He had the report on his radio from the kitchen area, two men disarmed. In the car park was a driver lying on the tarmacadam with his wrists handcuffed behind his back.
He would go himself, it was his own business. He would have taken Axel Moen… He felt, then, a great tiredness, there was no elation and there was no pride. He took his I/D from his pocket and slipped his pistol into his belt. He pushed open the door to the dining room.
He heard her voice, strong. 'There was an American, yes, pestering me, yes, I told him to get lost, yes.. /
He walked briskly alongside the table and he held up his I/D card.
There would be no resistance, not from the family gathering, because to resist was to throw away the dignity that was most precious
… It was a good likeness, the computer-enhanced photograph of Mario Ruggerio was close to the reality of the man who now let slip the wrist of the young woman… They were all the same when they were confronted. They were all passive. If the bastard had swung from his chair and dived towards the kitchen door, then it would have made for a moment of excitement.
None of the bastards did, ever. He was so ordinary, old and weary and ordinary. That night in Palermo there were seven thousand troops deployed to find him, five thousand policemen hunted him, the agents of the ROS and the DIA and the Guardia di Finanze and the squadra mobile searched for him, and he was so fucking ordinary. He would crave respect, he would want to go with his dignity, as all of the bastards did. No handcuffs, because he should not be humiliated in the presence of his family. No guns, because he should not be humiliated in the sight of the children. He had let slip the young woman's hand and she backed away from him. He would ask for a moment of time with his wife and his children, and 'Vanni would give it him. In the car park, out of sight of those he loved, he would offer his wrists for the handcuffs, as all the bastards did.
Just an ordinary old man, a peasant, and he peered up at the I/D card held in front of him, and satisfied himself.
'Vanni did not look at the young woman. To recognize her would be to kill her.
'Herb, it's Bill Hammond here. I'm not on secure. Herb, we scored. We got the fat cat, the kid took us to him. Actually, it was you that scored, Herb, because you authorized it
… Nice of you to say that… No, I'm at the airport. Too right, I'll be getting straight down to the Justice people, get them out of bed, bet your life, get them off the nest…
Yes, Dwight was right there, on the ground, it was him that called me, he was integral to the liaison, he did well… No, that's my problem, Axel Moen's not with me… I don't know what the fuck's happened, but he didn't get the flight… You ever been here, Herb? You ever tried to raise sense out of Palermo when the last flight's gone?… OK, he's a big boy, but I just don't understand why he wasn't on the flight… That's right, Herb, it was his kid that pulled it.'
Epilogue
She saw, as she rode her scooter down the slope of the lane, the Jeep that was parked outside the bungalow.
They'd all have seen it, and the curtains would have twitched, and they'd have peered through half-open doors. At least, now, they didn't have the detectives to talk about, at least the detectives and their guns had gone from the bungalow's garage. The light was slipping. The clocks would change the next weekend, and then she would be riding home in total darkness. She was home later than usual because the last night's gale had blown the golden autumn leaves onto the lane and that morning's rain had greased the leaves, and the scooter wasn't stable when the lane was coated with wet leaves. She'd gone slowly. She turned off the lane and into the driveway in front of the closed garage doors – the detectives had made their base in the garage for the three months that they had guarded the bungalow, but they had been gone five weeks and the garage had been returned to her father for his car – she took off her helmet and shook her hair free, and lifted out of the panniers the schoolbooks that she would mark that evening. She remembered him. The big, black-skinned American had been in the lobby of the hotel as she had left with Angela and the children, but that was a long time ago, and it was autumn now.
He slammed his door shut, and he came towards her, and he held an envelope in his hand.
'Miss Parsons? I'm Dwight Smythe, from the embassy.'
She said that she knew who he was.
'This is kind of embarrassing. You know, when you mislay something, it's sort of upsetting. You've a lot on your mind. It went into a drawer, meant to deal with it, didn't.
I go back to Washington tomorrow and I was turning out my desk, and I found it. Well
…'
What had he found?
He bit at his lip. He handed her the envelope. Her name was written on it. She tore it open and the watch fell from it. She had wondered where the watch was, why it had not been returned, and she had told her father when she came home that she had lost the gold watch. He shifted, one foot to the other. The watch had stopped, but it was more than six months since he had taken it from her wrist. She put it on. She had to stretch the strap of it so that it would fit high on her wrist, above the big watch.
'He gave it me. I was to pass it to you. I feel pretty inadequate
…'
She took the letter from the envelope. The gulls were screaming down on the stone beach. She read.
Dear Miss Parsons,
I take the chance, late, to express my feelings on what you have given us.
I don't have much time and in a few minutes I am being taken to the airport to quit on you, and I am afraid that even in better times I am a poor correspondent. I have never had the chance to tell you how very sincerely I admired your response to my request for help. I don't apologize for that request.
'It's unfortunate that you weren't told. I guess the idea was that you should be left alone. It was for your own safety. The decision was made up high that we shouldn't talk with you, bad enough for you having police here. I hear they've been called off. I can't justify it, you not being told, but the decision was to let you get back to your life.'
What was unfortunate?
He seemed to her to squirm. He wore a good coat, a city man's coat, and it would not be the cold that made him shiver. She had never asked questions, she had come home, she had argued for her job and won the argument. She had never talked, not even to her mother, of the Palermo spring. She had never spoken, not a single word, to the detectives who had come each night to her father's garage.
'We were at the airport when your first call came through. We left him there. I mean, it wasn't our problem. You were the problem. He was the second priority, after you.'
Where was he now? What was his posting?
She read on.
That I was brutish and rude to you, that I was a bully to you, is not anything that I am sorry for. In my judgement it was necessary to give you strength for the ordeal of living a lie with that family. That the strength you showed, the courage, went to waste is a matter of deep personal disappointment to me, you deserved better of us.
'He never made the flight. What we found out afterwards, a guy spoke to him at the airport. He was through in Departures. There was another passenger, heard something about a telephone call for him. He followed this guy out of Departures, going to take his call. He's not been seen again. I wouldn't want you to think that we haven't tried. We have moved mountains to get a lead on what happened to him. He went off the face of the earth. We all feel bad about it. In the Administration we take pride that we look after our people. It's the way, down in Sicily, people disappear like they never existed, and you run into silence like it's a wall.'
Evidence – hadn't there been evidence to show the fate of Axel Moen?
You should know, because in a short time you will be safe and at home, the reality of what was asked of you. The Drug
