The Lovers Page 21

  ‘What’s the captain’s name?’

  ‘Benetti. Claude Emile Benetti. The questura have a file on him as thick as your fist, so he’s not good company to be seen with . . . Where are you heading now, sir?’

  ‘South.’ Cavanagh was studiously vague. ‘We’ll probably end up in Corfu, if the owner doesn’t change his mind.’

  ‘I know what you mean, sir. Have a good trip.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

  As he came out of the office he saw five men trooping off the Fairmile and heading across to a small dockside tavern with the grandiose name of La Grotta delle Grazie. He waited until they had all entered the tavern and then hurried back to the Salamandra.

  Farnese and the two women were on the afterdeck drinking cocktails. Cavanagh drew Farnese into the saloon and gave him a quick run-down on his encounter and the information from the harbour-master’s clerk. Farnese took it with odd calm.

  ‘It does not surprise me, Mr Cavanagh. A ship like ours is as easy to follow as a circus elephant. The radio gossip on the sea lanes goes on all day and all night. You have only to call up any harbour-master’s office to get news of arrivals, departures and who’s staying in port. It’s part of the special courtesy of the sea. More than that, the purpose of my visit to Orbetello was to talk with Galeazzi and if possible to make contact with Molloy. I missed Molloy; but Galeazzi had already spoken with him from Rome. The US Intelligence report was specific. We should expect surveillance by sea and, at some point in the voyage, another act of violence. Tolvier, that disreputable creature, has involved us all in a very tribal vendetta. He is still being hunted by his victims; we are being hunted because we have helped him escape. The victims have hired themselves professional executioners to do the job which the Republic of France failed to do.’

  ‘Which brings me to my next question.’ Cavanagh was terse now. ‘Why are you keeping me in the dark? Why are you short-circuiting my communications with my owner, Mr Molloy?’

  Farnese shrugged off the question.

  ‘Because it is easier to do that than brief you on the whole complex background of the Tolvier affair and its ramifications in French, Vatican and American politics, which are in any case not your business. Besides that, each party has its own means of dealing with this threat.’

  ‘But I – all of us on this ship – have to deal with it, here and now. It is very likely that the men who killed Hadjidakis are just over there, drinking in that tavern!’

  ‘And if they are, if you are sure that they are and you are sure you have enough proof to present to a court, what will you do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Precisely. You are a foreigner on Italian soil. Alone you have neither status nor power to pursue the matter. I beg you to trust me, Mr Cavanagh.’

  ‘You forget, sir. I am still in command of the vessel. It is you who must trust me. I cannot, I will not sail blindfold into danger.’

  ‘Are you saying that I am leading you into it?’

  ‘You are depriving me of the means to deal with it – knowledge of the facts, of all the contingencies involved. We leave here tonight on a pleasure cruise. Where are we going? Sardinia. Have you been there?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘We haven’t discussed a routing yet.’

  ‘I thought we could do that just before we leave. Frankly I don’t know why you’re making such a big fuss about this.’

  ‘Because you’ve just told me, officially, that we’re going to be under surveillance by sea and possible violence by land – and the people who’ll be threatening us are fifty metres across the dock in the Grotto of the Graces! This isn’t the Middle Ages, for Christ’s sake! I’ve studied the charts. Once we hit that Sardinian coast – outside a few ports, there’s nothing at all but rocks and scrub. There’s not even water to fill our tanks. Whoever’s following us will have us literally between the devil and the deep blue sea! Use your brains man! Stop patronising me, and remember it’s your daughter who’s threatened!’

  For a moment it seemed as though Farnese would burst into fury, then with equal swiftness he was in control again. He said coolly:

  ‘Your arguments make sense, Mr Cavanagh, but your language is intemperate. Indulge me a moment. Come up to the bridge and let’s take a look at the chart together. Remember that I was not always a desk man in the Ministry of the Navy . . . And I am just as concerned for my daughter as you are – though less obviously and theatrically . . . Why don’t we call a truce now and have Jackie bring us both a drink to toast it?’

  On the bridge it was Farnese who laid out the chart and made the commentary.

  ‘. . . Here’s where we’ll be cruising: the north-east corner of the island from Capo Testa in the Straits of Bonifacio, to Capo Coda Cavallo, just south of Olbia. The landscape is rugged and beautiful, there are many islets and rocky outcrops that will require careful navigation. On the other hand there are beautiful bays and inlets which offer shelter in all weathers and where one can swim in privacy and dive in safety, always with the hope of coming up with some antiquity or other . . . But you are right – from Capo Testa to Coda Cavallo there is nothing – Santa Teresa is a small fishing port with a ferry connection to Corsica, Palau is a village. The only town of any consequence is Olbia, which is the traditional port for trade with the mainland by ferry and freighter. However, the places that interest us are these . . .’ He circled them lightly with the tip of his pencil. ‘La Maddalena, which is an Italian naval base commanding the Straits of Bonifacio, and Tavolara, which is now an installation under joint US and Italian control. I have friends in both places, which are, as you see, less than fifty kilometres apart . . . We shall be cruising between them. Our sinister friends will presumably be shadowing us. But my friends from Tavolara and from La Maddalena will also be shadowing them, as part of their local naval exercises with surface craft and submarines . . . They will be protecting us. The sad part is that they will also be protecting a nasty type like Tolvier, who has become an embarrassment to France and a desirable prize for American Intelligence.’

  ‘Which, presumably, has offered to arrange this convenient protection for us.’

  ‘Presumably, yes.’

  ‘And what will happen to the people on the Jackie Sprat?’

  ‘Again, presumably, the intention of the exercise is not only to protect us, but to remove them from contention.’

  ‘Mother of God!’ Cavanagh swore softly. ‘I don’t believe this! What a stinking mess!’

  ‘Much less of a mess, my friend, than revelations of sodomy and murder and a trade in hunted criminals – revelations which could wreck a huge pilot plan for economic reconstruction in Italy with American and Vatican finance. It is not only our plan, it is a dozen or more others which will grow out of it – new money just waiting in the wings to see how we fare . . . Again, look!’ He drew a large circle round the north-east tip of Sardinia. ‘This is a plan bolder than anything Molloy or I would venture. Galeazzi thinks it’s a madness; but he’s willing to encourage it so long as Vatican money isn’t involved. There is a buyer for all this land, all of it! His offer is on the table, one lire per square metre. A nothing, you say. But if the offer is accepted, he will pump in tens of millions of dollars every year to develop a tourist resort, to found an airline, to build a huge dam, road works, an electricity network . . . This is what I have come to see. I want no part of it. I can have no part of it – the man is a religious leader in the Muslim world, the monies are the offerings of his followers . . . but you see, my dear Cavanagh, there are other dimensions than yours and even Molloy’s . . .’

  ‘I agree,’ said Cavanagh sombrely. ‘I’d be a fool if I didn’t. But I tell you again, on this ship, on that sea out there, I am the master. I am responsible for you, not the other way round. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Cavanagh. I truly hope so.’

  ‘Hope isn’t enough,’ said Cavanagh flatly. ‘I have to know. Do you accept, with all that it
entails, that I am the captain of this ship. You know what that means. Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alessandro Farnese wearily. ‘I would not for the world dispute your little kingdom.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh. ‘I’ll try to intrude as little as possible in your business affairs.’

  ‘You are already an intrusion,’ said Farnese, ‘but that’s my daughter’s fault, not yours.’ He raised his glass in the toast: ‘To our mutual good health.’

  ‘Health, money and love!’ said Cavanagh. ‘May God give us time to enjoy them.’

  They drank. Cavanagh asked a final question: ‘Where in Sardinia is our first port of call?’

  ‘Maddalena.’

  Cavanagh picked up the ruler to measure the distance on the chart.

  ‘A hundred and twenty nautical miles – an eight-hour run at fifteen knots. We can loiter until midnight and still be in for breakfast.’

  ‘What does the weather-man say?’

  ‘Clear and calm. Fresh north-westerlies developing tomorrow.’

  ‘By then we’ll be under the lee of the big island. Our cruise promises well, Cavanagh. It promises well!’

  At least it began in style. The Salamandra left harbour on a glassy sea under a waxing moon, with music playing and her passengers sipping champagne on the afterdeck. Cavanagh was on the bridge, with Rodolfo the apprentice helmsman beside him.

  As he passed the Jackie Sprat, Cavanagh noted that the vessel was still in darkness and her crew, apparently, still at dinner in the Grotto of the Graces. When he had rounded the spur of Monte Argentario and turned southward towards the small island of Giannutri, he handed the wheel to Rodolfo:

  ‘Steady as she goes, until we have the island on our starboard beam. We’ll round it slowly. Keep checking for traffic both visually and on the radar screen. Forget that I’m here. It’s your ship . . .’

  ‘Yes sir.’ After a few moments’ silence he asked: ‘May I say something, sir?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Miss Pritchard told me you had said I was worth teaching.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I am very proud of that. I want to say again. I am grateful for the respect you show me.’

  ‘You’re earning it, Rodolfo, because you’re eager to learn, because you ask questions, because you’re looking at what is outside you, not always at yourself.’

  Rodolfo laughed, an open, boyish sound.

  ‘Miss Pritchard says it the other way. She makes me face the mirror. She says: “Look at yourself, Rodolfo. You are young, handsome, you are not afraid of work. Be proud of yourself. You can be anything you want.” She is very understanding, I think.’

  ‘Very.’ Cavanagh was carefully neutral. Rodolfo went on:

  ‘In my country, at this time, it is hard to find a road for oneself, especially when one is without money or education.’

  ‘So what do you think the answer is, Rodolfo?’

  ‘Emigrate. But that’s hard to do if you don’t have family in America or Australia or Argentina. The other way . . .’

  He broke off in obvious embarrassment. Cavanagh prompted him.

  ‘Yes . . .?’

  ‘The other way, which my friends joke about, is to find a rich foreign lady and marry her.’

  ‘What kind of lady, Rodolfo?’

  ‘They say a widow, because she is more like to be willing and eager.’

  ‘And what do you say, Rodolfo?’

  The young man shrugged uneasily.

  ‘What can I say, sir? I live on a small island. It is expected that I should marry an island girl, but I certainly don’t want to get engaged or married until I can afford a family. I must not get involved with local women; so my only experiences have been in the closed houses, and I can’t afford those too often. So you see, it is a problem.’

  ‘Have you discussed it with Miss Pritchard?’

  ‘Not directly, no sir. Do you think I should?’

  ‘Perhaps later, when you know her better; but always, as you say, with respect.’

  ‘Always, sir. Most certainly with respect.’

  And there, for the moment, the teasing little dialogue ended, because Giannutri was coming up on the starboard beam, and there was still no sign of an approaching vessel. He called Leo to the bridge to supervise Rodolfo, then walked down to the afterdeck to play master of ceremonies at the supper dance. His first partner was the Countess, light on her feet and lethal always in her humour. She began with a compliment:

  ‘This was a splendid idea, Mr Cavanagh. I have to tell you we were about to die of ennui.’

  ‘No credit to me, Contessa. It was Leo who suggested it.’

  ‘Ah yes. The young ballerino whom Luchino was admiring. I tell you, you nearly lost those two after lunch.’

  ‘I noticed,’ said Cavanagh.

  ‘I noticed something too,’ said the Countess. ‘You were left in a very embarrassing position when Molloy refused to speak either to Giulia or to Alessandro. I thought you handled the announcement very diplomatically.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘One understands Molloy’s grief at losing a friend; but there is much to be explained in that relationship, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘There probably is; but the relationship is now ended forever.’

  ‘But the questions for Giulia remain unanswered.’

  ‘You and I shouldn’t play games, Contessa. I wonder why those questions weren’t asked and answered a long time ago – long before this betrothal took place.’

  ‘Perhaps because both Giulia and her father considered them irrelevant to the text of the agreement.’

  ‘To that,’ said Cavanagh, ‘I confess I have no answer.’

  ‘Have you asked Giulia herself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there are more important questions.’

  ‘To some of which you already know the answer?’

  ‘Some, not all . . . May we change the subject?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re a beautiful dancer, Contessa.’

  She laughed and drew closer to him.

  ‘I was in my youth, a well-turned-out young lady. I had the best of teachers and a very ambitious mother. I was taught to dance, to sing, to paint, to embroider, to make intelligent but respectful conversation with gentlemen young and old, and pay deference to the mothers of eligible sons . . . Most of it was baggage that I’ve tossed away over the years – but some of it still comes in handy . . . May I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I know you’re in love with Giulia. She’s told me she’s in love with you and I believe her. But my question is different. Do you love her?’

  Before he could answer she laid a cautionary finger on his lips.

  ‘Don’t answer yet. Think about it. We’ll have plenty of time to talk on this voyage. But remember something. I like you, I admire you. I think that at this moment, you are the best thing than could have happened to Giulia. In the future, who knows? I don’t. I’m sure Giulia doesn’t. That’s why the question is so important. Now if you’d be good enough to dance me to the bar and pour me a glass of champagne?’

  ‘My pleasure Contessa . . . and I will think about your question.’

  ‘Not now please! Do me a favour and ask Miss Lambert to dance. She’s out of humour with Alessandro who is taking revenge by flirting with the good Miss Pritchard . . .’

  ‘Your servant, always, my dear Contessa!’

  Miss Lambert was very much out of sorts. The prospect of a vacation on the wilder fringes of the Tyrrhenian Sea pleased her not at all. What would she wear? What sort of people would she meet? What would there be in the way of evening entertainment? Wasn’t the Salamandra a bit like Noah’s ark, drifting around waiting for the flood to subside – and with a very small collection of exotic animals on board . . .

  That gave Cavanagh the first good laugh of the evening, and even surprised Aurora Lambert
with her own wit. Giulia, dancing with Jackie, looked across and waved. Farnese grinned and whirled Lenore Pritchard perilously close to the guard-rails.

  When it came time to ask Giulia to dance, Cavanagh felt a sudden, strange moment of embarrassment. He could not match the detached professional grace of Jackie. He dared not, with this audience, make open display of a lover’s intimacy. All his emotions challenged him, not to a courting ritual but to a defiant discretion, a gambler’s poker-face. It was Giulia herself who rescued him. She declined with a smile:

  ‘Jackie has just danced my feet off, and even the great Cavanagh can’t compete with him. Let’s sit this one out . . .’

  For which relief he blessed her and they sat side by side watching the moon climb over the dark water and the wake foaming astern while the constellations merged themselves into the silver light of the moonglow. Giulia asked softly:

  ‘What happens tonight?’

  ‘I’ll have to leave in a few moments. I’m on watch until midnight. I have to sleep – and I mean have to sleep – until four in the morning. Then I’m up to bring us into Maddalena. If you want to join me on the bridge then, you’re welcome.’

  ‘But I won’t be welcome in your bunk. Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, my love – unless you want me to run you on the rocks before dawn.’

  ‘Then we could swim away and disappear, couldn’t we?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to be as easy as that,’ said Cavanagh ruefully. ‘Sooner or later we have to stand up and face the whole goddamn symphony orchestra – from the fiddles to the big bassoons.’