'Don't forget, Mac, I'll be looking you up one of these days.'
One of these days. Well, that was it.
I had arrived in London at 6.00 a.m. and gone straight to bed. For hours I had lain awake, trying to figure the whole thing out.
It was A mess and it was fantastic. Why hadn't the Allied authorities seized him after the war? He was obviously a prosperous man now. He had much to lose — I marvelled at his nerve in seeking me out.
What did he want, I wondered. Just to gloat? No, whatever he was, Ravallo had never been small-minded. Revenge — it could only be that. But how? A fusillade of shots in the lounge of the Savoy? Ridiculous — just too fantastic. Besides, Nicky was a smart boy. About midday I gave the whole thing up and fell into a troubled sleep.
7,00 p.m. The lounge at the Savoy was full, but I saw him almost at once. It wasn't difficult. He was the only man in the place wearing a lounge suit. He was over by the far wall and, characteristically, had managed to obtain — and retain — a table for himself.
There was no change in Ravallo that I could see. Still the same vital, dark haired, laughing d'Artagnan — and he was laughing now. Laughing — the smile on the face of the tiger.
He leapt from his table and came swiftly towards me, hand outstretched, his white teeth shining in a great grin of welcome.
'Mac, you old son of a gun!' he shouted cheerfully. 'Man, oh man, but it's good to see you again!'
'Meaning you'd lost all hope of ever catching up with me?' I asked quietly. I made no move to take his hand and he let it drop slowly to his side. I was dimly aware that dozens of curious people were looking at us.
Ravallo still smiled — albeit a trifle ruefully now. It was the perfect picture of the unjustly slighted friend, still good humoured and tolerant. You're good, Ravallo, I thought, you're damned good.
'My address,' I said harshly. 'How did you get it?'
'Easy. The Admiralty — you're still on the Reserved List.' The smile was a trifle uncertain now.
I should have thought of that.
'Well, I'm here now. What's on the cards, Ravallo? A cosy little Italian knifing session? Maybe one of your pals in the Mafia? What do you want, Ravallo?'
'Civility, Scotty, civility.' The smile was quite gone now. And five minutes of your time — if you can stop being completely daft for that length of time. Here's my table. How about a drink?'
'The lapse of nine years and the fact that the war is over doesn't make treason any less heinous a crime.' I didn't bother to lower my voice, 'As for the drink, not with you, Ravallo. I'll get my own.'
Something was badly out of focus — I needed time to think. I turned to push my way to the bar through the knot of people crowding round.
Ravallo caught my arm. He was immensely strong.
'Same as Civitavecchia, eh, Mac?' he asked softly. 'Still the same jury, judge and executioner. Is that it?'
'Yes,' I said evenly. That's it.'
'And I'm the condemned man?'
'You're the condemned man.'
'A last favour, then.' His voice was very low. 'It's my privilege.'
Something about him, about his voice, his eyes, his desperate sincerity caught me. Not even Spencer Tracy was that good. For the first time I knew doubt.
I followed him slowly back to his table and sat down. The curious crowd gradually melted away.
'Well, I'm listening.'
'You don't even have to do that, Mac,' he said smilingly. 'Just read these.'
Carefully he placed two documents on the table and smoothed them out. After some hesitation, I picked one up.
It was a transcript from the US Navy Records Office. It had been made in the Pentagon and ran as follows:
Leading Signalman Georges Passiere, Official No P/JX 282131.
A body, dressed in Royal Naval tropical kit, was found on the beach, fourteen miles South of Civitavecchia. 16 May, 1944.
Identified as above rating by identity disc.
Secret lining discovered in flap of belt pouch. Oilskin envelope. List of thirty transmitting and receiving station wavelengths: VHP (very high frequency): mainly short-range. Six positively identified as German: remainder unknown.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I laid the document on the table. I was dimly aware of a waiter by my side, and a tray of glasses. Automatically, unseeingly almost, I picked up a glass with one hand, the remaining document with the other.
Deutscher Geheimdienst.
German Counter-Intelligence Records captured Turin.
Decoded Naples, October 1944.
Luigi Metastasio: Born Rome 1919.
(Then followed an account of Metastasio's school life, civilian employment, Fascist indoctrination, army service, counter-intelligence training.) Speaks French, German and English fluently: smuggled into France April 1940, German-occupied France August 1940, thence to Fecamp: fishing boat to England. Accepted Portsmouth barracks May, 1941: qualified telegraphist.
The rest was unimportant — and I knew the last line before I read it.
Assumed name — Georges Passiere.
I placed this report on the other and gazed at it as though hypnotized. I said nothing — I couldn't say anything. Neither thoughts nor words would come. My mind seemed to have stopped. I felt beaten, empty, sick — and hopelessly confused.
Nicky was merciful, infinitely so. I hardly heard his voice at first.
'It was a sweet racket, Mac. The beauty of the short-range receiver.' He laughed shortly. 'Sure the Germans couldn't monitor our agents' radio messages. By the same paradigm we couldn't monitor Passiere's short-range reports, probably relayed back immediately afterwards to German and Italian listening posts. The massacred Partisans, the butchery of the Rangers and the Commandos, the capture of our agents, the tip-off at Passero — all friend Passiere's work.'
'And — and Stella?' With a great effort I forced the words out. My mind was working again and the realization, stark and unforgiving, of what I had done these long years ago now smashed home like a hammer blow.
I answered my own question, my voice an unbelieving whisper.
'Passiere! That's how Stella went, Nicky. It must have been. Passiere!' I took Passiere into my confidence. 'Nicky — I, _I_ TOLD HIM EVERYTHING'.'
'Yeah,' murmured Nicky quietly. 'I thought it had to be something like that. If he knew she was finished, no more use to him, he would try to tip them off, wouldn't he?'
Maybe Nicky didn't stop there. Maybe he went on talking. I don't know. All I know is that his voice, quiet and level and kind, died away in my ear. I couldn't hear Nicky any longer. I couldn't even look at him. I knew I should be apologizing, saying something about never forgiving myself — but I knew that this lay outwith the reach of words.
'_I_ sold her down the river. I threw her to the wolves,' I said dully. '_I_ did that. Nobody else, Nicky, only me. Just me.' I buried my head in my hands.
I knew a hundred pairs of eyes were on me and I didn't care. The lounge had gone very quiet. The seconds — each one an eternity of self-loathing, of bitterness, of despair — ticked slowly by. Slowly, terribly slowly.
Suddenly, petrifyingly, a pair of soft hands clasped gently over my eyes and a well-remembered voice, husky with emotion, whispered compassionately:
'Enough is enough, Nicky. Hullo, Mac, darling.'
For four or five dazed, reeling, unbelieving seconds I sat motionless. Then I leapt to my feet, swung round, knocked several glasses crashing to the floor — the ritzy clientele of the Savoy were certainly getting their money's worth tonight — and faced Stella.
