local police it is owned by the brothers dummy2
Giolitti, but unless I'm very much mistaken their real name is Prezzolini . . . and they were both founder- members of the Bastard's execution squad in the old days.' The General nodded up towards the hill speculatively. 'This is the place.'
He turned back to Boselli. 'And now, Pietro—you have arranged everything?'
'Yes, General—' Boselli checked his watch, '—the helicopter will be here on the hour. The spotter plane —'
'That was on time. It has made two passes.' The General nodded. 'Just enough to alert them, but not quite enough to frighten them. The chopper will do that.'
'And it is necessary to frighten them?'
'Oh, yes. That is the psychology of it—Dr. Audley's psychology. You must remember that this is really his operation, Pietro. We have merely implemented it.'
