to the figure in the window, and went in by the garden entrance. The uninhabited ground floor smelt disused, not having been properly aired by the three new tenants who had moved in at the same time as the Blakes. There was a bedroom for each of them on the first floor, a bathroom with a shower cabinet, a useful laundry room with washer and dryer, and a very large sitting room, which was the centre of operations.
“You must be hungry, boys,” she said.
Lieutenants Richard Di Cicco and Vincent Caputo welcomed her with grateful smiles. Neatly dressed in grey suits and blue shirts, they hadn’t spoken a single word for the last two hours. The living room, which was entirely given over to the surveillance of the Blake house, was equipped with a listening table, two pairs of 80/20 binoculars set on tripods, a separate telephone for communication with the United States, and several parabolic microphones of varying strength. There were also two armchairs, a camp bed and a trunk with a lockedbolt, which contained a machine gun, a telescopic rifle and two hand guns. Richard, woken up by Maggie’s arrival, had been sipping cold tea all afternoon, not thinking about anything, apart from his fiancée, who would now, given the time difference, just be arriving at her airfreight control office at Seattle airport. Vincent, on the other hand, had numbed his fingertips playing his video game. And yes, if it encouraged their visitor, yes, of course, they were hungry.
“What goodies have you got in that basket, Maggie?”
She pulled open the container with the peppers, which was on her knees. The boys were suddenly silent, overcome by foolish emotion. The smell of the garlic-laden olive oil on the peppers took them straight back to their native land. Maggie’s gesture reminded them of their mothers. Di Cicco and Caputo clung onto such moments in order not to feel entirely orphaned by having accepted this overseas mission. For the last five years, they had had three weeks’ rest and recuperation every two months, and the further they were from the next leave, the more miserable was the expression of homesickness in their faces. Di Cicco and Caputo had committed no crime, had done nothing to deserve such an exile and so little prospect of going home for good. To Maggie they were victims rather than spies snooping on her daily life, and she felt it was her duty to nurture them in the way that only a woman could.
“Marinated peppers just the way you like them, with plenty of garlic.”
Maggie took care of them as though they were her nearest and dearest, which in a sense they quite literally were; they were never more than thirty steps from the front door, and took it in shifts to watch over them atnight. They knew the Blake family better than the Blake family knew themselves. One Blake could have secrets from another Blake, but not from Di Cicco and Caputo, and least of all from Quintiliani, their boss.
They shared the food out and ate in silence.
“Did Quintiliani tell you about the barbecue later?”
“Yes, he liked the idea – he may come by at the end of the evening.”
Unlike his agents, Quintiliani was constantly on the move. He went to and fro to Paris, made regular visits to Quantico, the headquarters of the FBI, and sometimes a quick trip to Sicily to coordinate anti-Mafia operations. The Blakes knew nothing about his movements – he would just appear and disappear at moments when they least expected it.
“We should have had a barbecue in Cagnes, got all those nosy people together and got rid of them once and for all,” said Di Cicco.
“Try and come too,” Maggie said. “I’ve made ziti and Fred’s in charge of the steaks and salsiccia .”
“You’ll have a lot of people, the whole neighbourhood knows about it.”
“There’ll always be enough for you two – you can count on me.”
“Is it still the same olive oil? Can you get it here?” Vincent asked, mopping up the pepper juices.
“I’ve still
“You must be hungry, boys,” she said.
Lieutenants Richard Di Cicco and Vincent Caputo welcomed her with grateful smiles. Neatly dressed in grey suits and blue shirts, they hadn’t spoken a single word for the last two hours. The living room, which was entirely given over to the surveillance of the Blake house, was equipped with a listening table, two pairs of 80/20 binoculars set on tripods, a separate telephone for communication with the United States, and several parabolic microphones of varying strength. There were also two armchairs, a camp bed and a trunk with a lockedbolt, which contained a machine gun, a telescopic rifle and two hand guns. Richard, woken up by Maggie’s arrival, had been sipping cold tea all afternoon, not thinking about anything, apart from his fiancée, who would now, given the time difference, just be arriving at her airfreight control office at Seattle airport. Vincent, on the other hand, had numbed his fingertips playing his video game. And yes, if it encouraged their visitor, yes, of course, they were hungry.
“What goodies have you got in that basket, Maggie?”
She pulled open the container with the peppers, which was on her knees. The boys were suddenly silent, overcome by foolish emotion. The smell of the garlic-laden olive oil on the peppers took them straight back to their native land. Maggie’s gesture reminded them of their mothers. Di Cicco and Caputo clung onto such moments in order not to feel entirely orphaned by having accepted this overseas mission. For the last five years, they had had three weeks’ rest and recuperation every two months, and the further they were from the next leave, the more miserable was the expression of homesickness in their faces. Di Cicco and Caputo had committed no crime, had done nothing to deserve such an exile and so little prospect of going home for good. To Maggie they were victims rather than spies snooping on her daily life, and she felt it was her duty to nurture them in the way that only a woman could.
“Marinated peppers just the way you like them, with plenty of garlic.”
Maggie took care of them as though they were her nearest and dearest, which in a sense they quite literally were; they were never more than thirty steps from the front door, and took it in shifts to watch over them atnight. They knew the Blake family better than the Blake family knew themselves. One Blake could have secrets from another Blake, but not from Di Cicco and Caputo, and least of all from Quintiliani, their boss.
They shared the food out and ate in silence.
“Did Quintiliani tell you about the barbecue later?”
“Yes, he liked the idea – he may come by at the end of the evening.”
Unlike his agents, Quintiliani was constantly on the move. He went to and fro to Paris, made regular visits to Quantico, the headquarters of the FBI, and sometimes a quick trip to Sicily to coordinate anti-Mafia operations. The Blakes knew nothing about his movements – he would just appear and disappear at moments when they least expected it.
“We should have had a barbecue in Cagnes, got all those nosy people together and got rid of them once and for all,” said Di Cicco.
“Try and come too,” Maggie said. “I’ve made ziti and Fred’s in charge of the steaks and salsiccia .”
“You’ll have a lot of people, the whole neighbourhood knows about it.”
“There’ll always be enough for you two – you can count on me.”
“Is it still the same olive oil? Can you get it here?” Vincent asked, mopping up the pepper juices.
“I’ve still
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