The Lovers Read online

  As he handed her the glass he told her:

  ‘I hear what you’re saying. I can’t duck the issue. I’m just trying to work out the right way to handle it.’

  ‘There is no right way,’ she told him harshly. ‘You’re a lawyer. You should know that. I had a boyfriend once who was a very distinguished attorney in New York. He used to tell me: “Stay out of court, kid; but if you land up there, remember one thing: it’s a battlefield. You walk out alive or they carry you out dead. And we attorneys will charge you the same for the triumph or the burial!” Just hold me, will you, Cavanagh? I’m cold. I always get cold when I’m scared.’

  When finally he arrived on deck, he found that Giulia had not yet appeared, and that Farnese and Aurora Lambert were engaged in some very emotional dialogue, while the Countess was entertaining the two new arrivals. She presented them to Cavanagh with a certain comic-opera flourish:

  ‘Mr Jordan, you’ve already met. He works for the State Department.’

  ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Jordan.’ Cavanagh was at his most cordial. ‘What section of the State Department do you work in?’

  ‘The State Department is like heaven.’ Jordan gave him a big, flashing smile. ‘It has many mansions and a lot of tiny cubby holes. I work in one of those called the Document Disposal Unit.’

  ‘Document Disposal Unit? Fascinating,’ said Cavanagh.

  The Countess permitted herself a small sceptical smile and completed the introduction. ‘And this young man bears a name famous in naval history, Lieutenant Andrea Maria Doria.’

  ‘My pleasure, Lieutenant. I trust you’ll both be very comfortable on board.’

  ‘Your Miss Pritchard has already made us most welcome.’

  Doria’s English was polished and precise, but clearly Jordan’s was the voice of authority. He was disposed to courtesy but determined not to waste too much time on it. He asked immediately:

  ‘If the Countess would excuse us, I need a few moments with you in private, Mr Cavanagh.’

  ‘Now?’ Cavanagh was taken aback by the man’s abruptness, but the Countess waived a cheerful absolution:

  ‘Business before pleasure. You are excused.’

  They had hardly set foot on the bridge when Carl Jordan announced:

  ‘I hate crap; I’m sure you do too, Cavanagh, so I’ll come straight to the point. Lieutenant Doria and I are here to protect your guests and your crew. To do that we need your full cooperation.’

  ‘You’ll have it, Mr Jordan – provided you give me a full and proper briefing, in advance.’

  ‘That may not always be possible, Cavanagh.’

  ‘Then let’s start with the possible. Names and documents. Are your names real or at least do you have documents to back ’em up?’

  ‘I have a passport. Doria has an Italian Navy ID card.’

  ‘I’d like to see them and they should be entered on the ship’s manifest.’

  ‘We’d rather they weren’t.’

  ‘We can accommodate you on that. I shall, however, make a note of your presence in the log.’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘I must. Next question. Who’s in charge of the exercise, you or Lieutenant Doria?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And you’re responsible to . . .?’

  ‘I told you, the DDU – the Document Disposal Unit of the State Department.’

  ‘Who cut your orders?’

  ‘I don’t have any written orders. That’s not the way we do things.’

  ‘How do you do things, Mr Jordan?’

  ‘Oh Christ! A hard-head!’ Jordan threw out his arms in theatrical despair. ‘We’re here to help you.’

  ‘And if I’m to co-operate, as you ask, I need more information.’

  Jordan ruminated on that for a few moments, then much more mildly he remonstrated:

  ‘OK. We’re talking about Intelligence business here. And, crazy as it sounds, information is always the problem. Who has it? Is it true or false? Who’s trying to buy it? Who’s selling it? Is it clean or is it poison bait? Don’t push me on this, Cavanagh.’

  ‘I’m not pushing. I’m asking simple questions on a need-to-know basis. So, as you say, let’s cut the crap. I’ll give you a reading. You check the boxes, right or wrong. Fair?’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Your work in the DDU is directed by Mr Allan Dulles.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Dulles is engaged in rounding up former Nazis. He’s collecting them as assets and information sources for future anti-Communist campaigns. He keeps some of them at least stashed around Munich.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘In the State Department itself there’s a sharp division of opinion about the morality of this policy.’

  ‘How the hell can you possibly say that? How can you know it – guess it even?’

  ‘Easy! Six million Jews, gipsies and so-called enemies of the Reich dead in the camps, and your Mr Dulles is putting their torturers on his payroll! You’ve got a presidential election coming up. The Jewish lobby is important. Ergo – there has to be division of opinion.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Here, however, a vendetta has begun over a French collaborator, Tolvier. Hadjidakis is a victim because he’s connected with Molloy, who helped deliver Tolvier to Dulles.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘The men who killed him are now tracking us. Their boss, the probable executioner, is a man called Benetti.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘And we’re the bait you’re using to lead them into a trap and eliminate them.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘But I’ve got one, by God!’ Cavanagh was full of cold anger. ‘You’re not protecting us. You’re gunning for Benetti and his group. And you want to use this ship as a base of operations for a political assassination!’

  ‘That’s bullshit!’

  ‘Is it, Jordan? Let’s prove it out. Follow me!’

  He walked off the bridge and hurried along the deck with Jordan a pace behind him. He turned into the saloon and strode down to the guest area. Without a word he opened the door to Jordan’s and Doria’s cabin, knelt and hauled out the large canvas bag from under the bed. Jordan made a move to stop him, but Cavanagh warned him softly:

  ‘Don’t, Mr Jordan. Don’t even think of it. Just unpack the bag and lay the items side by side on the floor!’

  ‘Do it yourself.’

  ‘I don’t need to, Mr Jordan.’ He unzipped the bag, fished inside it and brought up a single disc-like object. ‘That, unless I’m mistaken, is a limpet mine, designed to be attached to the hull of a vessel by a scuba diver, who, in this case, is Lieutenant Doria. A couple of these in the right place will detonate the Jackie Sprat like the floating bomb she is . . . Check, Mr Jordan?’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  ‘No, Mr Jordan. You go to hell. I want you and Doria off this ship now!’

  ‘You can’t do that. This ship is American territory.’

  ‘And I am her master until her owner fires me! I will not permit her to be used as a base for sabotage operations in peacetime against a merchantman which the Italians can legally arrest if they have grounds to do so.’

  ‘Look, Cavanagh. This is madness! At least give me a hearing. Let me walk you through the situation again from square one. I’ll try to . . .’

  ‘Problems, gentlemen?’ Farnese, smiling and urbane, stood framed in the doorway.

  ‘You might say that!’ Jordan was pale with anger. ‘This – this clown has just ordered us off the ship.’

  ‘Why, Mr Cavanagh?’ Farnese was suitably shocked.

  ‘Do you recognise this, Excellency?’ Cavanagh held up the limpet mine. ‘You should. It’s an Italian limpet mine. You did Navy service. When you were in administration you must have authorised their manufacture, purchase and use. Mr Jordan has brought three of them on board. He has also brought hand grenades and side-arms!’

  ‘Has he told you why, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘On the contrary,
he has refused to comment, while at the same time asking my full co-operation in his undisclosed plans.’

  Farnese frowned. There was a peremptory tone in his next question.

  ‘True or false, Mr Jordan?’

  ‘True; but I’m caught here between a rock and a hard place. Cavanagh asked to see written orders. I don’t have any. Cavanagh is a foreign national with no US security clearance.’

  ‘Fair comment, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘No. A security clearance gives Mr Jordan the right to disclose material to me. It doesn’t give me the right to demand it. More importantly, even with full information in hand, I cannot, I will not guarantee compliance with Mr Jordan’s requests. I’ll examine and discuss them in good faith – but I will not commit beyond that. And may I remind you, Excellency, that all this bloody mess started when I, acting under orders from Mr Molloy, visited Sampiero Paoli at the Mas de la Balagne and handed him money. I was a junior then, doing a simple errand. I think you’ll agree that this situation is radically different. I have assumed command responsibility. I cannot abdicate it to anyone else . . .’

  ‘It seems to me,’ Farnese was now the wise counsellor, even-handed and placating. ‘It seems to me Mr Jordan, that there is still a ground of compromise. Mr Cavanagh has not refused his help. He asked full disclosure of the nature and scope of your operation. He will examine what you tell him and reserve his ultimate right to say yea or nay. Is that a correct summary of your position, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘And pending Mr Jordan’s application to his people for your security clearance, will you withdraw your order that he quit the ship?’

  ‘How long will it take you, Mr Jordan?’ Cavanagh asked the question.

  ‘If I can contact my control in Munich I should have it before midnight. If not, I’ll have it by nine in the morning.’

  ‘In writing, if you please. Your signature will suffice. I’ll lock the document in the ship’s safe until the operation is complete. Meantime, you’re welcome to stay aboard until we have decided whether or not we participate in the operation.’ He turned to Farnese. ‘That is all that’s at issue here, Excellency, whether, in my best judgment, we do or do not participate in Mr Jordan’s operation. If he decides, in any case, to undertake it without our help, we shall be even better content!’

  It was then that Carl Jordan exploded.

  ‘Hell no! I’m not buying this! Cavanagh wants exactly what he’s refusing to us – the final say-so on a US operation. He can’t have it! No way! No how! We’re pulling out, just as you wanted. Right now! From here on, Cavanagh, you’re on your own!’

  Farnese turned on him with icy contempt.

  ‘You are a fool, Mr Jordan, an arrogant, obstinate fool. I agree that it is better you be gone. You are so consumed with your own righteousness that you would put us all at risk . . . This is a dirty business at best; you, I fear, will turn it into a shambles.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Carl Jordan gaped at him in shock. ‘You sat with us while the whole damned . . .’

  ‘I have since thought better of it.’ Farnese cut him off abruptly. ‘This discussion is closed. Mr Cavanagh is in command, not I!’

  Without another word he stepped out of the cabin and hurried away, leaving Cavanagh and Jordan staring at each other, mute with surprise.

  Jordan was the first to break the silence. He was a man in shock. It was as if he were reciting his woes to an audience instead of an adversary:

  ‘How do you like that? Farnese spent two hours with me and my people after lunch today. It was his idea that we eliminate Benetti and his bunch and build ourselves a big cover story about Communist violence and attempts to sabotage the recovery of the Italian economy . . . Now, just like that, he dumps us and walks away . . . Mr Cavanagh is in command, not I! That’s not what he said at the meeting.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  “‘Cavanagh’s a good officer with war experience. You’ll find him easy to deal with . . .” Oh, brother! Was that the overstatement of the year! Dealing with you is like trying to screw a porcupine! Anyway, it’s over now. We’re gone with the wind!’

  ‘Calm down, man! Talk to me. Let’s see if there’s anything to salvage.’

  ‘And then have Farnese sabotage us again? No way in the world!’

  ‘That’s your problem, Jordan. You don’t listen. You try to push people around. You’re the ugly face of victorious America. You draw lines in the sand and you’re surprised when the wind changes and blows them away. Your people in Washington are playing one game. Your Mr Dulles is playing another. Farnese’s got his own set of priorities and Molloy’s got his own problems.’

  ‘And you, Cavanagh?’

  ‘Me? I’m a nobody. Molloy hired me off the dock in Antibes; but I do know how to run a ship and I’ve been in the service long enough to know that what they call Intelligence is often one big foul-up. That’s why I refuse to carry the can for you, unless you’re prepared to tell me what’s in it. I’ve got nothing to win here and nothing to lose. I’ll be fired the moment Molloy gets back, but right at this moment I’m the only man he’s got to run this ship. Farnese knows that; so he opened the way to a possible compromise. You blew it. He’s handed you back to the Document Disposal Unit, because he has no authority to override me and he knows it! Now that’s the hand I’m holding, all cards face up. Do you want to walk or talk?’

  ‘Right now I could use a drink – in private.’

  ‘I know exactly where to find one,’ said Cavanagh and led him across the companionway to Lou Molloy’s state room.

  Forty minutes and two large whiskies later, Cavanagh called the afterdeck and asked to speak to Farnese. He delivered his message with careful respect.

  ‘I believe, Excellency, Mr Jordan and I have reached a workable compromise.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Mr Jordan and Lieutenant Doria will dine on board tonight. After dinner they will go ashore, removing all their gear from the ship. They will not however, abandon their protective surveillance of us. They will simply conduct it from the shore or from their own craft, with such Italian service personnel as they may need. Mr Jordan and I have arranged a system of communications which will bring them swiftly to our aid if we are threatened.’

  ‘Which means that our forces are split.’

  ‘It means, sir, that Mr Molloy and yourself and we, as crew of a foreign pleasure craft, are effectively divorced from any political or quasi-military action, which may be undertaken by Jordan or those who direct him.’

  ‘Are you asking for my approval of this arrangement, Mr Cavanagh?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m absolving you from any connection with it. I’m informing you that a procedure has been agreed which saves face for everybody and gives us what we may well require, surveillance and protection. It carries no political cost for you or Mr Molloy.’

  ‘You should have been a Jesuit,’ said Alessandro Farnese. ‘Will you be joining us for dinner?’

  ‘Not tonight, sir. I think your guests will be happier to have you to themselves . . .’

  ‘Are you suggesting Mr Jordan is still unhappy?’

  ‘Quite the contrary, sir. Mr Jordan is much happier to run his own operations without foreign observers looking over his shoulder. He will, I’m sure, confirm that in person. Would you like to speak with him now?’

  ‘There is no need,’ said Farnese. ‘As you say, I am no longer involved. You have accepted full responsibility. Tell Mr Jordan he will be very welcome to join us at dinner.’

  In the small, dark hours of the morning, Giulia slipped like a wraith into his cabin, threw off her dressing-gown and climbed into his bunk. All their pent-up passion was poured out in a long, turbulent, almost wordless encounter which left them, spent and breathless, clinging to each other in the narrow bed. The first coherent words Giulia uttered were:

  ‘I nearly went mad today. I can’t bear to be away from you . . .’

  ‘Soon, very soon,
we’ll be together all the time.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that.’

  ‘All it needs is one word from you!’

  ‘It isn’t as easy as it sounds.’

  ‘It’s easier today than it was yesterday.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Your father and I have talked. He knows we’re lovers. In fact, he told me he’d contrived it! I’ve told him that if you want me to leave, I’ll walk out of your life without a word said. If you want me to stay, I’ll face Molloy and then we’ll go away together.’

  ‘And you think it will be as easy as that?’

  ‘I know it won’t. It’s complicated and it’s dangerous and I could get myself killed, because Molloy and your father are both dangerous and powerful men. But that’s the name of the game, isn’t it? My lady or my life! We’re two adults engaged in the risky business of loving and making love. Are you understanding me, Giulia? Am I reading you right?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Just hold me.’

  ‘Fine! But remember, I’m committed.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  She tried to draw him to her again, but he disengaged himself and slipped out of the bunk.

  ‘I almost forgot. I bought you a present.’ He switched on the bunk light and smoothed the sheet so that he could lay out the gifts: the medallion and the tear-vial. He explained them with a lover’s care, embellishing the old legends:

  ‘. . . Mercury was the messenger of the gods, the leader and playmate of the Graces; but I liked the inscription most of all. It says everything I’m trying to say to you: vocatus extemplo adsum – I come instantly to your call.’ He clasped the pendant around her neck and nestled the medallion between her naked breasts. ‘I’ll be here, close to your heart. The gold is soft and a little of it will rub off on your breasts every day. Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it. I love more the man who gives it to me and the words he says to me.’ She picked up the small glass vial. ‘And what is this?’

  ‘It’s a tear-vial. It’s a gift from the old man who sold me the medallion. He said that even in the best of loving there had to be tears . . .’

  ‘Oh God! I love you so much Cavanagh! I can’t bear the thought of life without you.’