Roma near the central railway station and tell him to go through the Piazza Pretoria."
He gave the order over the intercom in Italian and as the Mercedes moved away I, too, helped myself to more brandy. We drove up from the beach, passing the palace or whatever the hell it was supposed to be, at some distance and turned out through some large ironwork gates onto the main Messina-Palermo coast road.
Langley lit a cigarette. "This Barzini, what's so good about him?"
"For a start he's sixty-three years of age," I said. "An advantage when I consider the younger generation."
He refused to be thrown. "In other words, he's a survivor."
I hesitated for a moment and then continued. "That file you had on me, it mentioned a job I did in Albania a few years ago."
"When you pulled the U2 pilot out of the prison in Tirana?"
"There was a little more to it than that. Aldo Barzini was an underwater saboteur with the Italian Navy during the war."
Langley looked interested. "Human torpedoes and so on?"
I nodded. "He sank two British destroyers in Port Said back in 1942. When I met him, he was smuggling cigarettes, penicillin, stuff like that, making regular runs from Brindisi to Albania. He was hired to give me and my team a way out. In the original plan he was supposed to wait two nights in a cove on the Albanian coast about thirty miles from Tirana. Then he got a coded message on his radio telling him we'd been sold out. Ordering him to make a run for it."
"And did he?"
"No, he landed, stole a car and made straight for a farm about fifteen miles inland that he knew we were using as a rendezvous. Arrived about ten minutes in front of the Sigurmi. That's the Albanian secret police. They could have given the Gestapo pointers, believe me."
"So you got out?"
"Only just and only because of Barzini."
"Quite a man," Langley said. "What does he do now, besides bury people?"
"Plays the best guitar I've heard in my life. Sells guns to the Israelis, guns to the Arabs. For all I know he's even running them in for the IRA. A citizen of the world, or so he keeps telling me. No favorites. The one thing he won't touch is drugs. He had a nephew on heroin who died rather unpleasantly."
"A sentimentalist into the bargain. Now there's an interesting combination."
"You could say that. As a matter of record, the man who ran the drug scene in the town where the boy lived was found on a hook in the local slaughter house. Somebody'd cut his throat."
"My God, but that's beautiful." For once, there was sincere admiration in Langley's voice.
We turned into the Piazza Pretoria and I rapped on the partition quickly. As the Mercedes braked to a halt, I got out and walked across to the incredible baroque fountains, surrounded by water nymphs, tritons, and the lesser gods.
Langley joined me, holding the umbrella against the pouring rain. "What's the attraction?"
"This," I said. "I've always had a weakness for it. It's so incredibly vulgar. Just like life--a bad joke. I'm going to walk the rest of the way. It isn't far."
I crossed the square without a backward glance. I suppose he must have turned back to tell the driver to follow because I'd almost reached the other side before he caught up with me.
The rain was torrential now, bouncing from the cobbles and he held the umbrella over both of us. "And what in the hell are we supposed to be doing now?" he asked amiably.
"Walking in the rain," I told him. "I've always liked walking in the rain, ever since I was a kid."
"And keeping out the world," he said. "I know the feeling."
I was surprised, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, disturbed to find that we might actually have something in common. I tried not to show it.
"But life isn't like that, is it?" I shrugged. "Like I said, just a bad joke."
I felt unaccountably depressed and I think the feeling must have touched him also. Certainly he didn't attempt to make any further conversation. We passed the beautiful old church of Santa Caterina,
He gave the order over the intercom in Italian and as the Mercedes moved away I, too, helped myself to more brandy. We drove up from the beach, passing the palace or whatever the hell it was supposed to be, at some distance and turned out through some large ironwork gates onto the main Messina-Palermo coast road.
Langley lit a cigarette. "This Barzini, what's so good about him?"
"For a start he's sixty-three years of age," I said. "An advantage when I consider the younger generation."
He refused to be thrown. "In other words, he's a survivor."
I hesitated for a moment and then continued. "That file you had on me, it mentioned a job I did in Albania a few years ago."
"When you pulled the U2 pilot out of the prison in Tirana?"
"There was a little more to it than that. Aldo Barzini was an underwater saboteur with the Italian Navy during the war."
Langley looked interested. "Human torpedoes and so on?"
I nodded. "He sank two British destroyers in Port Said back in 1942. When I met him, he was smuggling cigarettes, penicillin, stuff like that, making regular runs from Brindisi to Albania. He was hired to give me and my team a way out. In the original plan he was supposed to wait two nights in a cove on the Albanian coast about thirty miles from Tirana. Then he got a coded message on his radio telling him we'd been sold out. Ordering him to make a run for it."
"And did he?"
"No, he landed, stole a car and made straight for a farm about fifteen miles inland that he knew we were using as a rendezvous. Arrived about ten minutes in front of the Sigurmi. That's the Albanian secret police. They could have given the Gestapo pointers, believe me."
"So you got out?"
"Only just and only because of Barzini."
"Quite a man," Langley said. "What does he do now, besides bury people?"
"Plays the best guitar I've heard in my life. Sells guns to the Israelis, guns to the Arabs. For all I know he's even running them in for the IRA. A citizen of the world, or so he keeps telling me. No favorites. The one thing he won't touch is drugs. He had a nephew on heroin who died rather unpleasantly."
"A sentimentalist into the bargain. Now there's an interesting combination."
"You could say that. As a matter of record, the man who ran the drug scene in the town where the boy lived was found on a hook in the local slaughter house. Somebody'd cut his throat."
"My God, but that's beautiful." For once, there was sincere admiration in Langley's voice.
We turned into the Piazza Pretoria and I rapped on the partition quickly. As the Mercedes braked to a halt, I got out and walked across to the incredible baroque fountains, surrounded by water nymphs, tritons, and the lesser gods.
Langley joined me, holding the umbrella against the pouring rain. "What's the attraction?"
"This," I said. "I've always had a weakness for it. It's so incredibly vulgar. Just like life--a bad joke. I'm going to walk the rest of the way. It isn't far."
I crossed the square without a backward glance. I suppose he must have turned back to tell the driver to follow because I'd almost reached the other side before he caught up with me.
The rain was torrential now, bouncing from the cobbles and he held the umbrella over both of us. "And what in the hell are we supposed to be doing now?" he asked amiably.
"Walking in the rain," I told him. "I've always liked walking in the rain, ever since I was a kid."
"And keeping out the world," he said. "I know the feeling."
I was surprised, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, disturbed to find that we might actually have something in common. I tried not to show it.
"But life isn't like that, is it?" I shrugged. "Like I said, just a bad joke."
I felt unaccountably depressed and I think the feeling must have touched him also. Certainly he didn't attempt to make any further conversation. We passed the beautiful old church of Santa Caterina,
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