The Lovers Page 14

  ‘Certainly, let’s go up to the bridge. Excuse us please, ladies, gentlemen . . .’

  The moment they were private together, Galeazzi told him:

  ‘This is a mess, Cavanagh, a dangerous mess! If the press gets hold of it – especially the left-wing press – they will turn it into a disastrous scandal. I dare not risk involving the Vatican in – let me say it bluntly – an affray in a bawdy house. I want to ask you how you think we may contain the damage?’

  ‘I’ve already taken the first steps. I made a deal with the carabinieri that no reports will be filed unless and until we lay a formal complaint. It’s to their advantage to hold to that. The two members of the ship’s company who were witnesses to the affair are in virtual quarantine until we leave the island. And they know they’ll be fired if they speak a word out of place . . .’

  ‘That’s encouraging, Mr Cavanagh.’

  ‘I’m not sure Mr Molloy wholly agrees with me. He came aboard very upset and vowing vengeance on the attackers. I pointed out that he had much to lose and nothing to gain by punitive action.’

  ‘What actually happened?’

  ‘I still don’t know exactly, and I’ve deliberately refrained from inquiring; but clearly it was a very wild bordello evening that ended in violence.’

  ‘I guessed as much.’ Galeazzi was very subdued. ‘What troubles me more is Molloy’s reaction, which I can only describe as violent and obsessive in the extreme. With Farnese and myself he gave full vent to his rage. With Giulia he was withdrawn and secretive . . . The girl is deeply upset. Now I don’t know how you read all this, but I am troubled – for myself and for Giulia, my godchild. Farnese is no help. He has made his own bargains with Molloy. He will hold to them, no matter what the cost to Giulia or anyone else.’

  ‘And you, sir? Are you not party to the same bargains?’ The question was out before he understood the sheer effrontery of it. To his surprise Galeazzi did not take offence, but answered with unexpected humility.

  ‘It may seem so, Mr Cavanagh, but in my own mind and conscience the position is very clear. The Institute for Works of Religion, which is the banking arm of the Vatican, has taken what it believes to be a sound investment position in Molloy’s development enterprises in Italy. Politically also, Molloy is a powerful ally. His politics are far to the Right. He is well regarded by the administration and courted by the Intelligence community in the United States. He is a close friend of Spellman and this new, very vocal person, Senator Joseph McCarthy. In short, we have applied to our association with Molloy the strictest commercial criteria. On the other hand, I will not deny that there are long-standing, traditional links between the Farnese family, the Vatican, and those noble houses in Europe whose wealth is still intact. They, too, need alliances with the richest power in the world today, which is of course the United States of America. This shabby little service we have just done in Corsica has its own political value. It makes powerful friends within the Intelligence community. But what troubles me, Cavanagh, is Molloy himself and his capacity – I do not question his desire – to make Giulia happy. His association with Hadjidakis reveals itself as . . .’

  ‘Count Galeazzi!’ Cavanagh’s tone was peremptory. ‘Let’s stop this conversation right now, before we both come to regret it. I cannot serve two masters. I’m not sure I can serve even one with the dedication of Giorgios Hadjidakis. So please don’t try to manipulate me into uttering judgments on the man who pays my wages. If there are issues between him and me, I’ll settle them face to face. Now, you needed a service from me. Tell me please what I can do for you?’

  ‘I shall be leaving the Salamandra at our next mainland port. Other guests will be coming aboard. Giulia has spoken to her aunt and to me of her admiration for you. I – that is to say, her aunt and myself – would like to count on you as a protector of her interests while she is aboard the Salamandra.’

  ‘Do you mean . . .’ Cavanagh was suddenly in the grip of an ice-cold anger. ‘Do you mean, sir, that the man she is to marry may prove an inadequate guardian?’

  ‘No, Mr Cavanagh, I do not mean that. I mean that I take, perhaps, a more sinister view of the Hadjidakis affair than Molloy wants to accept. If I am right, then Giulia herself may be at risk – and not necessarily a physical risk. I would not for the world discourage a friendship between you. I suggest only that you be very aware of the danger to Giulia of any indiscretion.’ His thin lips twitched into a smile. ‘I presume of course that you are old enough and big enough to take care of yourself – at least with Lou Molloy. Farnese might prove more difficult. Molloy’s political enemies would be the most difficult of all!’

  Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh pondered that series of propositions for a long silent moment. Finally he said;

  ‘I’d better be sure I’m understanding this. Are you warning me off the course or asking me to be available as proxy to Lou Molloy, when he’s busy with other things?’

  ‘I should say the words “protection to Giulia” would be more accurate.’

  ‘Mother of God!’ Cavanagh gave full rein to his fury. ‘What kind of people are you? What kind of man do you think I am? Let me tell you something which I’ll probably regret later. If I thought Giulia were half-way interested in me, I’d be off this ship tonight and driving with her, hell bent for the frontier. But don’t worry! It won’t happen. Giulia’s sold already, delivered and paid for. It’s my bad luck I came too late and couldn’t afford the bride-price. I’m too much of a hardhead to spend the rest of my life chasing a folly-fire . . . But yes, I’ll keep an eye on her, and if she needs a shoulder to cry on and a clean handkerchief to dry her tears, she knows where to find me . . . Does that answer your question, sir?’

  ‘More precisely than I expected. For a young man, educated in the outer marches, I find you quite a formidable fellow, Cavanagh. Before I leave the ship, I’ll give you my card. If I can be of any help in your future career, please do not hesitate to call on me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I give you one last piece of advice.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Molloy is a rich man and more powerful than you may imagine. However, he is also vulnerable – to his own follies and the vices of his minions. Of these, you are, or have pretended to be, happily ignorant. You may not be able to remain so. A moment may come when it is you who are called to be “skipper under God”. I trust that moment will find you prepared.’

  ‘So it’s prophecy now, is it?’

  ‘Not prophecy, premonition.’ Galeazzi’s eyes were hooded like those of a bird of prey. His face seemed for a moment to be carved out of granite. Then, miraculously, he smiled and shook his head as if to rid himself of a nightmare. ‘Forget everything I’ve said, Cavanagh! I’ve lived too long with bankers and bachelor clerics. My blood has turned to vinegar! . . . I’ll leave you now, you must have work to do.’

  ‘Indeed I have, sir,’ said Cavanagh and wondered, not for the first time, at the devious reasonings of this old and guileful people.

  It was a relief therefore to go down to the engine room and talk with the spindly fellow in the blue coveralls who called himself, with singular pride, ‘the mechanic’. Cavanagh took possession of the manuals and plans, and then led the young man through a ‘show-and-tell’ session on the principal components of the engine room. Much to Cavanagh’s surprise, his answers were delivered without hesitation and were ninety-five percent correct. There was, moreover, an engaging simplicity about him, the innocent joy of a child who has discovered that he can do handstands, or juggle oranges. When the session was over Cavanagh told him:

  ‘As far as I’m concerned Rodolfo, you’re hired. However, Mr Molloy will want to see you himself at the end of the day. I’ll want you on deck now to help us cast off. You’ll grab something to eat with the rest of the crew, then spend the rest of the cruise down here, watching these beauties in motion. Clear?’

  ‘Clear as a blue sky,’ said Rodolfo Arnolfini. ‘I am very happy. You treat me with respect. I
am grateful for that. And your engines will have the best of care.’

  ‘I believe you, Rodolfo. Now, let’s get this circus under way!’

  Back on deck he stationed Rodolfo at the anchor winches and then went aft to single up the mooring lines, so that they could be slipped from the deck and hauled quickly inboard. Leo and Jackie were resetting the deck for a buffet luncheon, while Lenore was clearing away glasses and emptying ash-trays. Just then, Molloy came on deck with Farnese. Both men were in high humour. Farnese went immediately to join Galeazzi, Molloy stood by until Cavanagh had winched up the gangway, checked the strappings on the dinghy and announced:

  ‘Ready to move when you are, Mr Molloy.’

  ‘Good! I’ll take her out myself. You should grab some sack-time. You look as though you need it!’

  ‘Thanks. I will. But first I’d like you to see this mechanic Rodolfo Arnolfini. He’s bright. I quizzed him from the manuals and on the engines and he checks out well: old-fashioned apprentice learning. I’d like to keep him on board. Between us we can provide day-to-day engine-room service and at least first-stage damage control.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I have him standing by the anchor winches.’

  ‘Then you’d better wait with him while we raise anchors, in case he doesn’t understand my orders. I won’t bother talking to him now. There’ll be time later when we’ve got this crowd off the ship.’

  ‘I need a decision, sir. Do we hire him?’

  ‘If you want him, hire him by all means. You have to work the ship.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll train him so he can double in brass – deckhand and helmsman. One more thing: what’s the programme for this evening? Are we staying in port or leaving?’

  ‘As soon as this afternoon’s cruise is over, we’ll get the hell out of here and head for Porto Santo Stefano. That’s about a fifty-mile run down the coast. Galeazzi will be leaving us there and Farnese will be bringing a girlfriend on board – an English actress. Lucietta wants to entertain some theatrical friends and I need to look at a proposed yacht-harbour development on the south side of the peninsula of Monte Argentario. So, count on three days in harbour. Make sure you use every opportunity to top up water and fuel tanks. Chef will see to the fresh provisions. You handle the ship’s funds . . .’

  ‘About Mr Hadjidakis . . .’

  ‘The US Navy gave me a call sign and frequency. I’ll call Naples myself. You should move into Giorgios’ cabin right away, the navigation systems are repeated on a panel opposite his bunk.’ He hesitated for a moment and then said: ‘I’ve had some news. I’d like to share it with you . . . There were two messages, one of them was from Cardinal Spellman in New York. He tells me His Holiness will invest me with the Order of St Gregory in a private ceremony at Castelgandolfo as soon as he takes up summer residence.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir.’

  ‘I won’t say I’m not flattered. I am. I won’t say I haven’t earned it either. What we’ve done here in Elba, and what Farnese and I are planning elsewhere in Italy, will trigger a whole series of similar construction projects on the western coastline: yacht harbours, residential complexes, service installations . . . It can be the beginning of an economic miracle . . . and it will give a big lift to the Christian Democrats. The other thing I have to mention is the code message. I have a four-figure one-time code for communications with the CIA. So don’t be fazed if you get what sounds like a jumble of numbers on the radio. The important thing is to transcribe ’em accurately. Anyway, the code was a message of thanks from Allan Dulles. Our man Tolvier “has now been safely delivered in his care”. He’s expected to supply valuable information on Communist activities in France and elsewhere. There’s a warning however that there may be reprisals for my part in the affair.’

  ‘Like the attack on Hadjidakis?’

  ‘It’s a possibility we have to take seriously.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  But when he threw himself on the bunk in Hadjidakis’ cabin, there was a sour, metallic taste in his mouth as if it had been filled with Judas money. The notion of a traffic – any traffic – in human flesh was repugnant to him; but the traffic in out-of-work spies and surgical torturers had its own special horror and its own sequelae of vendettas.

  He was deathly tired; there was another night of helm-watch ahead of him. He needed sleep; but sleep would not come. Beside the bunk was a small chest of drawers on top of which lay a thick, quarto-sized volume bound in black leather. Thinking to read himself to sleep, Cavanagh opened it and found that the contents were handwritten in cursive demotic Greek. The title was intriguing: The True Chronicle of the Voyages of G and L. The text was a double challenge: to his curiosity and to his scholarship. The handwriting was clear enough, but the contents were a strange mixture of vivid poetic passages and slangy vulgarities which Cavanagh, rusty in the language, was hard put to translate.

  However, there was no doubt about the nature of the contents: a Rabelaisian narrative of the erotic adventures of Giorgios Hadjidakis, Lou Molloy and a whole gallery of male and female companions. The entries were not written up every day, as in a normal diary. They were sporadic episodes, hooked together over a number of years from weekends, extended vacation periods, fishing excursions, business trips, each one dated and clearly located.

  In spite of the fact that the vocabulary of copulation in any language is very limited, Cavanagh found himself intrigued by the variety of grotesque sexual situations recorded in the diary. No combination, male, female, animal or vegetable was left untried or undescribed. Even more intriguing were the vivid descriptions of persons, places, circumstances. There could be no doubt that they were painted from life, like the pornographies of many famous artists, who sought their models in bathhouses and brothels.

  What seemed to Cavanagh extraordinary was that the book should be left there, in full view, for anyone to read. Then he realised that this was the cream of the joke. Who on board the Salamandra d’Oro, what casual crewman or companion, would be able to read a word of the scabrous stories? Lou Molloy himself had no Greek and only Mass Latin . . . Which raised another fascinating question: did Molloy know that the book existed? Had he any notion of its contents – and the power which Giorgios Hadjidakis held over him?

  Whatever the answer to that question, Cavanagh himself was now presented with a Faustian temptation. He held in his hands Molloy’s reputation, his high alliances, his noble marriage. Suddenly, Galeazzi’s warning resounded like the blast of a foghorn, close and menacing in a night of swirling mist: ‘Molloy is a rich man . . . However he is also vulnerable – to his own follies and the vices of his minions. Of these you are, or have pretended to be, happily ignorant. You may not be able to remain so . . .’

  Now the time of happy ignorance was ended for ever. He was armed with a lethal weapon. He could not swear that he would be proof against a sudden temptation to use it. He closed the book; but instead of setting it back on the bedside table, he put it in the top drawer of the chest. He told himself that it was a safety measure; but deep down he knew that it was his first uncertain move towards the Faustian lure. God forbid he should ever need to use it; but the weapon was ready to his hand. Thus reassured, he turned his face to the bulkhead and lapsed instantly into sleep.

  He was wakened at four-thirty in the afternoon by a call from the bridge.

  ‘Cavanagh, I want you up here! We dock in thirty minutes.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  On the bridge, Molloy delivered his orders.

  ‘I want you to take us in. When we dock, there’ll be transport waiting to take our visitors to their hotels. They’ve had a good day and they’re all pleasantly mellow, so I don’t want to prolong the farewells. As soon as they’re loaded into the bus, haul up the gangway and slip moorings.’

  ‘Same sailing orders, sir?’

  ‘The same. I’ve called the harbour-master at Porto Santo Stefano and given him an ETA of 2100 hours tonight. He’s reserv
ed a berth and he tells me there are no hazards and we’re well away from foul ground. The dock is on the starboard hand as you pass the breakwater and our berth is right under the second light pylon. We drop the hooks in line with the harbour entrance. There’ll be a man ready to take our lines – and I’ve booked dinner at a restaurant, Pipistrello, which the harbour-master recommends. The Chef and the crew have had a big day. They can take an easy night. And I’ve warned the boys I’ll fire them if there’s the faintest smell of trouble on shore.’

  ‘Did they give you any more information on the affray in Porto Ferraio?’

  ‘I didn’t ask for it. I’ve asked the CIA to make their own inquiries. By the way, our visitors have left a bit of a mess – crumbs, cigarette butts.’

  ‘I’ll see to that, sir. As soon as we’re under way I’ll have the decks hosed down and given a quick scrub. I presume your guests will be glad of a late siesta.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly, Cavanagh: I have to say I’ve never seen people so easily bored as the Italian nobility.’

  To which Cavanagh had no adequate comment. Instead he asked:

  ‘What news on Mr Hadjidakis?’

  ‘They’ve done the cranial operation and removed the pressure on the brain. They were beginning to clear the obstructing bone fragments in the septum. So far his vital signs are good. We should call again tonight – preferably by landline from Porto Santo Stefano.’

  That’s good news, thank God! What about his family?’

  ‘I haven’t been in touch with them yet. I hope to have good news to tell them – and a watertight story about how he came by his injuries. Hadjidakis has a good marriage. We don’t want to put a burr in his bed, do we?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘As soon as we have some definite word from the surgeons, I want to go down to Naples to see Giorgios myself. I need to know the prognosis and to set up whatever support system is necessary for him and his family. I’ll call his wife then. That would mean you’d have to handle the ship and the guests for a few days. Could you do that?’