October Men

they!

'The Russians haven't made a single big offshore strike since

'67,' said Audley. 'I tell you—we've been had, the lot of us.'

They had grasped their opportunity just like the German, only with violence and without understanding. And above all dummy2

without sacrifice.

And for nothing!

'But I've managed to make a deal for you.' Audley pointed suddenly towards Boselli. 'This is Signor Pietro Boselli—he represents the Ministry of Justice.' He snapped his fingers.

'The documents—'

Boselli reached hurriedly towards his pocket, and then froze as the gun came round towards him.

'Go on, Boselli—put it on the table!'

Carefully Boselli extracted the long envelope with his thumb and forefinger.

'A policeman was killed at Ostia, but his killer died too, so to save more bloodshed they're going to call that square—for forty-eight hours.'

Korbel split open the flap of the envelope and emptied its contents on the table.

'Two passports,' said Audley. 'The pictures are from their files, but the names are blank. Work permits for Switzerland and Germany. Swiss francs and Deutschmarks—not many, but enough to keep you for a few weeks. And a letter from the Minister putting your forty-eight hours in black and white.'

Korbel stared at the table wordlessly, but Ruelle's glare was still fixed on Audley.

Life and death was balanced on Ruelle—they had known that from the start. And now Ruelle was balanced on the edge of despair.

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'And one more thing,' said Audley casually. 'There's a letter.'

He added a pale blue envelope to the other debris.

Korbel reached for the envelope.

'It's addressed—to you.'

'Read it,' said Ruelle.

Bastard—

He wouldn't read the superscription, Boselli hoped, remembering the General's face.

'In exchange for the lives of the woman and the bearers of this letter you will go free. I am required to give you my word of honour to this effect and I hereby do so. You owe me nothing for this, since it is against my advice—the lives of my men, —whom you betrayed, cannot be exchanged. It is my greatest wish that you will find these terms unacceptable—'

XVIII

'AND SO YOU were there when it happened?'

Richardson stared out over the treetops. The rain had damped down the exhaust fumes, bringing out the damp leafy smell of the Park. England—even London—was so much greener than midsummer Italy, which now seemed such a world away. But no greener than Peter Richardson.

'Hardly that. . . .'

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He recognised the signs. Sir Frederick was in the mood for all the ghoulish details, like an old rugby club buff sniffing the tale of an away win, and he would have to be satisfied one way or another.

'. . . We'd pissed around a bit. It was maybe twenty minutes later that we caught up with where it happened. ...'

Montuori had been laying down the ruddy law. Christ—he'd been working on the Bastard's epitaph, and the ink hardly dry on his word of honour—

'Which he kept, Peter—don't forget that. Not one finger did he lift against them!'

Richardson realised that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. He must be losing his little grip at last, then.

'He didn't need to, did he?'

'Ah, but that was the whole point of it. He understood that.'

The whole point.

Sir Frederick smiled. 'Montuori is a soldier, but he's also very much a political animal, and David knew that. . . . He's been itching to get Ruelle for years, only the man was a partisan hero, and a communist one too. If he'd done it himself there would have been awkward questions. So he couldn't resist the deal.'

'And Ruelle?'

'Ruelle was the danger—' Sir Frederick paused judicially, '—

because he was much less predictable. But if you remind a dummy2

man like that how much he hates someone else, you do give him a reason for surviving. And that word of