They bid an emotional farewell to Angelo, who fondly embraced them both. He gave Harry a parting wink, which he made sure Lucia saw and, to his delight, she proceeded to slap him gently and berate him in Italian for not minding his own business. Harry asked Fabrizio to get his brother to swap the cars around for their departure the next day and then retired to bed where they made love until they were exhausted and fell asleep in each other’s arms. They went shopping the next day to bolster Lucia’s wardrobe and purchase a few other essentials including a small suitcase in which she could pack all her things – everything she owned in the world. Harry also visited the Banco Nazionale to cash some traveller’s cheques before handing a big wad of money over to Fabrizio and Carla for their stay, the hire of the Cinquecento and the clothes Carla had bought for Lucia. Finally, Harry called Inspector Bianchi.
“Ah, Signore Male. So I hope you have a pleasant journey. Do you mind to tell me where you are going?”
“I’d rather not, Inspector.”
“The information will be safe with me, Signore Male. But I must insist. It is possible I may have to contact you again.”
“All I can tell you is that I am going to Rome. I am not sure where we’ll be staying.”
“The hotel will keep a record and inform the relevant authority, but if you telephone me when you arrive that would be helpful.” Harry couldn’t see how he’d be needed. The Italians were not prosecuting Kessler ahead of his extradition to Germany so he was no use to them as a witness to the murder of Barone’s goons, and the less they knew about Lucia’s location the better. They’d been satisfied she was not acting under duress, they had no incentive to help Barone and every incentive to keep him away from Montellano to avoid the possibility of another turf war. On balance, he decided Bianchi wasn’t really interested and was just going through the motions.
“I will do that, Inspector. May I ask if your prisoner is still secure? I cannot stress enough how dangerous he is. He has demonstrated his murderous talents many times before.”
“Signore Male. I shall be pleased if you will leave police matters to the professionals. Herr Kessler cannot escape from here and I expect within two weeks, when the paperwork is completed, he will be taken by armed guard to Berlin.”
Somehow, Bianchi’s confidence and reassurance did nothing to assuage Harry’s fears that, given half a chance, Kessler would kill anyone who got in the way of his escape. But he clung to the notion that Kessler’s psychopathic feelings towards him might have been tempered by discovering the truth about Isabella and the baby – assuming, of course, he believed Lucia’s story.
“I hope the wedding goes well, Inspector.”
“Grazie mille, signore,” Bianchi said graciously although Harry thought he could detect irony in his tone.
With arrangements complete and hugs and best wishes for the future exchanged with their hosts, they climbed into the Spyder and set off for the three-hour drive to Rome. Within ten minutes they’d reached the main north-south highway, the sign for Rome pointing to the right. He turned left.
“Where are we going? Rome is this way,” said Lucia in her confusion. “This is the road to Napoli.”
“I know that. Trust me. I thought we could go and have one of their famous pizzas first.”
***
“What are you thinking?” he said after a long spell of silence. He was still in a state of semi-euphoria, cruising along in the Italian sunshine in an open-topped sports car with a ravishing auburn-haired beauty by his side, embarking on the next stage of his adventure, yet still taking nothing for granted. Their circumstances were unique and it was understandable their common history and shared experiences would bind them together, but he had to consider that the dangers they’d faced, together with the inherent uncertainty of the future, might have coloured their judgement and distorted their feelings for one another.
Harry Male challenged his own thinking in the same way he always did. He stepped outside the emotional bubble and assessed their nascent relationship as objectively as he could, adopted the role of proxy, a third-party as far as he was able, there to identify and alert him to the fatal flaw in his otherwise muddled thoughts. There was no doubt in the mind of the professional interrogator, the trained psychologist, the cynical evaluator and well-practised dissembler of fact from fiction, all of which he was. No doubt at all there could be but one conclusion. He was in love, utterly, completely, unconditionally and irretrievably under the spell of the woman next to him. The angel of Solano.
Harry felt invincible for the first time in his life. While she was with him, there was nothing he feared, nothing he wanted, nothing he couldn’t do and nothing he wouldn’t do for her. His only purpose was to protect and serve her for as long as she wanted him to and for as long as she stayed by his side.
“I was thinking, Harrimale,” she eventually replied. He wondered whether her use of the concatenation reflected some change in her feelings towards him. It was either a device to slow the acceleration of their relationship to a controllable pace, or further evidence of her being at ease with him. He thought again of the previous day and night together in bed and tried to reassure himself it was the latter.
“Three days ago, I got up and did my housework as usual and then went to the restaurant to do my lunchtime shift, expecting to go home to do some washing and ironing and then cook my husband’s dinner before he went to spend the night with one of his whores. Three days later I am here. And in that time, I have relived the most terrible days of my childhood; I have been pursued and shot at by madmen; I have lost what little I ever owned and all my possessions are contained in one small suitcase. And I have slept with a ghost from the past, who is taking me across the world to somewhere I don’t know and to a future I cannot imagine.”
He should not be surprised; it was all too much for anyone to take in. Events had spiralled out of control from the moment he’d decided he had to go back in time and discover the truth. However miserable and objectionable her life had been before, it had been roundly trashed, turned upside down and shaken to the core by his reappearance, and if she was now anxious and regretful, he was the cause. He pulled the car off the road into a layby and turned off the engine.
“I know how hard it must be for you,” he said. “I didn’t mean to cause you any distress. I just needed to understand what happened, whether I had been imagining things all this time, or whether it was all true. I never imagined you were real.”
She leaned over, put a hand behind his neck and pulled herself towards him, pressed her open mouth on his and kissed him hard with an energy that took him aback. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her body as close as the confined space would allow. After a few seconds, she relaxed and pulled back, grinning like a guilty teenager.
“You are my ghost and I am your angel,” she said, pressing her body against him again. A blast of a car horn made them jump and they watched as a big Lancia roared by, its male occupants shouting, cheering and whistling out of the open windows.
***
They reached the outskirts of the city by four, and twenty minutes later, the Naples branch of the car hire company whose address Harry had found on the back of the paperwork. He told them his plans had changed and he was flying out from Naples instead of Rome and asked if he could leave the Spyder there. The receptionist had a brief telephone conversation with her Rome office, inspected the Spyder carefully and declared everything to be in order.
“Are you able to recommend a good hotel?” he asked her as they were leaving.
“Sì, signore. The Hotel Vesuvio is very fine. It is five minutes in a taxi.”
Outside, he flagged down a taxi and opened the rear door for Lucia, who still appeared confused and mildly irritated by his behaviour.
“Train station, please.”
“Napoli Centrale, signore? Prego.”
“Where are we going, Harrimale?” she demanded. He was beginning to learn that her use of his full name was sometimes a term of endearment but could be, as on this occasion, when she was annoyed with him. He loved her either way and kissed her.
“Be patient, my love. I’m taking you to your hotel.
***
The express train from Naples to Rome left an hour later. He’d bought first-class tickets and was pleased to find they had a compartment to themselves. He stashed their cases on the racks above and pulled the sliding door shut. She sat down heavily opposite him, crossing her legs and arms.
“Why do we not just drive to Roma?” she asked him, irritated, but in her own lovable way. “We would be there by now.”
“Then let me tell you, my darling Lucia.” He stretched across and put a hand on her knee. She fixed him with a steely stare, trying not to smile. “Assuming Luigi and his goons are in pursuit, they’d have had to choose between Rome and Montellano, just as we did. The fact that he didn’t turn up in Montellano yesterday suggests he went to Rome, probably expecting to catch us up along the way. When he didn’t, he’d go straight to the car hire company and find out whether we’d returned the car. He’d draw a blank and guess we went to Montellano instead, so if we’d driven direct to Rome from Montellano today we would have passed him on the road and they’d have spotted the Spyder immediately. When he doesn’t find us in Montellano, he’ll call the hire company again; they’ll tell him the car’s in Naples and we’re at the Hotel Vesuvio.” He grinned at her, proud of his own analysis, and she shook her head in dismay. “What?”
“How do you know all this?”
“It’s called laying a false trail. Sending them on a wild goose chase.”
“I do not know what goes on in your head, Harrimale, you crazy inglese. What mind thinks of a wild goose?”
“It’s what I do.” He frowned, disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm for his brilliant analysis, his devious strategy and flawless execution. “I suppose intelligence types are a weird and suspicious bunch. It’s just the way we’re made.”
“Then I shall have to teach you how to be a normal person,” she said, but she broke into a grin, leaned over and kissed him.
***
It was seven thirty when they arrived in Rome and took a taxi to a hotel in a side street off the Piazza Navona. “Benvenuti a Hotel Amalfi, Signore Bristow,” said the portiere as he handed back the passport. “I hope you and your wife have a pleasant stay.” He snapped his fingers and the bellboy who’d been standing to attention behind them burst into action, bowing formally and picking up their cases.
“Please, follow me, Signore and Signora Bristow.”
He showed them into their superior room, pointed out all the facilities and Harry slipped him a thousand-lire note. “Grazie.”
“Grazie mille, signore. Prego.”
Lucia stood with her hands on her hips, looking puzzled and not a little severely at him but it just made her even more lovable.
“So, I am now your wife?”
“Sì, la mia amore,” he said in his best Italian, grinning wickedly at her.
“And my name is Bristow?”
“Yes, well, my old job did have a few perks.”
“You have two passports?” she said, still uncomprehending.
“Three actually. I’m sure my old mate Johnny wouldn’t mind if I use his name for a while.” He stepped forward and put a hand on each of her arms, looking into her eyes, kindly but serious. “We’re going to be here for a few days and I want to make sure Luigi can’t find us. And I don’t need Inspector Bianchi or anyone connected to him to be able to contact me either.”
“Harry, do you think Kessler might be able to escape?” The fear in her voice was evident. He pulled her close and she gripped him tightly.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but he’s done it before. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“But he knows now you did not harm Isabella and the baby.”
“I know. I’m a good judge of character and I’m trained in psychology and the more bizarre aspects of human behaviour. But you’ve got to remember, he’s an unfathomable psychopath. I have no idea what goes on in his mind.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We go and have a nice dinner somewhere and find out where the passport office is. Then tomorrow we’ll go and apply for one. I guess it’ll take a week before it comes through.”
“Which name do I use?”
It was a question he’d already considered, but hadn’t yet formed a judgement. “Which name would you like?”
She pulled back and looked up at him. He was being deliberately provocative and she knew it. She kissed him softly.
“I am already married, Harrimale,” she said, batting the question back into his court. She was no pushover and he loved her all the more for it.
***
They ate in the Ristorante Umberto where Harry’s Italian adventure had started less than a week ago. The Piazza Navona was still teeming with tourists and locals and the crowds would have provided more than adequate cover for two people wishing to remain incognito, but the evenings were getting cooler, so they chose a table inside.
“What are we going to do while we wait for the passport to come through?” she asked.
“Well, we could just be tourists, provided we keep a low profile. We’ll also have to go to the US Embassy and arrange a visa, but we can’t do that until you get your passport, so that will all take a little more time.”
“This is costing a lot of money.”
“It’s no problem.”
She looked down at her hands and he guessed what was bothering her. It was another reminder she was totally reliant on him. She had burned her bridges and there was no going back. She had placed her trust in him because she had no other choice and he knew, however much she liked him, how unnerving it must be for her. She had no money, no family, no power or ability to do anything except attach herself to a crazy inglese she’d known for only a few days. But we’ve known each other for eighteen years.
It was easy for him. For the foreseeable future, he could go anywhere he wanted, do anything he wanted and make any long-term plans as and when he chose to. At the moment, he was still on a mission and when that mission had been accomplished, he was sure the future for him would become clear. He desperately hoped that future would involve Lucia Girardi, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that, in time, she might think differently. He reached across the table and she took his hand. He rubbed his thumb over the back of hers; it was small, delicate and cold.
“I feel like I have known you all my life,” he said. “It may sound irrational, but I know now you’re the reason I came back. For the last eighteen years, I’ve been stuck like a record playing the same tune over and over again, unable to move on from that day in your father’s house. Constantly tormented about what happened, forever blaming myself and desperately sorry it had all been in vain. I thought Catalina had died and you were an angel from heaven.” He laughed. “Strange thing for someone who’s not religious. But Catalina didn’t die. You and I saved her and you saved me too. And now I’m going to save you.”
“I am no angel, Harry. You do not know who I am. What I have done.” He heard regret in her voice but it was also a warning, a thinly veiled attempt to deter him. Perhaps she was simply not ready to put her trust in him.
“And you don’t know anything about me either.”
“Then tell me.”
He told her about growing up in Coventry with a loving but subservient mother and a domineering disciplinarian of a father, something he later discovered had to be a reaction to shellshock from the trenches. He told her about school, about history and English lessons and about losing his virginity to the form master’s wife, at which Lucia laughed out loud; about playing rugby and following in his father’s footsteps by joining the army in 1938 aged eighteen, being shipped across the channel with the British Expeditionary Force and then beating a hasty and humbling retreat in June 1940 from Dunkirk. Being a lieutenant at twenty-two and fighting in North Africa before the invasion of Sicily and reaching the end of the road at Solano.
He told her about sitting out the remainder of the war pushing paper and then going back to civilian life and working for the post office and he told her how introspective he’d been, how he’d been unable to form relationships with men or women and why, presumably, he’d never married. He told her that not a day had gone by when he hadn’t thought of Alfredo and Isabella and Catalina and the angel who took them all and he could never understand why time had not healed the wounds. He told her how, in a futile attempt to escape the painful memories, he’d joined the ministry of defence and ultimately MI6, living in the shadows, in a world so far removed from normal life.
He told her about his work in Berlin and about Petra and how, so preoccupied with his demons, he’d failed to demonstrate how much he loved her and it drove her away. He told her terrible stories about the Wall and about life in the East and about living in the shadows with the constant danger that the war would start again at any time. He told her how he’d succeeded in getting away from normal life at the price of becoming a complete stranger, even to himself – putting himself in danger, because he was, after all, immortal. Yet whoever had decided he should live at Solano had doomed him to relive the events day after day.
“And you say you are not religious?” she said.
“God or the devil. Is that the only choice?”
“Maybe God was trying to tell you something and all you could see was the devil?”
“If God had decided I should live because I’d done something good, then why did he torture me all those years?”
“Perhaps he wanted you to see for yourself that you had done something good. Perhaps you were just looking for the bad.”
Her words hit home but he fought the urge to accept them without challenge. There was no God, of that he was certain. He’d never needed it nor wanted it and rebelled against the notion that he should subordinate his soul to a higher being. There were just too many things God had got wrong to make him worthy of acknowledgement.
“Are you telling me God is the reason I’m here?”
“Why are you here?”
“I told you. I needed to revisit the scene of my nightmares to see if they were really as awful as I imagined.”
“To find out whether it was all true, what you thought you did. You must have had doubts otherwise you would not be here. And you found out that what you did was brave and good and better than anyone could have done. Did God make you do that or did you do it yourself?”
He shook his head in despair. “I don’t know. What’s the difference?”
“There is none. I believe there is a reason for everything we do and the things we cannot explain are because of God. You have no answer for things you cannot explain, and so you think the worst and blame yourself.”
“Maybe I do,” he said.
“And why do you want to keep going?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you want to go to America?”
“You know why. To find Catalina.”
“Is it not enough to know she lived? Can you not leave it alone and move on now?”
He didn’t want to discuss it. He didn’t want to discuss it because he knew she was right. He didn’t know what was driving him on and he’d suppressed the nagging doubts he’d already had. But he knew if he didn’t, he would always wonder and he feared the thoughts and questions would never leave him. He had to finish the story and close the book.
“I just need to see her. Then we can move on.”
“We?”
“I love you, Lucia Girardi.”
She beamed. “No one said that to me before.”
***
“Harry, my boy. How the devil are you?” Arthur Rowland’s voice boomed down the telephone line as clear as if he were standing next to him. Harry guessed the elderly lawyer felt he had to shout to cover the distance.
“Very well, Arthur, thank you.”
“Are you still in Bella Italia?”
“Yes, but I’m planning a trip to America, soon.”
“Oh, my word, you are a globetrotting jetsetter. I’m very jealous. What can I do for you, young man?”
“Two things, Arthur. Can you transfer some money to me at the Banco Nazionale in Rome? About five hundred should do it. I’ll get the hotel to telex you all the details.”
“Will do. It should be there in two or three days. Anything else?”
“Yes. I need to track down a family that emigrated from Italy to the US in 1950. They must have immigration records but I don’t know where. Can you find out where I go and the procedure I need to follow?” There was a pause on the line and Harry could hear Arthur Rowland’s pen scribbling furiously.
“We have connections to a London firm which has an office in New York. I’ll ask them to find out. What’s the name?”
“Rossetti.” He felt Lucia tugging his arm. “Manuela, Viviana, Gino and Catalina.” She was looking at him and mouthing something unintelligible. “Arthur, please hold the line for a moment,” he said, putting a hand over the mouthpiece. “What?”
“Viviana and Gino were married so they have a different name. And they called the baby Giuliana.”
“Good point. What is it?”
“What is what?”
“Their surname?”
“I don’t know.”
***
They’d been waiting in the corridor of the passport office for over an hour for their turn until her name was called by an officious-looking man in a uniform and she got up, clutching her application form.
“Shall I come with you?” asked Harry, getting up with her.
“No, it might just complicate things.” She kissed him and followed the official down the corridor. They turned left and disappeared and he felt a rush of alarm. She’d barely been out of his sight for a moment since the day in the forest and he felt suddenly fearful for her safety. He knew it was irrational but he couldn’t help it. I should have gone with her, complications or not! Don’t be an arse! It’s the bloody passport office! You’re in love, that’s your problem. You just can’t bear to be apart. That’s what love does to you.
He sat down again and fidgeted, rubbing sweaty palms together, watching other people being called and wondering how long it would take. They’d decided they would use her married name, Barone. It was probably unnecessary and certainly too risky to lie as it was a verifiable fact. On the other hand neither of them knew what checks would be carried out, so there was always the danger Luigi might somehow be alerted.
There were risks either way and Harry convinced her the truth was usually the best option, especially when dealing with authorities. She had never had a passport before, so it was a new application and she had filled out the form using her home address in Casavento, naming Luigi as her husband. If pressed, she would say that she wanted to visit family in America but that her husband could not go with her because of his business interests. Disingenuous, but basically true. She was back in ten minutes and he looked at her anxiously.
“It’s fine. They took my picture and stamped the form. The say it will be ready in two days.”
***
They did some more shopping and bought bigger suitcases. He couldn’t judge how long they would be in America because he had no idea how long it would take to find Manuela Rossetti and her family. He was also unsure of the weather they’d encounter so they bought shoes and clothes for a range of conditions.
They visited the usual attractions to kill time but wore hats and sunglasses wherever they went, constantly nervous someone would spot them and continuously scanning faces in the crowd for anyone appearing to show an unusual interest. There was no logic to it, Harry knew. They’d done nothing wrong and had only villains and maniacs to worry about, as if that wasn’t enough, but it would have taken more resources than Barone and Kessler could muster to find them in Rome, of that he was confident.
They ate in restaurants, drank cappuccino in cafés, held hands wherever they went and when the heavens opened and torrential rain cleared the streets, they went back to their hotel and made love.
“How do you like being Mrs Bristow?” he said, hugging her naked body in bed at four in the afternoon as rain lashed the windows.
“I forget sometimes who I am.” She giggled. “Who is your friend?”
“Bristow? Oh he’s not a friend really. Just someone I worked with. Heavy smoker, loves cricket.”
“He eats cricket?”
He laughed. “No, no. It’s an English sport. Difficult to describe. It’s a game where men dressed in white hit a ball with a wooden bat around a field for five days and then call it a draw.”
“You inglese are all crazy. You do not smoke?”
“I used to. Gave it up. Petra hated it and used to nag me about it. Used to tell me this little rhyme.
Tobacco is a filthy weed,
That from the devil doth proceed.
It drains your purse, it burns your clothes,
And makes a chimney of your nose.”
“Ha!” she said. “That is funny. She was a clever lady?”
“Oh yes. She spoke several languages and was, is, a lecturer in philosophy at the University of Berlin.”
“Wow. I am not clever like that.” He kissed her head and she sat up to face him. “Do you miss her?”
“She was very beautiful and very clever and I hope we can still be friends. She was right to walk away. Petra wanted something else. Something I couldn’t give her.”
“What was that?”
“A normal life, with a husband and children.”
“Do you not want that also?”
“I never thought about it before.” He put a hand on her cheek, caressed it gently then slid it around her neck and pulled her towards him, kissing her open mouth with his, massaging her lips with his, and not stopping until they needed to breathe again.
“Oh, Harrimale,” she said, inhaling deeply. “I hope you can have a normal life.”
“So do I, Lucia.”
***
The next day they went back to the passport office and after an agonising wait, she eventually emerged, waving her new passport in the air in triumph.
“Now I can go anywhere in the world!” she announced with glee, throwing her arms around him and kissing him. “Of course, only if someone is paying the fare.”
“Stick with me, sweetheart,” he said in a terrible American accent, winking at her. “C’mon. Next stop, US Embassy.”
***
When they got back to the hotel, there was a message waiting for him to call Arthur Rowland in England. Harry looked at his watch. It was five fifteen in Rome, an hour earlier in Coventry, so he asked the portiere to arrange the connection and put it though to his room.
“Prego, signore.”
The bedroom phone rang five minutes later.
“Arthur?”
“Hello, young man. We’ve had confirmation the money’s been received at the Banco Nazionale.”
“Thank you.”
“And I have some information. I’ll put it on the telex. It’s a law firm in New York who specialise in immigration and in particular finding out where all the migrants went. The name is Greenberg Travis Morgan and the chap you want is Martin Kopelsky. I’ve had a chat with him and told him who you’re looking for and I’ve agreed to underwrite their fees and have the bill sent to me.”
“Thanks, Arthur. I’m very grateful. I expect we’ll be flying out in couple of days or so.”
“We?” Arthur may have been a staid old English lawyer, but he didn’t miss much.
“Ah yes. I met an old friend out here. She’s going with me.” He winked at Luc