The elaborate historic building known as the Villa Bracciano housed the embassy and was situated close to Michelangelo’s Porta Pia on the Quirinal Hill. Gyles met with Edmund in his large second floor office that overlooked a sprawling English garden. A manicured and gently rolling wide expanse of lawn cut through with graveled paths sloped down to a small mirrorlike lake on which a lone swan was gliding. Tall mature shade trees lined both sides of the property and in the flowerbeds showy white and pink salmon roses were in bloom.
The two men were sipping coffee in silence from white bone china cups emblazoned with a gold imperial crown crest before getting down to work. Behind Edmund’s closed door came the muffled clacking of typewriters the only sound Gyles could hear as he considered the question put to him by Edmund.
“I believe he’ll work for us, Edmund, I do. Not at all a Mussolini man and I think if we can nudge him over the ledge, he’ll come to see that helping us will help his cause.”
“Which is what, precisely?”
“I don’t know if it’s even properly defined in his own mind yet.”
“If that’s the case we’ll have to firm it up for him.”
There was a soft rapping of knuckles on the door.
“Yes,” called out Edmund. He turned to Gyles. “Hold your thought a moment.”
The door opened ajar. “Sorry to disturb, Mister Playfair.”
“What is it, Marjorie?”
“Gentleman on the phone on the special line asking for Mister Aiscroft. It’s long distance—from Asmara. Won’t give me his name, says it’s important. Claims he was asked to call. Should I put him through to you or to Mister Aiscroft?”
Edmund shot Gyles a look of surprise. “Let me speak with him.” He turned back to Marjorie. “Put him through to me, please. Thank you, Marjorie.”
“Happy coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” said Edmund before reaching for the receiver when the phone rang a moment later.
Gyles nodded.
“Davenport here,” he said sitting up and using his SIS pseudonym. “Who’s this, please?”
There was a protracted silence as Gyles waited impatiently for Edmund to speak again so he could continue to listen to the conversation.
“Mister Geraci, how good of you to call. It’s a pleasure to meet you,”—pause—“yes, of course, I would have enjoyed a face-to-face meeting with you as well though under the circumstances,”—pause—“Mister Aiscroft? Yes, I believe you can plan on seeing him again if it’s what you wish.”
There followed a long-winded conversation on Geraci’s part.
“I’m well aware the Rome-Asmara axis isn’t convenient but we’ll make do, won’t we?”—pause—“Of course, you have my assurances. We intend to help any way we can,” said Edmund.”—Pause—“In return I believe Mister Aiscroft laid out what we would be interested in learning about, did he not?”
There was a long silence as Gyles watched Edmund listening intently, nodding, often leaning back, and staring at the ceiling and at one point trying to get a word in edgewise.
“Give me some time,” said Edmund.” —Pause—“Yes, we could, I suppose. Highly irregular though it can be arranged if need be. I won’t ask why at this point, Mister Geraci, and I’ll see that it’s put in your hands as expeditiously as possible.” —Pause—“No, no, no, not a bother at all. Whatever you have in mind I’ll expect you to brief Aiscroft when you see him.” Edmund was listening intently now.
Gyles wondered what Edmund was setting him up for and what it was he was going to arrange. Impatient for the conversation to end he stood, as much to stretch his legs as to occupy his time. He lit a cigarette, and went over to stand at the window. He looked out over the garden he had seen before, his ears attuned to the one-sided conversation.
The conversation ended, Edmund hung up the phone, and cast a worried look at Gyles.
Gyles sat back down.
“Wants a bloody sidearm,” said Edmund sighing.
“A sidearm?” said Gyles leaning forward. “Whatever for?”
“Protection, he said, at first. Then he went on, rather vague. “Claims he had a use for it. Can’t have it traceable to him so he can’t buy it in Asmara. Too many restrictions, I gather. Same as here, I suppose.”
“You agreed?”
“Why not? He’s committed to helping us. Made the point quite forcibly. Claims he has information we may find quite interesting. So,” he tapped his fingers on the desk. “A small price to pay, I suppose.” He turned smoothly and picked up the phone. “Marjorie? Have Rupert see me, please.” —Pause—“Yes, now, if he’s available. Right.” He hung up the phone. “Have to see what we have in the firearms cabinet,” he said smiling. “Now, the question becomes, how do we place it in his hands?”
“You’re not thinking of having me carry it there, are you? Good Lord, Edmund, I couldn’t get it through customs, if they found it. I don’t even have diplomatic immunity.”
“Lot of good it would do you if you did. Mussolini’s goons have never heard of it. Try carrying a pistol through any government building or around town and see what happens.”
There was a sharp knock at the door.
“Yes,” called out Edmund.
The door opened to reveal an intense-looking, middle-aged man wearing round rimless spectacles. He was clad in an impeccable gray suit and a bow tie in classic British Regimental colors of burgundy red and olive green. He could have been an Oxford master. “Edmund?” he asked looking puzzled. “Urgent business?”
“Yes, Rupert, come in.” He didn’t introduce Gyles. “What do we have in the firearms cabinet we could pass along?”
Rupert’s face betrayed no emotion. “Revolver or rifle, sir?”
“Good Lord, no, not a rifle. A revolver.”
“We have some new Webleys, the Mark VI model. Just received from London. Excellent piece, I’m told.”
“British, unfortunately,” said Gyles turning first to address Edmund and then Rupert.
“British manufacturer, yes, of course,” said Rupert who was standing alongside Edmund’s desk. He peered at Gyles as if he were an impostor, questioning his authority.
“I see where you’re going,” said Edmund murmuring to Gyles.
“An Italian make, perhaps,” said Gyles. “Don’t imagine there are any Webleys where our man is located.”
“Rupert?” said Edmund turning back to him. “An Italian pistol, perhaps?”
“No Italian arms in the embassy,” he said tersely. “Under the protocol the Italians won’t allow it, however...”
“Yes, damn, that’s right. Well we can’t hand him a British sidearm,” said Edmund irritated. “Out of the question. Can’t be traced to the Service.”
“Not a problem, sir” said Rupert smoothly. “I can arrange for whatever is necessary despite the protocol: Italian, German, French, even American.”
“Right, well an Italian pistol will do the trick. A Beretta, wouldn’t you think?” said Edmund thinking aloud.
“Beretta? Yes, of course.” Rupert nodded smoothly.
“Excellent, and Rupert? Something new not used, all right? And ammunition, perhaps a couple of hundred rounds, and one of those cleaning kits, too, I suppose—the works. I don’t know anything about the Beretta line so I’ll leave it in your hands.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Rupert with authority. He was the SIS weapons expert in the embassy. “I believe the semi-automatic Beretta Model 34 will suit your customer’s purposes rather well. Chambered for a 9 mm Corto. Very reliable, and used by the military. Fired it myself once for sport while stationed at the Tirana embassy last year.”
“Um, Albania,” said Edmund sounding distressed at the thought of the unraveling situation there and about the dictator King Zogu, things he knew about. “Rather suppose you’re pleased to be in Rome now, aren’t you?” he said perking up.
“Pleasant change of pace, yes, of course. We had our hands full with Zogu, all that business with eliminating civil liberties, muzzling the press, and murdering political opponents. But business as usual for those chaps. Quite a handful, all in all, though the weather was delightful.”
“I can well imagine,” said Edmund. He cracked a sly smile as if he knew more than he was willing to admit. “Well then it’s settled,” he said steering the conversation back. “Rupert, bring me the pistol as soon as you’ve put your kit together. We haven’t yet decided on a method of transport.”
“Don’t know where your man’s located,” said Rupert. “If I might suggest, sir, a courier perhaps?”
“We’re still discussing it.”
“Very good. Will that be all then?”
“Quite.”
“I’ll see to it right away.”
“Thank you, Rupert.”
He nodded tightly and withdrew.
They watched him leave.
When the door closed, Edmund said. “Well, that settles it.”
“Yes, right,” said Gyles, assuming he meant the revolver.
“How soon can you leave?”
“Leave?” Gyles sat up, a startled expression on his face. “You’re not suggesting I return to Asmara with the bloody thing, are you?”
“I am, Gyles. There’s no other way, old man. Have other commitments, do you?”
“Fact of the matter is I’m due in Marseille on the 22nd, Edmund. I’ve booked a seat on Imperial Airways—the flying boat service.”
Edmund looked troubled as he reached to move his desk calendar so he could better see it. “You have, have you? Well let’s see, old man, today’s the ninth, isn’t it? Um, yes, that might be difficult.” He sat back. “Look, I won’t intrude on your journalistic assignments by placing the Service’s needs ahead of them. We’ve always managed to work things so you could do both. In the spirit of that accord I’ll wait until you return from France. How long will you be?”
“No more than a day unless there are problems; half a day to fly there, hour or two meeting and half a day to return. Should return late the 23rd, perhaps the 24th, if I overnight in Marseille, which I may.”
“I see,” he said frowning looking back at his calendar. “Well you won’t make it in time for Wednesday’s flight to Asmara, will you? Mondays and Wednesdays, isn’t it? You’ll have to take next Monday’s flight on the 28th. Does that suit?” he asked looking up. “We’ll book it if you’ll agree.”
“ All right, Edmund,” Gyles sighed. He wasn’t prepared to dash all the way back to Asmara to bring Geraci his pistol, and he wondered what was the important information the farmer had to share. And he worried about smuggling a weapon through airport control. Officially, Eritrea was part of Italy so a customs inspection was not required when arriving from Rome. His first time through the customs official had glanced at his British passport and asked him if he had anything to declare. He was waved on when he said no.
“By the way, before you leave, I have your earnings for your most recent assignment.” Edmund slid open his center desk drawer and retrieved a thick, unsealed brown envelope.
Gyles stood to retrieve it.
“Go on, count it,” he said handing to him with an exasperated sigh because the rules required it. “It’s all there. Swiss francs, as requested,” said Edmund. “And sign the chit, please.”
Gyles rifled through the thick wad of colorful bills. He wasn’t about to count them and as always was pleased by the Service’s generous compensation.
“Couldn’t find that much Swiss cash in Rome,” murmured Edmund watching him, “so the Bern embassy collected it for me. Not going to count it are you?”
Gyles shook his head. “Not today,” as he pocketed the thick envelope, found his fountain pen, and scrawled his initials on the chit. He passed it back.
Edmund leaned forward to take it. “Suit yourself. I think you’ll find it’s all there. I counted it. You’ve earned it. You always do.”
“I think so.”
“Tell me,” said Edmund. “How about liras or even the pound next time, as you’ve requested in the past?”
“Prefer francs nowadays; I’ve opened an account with the Swiss National Bank.”
Edmund smirked. “Another one of the many foreign accounts you no doubt maintain. What’s wrong with the Bank of England?”
“Nothing, really. Yes, I have a few accounts with them.”
“Yes, no doubt. Well,” and here he stood and extended his hand, “Bon voyage, old man. Good luck with that business in France and I’ll see you on your return the 23rd or the 24th.”
“Right. I’m off then.”