‘I’ve seen enough war. I’ve covered seven altogether, not counting two civil wars, and the only difference between them was that some were nastier than others. And the one thing they all had in common was that after the first couple of days they rarely made the front page, and sometimes didn’t make the paper at all.’
She turned and moved her hand gently across his chest. ‘You don’t know what you want, do you?’
‘Do you know what you want?’
‘I think so. I want you — not all of you, just to share things with you. I can’t share Fleet Street — even if I wanted to — and I can’t share the Medicis, except perhaps to do some typing for you. But I could…’ She rolled over, full face to him, and kissed him softly, dispassionately, on the mouth. ‘I could share this theory of yours — about Nazi oil supplies. I could do the research — and there’d be one hell of a lot to do — while you did the legwork, the interviews.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I’m absolutely serious. I’m not a brilliant investigative journalist, but I can tell a good idea when I hear it.’
‘If you think it’s such a dazzling idea, why has no one thought of it before?’
‘You tell me. Who would have thought of it? Journalists, academics? You’re always saying that most journalists are a bunch of lazy hacks who prefer to follow up each other’s stories rather than think up their own; and academics spend most of their time in beautiful stone quadrangles, or bitching over the port.’
They lay in silence. From outside came the short warning cry of a gondolier approaching a blind corner, like a wild bird in the night. No police sirens this time: perhaps the tension was dying down. He said, ‘Did you notice anything significant this evening after I mentioned my theory at the Danieli?’
‘What?’
‘Logan got excited — you might almost say, rattled. Started putting words into my mouth.’
‘He’d been drinking. Everybody had, except that American.’
‘Logan wasn’t drunk — nobody was. And the Frenchman was definitely interested — a complete stranger, with interests in the oil business, and he invites us both for dinner tomorrow night. And as for that American, Robak — another complete stranger — he invites me up to his hotel suite tomorrow morning.’
‘You’ll go, of course?’
‘Damn right I will. I touched a raw nerve there, Anna. I either got them interested, or worried, or both.’
She nestled up against him, pressing her shallow breast into his armpit. ‘You’ve got me interested, too, love. Four empty months, then suddenly four orgasms — it may have been five — and now the thought of all those files — the LSE, Petroleum Institute Library, Public Record Office. Am I a very boring girl, Tom? Am I very pedestrian?’
He kissed her casually. ‘That’s a pretty double-edged compliment to me, after eighteen months. But if we’re really on to something, it’ll be more than just files and classified documents released under the Thirty Year Rule. If there’s even a grain of truth in my theory, we may well run into trouble. Could be bad trouble. The oil business is a rough business, and they play rough. They’ll play even rougher if they feel they’re threatened.’
‘Supposing we did prove that ABCO actually helped the Nazis? Would it hurt them so much, after all this time?’
‘It would blow them sky-high. For God’s sake, even this oil spillage in the Adriatic has worried them enough to send Logan scuttling out here to give the local bosses the sweet talk and grease a few palms. Like every big company, they’re concerned about their image. And the bigger the company the bigger the image. Giving a helping hand to old Smithy in Rhodesia is one thing — giving it to Adolf Schickelgrüber is something else. I mean, think of all those Jewish shareholders in the States. It would be years before they picked up the pieces. Watergate pales.’
She yawned. ‘Tom, I’m going to help you. We’re going to do this together.’ She smiled in the darkness. ‘You’re already seeing that wing dipping over another city at war.’
CHAPTER 3
The two Carabinieri had stopped in the grey of the dawn on a tiny bridge that bracketed two crooked canals somewhere between the Piazza San Marco and the Rialto Bridge. They had been on duty since evening and were tired and hungry.
One of them had lit a cigarette. The other grabbed his wrist. There was something half-floating in the slimy water off the steps at the end of the bridge. They swore quietly, reverently. They were God-fearing boys from Calabria and new to this kind of work. But both immediately saw the endless paperwork, the explanations to their superiors, perhaps a conference with the ubiquitous Press.
The one with the cigarette said, ‘Shall we just leave it?’
‘It might be important — it might mean promotion.’ They had both moved towards the steps. The man’s face was half in the water; he was wearing a suit and decent shoes. This was what decided the two Carabinieri. They reached down and pulled the body out, until it lay dripping on the cold stone. One of them had his flashlight out. There was a little blood on the face, near the left eye. He smelt of nothing worse than the canal.
One of them, who followed the television films, felt his pulse, then bent down and smelt his breath. He looked knowingly at his companion. ‘He had been drinking. Must’ve happened last night. Slipped — the imbecile. My God, I can think of nicer ways of dying than being drowned in one of these stinking canals!’
He felt for the man’s wallet. It was still there — an expensive wallet, sodden with the black water. Not much money in it, but enough
