The Network - Jason Elliot [79]
My partner for the day is a former Italian special forces soldier from Naples called Gaetano, who tells me a funny story about surrendering to a troop of British paras on a joint escape and evasion exercise in Germany. When he’s caught, which is not supposed to happen on E & E training, he produces a fine bottle of Montepulciano and a large Parmesan from his Bergen, and settles down with his captors to a picnic, after which they generously decide to let him go. Mysteriously, he is the only member of the Italian team to successfully complete the exercise, and receives a commendation from his proud commanding officer.
The old rule of surveillance applies. We must assume at all times that our target is being observed, so the plan is to deliver a message directly to one of Gemayel’s bodyguards under cover of an innocent encounter. The message is a piece of paper on which I’ve written a note requesting an urgent meeting. There’s enough detail for Gemayel to know who I am, and though I don’t put my name, I’ve given him details of my hotel. I have to trust that his memory is still intact and he isn’t too upset about the past.
For the contact, two SISMI officers, a couple posing as American tourists, have rented bicycles for an afternoon ride through the Villa Borghese. Directed by Gaetano through their hidden body comms, they’re able to position themselves ahead of Gemayel as he turns along one of the tree-lined pathways. They keep their backs to him and pretend to be consulting their tourist map of the park from the saddles of their bikes. The timing has to be just right. Gemayel walks past the couple, and the bodyguards are a few yards behind.
‘É proprio dietro di te,’ whispers Gaetano into his microphone. Right behind you. ‘Cinque secondi – adesso, vai vai vai.’
I watch through the scope as the female team member, pretending to lose patience with the map, turns around and catches the attention of one of the bodyguards as he passes and asks him directions to the exit of the park. They talk for a couple of seconds. Then her partner reaches out his arm in thanks to the bodyguard, and shakes his hand.
‘Fatto,’ says Gaetano. It’s done. The bodyguard is well enough trained not to show any reaction to the message that’s been pressed into his palm, but closes his hand and walks on. The bikes speed away, but the message has been passed.
By the time Gaetano has taken me on a tour of his several favourite bars in Rome it’s not only dark but I’m pleasantly drunk. I take a taxi to my hotel, recounting to myself the list of things which Gaetano says the Italians have invented.
‘Everything that matters in life,’ is how he puts it. Electricity, the radio, opera, fashion, the violin, the atom bomb, the best cars in the world, and pizza. Not to mention the most beautiful women of infamy in the world, he says with a wink, calling them donne di costume facile, meaning easy virtue. A pair of whom, he adds, are available to us this very evening.
It’s a kind offer, which I decline politely.
There’s no message for me at the desk. I’m wondering how and when Gemayel will get in touch when the answer is unambiguously provided. As I open the door of my room and reach for the light switch, I feel a sudden and overwhelming force pulling me down. I’m totally off my guard and whoever’s doing the pulling has done this kind of thing before. Before I hit the floor my arm’s already in a half nelson, and pressing into my temple is the muzzle