Free The Memory Trap by Anthony Price Page B

desperate extremes, with Capri altogether too close for comfort now. ‘So, if I may, I will take you into our confidence—?’
    ‘Professore.’ With Capri looming, Cuccaro was under the whip too. So, in spite of all his doubts and the lurch of the boat as it cut through the wake of another Capri-Napoli water-bus, he sketched a bow.
    ‘You have not traced Major Richardson yet?’ He allowed only two seconds for agreement. ‘And neither have we. And that disturbed us. Because we didn’t know why he’s suddenly become so … unavailable?’ He smiled. ‘But now we know. Thanks to you.’
    Cuccaro reached across his chest to take hold of his Kaiser Wilhelm good luck piece. ‘But you have rendezvous, I am told—?’
    That was what he wanted, of course.
    ‘Not exactly,’ said Mitchell. But then he looked at Audley. ‘Only in a general sort of way—‘ Then he looked past Audley, towards Capri ‘—a general locality, I mean, David.’
    ‘And where is that, sir?’ The oddly-Americanized “Sir” betrayed the Italian’s dislike: technically, Mitchell also rated “professore”. But Mitchell and Cuccaro were Anglo-Italian chalk-and-cheese.
    ‘Please!’ Audley held up his hand. ‘You … or … the authorities … want to talk to Major Richardson, I take it—?’
    Cuccaro eyed him warily. ‘There are questions to be asked. And to be answered.’
    ‘About his smuggling activities?’
    ‘If that is what they are.’ The Italian paused. ‘Then—yes, Professore.’
    That was it, of course. Until that sudden Mafia interest had given his game away, Richardson had had everything going for him: his pre-retirement career had not only given him all the requisite smuggling skills to add to his blue-blooded local connections, but it had also endowed him with a certain respectability, as an ex-Intelligence officer. But then, when the balloon finally had gone up, the Italians must at once have thought more than twice about him, with the American Sixth Fleet so often swinging at anchor across this bay, in NATO’s main base in the Central Mediterranean: that perfect cover for smuggling—or even the smuggling itself—might cover other enterprises, eh?
    He ought to have thought of that. And, by God, it still beckoned him now, as he thought about it! At least it was something Captain Cuccaro would believe— Perfidious Albion! — he would believe that, if nothing else!
    ‘Question-and-answer?’ Mitchell moved into his silence, just as warily. ‘Or arrest?’
    That was going too fast. ‘Please, Dr Mitchell—‘
    ‘Not arrest—‘ Cuccaro spread his hands ‘—say … “protective custody” rather, sir.’ He switched back to Audley. ‘We do not desire … difficulties, Professore. But there are other matters—other considerations … which, at present, are not clear to us … at this moment, you understand?’
    This time Audley didn’t quite understand. ‘What other “considerations”?’
    Such innocence seemed to surprise the captain. ‘You saw the airport? And the precautions there?’
    Audley nodded, remembering Heathrow as well as Naples. ‘A man in a tank pointed a cannon at me—yes?’
    ‘Then you know that there is an anti-terrorist emergency.’
    ‘An exercise, I thought. There was a similar one at Heathrow when I was there a few hours ago.’ For once he didn’t have to pretend innocence. ‘An exercise? Or—?’
    ‘ ” Sure ” ,’ murmured Mitchell. ‘That’s what they told me.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘”Scheduled Unspecific Routine Exercise”—“SURE” for short, David. They have ‘em all the time these days.’ But then Mitchell cocked an eye at the Italian. ‘Are you telling us that this time they’re not so … “sure”, maybe?’
    Cuccaro studied each of them for a moment. ‘There is a great deal of … activity, in many different quarters. Very disturbing activity, Professore.’
    The engine-note beneath them changed from a controlled drone almost to silence, as though it