In Aid of Greed

CHAPTER ONE

A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC

He has done it many times: convoys, armoured patrols, NATO vehicles in Afghanistan mostly. A skill of precision to learn, like lifting a bow into the air, pulling back the string and letting the arrow trace its arc. You need to estimate the speed of the vehicle as it comes alongside. Try the road yourself if you have doubts. A quick calculation of car speed and distance to know exactly when and with what force to toss the armour-piercing grenade into the air. The tiny parachute opens, breaking the trajectory of flight. The weapon drops, smashes into the roof of the car just behind the windscreen and triggers the explosion. The flash of white and yellow flame brings a sudden burst of piercing light. The single ear-shattering deep smack of the explosion seems louder than he had ever known and he recoils from the noise. But he does not look away. He likes to watch his work in action, feeling like a bowler scoring a strike. The effect in this dense forest is briefly mesmerising. A cloud of black smoke shrouds the vehicle for an instant as it slides across the road towards the trees. Suddenly erupting orange fire engulfs it entirely. The intense wave of heat makes him move back behind a tree. He has never had the indulgence before of watching so closely what his skill can achieve.

The fuel tank explodes and an orange river of flame floods across the road and then slows to a stop to form an enormous oil lamp. He wonders whether the trees will burn. For an instant he becomes excited about causing a forest fire. Will the flames catch the wood? But there has been too much rain recently.

§

Why did you not have him killed before, Luigi? You had the power then.

The question was asked by the younger man in such a matter of fact way as though suggesting another cup of coffee.

He was not clever, so he was useful. Such a communist as he was could provide information, came the equally bland reply.

Between the two men there was a difference in age of no more than fifteen years, but the invitation had come from the younger man and he would pay the bill.

He used to give you information? The accent was on the word ‘give’ and the tone incredulous.

The older man, Luigi, looked straight at the other. No one gives anybody anything. But he was stupid.

There is a hardness in the word ‘stupido’ in Italian that can make it sound far more aggressive than its English equivalent.

Communist. Fascist. They are all only names to justify taking and using power. But he is causing problems now. Our friends in Russia are not happy with what this Fusco is doing, particularly as he used to have connections with the old guard. You will do something now, I imagine. It is necessary now.

The meal was over; the discussion closed. The two men rose from the table and left the private room where they had been eating. There was a flurry of activity as one of them requested his car.

A few minutes later a waiter in traditional long white apron opened the door of the restaurant with a flourish and the Buona sera, grazia repeated several times. Another employee was standing holding the car door open and his hand appeared swiftly to accept and envelop the ten-euro note, like a conjurer making a card disappear.

Grazia, mille, Signor Garzoni.

As the owner of the car got in, the other spoke with just a touch of sadness in his voice.

Why did you not retire, Luigi?

Me! Retire? His hands left the steering wheel and were shaken in the air as though he were acknowledging applause. Me. I retire when I die.

The younger man stepped back from the car and under his breath just said Esatto. The Italian for exactly again sounded stronger, more final.

A slight wind had blown away the fog that had arrived each evening recently, but the early spring air was still heavy with moisture. The 3 litre V6 engine of the Lancia Thesis came alive. It was just about 100 metres to Via Fatebenefratelli, but the departure was full power on and then almost immediately quite savage braking. Luigi Garzoni’s style of driving showed little sympathy for his cars, the road conditions or other road users. It was quite brutal, revealing the uncaring, thoughtless side of his nature. This was not at all like the obsequious, sensitive, almost gracious individual who had for so many years mastered the skill of persuading senior politicians that they were bold, powerful leaders when they made decisions that were exactly what he wanted.

Manipulating in an Italian style was a skill in which he had excelled for many years, with many politicians and many political parties as they had come with their manifestoes and money, gone with their incompetent coalitions and returned again with more money during his long years just on the perimeter of the circus of rulers in Rome. He had no need and no desire to be nearer the centre and certainly not in Rome, living there. He was a Northern Italian, Lombardy, and proud of it. There was no one of any importance across those flat, misty plains that he did not know, and quite often knew something about that one day might have to be used.

His office had once been deep inside the Questura building in Milan, the one that had seen so many horrors during the Fascist times. At first this had given him a feeling of power, but as these sensations were matched little by little with reality, discretion had become his watchword. Discrezione, ragazzi, he repeated and repeated to the boredom and sometimes the humour of the people who worked for him. Discretion was not having an office in the Questura. Eventually he found accommodation in a building that he felt was appropriate and it was not difficult to make the necessary arrangements for this to be commandeered in the interests of the state. It was a renaissance building near the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie. This was the house in which Leonardo da Vinci had lived during the painting of Il Cenacolo: the Last Supper. Garzoni was in the habit of explaining this to visitors with pride in his voice and his hands raised upwards as though he expected them to congratulate him.

There was one large room that he used to receive important visitors, mainly foreigners. The ceiling had a fresco that he insisted in describing in detail when no words were needed and which was apparently the work of Leonardo at the time he was in residence. Marcus Black had admired it profusely, much to the delight of the occupier, who always greeted him with the same joke: Ah Signor Nero . . .

Many years before, this man had been his ‘target’: the reason that Marcus had been sent to Milan and the first time his cover as a professor in psychology, had been tested. It was a simple cover to put in place. Academics could easily be accepted as slightly secretive people who did not work from nine to five but were constantly seeking answers as part of their research. The man had sent people to check out Marcus’ apartment, something he was prepared for. The report back described large quantities of books, many dealing with psychology, history and human behaviour plus hand-written notes and files of press cuttings from magazines. His furniture seemed mainly to have been bought in Milan recently and he did not have many clothes. He liked music as he had a lot of CDs, mainly classical and jazz.

Marcus had been able to pinpoint exactly the hour the visit had started thanks to a discreet addition to his music centre and another to his bedside radio. As if they were not enough, the concierge gave him a longer and stranger look than his usual cursory nod and buona sera when he returned that evening. Later, when the concierge’s apartment was well and truly closed to any interruption of the evening’s singing, dancing, quiz-show television viewing, Marcus went down to the basement where all the fuse boxes and telephone connections were. Nothing unusual there. He had also checked all light fittings, power-points and the telephone in the apartment. A methodical man to start with, he had learnt well all the standard instructions and added a few tricks of his own concerning the alignment of objects that gave all the appearance of having been put down at random.

All in all Marcus had felt that his short time in Italy had been most agreeable. He had enjoyed his life in Milan, was overwhelmed by La Scala and discovered that he enjoyed cooking as well as eating Italian food. Partly thanks to Ornella, he learned the language quite quickly and several other enjoyable ways of life.

He never knew why there had been a change of mind in London that resulted in his return before a year was out. The connection he had made with a member of one of the former noble families of Italy seemed to be on the point of offering an interesting back door to Rome, but he had been told in no uncertain terms to drop it. No explanation, just do as you’re told. He had known in advance who Pete Lopez was and assumed that the knowledge was mutual, so avoided the places and events where the American might be. Inevitably, however, they met and Marcus was disappointed that it was his Italian target himself who had made the introductions, looking on carefully.

That was a long time ago. The once slim, elegantly-dressed Italian driving out of Milan was now a victim of his diet and lowered-status. No more the frescoed office, the staff at his command. No more the power and position to attract a young mistress. No more the Lamborghini that for a while had taken his brutal driving and seemed to thrive on it.

Nevertheless, the over-weight, balding and rather despicable man had the opportunity of benefiting first from the money he had acquired over the years, which he prudently kept outside Italy, and second from his memory. He knew a lot about a lot of people. There were those who thought his memory useful. There were those who thought it dangerous. Too dangerous. The man believed he had just dined with the former. But that was a mistake he should never have made.

The Lancia had soon rounded the park and taken the Corso Sempione well above the speed limit, receiving the klaxons of several other cars and making it difficult for a motor cycle following the same route. Viale Certosa was more crowded so the pace was calmer. He was taking the route he knew extremely well since he had acquired a large house that had been very modern when it was built in the 1970s, but had cost him a lot in maintenance almost from the day he had bought it. Still, it was in the countryside, half-way to Stresa, and Lago Maggiore was still beautiful and not over-developed.

Garzoni went through the toll and realised an Alfa was about to race him up the autostrada. There were times, particularly Lamborghini times, when he would have taken him on. What was an Alfa these days? But tonight, he was not in that mood. He was more mellow. The dinner had been good. His friends almost extra gracious in their compliments. He let the red car go, contenting himself with overtaking a fast-looking motorbike that had second thoughts about its speed.

At 140 kilometres an hour the Lancia seemed to be at her best. Hardly a sound inside. He clicked on cruise control and then selected a Pavarotti disc. This was the way to retire, he thought, contentedly. The signs flashed past. The big trucks were insignificant. He had no reason to move from the outside lane. And in almost no time at all, he lightly touched the brake pedal and moved smoothly to the right. He braked more sharply as he came up behind a family Fiat leaving the autostrada by the same exit. At 140 he had felt calm and relaxed. Now doing 50 kilometres an hour behind this car he was irritated and anxious to get on.

He was glad to see the Fiat turn right towards the lake as he swung left on to a small road that led towards the forest and his house. He knew that road so well: very straight at first and then at three kilometres there were two sharp, slow bends where the forest began. Coming out of the forest after about another five kilometres, he would be almost home.

He glanced in his mirror: just a single headlight of a motorbike in the distance. He got nearer the forest and switched off the music. A quick glance again: the motorbike had gone, probably taken one of the tracks across the countryside. He could relax completely. He knew this road so well and these days he drank less, particularly refusing the grappa he once loved.

Even from the beginning of the forest the Lancia was easy to see. It was the only car. It slowed right down for the first bend. As they swept across the road, the headlights nearly blinded the waiting man even though he was behind a big tree. The car needed to slow even more for the second bend, the brake lights turning the road bright red. Just ahead, the Russian-made armour-piercing grenade flew from the man’s hand.

The motorcycle rider arrived and his passenger ran from behind the trees to join him, the whole scene lit by the orange flames from the car and the oil-soaked road. He carried in his hand the backpack with the second grenade. The two men shook their heads. No second grenade was needed. Throw the grenade and disappear instantly into the crowd. That was the normal instruction. This time they hesitated, impressed by the force of the destruction, the visual demonstration of the power of their act. Then they headed off on the motorcycle, quickly taking a rough track to get them on to a different road. They had no idea who had been in the car. That was of no interest to them. They received their instructions. They asked no questions. They carried out their work calmly and accurately and took their payment as a matter of course.

Luigi Garzoni, once head of Italian internal security in Milan, more recently facilitator of the passage of large illicit funds across borders had died instantly. If only he had contented himself with his commission. Instead, his curiosity and the pride he had in his old secret skills obliged him to find out who was behind the transfers, where the money originated and what was being bought and sold. How could he have made such a mistake? After all, you did not have to be Sicilian to understand omertà.

The immolation of the car and his body was rapid.

CHAPTER TWO

INTERESTING MENU

What can I do to persuade you?

You can’t.

How about two nights at The Connaught?

Frank, I live in the south of France.

Right. Of course. The flight, Marcus, first class, car to the airport, you know.

I don’t like flying unless I am going somewhere different and interesting and long-haul.

How about your famous trains? Zap you up to Paris and then Eurostar.

Why don’t you come here?

Would do. Love to. But, well, I mean, you’re the one with more time these days. Time’s tight here you know. I’m sure you understand.

Perhaps, but you are the one who wants the meeting. Why can’t you tell me what it’s all about?

Phone, Marcus. You know what it’s like these days.

Good god. It’s ridiculous. Write me a letter then.

Look. This is actually rather important and I need to action something soon.

I didn’t think you would run to The Connaught if it wasn’t.

I’m counting on you to accept Marcus. I need your skills. Could we make it Wednesday next week, the twelfth? Dinner at the hotel.

Make the dinner at the Brook Street restaurant. You remember it?

Of course Marcus. Old haunts, eh? Oh one other thing. I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this, but could you make all the bookings? Use your internet. Fewer traces that way. I’ll reimburse ‘en liquide’ as I believe they say over there. See you in Mount Street. Eight o’clock Wednesday evening. Look forward to it.

The phone clicked before another word could pass.

What was all that about? Once he had known Littlewood quite well. Never very close but that was usual in their business. Their offices had been almost next to one another in their young days, when the service had such elegant accommodation in Farm Street, Mayfair: mews houses on the outside, opened up on the inside to link together. Some of the bigger rooms still had fireplaces in the corners, all had parquet flooring. The furniture was dark wood, very solid, skilled joinery, and showed the sign of much use. What the English liked to refer to as ‘comfortable furniture’, having a sort of integrity. And different offices had different pieces, so that somehow ‘your’ desk had its own character.

Not like that now. Late 1990’s high-rise, Docklands. Open-plan areas, carpet tiles and furniture that came flat in boxes and was screwed and bolted together. Each piece looked the same: rectangles of chipboard covered with imitation wood-like plastic, holes in the top for computer cables. As you went up grades in the usual administrative style, you had a side table added and then a round table with four metal and imitation-leather chairs.

Imitation. That was what filled Frank Littlewood’s voice now. False friendliness because most of the real kind had rapidly dissolved when he had accepted all the changes prefaced with the word ‘new’ and Marcus had not, starting with the new Head of Service. A New Dynamic, whatever that meant, was launched. The credo was set out in a five-page document rich in adjectives and poor in communication. When Marcus asked questions he was told that he just did not understand the new vernacular. Littlewood would do almost anything to achieve his goal, not Marcus. And there was Frank Littlewood now: the corner office that actually had proper furniture, the private secretary, the chauffeured Jaguar. Even got the knighthood recently. Bet he needed to grovel a lot to the government.

I should have just said ‘Nothing doing, Frank,’ and put the phone down, Marcus thought to himself. Am I being tempted by a little visit to London in extreme comfort? Or am I secretly pleased to be wanted again?

He had a comfortable life, but occasionally he thought it had become perhaps a little too predictable.

He moved to his living-room, put on a CD of Shostakovich’s 7th Symphony, LSO conducted by Gergiev, and thought about the Connaught and where he would have dinner and the little shopping he might do.

Why not? he said to himself, forgetting how many times that phrase had led him into adventures good and bad.

§

It is extremely agreeable, relaxing and calming when you can be welcomed as a ‘regular’ somewhere. The more the possibility of unpleasant surprises in life can be removed, the better. Marcus had enjoyed this pleasure of being known in many different restaurants and hotels: from London to Hong Kong, Singapore to Vienna. However, it can also be sad when time passes and takes away the smile of recognition, the knowledge of your likes and dislikes. Marcus could still recall the shock of when Bradley’s disappeared. It was in one of those elegant Mayfair houses between Saville Row and Berkeley Square. Once the home of Clarence Bradley, the 19th century diarist and wit, which had given the restaurant club its name. Members only and their guests. Private dining. In the days before computers and organic fantasies, member’s details were kept on cards and the food was excellent and unpretentious.

They seemed genuinely sad to hear that Marcus was leaving England for a time in Asia.

But you will be visiting London from time to time? suggested the manager.

Oh yes.

Then, may we offer you life membership so that you still have the possibility of visiting us whenever you are in town.

And he did. Almost the first day he arrived in London, he would call and make a reservation. And how pleasant it was to be greeted with a Welcome back, Mr Black. So nice to see you again.

Until on one visit to London, he could not get through by telephone. He thought no more than probably they had a new number. He decided he would like to lunch there by himself and felt confident they would find a place for one.

His taxi drew up. He stepped out and stared in disbelief at the enormous hole where once Bradley’s, and its neighbours, had been. Years later, he would walk past the post-modernist office building and still picture the once refined and elegant interior he had known. Deep within him there was a sadness like losing a friend. The irrefutable realisation that the happy association had ended forever. Weren’t those blue plaques on the walls of old buildings supposed to protect them?

As the years passed, Marcus worked hard in his mind to balance the inevitability of change and nostalgia for what he had enjoyed. And there was only one person in his past whose absence still weighed heavy.

The Connaught had only been his choice for dining and then not very often, so Marcus was not surprised when the reception was polite and no more. The room had recently been refurbished with furniture that was quite new but in a style that suggested a New Yorker’s idea of European antique. He hoped the menu had not become fusion or whatever other notion seemed to appeal to people who went to restaurants rather to be seen than fed. He was hoping for an indulgent dinner by himself the following evening.

As requested, he had made the reservation in the Brook Street restaurant and had actually asked on the phone whether the restaurant had been sold to a chain or whether the chef was now famous on TV. He had smiled to himself as he received the reassurances and settled into the comfortable expectation of being a regular once more.

The Connaught bathroom was large and well-stocked with oils, creams, soaps and towels as well as a bath long enough to really stretch out. So Marcus decided to indulge himself. With warm foamy water almost up to his neck, it was easy to relax and for several minutes he let himself go physically and mentally. Then his brain re-awoke as he started to think of the reason why he was actually here, the manner of the phone call, the man who had made it. How different Frank Littlewood, oh yes now Sir Frank, was to himself. Marcus had taken the option to spend the major part of his life outside of England. Littlewood had returned from some time in Germany quite determined to make his way up the ladder at headquarters through eagerness and obedience. Marcus had never considered the latter quality essential. Using initiative and making his own decisions was his instinctive style.

Perhaps it was something inherited. His great grandfather Friedrich Swartzbaugh married an English woman who had been his student in Heidelberg. When the First World War started, Friedrich’s anger with the behaviour of the Kaiser and his love for the British Empire convinced him that the right decision was to move the family to a small house in Berkshire and change his name to Black.

The academic strain had passed through to Marcus’ father, who was a classicist. And perhaps it was there in the way Marcus himself thought about and planned future possibilities. Certainly Friedrich would have recognised the decision making and the quiet but determined way that action was taken. But if he had sometimes been a hero in the field, he was not made to drive a desk.

As Marcus dried himself and got dressed, he stopped for a minute to look in the mirror. Is this what a man looks like in his mid-fifties? The thinning and greying of the hair? At least he had a healthy colour to his skin. Life in sunny climates had made sure of this. He remembered the lady in France who said what an attractive smile he had. He smiled at himself now, but that was the smile he always had when he was content and he could not see anything special about it. He was also not really aware of the effects the direct look of his eyes could have. For some, it was fear. For others, admiration. For a few, desire.

It was mild weather, as the English like to say about a temperature that was not actually cold and clouds that were keeping their rain to themselves, so Marcus did not need the raincoat he put on for the few minutes walk to the restaurant. However, many years in warmer parts of the world had convinced him of the merits of comfort. Besides he hardly ever wore a raincoat except in England or Paris in the winter. There were several cities in the world that were very familiar to Marcus, but none quite as much as London. As a student he had been obliged to walk the streets, not call for a cab. But it was pleasing and something engagingly attractive about the taxis that still seemed to look the same today as they did then.

A very pretty young woman checked his reservation and took his coat. He was shown to the table he had requested: left, corner, window. With his back to the wall, he could survey everything and everyone in the restaurant. He asked the waitress for a Punt e Mes and as she lowered her eyebrows and a little frown appeared he realised that she was not Italian, as he thought she looked.

Punt e Mes, he repeated slowly. When she repeated the name herself, they both smiled as he said exactly.

He thought he recognised the profile of the head waiter but the man was busy with another table. His drink arrived with the correct little slice of orange and another smile from the waitress.

Where are you from? he asked.

Romania.

Ah, I thought you were Italian.

I speak a little Italian and French but my English needs practice. That is why I am here.

You speak very good English.

As they were talking, he saw the manager look up, glance at him and then go to the desk at the entrance with the reservations. Then he hurried over.

Mr Black. I thought it was you. It has been a long time, no? How are you?

I am well, thank you and you?

Oh the same, always the same.

He took the ‘you’ to mean both himself and the restaurant, although both were showing the years now.

You know, the other restaurants come and go. It is fashionable there, then it is fashionable another place. We carry on, perhaps never in fashion, but people come here who know that good Italian food is not just pasta and pizza.

He might have carried on a little more about the personal credo of his restaurant, but Marcus’ dinner companion appeared at that moment.

Marcus, good to see you again. How are you?

Fine, Frank, and yourself?

Oh, you know, mustn’t grumble.

Marcus looked at Sir Frank Littlewood as he dithered over whether to have a pre-dinner drink, nearly ordered a mineral water and then gave in to the idea of a scotch and water without ice. Littlewood was one of those top government officials, the English still use that quaint term ‘civil servant’, who seemed to talk more like a superficial PR executive than the Oxford graduate he was. There again, perhaps, some PR executives went to Oxford, too. He always seemed to wear the same kind of clothes. The suits that could be dark grey, dark blue or perhaps black. It was hard to tell one from another. And the bland ties: perhaps they were from his public school, or his club, or cricket team. Who knows, who cares, except perhaps himself? Having examined his own face in the hotel mirror, Marcus now looked across the table and thought perhaps life in a London office had not treated Littlewood so well. A greyish pallor, skin beginning to sag beneath the eyes, a general tiredness in his look. He seemed to hunch as he sat down, not the straight-backed former army officer he had once been, but more like a weary administrator. Marcus had not seen him looking so burdened. Obviously Littlewood was not having similar thoughts as he gave a weak smile across the table and addressed Marcus.

You’re looking well. I suppose, life in the south of France suits you. Remind me, where about is your house?

Near Avignon, replied Marcus.

Ah yes. Don’t they run the Eurostar trains right down there now?

Oh sometimes for the Avignon Festival.

Ah yes of course.

Marcus momentarily wondered whether Frank had any idea what the Avignon Festival was.

Let’s get the ordering out of the way. I remember how much you like this place. What is it that makes it special for you, actually?

Memories of Milan. They know what good Northern Italian cuisine is here.

Ah yes Milan. A few years back that was, wasn’t it.

Many years. Quite a lot of good things in my life are now in the past, but I try neither to forget nor become too sentimental. I took my retirement early so that I can still enjoy places new and different.

Oh I’m glad you don’t forget. I hoped that would be the case.

The arrival of the wine list interrupted the conversation.

"You’d better