He gulped. He was struggling for concentration. There was a call, simultaneous, for the last passengers for the flight to Milan. The sounds merged… They were through into Departures. They'd gone through the passport check. 'Vanni Crespo's I/D had taken them all through, and the balaclava brigade behind them. The shops and the bar were on the wrong side of the door, and they were scattered on benches. There were two empty seats between Harry Compton and Axel Moen, who sat close to the Italian, and Dwight Smythe was away from them and by the glass floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the apron.
'The call – the call went/ he stammered.
The Italian jackknifed off the bench and came to him.
'What was the call?'
He was supposed to be a trained operative. He reckoned himself among the best and among the brightest of the young intake into S06. He reckoned himself shit-hot on close-up surveillance and the art of gutting a balance sheet. He squeezed his eyes shut and he tried to find the concentration. He could have said when the flight would leave for Milan, what gate it would board through, and the time it would arrive at Milan…
'I'm trying-'
'What was the signal?'
The Italian was close to him, spurting garlic breath and whisky breath and cigarette breath at him. Harry Compton jabbered, 'I'm sorry, I didn't get the pattern, there was so much other…'
Dwight Smythe had sidled close and stood awkward, like he didn't know how he should intervene, what he should say. Axel Moen was blank-faced, staring at the ceiling. The Italian had his hands locked onto Harry Compton's head and his fingernail was digging into Harry Compton's ear. The Italian, with his nail, was gouging the damn thing from the ear. It came again. Harry Compton flung his head back and he pushed the Italian away, and he had the palm of his hand over his ear, and his head sank down between his knees. He heard the second transmission of the signal. He described the rhythm, gave the pattern of the tone call, the pauses, the short blasts and the long blasts that cried inside his skull. The Italian crouched beside him.
'It's Stand-by alert. Holy Mother, she sends the Stand-by alert,' 'Vanni Crespo murmured.
Another bleeping between them, and 'Vanni was scrabbling in his pocket.
Axel Moen said, total calmness, 'Today he has killed the man who investigated him.
He has eliminated a threat to him. Perhaps it is the time of the crowning, the anointing with goddam oil. Perhaps it is the time he gathers his court, his goddam family…'
'Vanni Crespo had the mobile phone out of his pocket, killed the bleep, pressed it at his ear, listened.
'… If she is going away from the villa, if she is going outside the radius of transmission pick-up, if she doesn't know where she is being taken, then she is instructed to send a Stand-by alert. She is instructed to give us time to get there, to Mondello, because to tail her we have to track her.'
'Vanni cut his call. 'It's from the villa – communications says it's from the villa. We may have very little time.'
'I'm with you,' Dwight Smythe said. 'She is my responsibility.'
'Fuck you,' Harry Compton hissed. 'My orders are to bring her home. If her neck's on the bloody line, I'm there.'
'If she calls, I answer. I get to ride with you.' Deliberately, Axel Moen pushed up from his seat.
Dwight Smythe snapped, 'No way.'
Harry Compton snarled, 'You're off the pulse, friend.'
'It's mine. She doesn't know your fucking names. She calls for me.'
'We don't have time,' 'Vanni Crespo pleaded. 'You argue, you goddam women, you screw her up.'
'You don't exist to her, nothing to her.'
Harry Compton stood full square in front of Axel Moen. It was the moment he wondered if he would be hit, kicked. 'You go nowhere, we don't need you.'
Dwight Smythe found courage, jabbed at Axel Moen's chest so that he pitched back into his seat. 'Your rock is DEA, you obey orders, otherwise you get washed off the rock.'
'I'm obligated, I owe her.'
'Vanni Crespo said, soft, 'It is only the Stand-by. I promise, if it is Immediate, then I'll be there, I'll care for her like she's mine. Trust me.'
Axel Moen sat quite still. He was composed, and he locked his fingers and flexed them.
Dwight Smythe hissed, 'You're identified, you've no place with this now.'
Harry Compton whipped, 'You're just a liability to her, and always have been since you first walked in on her.'
Axel Moen dropped his head. The fire was doused.
'Vanni Crespo said, fast, 'I need the guys, I can't leave the guys with you. I'm trying to think on my fucking feet. I pulled rank to get the guys. If I leave them, then I have to call up, I have to explain, I have to start telling some bastard about an operation…
'Who authorized it? Who do you report to? Wait out, I have to check…' I don't have the time.'
'It's a public place,' Axel Moen said. 'I'm comfortable. I sit here, I wait, I get on the plane. So get the hell out.'
'Vanni Crespo held Axel's face in his hands. He kissed both his cheeks. Harry Compton nodded at him – he'd understand orders. Dwight Smythe shrugged – he'd appreciate responsibilities.
They were gone. It was eighty-five seconds from the first call. It was sixty-one seconds from the second call. They went out of Departures. Harry Compton looked back once, through the glass, at the back of the head of the man, at the pony-tail of his hair. He thought the man belonged to yesterday, and he hurried to catch the Italian.
Out in the night darkness they ran towards the cars.
Peppino had the engine started and Angela was beside him and smoothing her dress straight so that she would not crease it. Charley was fastening the seat-belts for the children. The gardener, at the bottom of the drive, was scraping open the gates.
She did not know who would be there, whether they would be there. And she did not know if anyone listened…
'I'm sorry, I've forgotten something.'
No play at hiding his irritation, Peppino snapped, 'Please, Charley, already we are late.'
'I won't be a second. Can I have the keys, please?'
Angela said, 'I am sure it is something important – yes, Charley – or you would not ask.'
She was given the keys. She ran back onto the patio and she unlocked the front door.
She was out of their sight. She could do it there… Christ, but she had to bring something back to the car… She scurried for her room. She pulled open a drawer. On the top of the clothes in the drawer was a small handkerchief. She snatched it up. She stood, and she breathed hard.
She remembered. Not Immediate Alert, and not Stand Down. She remembered the code. She did not know where they listened, or if anyone listened. Her finger wavered again on the button. She pressed hard, drove the back of the watch down on her wrist so that it hurt her. She made the pattern of the code for Stand-by.
She breathed again, deep, to swallow the trembling in her arms. She switched off the light and she locked the patio door behind her, and she went to the car. She was barely into the car when Peppino drove away. She sagged down into the seat and manoeuvred the carrycot onto her lap. They drove out through the opened gates. She did not try to look out of the back window to see if they were followed, if anyone had listened. She reached forward and passed the keys of the villa to Peppino. They came out of the narrow street that led to the piazza and swung onto the road that ran along the beach.
They passed the Saracen tower…
'Well, Charley,' Peppino asked, cutting, 'what had you forgotten?'
She said, felt the feebleness of it, 'I'd forgotten my handkerchief.'
There was the tinkle of Angela's laughter. 'You see, I was right. I said that it would be something important.' 'Herb? It's Bill Hammond
… Yes, I'm in the office, I'm in Rome.
Herb, would you go to secure… You OK now?… The Codename Helen thing, they've just gone to Stand-by… Yes, it's a hell of a scene down there today. He was a good guy, Tardelli, he was the best guy. They don't deserve
