The Memory Trap

He shrugged. 'Well . . . that was afterwards.' All he could recall from afterwards was the office gossip in which he hadn't been interested. Peter Richardson — Major Richardson now — back with his regiment had been of no consequence whatsoever: he had smashed up one of his sports cars (and been smashed up in it, with it ... but that was no great surprise!); and then his adored Italian mother had died, on whom he had doted. (And that had been sad, maybe . . . but that was the way the world was: kings and queens and chimney- sweepers all had to die sometime; and so did mothers: mothers, and kings and queens and chimney-sweepers were dying all the time. And, anyway, the Principessa had died loaded with lire, to pay for a great big Italian hearse, drawn by four black horses through Amalfi, to solace her loving son in his grief in his inherited palazzo.)

'That was when he retired — resigned?' It was Elizabeth again, not Mitchell. But, where Mitchell had merely dummy1

questioned him about the sequence of events, Elizabeth was frowning at the events themselves.

So now he wasn't so sure of himself. But what he remembered wasn't in doubt, nevertheless. 'That was when he sent in his papers — yes. Because then he had all his inheritance to manage. All the family estates, up and down the coast, Elizabeth —' What made that doubly-sure was that one of Fred Clinton's criteria had been money, always: a man's politics and his sexual weaknesses were two things which mattered most, in those old days. But if he already had money, at least that ruled out arguments about his expenses allowance, when the budget was tight '— so ... that was old money, anyway.' And that was what Fred had liked best: old money. Apart from which, Peter Richardson had always loved his other country, as well as his mother: he had been almost as patriotic about the ancient Republic of Amalfi, which was more than half-a-thousand years older than Italy itself, than about his other Land-of-Hope-and-Glory.

But Elizabeth was still frowning at him. 'What's the matter, Elizabeth?'

She was still frowning. And so much so that even Paul Mitchell wanted to know what the matter was, also —

'Lizzie — ?'

'I think you should talk to Captain Cuccaro, David.'

Now they both looked at her. But Mitchell cracked first. 'Uh-huh? And . . . what did Cuccaro say, Lizzie? Does he want to dummy1

talk to the elusive Major, then? On his own account — ? Does he? Never mind the Russians?'

But she shook off Mitchell and all his questions then, together with her frown. 'It's the Mafia who want to talk to Major Richardson, Cuccaro says. And . . . and, I think that's what he wants to talk to you about, David — '

4

The Italians had not sent a boy to do a man's job: Audley had concluded that already from his brief meeting with Captain Cuccaro when he'd come aboard. But that, in view of what was surely in their records, was hardly surprising. Only close-up it was even more evident.

'Professore.'

'Captain.' Additionally, Cuccaro was what Mrs Faith Audley would have called 'a fine-looking man', as well as an elegant one in his immaculate designer-jeans and expensive shirt (complete with a curious bronze medallion on a chain round his neck). All of which made Audley himself feel even more crumpled and unprepossessing. 'Thank you for joining us, Captain. Your assistance is much appreciated.'

Cuccaro rolled easily with the boat's motion. 'I am here to facilitate your mission, Professore.' He gestured gracefully.

'And, of course, to ensure your safety as well as your success.'

There was no reason why the Italians should connect him dummy1

with events in far-off Berlin. But there was now the extraordinary Mafia intrusion to be explained. 'My safety?'

He let himself almost lose his balance.

Cuccaro grinned suddenly. 'I am also grateful to you for this

—' He swept a hand over the boat ' — these days, I command only a desk, you understand. So this is a most pleasant change — to be at sea again, Professore.'

Small talk, was what Audley understood, even as he grabbed the nearest stanchion in order to keep his feet: if this was the way the game had to be played . . . then the boat first. And that curious medallion . . . which that last lurch had brought close enough for him to be able to make out a bearded head on it, surmounted not by a crown, but what looked like a German pickelhaub.

'Is that so?' He managed to find an Audley-smile from somewhere. 'I wouldn't have thought this is your sort of boat, Captain.' He waved as best he could with his free hand to include the tattered awning and the flaking paint, glancing quickly at Elizabeth (whose expression still bore the remains of the impact of Cuccaro's grin: being dazzlingly smiled-at by handsome men was for her an outrage only a little short of being actually touched by any man, handsome or not). ''A smuggler's boat', Miss Loftus said — ?'

'Yes.' Cuccaro grinned again. But this time it was a different smile. 'Or, it was until very recently.' He held up his hand, with a single brown finger raised, 'Do you hear that?'

dummy1

The only thing Audley could hear was the engine. Which was just an engine, in the same way that the boat was just a boat.

But evidently not to Captain Cuccaro.

'Beautiful!' Cuccaro focused suddenly on Audley again, and was himself. 'It is ... an appropriate boat, let us say, Professore.'

Audley listened to the engine again. All he could say for it was that it wasn't making much noise. But if it was a