The Malaspiga Exit (18 page)

‘You're not talking to anyone,' Carpenter said. There was a small wooden table between them, its legs screwed to the floor; Nathan faced him, pale and red-eyed, snarling defiance.

‘I know my rights,' Nathan shouted. ‘I'm not some poor son-of-a-bitch from outside who doesn't know the law! You can't hold me like this!'

‘I'm holding you till Ben gets back,' Carpenter said. ‘If I'm wrong, he'll nail my ears to the office wall, and you can swing the hammer. But I'm not wrong, Jim. You're bent and I know it. Why don't you stop yelling and tell me the truth? Why are you covering up for Eddi Taylor?'

‘I'm not covering for anyone.' Nathan glared at him. ‘You're out of your head!'

‘I've checked on Taylor,' Carpenter said quietly. ‘He's connected to the people at the head of this smuggling ring. There's not a doubt of it. So you aren't helping yourself by lying. He's a pusher and we've got proof.'

Nathan jerked his chin. ‘You know what you can do with it! You know something Frank? I thought you were a right guy—I really liked you. Now you turn out to be the biggest bastard I've ever met in my whole life! How do you think my wife feels? Haven't you any fucking decency, and feelings?'

‘Your wife was sent a message yesterday,' Carpenter said. ‘She isn't worried. You're the one that's worried, Jim. Why? What are you scared of?'

Nathan didn't answer. He covered his face with one hand. There was no sweat. His skin was dry and hot, his eyes felt as if there were hot coals in the sockets. All he had to do was get a message out. He'd worked out the words, he knew exactly what to say. It was Friday evening. Fear gripped him so tightly that it became a physical pain, torturing the muscles of his stomach. Friday.

If he didn't get that message to Taylor, Taylor might carry out his threat. If he gave in to Carpenter and confessed, his wife would still be in danger. He wasn't impressed by police protection. A few weeks of surveillance which became less effective as time passed. A move to a new district, a succession of addresses. And Taylor's vengeance following stealthily behind her, with her husband in jail and nobody to care for her, to stand guard …

He looked up. Carpenter waited.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘I'll make a deal with you.'

‘No deals,' Carpenter said flatly. ‘You're not holding any cards.'

‘I'm holding more than you know,' Jim Nathan said. ‘A hell of a lot more. You want to bust this, don't you? It means a lot to you. Okay. You make a deal with me and I'll give you everything you need. And something extra.'

‘What's the deal?'

‘Let me talk to my wife.'

Frank lit a cigarette. He looked at Nathan. ‘You'd spill everything just for that? Just to talk to Marie? Why?'

‘That's my business.' Nathan was calm now; he had stopped shouting. It was a gamble that only a desperate man would have contemplated, a hopeless crazy million to one chance. But he had to take it. If he could get Carpenter to agree. He shook his head suddenly. Fifteen years of friendship must count for something. Carpenter was tough, but he wasn't inhuman. In his place Nathan wouldn't have fallen for it, but he had to believe that Frank would. That was the first part of the gamble. The second came later.

‘I won't let you talk to Marie unless you tell me why,' Carpenter said. ‘As far as a deal is concerned, I can't promise anything. That's Ben's decision.'

‘She's pregnant,' Nathan said slowly. ‘That's why. The doctor says she's likely to drop the kid at any moment. She ought to go stay with my brother. I want to talk to her, make sure she isn't worried.'

‘Why didn't you say so before?' Carpenter said. ‘You stupid clown, why didn't you tell me?'

‘Because I was mad,' Nathan said. ‘Nobody likes getting caught. Let me talk to her, Frank. Just for old times' sake. You can stand right by me and hear every word. For Christ's sake, she isn't strong … if anything happened and she was all alone in that apartment … I want her to go to my brother. Right away. Tonight.'

‘It's past eleven. Won't she be in bed?'

‘She watches the late show Friday nights,' Nathan said. ‘She can call a cab and get over there.'

‘And then you'll talk about Eddi Taylor?'

‘I'll talk about him, and a few others,' Nathan said. ‘Just as soon as I've made the call.'

Carpenter got up. ‘Okay,' he said. ‘You can call from my office. The regular switchboard's shut by now.'

Two security men were in the office with them. Nathan took his place behind Frank's desk, and picked up the phone; he pressed the switch to give him an outside line. He knew the figures off by heart; it was one of the latest push-button machines. He looked up at Carpenter who was standing beside him; his fingers flew over the tiny buttons as he held the other man's attention.

‘Thanks, Frank. I appreciate this.' The ringing began.

Taylor was deep in sleep. By the side of his bed the telephone shrilled, impinging on his dream. The sound screamed in his unconscious, clamouring for recognition. He threw himself on his side, fighting against the noise.

In Carpenter's office, Nathan waited. Now he was sweating, trickles were running down his neck and flooding his armpits. It seemed like hours instead of seconds while the ringing went on and on and there was no answer. This would be the final irony, the kick in the groin delivered by a malicious fate. He had got to the telephone, dialled the number undetected, and now Taylor wasn't in …

‘She must be asleep,' Carpenter said. Nathan cupped his hand over the mouthpiece.

‘Sometimes she has the set on loud,' he said.

Finally the ringing triumphed over the mild barbiturate Taylor had taken. Groaning, he rolled over to the side of the bed where the telephone stood and fumbling in the darkness, unhooked it. ‘Hello …'

Nathan could have shouted with relief.

‘Honey? This is your husband, Jim Nathan—remember me?' He couldn't hear anything but a mumble and he didn't dare to hesitate. ‘How are you? Sure, fine, fine. Just for a few days. Listen, I want you to stay with my brother …'

Holding the receiver, Taylor dragged himself up in the bed. Nathan. It was Nathan on the line, talking gibberish … He fought off the comatose feeling and tried to concentrate. The voice went on. ‘Look after you, honey. Sure. I'll be home soon.' For a moment he thought it was a crossed line and that the conversation was taking place between Nathan and his wife. Then he realized there was no answering voice. Nathan was talking to himself. He cleared his throat. ‘Nathan—what the hell is this?'

‘Yeah,' Nathan went on talking. ‘I wanted to call you before but I was busy. Listen, honey. I know it's going to be a girl. Understand that? A girl. And we'll call her Katharine.' He paused; Frank Carpenter saw that he was smiling. Something in his head went off like a rocket. He reached out for the phone, but Nathan was quicker. He hung up. ‘Thanks,' he said. ‘I feel a whole lot better now. She'll be okay.'

Taylor clicked on his lamp; the receiver hung crookedly on its cradle where he had replaced it in the darkness. He put it straight. Now the sensation of drowsiness was clearing. As he appreciated the significance of the last exchange in that garbled telephone call, he jerked upright in the bed. ‘I know it's going to be a girl. Understand that. A girl. And we'll call her Katharine.' That was the message he had been expecting. Nathan's tone had been precise, emphatic. He must have made the call under great difficulty, and had pretended to be speaking to his wife. A girl. The agent was a woman, and the name was Katharine. Taylor got out of bed; he felt slightly dizzy and there was a thick taste in his mouth. He poured some more mineral water and drank it. Damn the pill. They were the weakest prescribed, but it was still confusing him. He repeated the message to hold on to it. There were two things he had to do. Contact Svenson. And something else. He yawned, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Svenson. He would be at his hotel. He looked at his watch, and found it difficult to focus. It was a Piaget with a lapiz face. He had given it to himself the previous Christmas. He thought good accessories were important. It was almost midnight. Svenson would be asleep, but that didn't matter. He was leaving very early in the morning. Taylor wanted to go to sleep himself, but he had to make that call first. Svenson was staying at the Plaza. He couldn't remember the number. He got out the directory, found it and dialled.

‘Who did you call?' Carpenter had Nathan up against the wall. He hadn't hit him, because he knew instinctively that the truth couldn't be beaten out of him.

‘My wife,' Nathan said.

‘I've just spoken to her. She hadn't had a call from you. Who was on the other end of that line? It was Taylor, wasn't it?'

Nathan made the same obscene suggestion as he had when he was first arrested, and Carpenter smashed his fist into his face. He sagged but didn't fall. Blood oozed from his nose. He wiped it with his hand.

‘You'll have to do better than that,' he said. Carpenter took him at his word. Before he finally lost consciousness, Nathan's last thought was that no matter what happened to him, his wife wouldn't be harmed.

Taylor heard the doorbell ringing just as he was about to make a second phone call. He had remembered what he had to do after speaking to Svenson, who sounded sleepy and irritable when he woke him. Nathan had come through. He had to call the ‘rent collector' off his wife. The doorbell rang long and stridently, and was suddenly accompanied by loud knocks. Taylor hesitated. Instinct told him what was behind the door. He had no way of escape. But they wouldn't find anything. There was nothing in the apartment, nothing in the shop below. He never kept anything or wrote anything down. His nerves were dulled by the sleeping pill, and he stayed calm. He put on a red silk dressing gown, slid his small feet into Gucci slippers and went to the front door. ‘Who's there?'

‘Federal agents. Open up!' The door, like all entrances in New York apartments, was on a bolt and a chain. He slipped the bolt back and opened it until the chain caught and held the door.

‘I want to see your identification,' he said. ‘How do I know you're FBI?' The ID card was thrust through the opening and then withdrawn.

‘You open the door,' a voice said, ‘or we'll break it in.'

Taylor opened it. Twenty minutes later he was in Carpenter's office, demanding to call his lawyer and refusing to answer any questions. He never made the telephone call to reprieve Marie Nathan.

CHAPTER FIVE

Malaspiga was a fifteenth-century town about a hundred and fifty kilometres from Florence. It clung to the skirts of a massive hill, green with olive trees and spiked by clusters of the tall cypresses which abounded in the area. The little town had grown round its base; dusty pink and yellow houses, roofed in Tuscan red tiles, with the church and the long finger of the Campanile housing its bronze bell dominating everything. The car drove through narrow streets, rough-paved and without sidewalks; the houses leaned towards each other, closing out the light. There was a little piazza with a statue, a man in armour on a stylized prancing horse. Katharine didn't need to see the inscription to know that it was a Duke of Malaspiga. The Duchess Francesca was with her, John Driver drove. A second car with a uniformed chauffeur in front preceded them through the winding streets. The Duke and his mother sat together in the back. Katharine sensed that a return to the Castle was part of a ritual; it was the procession of a feudal lord and it went at an appropriate pace. She saw people saluting the front car, and several of the children waved and called after it. Whatever they were to the outside world, the Malaspigas were popular among their own. They left the town behind and began a steep climb up the side of the hill. It was a wide road, and impeccably surfaced; the drop on their right became more precipitous as they went higher. She turned to Francesca, who had been silent for most of the journey. ‘Is the Castle at the top?'

‘Yes. You could have seen it from the substrada. I should have pointed it out.'

John spoke from the front. ‘I feel like Jack climbing the beanstalk every time I come here. Wait till you see it.'

‘I hope you brought some warm clothes.' The kohl-painted eyes looked at her with blank hostility. ‘It gets very cold in the evening.'

‘Thanks, I'll be all right.' Katharine turned away and looked out of the window. She had never been in close proximity to her cousin's wife before. During the two-hour drive she had an impression of coldness and bitterness which was unpleasant even if it was excusable. The woman hated her, and Katharine understood why. But it was a chill hatred, the emotion of someone who felt in ice rather than fire. Whereas there was fire in Alessandro; hot pride, temper, sensual passion. She thought suddenly that he must have found it impossible to love such a woman, and then reproached herself angrily for making this excuse. Far below she caught sight of the town and realized how high they were; it looked like a doll's village.

‘Don't you like heights?' She saw John watching her in the driving mirror.

‘I don't mind them. I don't like looking over the edge, but otherwise it doesn't bother me.'

‘I thought you were looking a bit sick,' he said. ‘We're nearly there.' A few moments later they rounded a sweep in the road and came upon a massive stone arch which was part of a wall. She saw the Malaspiga arms carved above the dark mouth of the gateway. The wreath and the malevolent spike growing out of the corn. It was stark and cruel in the ancient stone. Impulsively she covered the ring on her own finger with her left hand, as if she could ward off something evil.

Out of the darkness of the gateway and into the huge courtyard. The Castle itself rose like an illustration from a history book, so huge and tall, with its square turrets and cliff high walls, that she exclaimed. The Canadian looked round and grinned at her. ‘I told you! It's quite something.'