The Memory Trap

smuggler's boat, that was to be expected. 'You mean . . . it's unobtrusive, Captain?'

'That also.' Cuccaro nodded, but seemed only half to agree.

'The Guardia seized it up the coast, a few days back.' The faint American origins of his otherwise perfect English intruded. 'There are many such in these waters

—''unobtrusive', as you say.' Another nod. 'And very fast, when speed is required.' He stared at Audley for a moment.

'Most of the time, they hire out to the tourists . . . with maybe a little fishing, also. And then, one day —one night, they meet a bigger boat, by appointment.'

'Uh-huh?' If Cuccaro wanted him to be interested in smuggling as a prelude to their own business, then he would be. 'Drugs, presumably?'

'Drugs ... or what you will.' The medallion swung in its nest.

'Cigarettes are still very popular with the smaller fry. And, of course, there are the local exports — the ancient artefacts . . .

Roman and Greek from Campania and the south. Etruscan from the tombs in the north —they are much sought-after by dummy1

foreign collectors. It is good steady business, Professore. If one is not too greedy.'

Audley nodded politely. 'That's very interesting.' But two could play at this small-talk-game. 'That medal of yours, Captain — is that an ancient artefact?' He leaned forward, keeping tight hold of his stanchion, but couldn't quite make out the inscription. 'What does it say — ?'

'My good luck piece?' Cuccaro looked down for an instant.

' 'Wilhelm der Grosse Deutscher Kaiser' , Professore. ' Koenig von Preusseri' .' He took the medal in his hand and turned it over.' ' Zum Andenken an den hundersten Geburtstaf des grossen Kaisers Wilhelm I, 1797-22 Maerz-1897' .' He looked up at Audley. 'Not so very ancient. My grandfather picked it up on the Piavein 1918. My father wore it in his war. And now I wear it — for good luck, also.'

'I see.' Audley had had his own smile ready and waiting. 'And you think we'll need good luck today, Captain? Or is it Major Richardson who needs the luck now?'

No smile this time. 'He has been lucky so far. Now . . .

perhaps you are right.'

'With the Mafia after him?'

'Among others.' Cuccaro turned towards Capri for a second, as though to judge its proximity. 'What is it that you want from him, Professore Audley?'

'I merely want to ask him a few questions.'

'About what?'

dummy1

'I wish I knew.' But the truth wouldn't do, Audley could see.

'About the old days, when he worked for us. Nothing to concern you, Captain — or Italy.' And that was also true. But as Kulik had had nothing to do with Germany, he'd best hedge that piece of truth. 'What is it that your Mafia wants with him, Captain?'

'You do not know?' Cuccaro glanced at Elizabeth.

'As it happens ... I don't.' The trouble with the truth was that, with his Italian record, it was quite simply unbelievable. But it was all he had. 'The fact is, Captain Cuccaro, he resigned from our service years ago. And then he went back to the army. But then he resigned from that. . . You might say that he was having bad luck then.'

'Bad luck?'

Audley dredged his memory for what, in its time, had been of no more than passing interest on the ' Heard about poor old Peter?' level. 'He had a nasty road accident. Not his fault.'

But memory, as always, came to his rescue: ' Poor old Peter!

Ran into a dirty great big lorry, right outside his flat.

Smashed himself up properly, apparently — and his new Jag, too'; to which he had said ' Is that so?' (and thought, from experience and with unfeeling disinterest, driving too fast, as usual—serve him right!) . 'Not his fault . . . and then his mother died. So then he retired here, in Italy!'

But Cuccaro was watching him. 'You knew him well, though, Professore?'

dummy1

'I worked with him only once or twice.' He felt a vague irritation swelling up in his throat. 'I have not set eyes on him for fifteen years, Captain. And you have not yet answered my question: why is the Mafia interested in him?'

Cuccaro looked away for a second, then back at him. 'He has a boat like this one. And an organization to go with it. Only ...

his is an even better boat. And his organization, it would seem, is as good as his boat.' The stare became frankly disbelieving. 'And this . . . you did not know?'

For a moment Audley could only stare back at him. 'Peter Richardson — ?' He couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice. 'You're saying — ?'