Flight From Honour Read Free

right?”
    “Quite right,” Bozan said, just as solemnly as he’d been swearing selfless loyalty a moment before. I was right about him, the masked man thought. In fact I was right about both. He tried to restrain a satisfied smile, then remembered the hood concealed it anyway.
    “But we must be assured of your true dedication to our cause,” he protested.
    “You show us gold and we’ll show you dedication,” Silvio assured him.
    “But the other Committee members of the Ujedinjenje—”
    “Piss on the other Committee members. If they want a load of oath-swearing, let them pick a couple of students who can’t wipe their own arses or recognise a police detective if they fell over him. We’re professional men.”
    The man with the shovel who walks behind the Emperor’s horse has a more prickly pride than the Emperor himself, the hooded man reflected. But he persisted. “I have the first instalment downstairs. In various gold pieces, as you requested. But I must insist that you remember you are working for the Ujedinjenje ili Smrt.” He was determined to get that name into their heads. Into Silvio’s, anyway. “And the vengeance of the Ujedinjenje ili Smrt has a long arm—”
    “And a black hand at the end of it – if you read the newspapers. Is that why it has to turn to us when it needs a proper job done?”
    “Very well. If you will follow me downstairs . . .” Even for that short time he felt uneasy having them behind him.
    *        *        *
    The vibrations of the Treasurer’s nerves were almost audible as Silvio counted the coins and moved his lips in currency exchanges. In the grey light his face seemed an unfinished sculpture, all the features too prominent and the skin rough and pocked. At last he seemed satisfied with his own arithmetic and pushed the coins over to Bozan, who began to play with them, stacking, shuffling, mixing them, and tipping them to watch the glints. He seemed happy, inasmuch as he seemed anything; his face was round, smooth and frighteningly innocent and untouched.
    The man in the hood and cape had kept them on and was stifling, but he went doggedly on. “His name is Senator Giancarlo Falcone, He used a different name here – Vascotti – perhaps you’d remember that, he may always use it again. But we’re quite sure of who he is. His father was Triestine. Now comes the difficult part – which is why we need men of your great experience.” He paused for either man to show he’d taken in the flattery, but got nothing. Silvio’s tetchiness seemed assuaged by the sight of gold and he sat calmly waiting; Bozan was still playing with the coins like pretty beach pebbles.
    “He has a villa near Venice and another in Turin. We believe he’s there now. But we don’t want him killed in Italy if possible. The Italian police will invent their own motives and play politics with it. So I want you to go to Turin – do you know it?”
    “Like my mother’s purse.” Silvio had relaxed enough to smile, showing uneven teeth, probably broken in the early days when he was making a reputation on victims who fought back.
    “Good. Find lodgings and send the address to Jankovic, care of the Poste Restante there. He will make arrangements for you, he knows languages, other countries, you can rely on him. But we rely on you for the real work.” This was delicate ground; honour was involved. “And that will come when Falcone leaves Italy.”
    “Is he suspicious?”
    The hooded man paused, trying to think as well as stifle. “In Trieste he was jumping at his own footsteps. But he isn’t used to being suspicious, so it probably comes and goes. He’s important, so he thinks he’s clever, which should make it easier for you.”
    Silvio might have agreed, but wasn’t going to show it. He just grunted.
    “If you have no questions . . . ? The Committee has one other request, but it’s no more than that.” He groped under his cape and laid an automatic pistol on