by Peter Watson
The three of them debated whether to take Sapper’s advice or to go straight to lunch. The Louvre is a big place and it was a long walk from the icon exhibition to the Italian rooms. But in the end Ned prevailed upon them to go.
The Titian was superb and showed Hercules at the Crossroads. It had been cleaned and its reds and crimsons glowed like fire, its skin tones a mysterious mixture of cream, pink and brown, giving a hint of mortality to the divine warrior.
David wandered on beyond the new Titian, past the huge Veroneses, past the Louvre’s own version of the ‘Virgin of the Rocks’, and stood before a picture he was not so familiar with. It was a portrait of John the Baptist by Giovanni Antonio Boltraffio, a not very good Milanese painter who was a follower of Leonardo. Suddenly, as he looked at the picture, a thought struck him. Boltraffio was a follower of Leonardo. At Cloux he remembered seeing a print of a portrait by the same artist, a likeness of Francesco Melzi, the very man who had inherited Leonardo’s documents. The original, if he remembered correctly, was in Bern. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Boltraffio was a friend both of Leonardo and of Melzi. If Townshend was right then it might pay David to look at Boltraffio’s papers, if there were any, to see what reference they made to Leonardo. Maybe Boltraffio actually took possession of some of da Vinci’s papers. It was a long shot, but if he drew a blank with Boltraffio there were other friends of Leonardo whom he could check out. That was a very promising line of research. Much cheered, he offered to buy Townshend and Ned lunch.
A week after his return from America to Rome His Holiness announced at one of his regular audiences that he had recommended the bishops of the Philippine Islands in the Pacific to support President Sebbio in the forthcoming elections. This drew fire from some quarters but was quickly welcomed by President Roskill. Other western leaders said nothing publicly but their silence was taken to signify approval.
None knew that, at the very moment the Holy Father was making his speech about the Philippine bishops, Nicaraguan troops were secretly moving light artillery and flame-throwing equipment up near the border with Honduras to the west of Jalapa. Tired of the constant harrassment of its townships within striking distance of Pimental, the Nicaraguan government had resolved to take out the new town once and for all.
Two days later, the attack began, at midnight. Two thousand infantry troops moved up during the afternoon, using the available rivers. Heavier artillery was drawn up to the north of Ocotal and west of El Jicaro from where Pimental was just in range. The attack time had been chosen for the Americans’ ‘benefit’ as much as anything. It was then two a.m. in Washington when the government’s reaction would be slowest. The heavy artillery opened up first, bombarding the area for thirty minutes. A helicopter attack immediately followed: six helicopter gunships went in low and dropped firebombs on the town, concentrating on areas not destroyed by the bombardment. At about half past one, local time, the infantry attacked, with orders to take no prisoners but to confiscate all weapons and ammunition found. Three hours later some infantry were caught by the first American-backed Honduran airforce planes, but by daylight the great majority of the infantry had slipped back across the border. Although some planes scored lucky hits, the Nicaraguans suffered hardly any serious casualties and managed to shoot down one Honduran aircraft.
At the press conference summoned the next morning, the Nicaraguan government displayed a cache brought back from Pimental of no fewer than 2,750 rifles, 5,000 grenades, three million rounds of ammunition, 50 mortars, 200 landmines, and 200 pistols. There was no doubt that the discovery was genuine: some of the armaments were still in their packing cases, stamped ‘Baltimore’. They proved convincingly that Pimental was not the peaceful settlement it was supposed to be.
At the conference, the Nicaraguan foreign minister made a statement: ‘This proves conclusively that the reactionary forces of the west, American capitalism combining with Roman Catholicism, intend to destroy Nicaragua. We have always maintained that Pimental, built with Vatican money, was not the refuge it was depicted but rather a loaded gun aimed at the heart of this small nation. Today the world can see that we in Nicaragua do not exaggerate. But we now have those weapons. We have the guns and the ammunition, the grenades and the mortars. And Pimental has been reduced to rubble. I do not rejoice in loss of life. But we have shown today that we shall do whatever we have to do to protect ourselves, whether our enemies be capitalists, Catholics, or both.’
Roskill had been raised from his bed that morning at five past three. He was very angry. Entering the command room, he fired off a number of orders, sending US military support to the area, ships offshore, every piece of American muscle he had at his disposal for just such an emergency. For an hour and a half he watched developments, by which time he knew that there was nothing he could do. The Nicaraguans had gone in, hit Pimental hard, then gone away again. He dared not order American forces to follow them.
Coffee was served but it wasn’t enough. Whisky was brought. Roskill grew calmer.
‘Cran! Cran—where are you?’
‘Here,’ said Cranham Hope quietly.
Roskill eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Now, Cran—what the hell are we going to do about this Thomas guy? I guess he didn’t mean to, but he’s sure landed us in it.’
‘Right now,’ said Hope, ‘we do nothing.’
‘Don’t tell me that, Cran. This fund of his—he’s like a kid with a new toy. Between you and me, Cran, he needs teaching a lesson.’
‘Nossir.’
‘Cran! Why not, goddammit?’
‘Mr President, think, sir.’ Cran held up his hand with three fingers extended. ‘Number one, he is the most popular person on the planet, yourself not excluded. Second, he came out on your side over the Philippines—and you accepted his support. If you turn on him now not only will you look inconsistent but mean-spirited and disloyal.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there’s a third reason for you to stay off the Pope’s back. The best one yet.’
Roskill stared at Hope. ‘I don’t like your tone. There’s something I haven’t been told.’
‘Yes, there is. All that hardware the Nics found at Pimental wasn’t the Pope’s doing. It wasn’t paid for with his money—all that really did go on building.’
Roskill stared at Hope. His hand gripped his whisky glass. He waited, his gaze raking Hope’s face.
‘You guessed it, boss. We put the guns there. Every last one of them was paid for out of CIA funds.’
The following Saturday David saw Ned off on the Belfast shuttle from Heathrow. The boy was to spend the weekend with his mother and stepfather in Ulster. Then David himself caught a flight for Rome. There was a St Patrick’s Fund meeting on the Monday morning and it was to be his first proper Roman weekend with Bess for some time. He was looking forward to it.
He went straight from the airport to Gina’s for a late lunch, where Bess was waiting. She looked strained and the campari on the table in front of her was untouched. David kissed her, waved to Gina and settled into a chair. The sun was fierce and the shade offered by the umbrella was not really cool. He had brought her a gift, a piece of Lyon silk, but now was not the time to give it to her. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
She gulped her Campari. ‘Everything—or it feels like everything.’
Gina brought David’s favourite beer. They exchanged greetings, but Gina, sensing Bess’s fragile mood, went back inside the cafe.
‘Come on,’ said David, ‘tell me. You’re upset.’
She nodded. ‘It started with this damned Nicaraguan thing. Obviously it wasn’t the St Patrick’s Fund that paid for those guns. According to our source it was the CIA—Roskill, or his people. We can’t prove it, of course, but Thomas is certain it’s true. And it all happened only the day after he’d gone public on the Philippine Islands. It makes him appear not only political but a lackey of Roskill’s as well.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said David. ‘It’ll blow over. Thomas is still very
popular.’
‘It might—if that were all.’
‘What do you mean? What else is there?’
‘What else isn’t there? Why do you think I look so tired?’
‘Tell me.’
For her reply she placed two forks and a knife in a row on the tablecloth in front of her. She played with the first fork. ‘The Syrians are massing their troops in the Bekaa valley, ready for a push on Beirut. Our contacts there tell us they particularly intend to hit the St Patrick’s Fund projects, as retaliation for what the fund did to their informants. Whatever happens, we shall take the blame. Thomas knew the fund there would be a risk—it was the biggest risk he took—but he hoped to buy time for a negotiated settlement.’ David went to interrupt but Bess picked up the second fork and waved him down with it. ‘La Repubblica, one of the papers here in Rome, has been leaked a copy of a confidential Vatican report which shows that visitors to the city state have dropped by seventeen per cent in the last months—since the treasures were sold off. The decline is also true of Rome in general. There are other explanations: the Alitalia strike meant that fewer people had holidays in Italy, and the weather was bad. But the figures suit Thomas’s critics, especially those in the Italian government and Massoni. And of course ordinary Italians benefit greatly from having the Church here. They want the Vatican to keep growing in popularity, so the figures will harm the pontiff not only in Rome but throughout Italy.’
She held up the third piece of cutlery. ‘Third, you’ll find out officially on Monday, at the fund meeting, but I can tell you now. The first year’s income from the fund is due to be paid out in a month and Thomas has been helping vet new applications for relief.’ She swigged her drink again. ‘Oh David! Thomas has been so upset by the Nicaraguan business, he’s having a problem seeing straight. You remember that dam which burst, about a month ago, in Vietnam? The Thu Bon river near Dong An. It killed seven hundred people when the water flooded a mine and drowned all the workers—remember?’
David nodded.
‘Well, Thomas wants to send some St Patrick’s money to help them. I can’t make him see how it would antagonize the Americans. I tell him his popularity in America could disappear overnight. He says yes, he agrees, but he’ll only be able to get away with things which are unpopular now, when he is at the peak of his popularity. He also thinks it will help on his coming trip to China. Oh darling, it’s such a mess. The Americans aren’t ready for charity in Vietnam; the wound’s too raw still. And will be for some time yet …’
She finished her campari, tossed her hair back the way he liked, made a visible effort to relax. ‘Let’s eat,’ she said, looking round for Gina. ‘That’s how good you are for me, David. This is the first time I’ve felt like eating in days.’
That night, in her flat high up among the gables above the Via dei Banchi Vecchi, they made love especially tenderly. And slowly. David sensed, correctly, that Bess needed to be removed for a time from where and what she was. He gave as well as he could give.
Next morning, they rose early for mass. Afterwards, while Bess went to buy the Sunday papers, David prepared an elaborate English breakfast—eggs, toast, bacon and tomatoes, with fresh coffee and juice newly squeezed from blood oranges. It was ready when she got back.
‘Read it out to me,’ he said as she came in the door. He helped her to some eggs.
‘Oh, God! I’ll translate as best I can. “The number of visitors to the Vatican has plummeted since the Holy Father sold off a number of Renaissance masterpieces some months ago. According to an official report, so far secret, the number of visitors paying to explore the Vatican museums has dropped by a mammoth seventeen per cent, down from two point two million the last time an official record was taken, to 1,822,000 now. This has resulted in a loss of income to the Vatican of”—let me convert the lire—“one million, one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”
‘“A Vatican spokeswoman said yesterday that there were many reasons which might account for the fall in attendance which was not, in any case, seen in Vatican circles as worrying. She declined to speculate on what those reasons might be. A spokesman for the mayor of Rome, however, was more forthcoming. He described the report’s conclusions, if true, as a disaster. For the Vatican and for Rome! He said the decline in visitors has already cost Rome a lot. ‘The Pope is a very popular man, right across the world,’ said the spokesman. ‘But he has always maintained a special relationship with the people of Rome who not only revere him but look to him for leadership and for policies which maintain the city as a traditional centre for pilgrims and tourists.”’
‘Then there are interviews with local Romans—shopkeepers, restaurateurs, taxi drivers—exactly the sort of people most affected financially by a slump in tourism. Naturally, they’re all critical.’
Though Bess had been relaxed when she woke up, David now saw the tired look return.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘It’s a glorious day outside and I’ve never seen you in a bikini. Why don’t we go to Port’ Ercole for the day, find a hotel for lunch, and have a swim in the sea?’
‘But—’
‘No. You can be as busy as you like while I’m in the fund meeting tomorrow. But today, forget the Vatican. Come on, put yourself first for once. Now where do you keep your bikinis?’
In order to stop him ransacking her cupboards, Bess had to find her swimming costume herself. Then David, sensing that he was doing exactly the right thing, bundled her into her car and they set off for Port’ Ercole. Lots of other Romans seemed to have the same idea so they didn’t reach the hotel he had in mind until twelve forty-five. It was on a cliff with a wonderful view of the Argentario peninsula. They had a quick swim before lunch, a beautiful shellfish barbecue over which they took their time, and there was more swimming in the afternoon. They had an early supper in the port—shellfish again—then made for Rome, arriving late, just on midnight. Gina’s was still open and David felt like a brandy. Neither of them wanted to end the day. He had held off giving her the Lyon silk: now he did so.
Eventually, about twelve thirty, they wished Gina goodnight and strolled back down the street to Bess’s apartment. As they approached, a man got out of a car and walked towards them. David tensed.
‘Mr Colwyn?’ said a very English voice.
‘Yes,’ answered David, still wary. ‘Who are you? What is it you want?’
‘Stanbury, sir. Edward Stanbury, second secretary at the embassy here. We’ve been trying to contact you all day.’
‘Oh yes? Nothing wrong is there?’
‘I’m afraid there is, sir. Earlier today the IRA attacked Ardglass Manor which, as you surely know, is the residence of the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. The minister escaped, sir, but I am afraid his wife—your ex-wife, sir—caught the full blast.’
Ned was safe. The children’s annex at Ardglass Manor was in a wing to itself, to keep the noise away from the minister’s study. David asked Bess to explain his absence to the St Patrick’s Fund Committee and caught the first plane to London. By then Ned had been helicoptered back to his school, at his own request, where he was recovering. By then, too, the details of the attack had been fleshed out. Also its motive.
It had been a mortar attack, mounted from—of all places—a nearby churchyard. The church, it turned out, contained the entrance to a seventeenth-century secret passage which exited in a cave a quarter of a mile away. Locals had known about the passage but, for some reason, the security men had not been told. The cave was outside the security ring drawn up around Ardglass, but the churchyard was within range, as the tragedy proved.
It was, however, the motive for the attack that chilled David. It wasn’t just a random attack on a British minister. The IRA had delivered an ‘official’ statement by telephone to the Irish Times in Dublin late on Sunday night. Using a special code word to prove his identity, the telephone spokesman said the attack was in retaliation for ‘The cowardly way in which Protestant construction firms in Northern
Ireland have responded with arson and murder to simple commercial competition on the part of Catholic building firms in the area.’ It was a clear reference to the fire in Belfast when the nightwatchman had been burned to death. And to the St Patrick’s Fund.
Ned, when David reached him, was well enough, considering the circumstances. The school were not pressing him to attend classes, but he still shared a room with the same boy they had chosen to help him through the worst of his depression. Everyone was conscious that the episode could trigger Ned’s illness all over again, but the headmaster judged—quite rightly in David’s view—that Ned needed some familiar routine to his life.
When David arrived, around lunchtime on Monday, he found Ned not in his study but in the school workshop, alone save for an assistant master. He was sitting at a high bench with a mass of gold wire in front of him. David could see that Ned had been crying but, when he arrived, the boy seemed absorbed in what he was doing. Clearly working with his hands gave him comfort.
David stood by his son and put his arm around him. Ned, still seated on his workbench, leaned into his father. After a moment, David felt Ned’s body shake with silent sobs. For minutes, father and son remained there, unmoving, unwatched.
At length, David murmured gently, ‘The school say you may come home if you like, or you can remain here and I’ll stay in the town. It’s up to you.’
Ned reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He didn’t have one: David gave him his. Ned wiped his eyes and blew his nose. ‘I’d feel lonely in London, Dad. Can you stay here?’
‘Sure,’ David said quietly. ‘I’ve already booked into the George Hotel, so I can see you every day.’
