Microbes of Power (Wallace of the Secret Service Series)

by Alexander Wilson

  When the Rome Express drew out from Naples that afternoon on its four and a half hours’ journey to the Eternal City, Shannon was the sole occupant of a compartment in the rear of the train. The twelve people he was shadowing had entered the first coach, the restaurant car being the third. There was little likelihood, therefore, of any of them appearing at his end of the train. However, he continued to use newspapers to screen himself from the view of anybody passing along the corridor, and ordered tea to be brought along to his compartment.

  Rome has only one terminus which, situated as it is in a district suggestive of a conflict between the ages, plunges the visitor at once into the real, vital Rome. No sooner does he leave the station than he finds himself surrounded by an amazing mixture of the ancient and modern. There before his eyes are the Baths of Diocletian, dating from the fourth century AD, and a remnant of the Wall of Servius constructed in the fifth century BC. The church of St Maria degli Angeli, one of the works of Michael Angelo, and dating from the sixteenth century, towers amidst them, while, at the beginning of the Via Nazionale, the Roman architecture of today is represented by a crescent of white buildings. In the open space in front of St Maria degli Angeli also there stands the memorial of the Great War. Even the lovely fountain, one of the many in Rome, with its sparkling column of water, is suggestive of the new and old. The water flows from the Sabine Hills, along an aqueduct that was built in 146 BC, while the fountain with its gods and naiads is entirely modern. Altogether the city of the Romans seems to possess a startlingly anachronistic character, which is heightened by the sight of posters of films pasted against walls that Julius Caesar’s eyes may have regarded on his return to Rome from one of his conquests.

  Shannon had spent prolonged periods in the Italian capital, which in consequence was a very familiar city to him, but apparently some of the people he was following had never been there before. Signor Bruno, with the pride of the Italian, stood outside the station expatiating on the glories to be seen before their eyes for a considerable time, before at length taxis were called, and the party drove away. Shannon in another was never far behind. Their course from the station, carefully noted by the Englishman, went along the Piazza delle Terme, to the left along the Via Venti Settembre, across the Via Quattro Fontane until the Quirinal was reached, when they turned into the tunnel running under the palace and gardens. No taxi driver in Rome ever seems to neglect an opportunity of taking one through that tunnel. He will often go out of his way in order to enter it. Shannon strongly suspected that it was because of the noise. Romans, he knew from experience, seem to love noise. Motor cars hoot incessantly, tramcars clang and clatter their way along, while there is no apparent rule of the road, drivers depending on arrogant movements of their hands or heads to indicate their direction. Someone once said that in Rome the past is always present, which perhaps accounts for the sense of independence and individuality possessed by the Romans. Pedestrians never seem to hurry out of the way of traffic, and yet are not run over in that paradox of a city, which possesses so many roads apparently constructed for pigmies and palaces built for giants.

  Emerging from the tunnel, they eventually reached the Piazza di Spagna, the cars ahead coming to a stop outside an apartment agency. Shannon halted his taxi a little way ahead outside an antiquity shop. The fact that Bruno and two of his companions had entered the agency suggested that their stay in Rome was to be prolonged. It appeared that they were about to engage a house or flats. If their intention had been to remain only for a short time in the city, they would surely have taken rooms in a hotel. Nearly half an hour passed by before the men emerged; then they were accompanied by a smartly dressed man whom Shannon recognised as a house agent he had once met. Again he took up the chase, which eventually ended outside a block of expensive flats in the new Ludovisi quarter. Bidding his driver wait round an adjacent corner, the Englishman watched from behind a tree as all but Thalia Ictinos and the two secretaries, or rather the two men he judged were the secretaries, entered the building. Again there was a delay; then Bruno came out with the house agent with whom he shook hands, before the latter drove away in one of the cars. The drivers were paid off, and the secretaries, assisted by Thalia Ictinos and servants, who emerged from the block, carried in the baggage. Bruno and his party had gone into residence.

  Shannon remained in the vicinity for half an hour; then drove to the Splendide, where he engaged a room. It had been his intention to visit the house agent, but business hours had passed, and, though his one previous meeting with the man had been at a club, he wished to see him at his office. It had occurred to him that, if he could engage a flat in the same block for the man who was coming to Rome to assist him, it would be a step in the right direction. The danger of recognition was too great to allow him to take the risk of living there himself. However, there would be time enough if he went to the agency in the Piazza di Spagna in the morning. He unpacked, dressed for dinner, and descended. The lounge was crowded with a gay, chattering throng in which Americans almost seemed to predominate. Everywhere he turned he heard English spoken. There was nothing very strange in that. The language is heard sporadically all over Rome, while it can be said to be spoken in the Piazza di Spagna, which is a favourite meeting place for Americans and Britons, and hotels like the Palace, Grand, and Splendide more even than Italian.

  He dined at a small table from which he had an excellent view of the crowded room. Possibly nowhere in the world can be seen a more cosmopolitan collection of human beings than in a big Roman hotel, if the Italian and French rivieras are excepted. Relaxing from the strain of the last few days, Shannon found a good deal of amusement in studying his fellow guests. It seemed to him that few races were unrepresented; he even saw a Chinaman eating solemnly in company with a Hawaiian. He had finished his meal, and was lighting a cigar, wondering lazily whether he should take his coffee there or in the lounge, when the event happened which he had been carefully avoiding all day. He blew out the flame as two men and two women passed, one of them brushing by and knocking the match out of his hand. He looked up quickly; the movement had seemed to him deliberate. Shannon is a man of iron nerve, but at that moment he received a shock that shook him badly.

  Glancing down at him insolently, her scarlet lips curved a trifle mockingly, was Thalia Ictinos. She gave no other sign of recognition; might have been merely showing the coquettish interest of a woman in a stranger she found attractive. Though his spirits fell several degrees, Shannon returned her look with an air of curiosity, as though he had never seen her before and wondered who she was. She passed on, creating quite a sensation in that great dining room, where many of the women were beautiful. Clad in a backless evening gown that showed off to perfection her slim, marvellous figure, she walked with a grace that was wholly fascinating. Her dress was black, unrelieved by any colour, except that of the pink rose at her waist and the string of pearls round her exquisite neck. Her glossy black hair was drawn back, exposing to the full her tiny shell-like ears, in each of which glistened a diamond. Her attendant cavalier was the soldierly-looking man, while the other was Bruno. The lady accompanying him, stout, dark, and black-eyed was, no doubt, Signora Bruno. They disappeared into the lounge, and Shannon vented his feelings in a deep sigh.

  It was rank bad luck, he thought, that after the precautions he had taken all day to escape observation, particularly from her, he should thus be caught napping. Yet he could hardly blame himself. Before entering the dining room, he had given it a careful survey to assure himself it contained nobody who might recognise him, though he had hardly expected to find her there. She and her companions must have been hidden from his view behind one of the many groups of palms with which the room was adorned. Nevertheless, he was quite certain that they had not been in his part of the room. By one of those congestions that so often take place in a crowded dining room, they must have been forced to make a circuit; had thus come upon him. What a pity, he reflected, that he had been caught in an unguarded moment. However
, it could not be helped. As far as he was aware, she had no reason to suspect that he was watching her companions and herself. For all she knew he might be in Rome on one of many duties. At the same time she would naturally tell her companions who he was. He rather wondered why she had not indicated him to them before leaving the room. He gathered she had not, as none of them had looked round and, as far as he had been able to judge, she had not spoken between the time she had looked at him and the moment she had disappeared from view. Another thought perturbed him greatly. He was in a foreign country, and she knew his profession. She had but to make public the fact that he was a British Secret Service agent to render his position distinctly uncomfortable, if not dangerous.

  He waited three or four minutes; then strolled casually into the lounge. Admiring glances were cast in his direction, as he stood looking for a seat and also for Thalia Ictinos. In his well-cut dinner suit, his tall, powerful form looked at its best, while his bronzed, good-looking face and somewhat unruly, curly brown hair caused the hearts of more than one woman there to beat perhaps a little faster than usual. It was some time before he saw the Greek girl. She was at the far end of the room, lying back in a deep chair gently fanning herself, while her companion was bending towards her with every appearance of being greatly interested in her. Shannon wondered if General Radoloff, if indeed he were the Bulgarian, was smitten with her charms. There was a vacant table almost opposite where they were sitting. The Secret Service man deliberately sauntered towards it and, sinking into a chair, ordered coffee. Thalia cast a quick glance in his direction, but gave no sign of recognition. He began to wonder if, after all, he had been mistaken. Was it possible that she did not know him? Reflection put any hope that may have risen in his mind, however, out of court. His was hardly a figure, he thought a trifle ruefully, that anyone would have forgotten, and he had been in her company under circumstances which would have left an indelible impression on her memory.

  Signor Bruno and his wife seemed to have departed, at least they were not to be seen anywhere. Perhaps Thalia had told the Italian about him, and he had gone at once to warn his companions, though that hardly seemed likely. There could be no hurry, for Shannon was certain they had no reason to think he was in Rome for the purpose of watching them; could not know he had followed them to that city. A British Secret Service man might be in the capital of Italy for several reasons unconnected with their presence there. Bruno, however, was an Italian; had been a member of the diplomatic service. Thalia’s announcement of Shannon’s profession might have sent him off to pass on the information at once to the authorities. The girl could hardly have been presented with a better opportunity of exacting the vengeance she had threatened to take on one of the men who had encompassed the ruin of her father.

  He watched her covertly, but, after her first quick glance in his direction, she did not look at him again. She appeared wholly absorbed in her cavalier, who was entirely monopolising the conversation. From time to time she blew spirals of smoke ceilingwards from the cigarette in the long holder she held to her lips, the occupation apparently giving her a childlike pleasure, particularly when she succeeded in blowing rings. More and more, as he observed her, Shannon wondered how so much beauty and daintiness could cloak the cruel, callous nature which he knew she possessed. It was a million pities, he thought; she might have made a wonderful wife for some man, if she had had the heart and soul of a normal woman. Her companion did not once look at the Englishman, though he could have done so without appearing to be interested in him. He had not even looked across, when Shannon had first taken his seat. Everything seemed to indicate that Thalia Ictinos had made no mention of him at all, but, although he earnestly hoped such was the case, he felt it most unlikely. In any event, even if Bruno had not gone to warn the authorities of his presence in Rome, and did not know who he was, Shannon’s activities had received a setback. Thalia Ictinos knew he was there; she was certain to keep a lookout for him, which would cause him to remain very much in the background in all future investigations. It was fortunate indeed that he had asked Sir Leonard Wallace for assistance.

  Shannon lingered over his coffee until it had grown cold; ordered another cup and a liqueur. They had hardly arrived when the couple opposite rose to depart. The man placed the cloak round the girl’s shoulders almost as though caressing her, an attention which she did not seem to welcome, for the watcher observed a quick little frown appear on her white brow. A group of people talking and laughing obstructed the way. General Radoloff bowed politely, and asked them to make room, which they promptly, and with many apologies, did, but Thalia Ictinos had already encircled them; was squeezing between them and Shannon’s table.

  ‘Please do not go,’ he was astonished to hear her whisper. ‘In half an hour I will return. I must speak with you.’

  She passed on, smiling with great charm at the people who were still apologising for being in the way. She took Radoloff’s arm, and the two were quickly lost from view. Shannon continued to gaze in the direction they had taken for some time after he could no longer see her. He was almost inclined to believe that she had not spoken to him; that he had imagined it. Why on earth did she want to speak to him, and why had she been so secretive about it? Was it a trap of some kind? Thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that she was intent on finding out his reasons for being in Rome, though it perplexed him to know why she wished to do so without the knowledge of her companion. However, only she could answer the question that was troubling him. He sat awaiting her return in a state of curiosity not unmixed with suspicion.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thalia is Frank

  A little more than half an hour had passed, when he saw her again. This time she was wearing a magnificent ermine coat, the great collar of which was raised, almost hiding her head from view. Instead of walking up to his table, however, she went on towards the elevators but, as she passed, looked full at him, her lips framing the word ‘Upstairs!’. Feeling more mystified than ever, Shannon, who had risen at her approach, sauntered after her. He reached her side as she was about to step into a lift; walked in behind her. Two other people were there, who announced that they wished to go to the fourth floor. Thalia Ictinos asked for the third, Shannon doing the same. On arrival she stepped out, and walked away along a corridor, the Englishman walking after her. There was nobody else about, and presently she waited for him to catch up with her.

  ‘You have a sitting room – yes?’ she asked urgently, without bothering to utter either explanation or greeting.

  ‘I am afraid I have not,’ he returned, his surprised gaze boring deeply into her wonderful eyes.

  She smiled, showing two perfect rows of little, white teeth.

  ‘Then it must be in your bedroom where we will talk,’ she decided. ‘Is it on this floor?’

  ‘But, mademoiselle—’ he commenced to protest.

  ‘Captain Shannon,’ she interrupted hastily, ‘this is no time for a foolish regard of the convenances. You are a gentleman. Please, you will take me to your room.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, and turned away.

  ‘It is on the second floor. Shall we descend by the stairs?’

  She nodded, and they walked on together. She was tall, but appeared short by his side. The stairs and the corridor below were deserted. He had his key with him and, opening the door of his room, stood aside for her to enter. She walked in without any trace of embarrassment and, as soon as he had entered, and had closed the door, took off her coat, throwing it on the bed. Her eyes caught sight of the pyjamas laid out for him. She smiled.

  ‘You wrap yourself in silk when you sleep,’ she commented. ‘You are wise; it helps slumber. I also wear silk.’

  He flushed a little.

  ‘I presume,’ he observed, with a somewhat laboured attempt at sarcasm, ‘that you did not come here to discuss my pyjamas – or your night attire?’

  She laughed – a delightfully silvery ripple of sound that thrilled him, despite his repugnance
for her.

  ‘No; you are right,’ she admitted. ‘I came to talk to you of a matter that is very serious, because I begin to feel it is too great for me.’

  She sank gracefully into an armchair. Shannon felt curiously uneasy. Her glamorous, fascinating personality was beginning to draw him under its magnetic spell, and it troubled him. He called to mind deliberately his conception that her beauty was of hell, calculated to drive men to ruin. Perhaps it was because of that that his face became grim and a little fierce as he looked down at her. He was resolved that she would not bewitch him.

  ‘What is this serious matter?’ he demanded.

  She looked up at him lazily, her long lashes half-veiling her slate-blue eyes.

  ‘Captain Shannon,’ she murmured, ‘I believe you are afraid of me. Is it that my presence in your bedroom shocks your narrow English susceptibilities? Please think of me not as a woman, but as just a human being who is in distress and wishes for your aid.’

  The idea of being able to regard her as anything but a woman, and the most alluring of her sex, struck the Englishman as amusing. He laughed, and thereafter the tension was relaxed slightly. She drew her long cigarette tube from the handsome evening bag she carried. He hastened to offer her a cigarette, which she took with a little nod of thanks, asking him to smoke with her.