The Dark Chronicles: A Spy Trilogy

by Jeremy Duns

  I had agreed to report to Pyotr in the Borghese Gardens at noon, but I decided I would have to fob him off somehow, tell him it had been impossible to set up at such short notice. It was a plausible enough excuse, I reckoned. Assassination takes planning, and planning takes time. A museum was not a location I’d have picked, for example. I was not an assassin, but I had assassinated before, and I had studied my targets for weeks – in the case of Cheng in Hong Kong, months. If I had been doing the job I would have needed a weapon, preferably one that was completely untraceable. Thallium, for example, as the French had used with Moumié in Geneva, or a poisoned dart, like the Red Hand had done with Léopold in ’57. Neither was readily available in the centre of Rome on two hours’ notice.

  The taxi arrived at the museum, and I paid the driver. As I was walking up to the entrance, a better way out flashed into my mind: discover what Barchetti knew, then use it to blackmail Pyotr! It was an unlikely scenario, but a possibility nonetheless, and I skipped up the steps with a little more gaiety at the thought.

  *

  From the outside, the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna looks like most other temples of great art around the world: a neoclassical façade with grand pillars and a general aura of solemnity and depth. Inside, however, the museum is largely taken over by the imaginings of the deranged fringe of the modern art world. I could understand why Barchetti had picked it. If he were being watched by his Arte come Terrore chums, they wouldn’t be in the least surprised that he would visit this place. And it would be much harder to follow him through than a café or park.

  I took off my sunglasses and checked for signs of surveillance. The immediate area looked to be clean, but no doubt Severn or one of the Station staff would be here shortly. Severn had arranged to meet Barchetti in the twentieth-century section of the museum, so I paid for a ticket at the front desk and followed the signs until I came to it.

  I spotted him right away. He was standing between a sculpture that resembled a segment of a dinosaur fossil and a painting in which arrows from a large black ‘Z’ pointed towards the number 44 and an ‘X’. Dressed in a dark suit and porkpie hat, he was peering at the canvas as though trying to figure out the solution to the equation – he looked more like a bank clerk on his day off than the infiltrator of a terrorist cell.

  As I approached him, he turned and gave me a twitchy grin. His forehead was coated in sweat and his eyes were darting about to an unsettling degree. I recognized the signs at once: he was in far too deep.

  ‘Hello, Edoardo,’ I said, holding up my copy of the Herald Tribune. ‘Long time no see. Charles couldn’t make it today, so they sent me instead.’

  ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

  No greeting, no memories of old times. All right. We walked through to one of the other halls, and he hovered by a velvet-covered bench before finally seating himself on it.

  ‘I thought you worked in London now,’ he said.

  ‘So did I. What is it you’ve discovered?’

  He looked around again.

  ‘They know,’ he whispered. And then, more urgently: ‘They know!’

  ‘You’re blown?’ I didn’t follow – why agree a meet, then?

  He shook his head furiously. ‘About the attack in the dome.’

  ‘They know we suspect them, you mean? Or you have proof they were involved?’

  His head swivelled and he looked up at me, his expression one of undisguised shock. There was a strange moment when our eyes met, and then I realized what he was going to do. He stood up from the bench and began walking away from me, fast but not so fast that he would attract attention. I had no choice: a shout would have ruined everything, and he wouldn’t have turned back anyway. I walked after him.

  *

  He headed into the next room and then took a right through a curtained archway into another one. As I got closer I realized that it was a dark room – some sort of installation. A few people were straggling by the entrance, either waiting for companions to emerge or contemplating going in themselves. Barchetti had already gone through, so I plunged into the darkness.

  An old jazz number was being piped through the space, but it sounded like it was being played through several amplifiers at the wrong speed, giving everything a woozy, underwater feel. After a few seconds, my eyes adjusted and I began to get my bearings. There were objects descending from the ceiling, coloured shapes. They looked like pieces from a child’s mobile, sparkling as they turned through the air.

  As I moved deeper into the room I started to make out the far end of it: there was a line of strip lighting running across the middle of the wall, half-obscured by some artificial fog spraying up every few seconds from the floor. I suddenly had the impression of being in a shower facility in a concentration camp, and had an urge to run back out into the main gallery. But I had to find Barchetti first. Did his information relate to me after all? Had he somehow realized who I was?

  The floor started to shift gently, like a conveyor belt, adding a layer of nausea to the claustrophobic air: the artist was evidently some sort of sadist. A man wearing a hat moved past me, and I stepped forward to grab him. But he’d already gone.

  The music was getting louder and louder, throbbing strangely, and I felt completely lost. I came across several treelike sculptures, their thin branches glowing and twisting around me. I reached into my pocket, hastily unwrapped one of Urquhart’s pills and swallowed it whole. I immediately regretted it, as the thing tasted foul, bitter and chalky.

  The music intensified, turning atonal: the sound of clocks ticking, crashing cymbals and a bass cello seemingly scraped at random. And then I saw him, just a foot in front of me, his face clearly lit for a moment by one of the fluorescent branches: Barchetti. I lunged forward and grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘Vattene, idiota! Sciò!’ he snarled, lashing out at me with his arms. There was a flash of light and I realized he had a knife. I leapt away and sensed the blade pierce the cloth of my jacket, but he’d missed me and I leaned forward again, kicking out towards his legs. I made contact with bone and he fell to the ground, cursing. The knife fell from his hands and I watched it skitter across the floor, the blade catching the light from the mobiles hanging from the ceiling. I immediately knelt down and grabbed it. He managed to get a foot under me and aimed it at my solar plexus and I was pushed back against a wall, winded.

  But I had the knife.

  There was more movement around us now: people were starting to become restless, perhaps wondering what the disturbance was. Through the speakers, a gospel choir had begun competing with the underwater whale music, and it was becoming louder by the moment. Barchetti leapt on top of me and started trying to scratch at my eyes and throat. My instinct was to use the knife on him, but I needed to get him away from here, alive. I tried to fend him away, but he was surprisingly heavy for such a small man. He was now sitting on my upper chest, restricting my breathing. The music was almost deafening, and I willed my mind to block it out. I reached out and managed to grab hold of Barchetti’s shirt, and then pulled him towards me with all the force I could muster. It shifted him forward a little, but it wasn’t enough and I could feel my lungs reaching their limit, so in desperation I threw my other arm up to his throat and squeezed it. He let out a scream and tried to bite me, but my chest was burning up and he didn’t seem to be aware that I needed him to get off me, until there was no choice and I squeezed and squeezed and then his head jerked forward and his muscles slackened and I could roll him off me and, finally, breathe. I felt for his carotid and checked his pulse: nothing. The music took another unexpected turn, the woozy whale sounds switching to a jumpy jive, and I stood and reeled towards a sliver of light, my throat dry and my chest thumping and my hands wet.

  I pushed the curtain aside and came into the adjoining room. I had to stop for a moment to gather myself, and someone came out right behind me, knocking my shoulder.

  ‘Esilarante, no?’

  I nodded dumbly, and then m
oved away, heading towards the exit.

  IX

  I walked down the stairs and onto the street, gulping fresh air into my lungs. Behind me I heard the muffled sound of screaming – someone must have stumbled over Barchetti’s body. I looked down and my heart froze. The pavement was covered in spots of blood. I glanced back toward the entrance of the museum and saw a trail of it leading from the doors straight to my feet.

  Panicking, I started running, but when I looked down again the blood had vanished: there were just a few small brown stones on the pavement. Was it a return of my Nigerian hallucinations? I slowed down again and reached into my pocket for another of Urquhart’s pills. No. Leave them.

  I picked up the pace again, and as I did I caught sight of a tall, slender figure striding up a flight of steps into a park on the opposite side of the road. Something about the way he was moving made me look at him again. He was wearing a dove-grey three-piece suit and pointed suede shoes, also grey – all rather well made. And he was taking something from his pocket and placing it in his mouth.

  I hadn’t seen Pyotr in daylight, but I knew instantly that it was him. My body felt as if it had been given a gigantic jolt. Had he seen me kill Barchetti? No, I thought. More than likely he had hung back in one of the adjoining rooms, watching, just to make sure I turned up for the meet. And when he had seen me coming out of the dark room, the installation or whatever the hell it had been, he had quickly made his escape. Not quite quickly enough, though…

  I stopped for a few seconds to take some deep breaths and to let him get ahead: I didn’t want him to see me. Interesting that he had come, I thought, rather than sending a lackey. Either it really was important or he didn’t trust anyone in his team enough to handle it, or both. My God, I wished it had been his neck I’d wrung instead of Barchetti’s. If it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t be here at all – and what a damn fool I’d been for turning up on his say-so. I’d bought into the idea that he was some sort of master-spy pulling all the strings, but he was just a pathetic bloody amateur. Something I’d said back there had spooked Barchetti out of his skull, so much so that he had fled from me.

  Well, enough was enough. I checked my watch. It was quarter past ten: I was due to debrief with him in the Borghese Gardens in an hour and three-quarters. So where was the bastard going now, then? I decided to find out.

  It was time to rattle the cage.

  *

  I doubled back and made to cross the street, but the traffic seemed particularly chaotic on this stretch, and with a start I realized why – several police cars were trying to make their way down it, but were struggling against the flow. As their sirens grew louder, I started crossing and made it to the foot of the stairs I had seen Pyotr take – he had now disappeared over the top. I had to get as far away from the museum as possible, and I didn’t want to lose him.

  I walked briskly up the stairs, passed between a couple of fountains and finally saw Pyotr twenty or thirty yards ahead, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers. I breathed out and fixed my eyes on the top of his head as he wove among the pedestrians enjoying a stroll in the Borghese Gardens. He suddenly decided to cross the street, and as he did he glanced over his shoulder, and I ducked into the midst of a group of American tourists, frightening an elderly lady with a blue rinse.

  ‘Scusi,’ I said, and her anger softened at the manners of the charming local.

  I manoeuvred my way through the group in order to catch sight of Pyotr again. He was striding ahead, more confidently now: he hadn’t seen me. I began walking a little faster, making sure to keep several pedestrians between us in case he made any more sudden movements. But I didn’t think he was going to. He’d forgotten his training, and had arrogantly presumed he wasn’t being followed. The thought stung me, and I suddenly remembered Severn – could he have been at the museum as well? I stopped and looked around me, more carefully than Pyotr had done. Tourists, businessmen, students… I couldn’t see Severn or anyone else who looked like a potential tail, but that didn’t mean a lot.

  I had started sweating again, because I realized I was stumbling into traps without thinking first, letting my anger guide me. I wanted to follow Pyotr – but only if I was not being followed myself. There are several ways to spot a tail, but I didn’t have the time for them: if I loitered somewhere and waited to see who came looking, for example, I’d risk losing Pyotr.

  I decided to take the chance that I was alone. If Severn were following me, I could always tell him I had seen Pyotr in the museum and felt that he might have been responsible for… Yes. Of course! Pin Barchetti’s death on Pyotr. It was perfect. I started after Pyotr again.

  He was still walking straight ahead, down Viale Folke Bernadotte. I had to pray he was headed somewhere nearby, because if he got on a bus or tram I was done for. There was no way I would be able to hide from him in such a small space. And if he hailed a cab, the whole thing was off. Luckily, so far it looked like it was going to be a walk away – he was still striding along purposefully.

  He reached a roundabout at a grotto and I squinted to see which turning he would take. A bus tore past me just as he rounded the grotto and I lost sight of him for a moment. But then the bus was gone and I saw that he had taken a right into Viale Giorgio Washington and my pulse quickened – he was heading for Piazzale Flaminio, where there was a tram stop.

  I walked a little faster, down a cobbled footpath shaded by overhanging trees, past wooden benches on which young lovers were draped over one another. As I came into the crowded square, I saw that a couple of trams were already waiting at the stop. But Pyotr didn’t even glance at them. It seemed he was walking to the end of the street, and I wondered if he was looking for a bar to find a telephone.

  A tram at the front of the queue moved off, blocking my view of him again, and I leapt into the street and in front of a taxi so I could take up position on the pavement behind him on the other side of the road. But he had gone. I looked around frantically, but as I made it to the pavement I saw the outline of the back of his head and shoulders in the rear of the tram pulling out.

  Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

  I raced up to the next tram waiting, which was on the same line, and climbed aboard, paying the driver the fare and asking him when he was going to leave. Not for a few minutes, signore. I tried to calm myself and looked at the situation again. On the plus side, I knew where Pyotr was, and he could only go at a certain pace, on certain tracks. And I was still following him, from a vantage he couldn’t see. But unless we left very soon, I wouldn’t be able to see where he got off. What were my options: bribe the conductor to depart earlier? I dismissed it: he would be more likely to kick up a fuss or report me, and we’d probably end up leaving even later and I’d have lost Pyotr. I’d just have to hope I’d be able to see him when he got off.

  I took a seat up front and kept my eyes glued to the tram ahead. After a couple of minutes, it slowed for a stop. An elderly lady disembarked, helped by a younger man. No Pyotr. It started back up again, veering in the direction of the river.

  The driver of my tram started her up and we began following in leisurely pursuit. Soon we swerved around the corner, skirting the parked cars, and came to the same stop. A young mother tried to bring her baby carriage down the aisle, and berated a long-haired boy in jeans and an embroidered shirt who was standing in the way. Their argument became more heated, and the young man called the woman ‘Fascista’. I moved out of the way to avoid them, but they were blocking my view of Pyotr’s tram, which was now slowing for the next stop.

  There! He was getting off. I pulled the cord.

  ‘Scusi!’ I cried, and leapt out of the doors as they were closing.

  He was walking at a normal pace down the street, and I followed him through a cluster of parked motorbikes and Vespas, past fruit stalls and newspaper stands and shuttered restaurants. A gattara glared at me as I passed her feeding crumbs to an emaciated tabby. We were now on the outskirts of Trastevere, a once very down-at
-heel neighbourhood that was becoming increasingly visited by tourists. A man in a leather jacket and a cap approached me. ‘Tabacchi,’ he said, as though it were a greeting. Black-market cigarettes sold for about two-thirds of the usual price here, and I was running low – but now wasn’t the time. I shook my head and carried on walking. Where the hell had Pyotr gone? I looked around frantically, and finally spied him. He was at the far end of the street: he had stopped at the entrance to a restored medieval house. A block of flats now, it seemed. And he was letting himself in with a key. So he had gone home – perhaps to signal Moscow that I had completed the job?

  It was approaching eleven now, so he would have to leave again reasonably soon if he wanted to make our appointment in the Borghese Gardens at noon. There was a bar across the street and I walked into it. Roy Orbison was wailing from a jukebox in the corner, and two old men in cardigans and twill trousers sipped cloudy aperitifs as they studied a wooden chessboard with great solemnity. The owner, moustachioed and stout, stood behind a long mahogany-effect bar polishing glasses with a cloth. Posters advertised Cinzano and proclaimed support for a local football team. There was no sign of Severn or anyone else.

  I ordered a sandwich and an orange juice. I could have done with a cold beer, but this was no time for alcohol, and the sugar in the juice would give me energy. I found a table from which I could watch the front door of the block of flats through the reflection of a mirror, and waited for my quarry to reappear.

  He emerged, looking a little flustered, twenty-three minutes later. He was wearing a different suit and his hair was wet – had he just gone home for a clean-up then? Perhaps the proximity to murder had made him squeamish.