Sant'Eustachio, a coffee shop and roaster, was located in the heart of Rome, in front of the Senato della Repubblica palace, a few steps away from Piazza Navona and the Pantheon. Up early on Monday morning the day Emilia was to fly back, she packed in a rush before they set out for breakfast as had become their habit. Gyles ordered two cafés and breakfast before surprising her by telling her he would be back in Asmara for a day or two the following week.
“How wonderful,” said Emilia overcome with happiness while squeezing his arm. “I can’t wait, can you?”
“I’m looking forward to it, of course. Wish Asmara weren’t so bloody far away, that’s all.”
“Is this for your work, or for Father’s?”
“For him.”
“Well I suppose I have him to thank, don’t I? He doesn’t know, does he? You haven’t said anything...”
“Of course not, Emilia, remember? We talked Thursday when you landed.”
“I know. I’m sorry to be such a pest about it but it worries me.”
“What would you tell him, or your mother, that we’re having an affair? I rather think your father might be upset not only with you but more so with me. You’re a married woman, after all. Don’t imagine that would sit well with either one of them.”
“Gyles, I’ve been thinking. I might have some news for you when I see you again. When do you arrive?”
“Leave Rome on the Monday flight, the 28th. Arrive as usual on Wednesday the 30th.”
“You’ll stay at the Colonia?”
“That’s right. Making plans to come and be with me, are you?”
“Perhaps,” she said her eyes dancing in delight.
“See that you do,” he said grinning. “Though I can’t imagine how you’ll manage with that husband of yours. I’ll be busy the afternoon of the day I land and I won’t call you—don’t need to get him on the line—so call me around six. I should be back at the hotel by then. I’ll tell you about my schedule.” He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.
Emilia closed her eyes and sighed.
As Ala Littoria’s Flight 500 descended gracefully toward the Asmara airfield Gyles glanced out through the window. Nothing appeared to have changed since his last visit. It was as if the landscape had hardened like a papier-mâché cast. He was eager to disembark, pass through immigration and customs, and make his way into town. Foremost in his mind was his concern over the large pressed card coffee-colored travel case he was carrying. A British firm, to whom the SIS turned when it needed luggage with false bottoms and secret compartments, had manufactured it, Edmund explained. He had several on hand and the Italian Beretta, and ammunition had fit neatly into the snug secret compartment which could be opened only by depressing a hidden trigger built into one of the twin leather handles.
As he walked with the others toward the terminal building he saw again the same three-engine monoplane with its Fascist symbol still parked outside the heat shimmering in waves off of the wings. Inside the arrivals building it was the same routine, the mindless bureaucratic instructions administered by the same sergeant. He remembered the unpleasant immigration officer who cleared him again before making his way toward the customs inspection area.
Customs had been busy the first time he had presented himself and the official had only glanced at the cover of his British passport. This time the same overweight official appeared more interested. Aiscroft handed him his passport pinched between two fingers.
“What are you carrying in that case?” he said glancing at the passport’s declaration page and at his photograph and then down at the case.
“Change of clothes, nothing important really.”
“Open it,” he said wagging a thick white wood baton at it.
There was no counter or table on which to submit baggage to an inspection so Aiscroft knelt, placed the case on the floor, and opened it. He straightened and took a step back.
The official bent to peer inside. With his baton he poked gingerly around as if he feared a hidden snake might rear up and strike him. He moved shirts, socks and underwear gingerly aside and at one point twisted around to read the cover of a large colorful travel brochure issued by Thomas Cook & Son that Aiscroft in a purposeful move had placed over the lid of the secret compartment. “Tourist?” he asked in accented English looking up. “From London?” He sounded interested.
“Originally, though I live in Rome, now,” said Gyles being careful about what he said.
“Rome? Okay,” he said at once, as if that alone absolved the traveler of any possible wrongdoing. He waved the baton indicating Aiscroft should hurry to close the case and move along.
After riding the bus into town, he found the automobile rental establishment on a side street around the corner from the Viale Roma and, without first checking into his hotel, climbed behind the wheel. With Asmara left behind less than an hour ago, Gyles drove over the twisting road to Elabored in the rented black Fiat. The case was on the seat alongside him and on occasion he would turn to glance at it, remembering the cleverly hidden Beretta. Gyles’ mind drifted from Geraci to Emilia and finally to Edmund.
With increasing frequency, he was finding himself entangled in British Intelligence business and not pursuing what he loved to do most, discovering new and interesting stories being played out on the African continent he could write about and sell. He remembered that after today, and discounting what might develop with Geraci, he had promised Edmund he would try to find a source for him in Massawa. He was concerned how long that might take, and how likely it would pre-empt his reportorial endeavors. It was almost the end of the year—late November—and 1939 would soon be upon him. He saw clearly that come the New Year, while employing all of the tact he could muster, it was imperative—despite their years of friendship and cooperation—he disengage himself from Edmund, the SIS and their never-ending calls for assistance.
In the beginning, years ago, the lure of the tax-free cash had been incentive enough to set aside what he was doing, or planning, to join him. But the repeated impositions had grown tiresome, the assignments disruptive and sometimes dangerous and the relationship fundamentally wearisome. He knew Edmund was well aware of the situation and worked diligently to smooth things over and pushed London to accommodate him. He didn’t need the money anymore. He had accumulated more than enough to last him the remainder of his life and, not long ago after a long delayed visit to Capri, had set his mind on a villa overlooking the little harbor from which he planned to depart once a year, or so, off to Africa, to find a story. And now, to hasten his trip, his mind took a flight of fancy imagining a life with Emilia, there in Capri on the idyllic island.
The little village of Elabored came into view and Gyles slowed as he drove past. There was the signpost he remembered on the left shoulder and spotting it he turned the wheel over sharply to guide the Fiat across the bleached asphalt and unto the uneven dirt road. Soon he was driving beneath the entrance portal of the Geraci farm before stopping behind a car parked in front of the house.
He recognized it as a Topolino, this one gray, and cream-colored. They were all the rage in Rome, he saw them everywhere, and now it seemed here as well. Puzzling over who Geraci’s visitor might be Gyles reached for the case, left the car and walked in quick strides over the dusty ground, lifting his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose for a moment to relieve the pinch, the heat in the treeless countryside now hot upon his head and shoulders. Remembering his earlier visit, he noticed at once the strange silence blanketing the property. The door to the warehouse was open, though there was no one at work, and the tractor was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t even hear its engine rumbling out in the fields.
Arrived in the shade of the entrance, he dusted off his jacket, knocked on the door, and tightened his grip on the case. He hadn’t called ahead and wondered whether the little Fiat outside explained the silence. Perhaps Geraci was busy with someone else, or maybe the car belonged to Geraci’s brother whom he had never met. Impatient to be admitted Gyles worried Geraci might not have the time nor be inclined to see him.
The door was pulled open after a long delay and there stood Colonel Ferrazza. He was in civilian clothes, flushed and harried looking and quite surprised to see him. “Colonel,” said Gyles flatly without extending his hand. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Mister Aiscroft,” he said sounding cool and unwelcoming. “We meet again.”
“So it seems. Good afternoon. Look here, Colonel, I’m to meet with Geraci. We have a business matter to discuss.”
“I’m afraid he’s rather occupied now.” He toyed with the doorknob, his intent well in evidence.
“Strange,” said Gyles, moving in place and hiking up the case to get a better grip on the handles. “He was aware I was on my way,” he lied.
“Is that so? Unfortunately he’s not available at the moment.”
Gyles was growing impatient with his nonsense. Was the colonel prepared to bar him from entering? And where was Geraci? Hadn’t he heard the knock on the door as well? Gyles tried to look around him to peer into the living room with its two overhead fans, the wide fireplace, and the comfortable armchairs. It all looked as he remembered it, nothing disturbed but Geraci was nowhere to be seen.
“As I mentioned, he’s not available,” said the colonel impatient, his tone hardening and beginning to close the door. “You should make other arrangements.”
Gyles had had enough. With his free hand he pushed on the door the colonel was swinging shut. “Look here,” he said, now angry. “I’d like to have a word with him so he knows I’ve arrived.”
“Wait outside.” At that he abruptly shut the door, Gyles listening to the lock being thrown.
Dumbfounded, Gyles waited. He smoked a cigarette, paced, and began again knocking on the door, though there was no response. Curious and growing anxious, he circled the house, peering in one window after another. He remembered where the man’s study was located—it faced the front of the house—and it was his last stop because in his haste he had begun to circle in the wrong direction. He heard noises and couldn’t decide what they were. Cautious, so as not to be seen, Gyles peered into one window after another and failed to see anyone or even pinpoint the source of the noise. He hugged the side of the house, the masonry warm from the afternoon sun, and at last peered into Geraci’s study.
He was sitting at Geraci’s desk. A large pistol was in front of him, the colonel busy pulling open drawers, removing papers and files, glancing and flipping through them before tossing them aside. Gyles couldn’t imagine what he was doing let alone looking for when he finally spotted what could only have been the former official.
He lay sprawled on the floor in front of the chair Gyles had sat in only last week.
And because the furniture blocked his view of the body, his head and shoulders and arms were not visible, though his chest and waist and legs were. His khaki shirt was drenched in blood. Gyles caught his breath. With the pistol, the pooling blood and Geraci’s lifeless body on the floor it seemed incontrovertible he had been murdered.
Shocked and sickened Gyles looked away at once. He didn’t dare look again, afraid he might be spotted, though he wanted to. Newspaper stories he had read about in Rome in which victims were nursed until an ambulance arrived came to mind, and he wondered whether there was even a chance Geraci might still be alive. And if he were how could he summon help in time when the nearest telephone would be in Elabored and the ambulance probably in Keren?
Gyles crouched beneath the window his mind in turmoil.
It was obvious now why the colonel had forbidden him entry. Gyles, frightened for his life, and recognizing how dangerous he could be, knew he had to leave the property at once. At the same time he couldn’t help wondering whether it would be him the colonel would be coming for next.
Stunned, Gyles drove back to Asmara. He found himself checking his rearview mirror obsessively imagining the Topolino in hot pursuit with the dangerous colonel at the wheel. He drove as fast as he dared unable to manage to wipe from his mind the image of the murdered Geraci lying dead on his back. How, he wondered, could he ever tie the colonel to the dead tomato farmer? In his mind there seemed little doubt the colonel had executed Geraci but he suspected that to the police and the lawyers it would be a circumstantial crime. If ever questioned he could only testify he had not seen the colonel actually shoot. In the end, why, was the paramount question he couldn’t answer and the more troubling one. Recalling the Rome telephone conversation it now was clear why Geraci had asked Edmund for a pistol. The farmer feared for his life. And what had become of Geraci’s brother, a man he had never met? Was he dead, too, sprawled on the ground somewhere out in the fields shot while tending his tomatoes?
At 6:30 pm the telephone rang in the Caparrotti household. Giannina was fixing dinner, Maria Theresa with a towel in her hand was overseeing the boys washing up at the kitchen sink and Mario lingering outside as usual. Giannina stopped what she was doing, put down the wooden spoon, wiped her fingers on her apron, and walked over to pick up the phone. “Pronto.”
“Let me speak to Mario,” said a demanding voice.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“A friend. Put him on. It’s important.”
“Wait a minute,” she sighed. “He’s outside. I’ll have to go get him.” She was in the middle of preparing the pasta and the boiling water had to be timed though she had prepared it so many times she knew without paying attention when it would be ready. Cross at the interruption, she placed the receiver down, went to the front door, opened it and called out to Mario. “The phone for you,” she yelled.
Mario looked up. “For me?”
“That’s what I said,” she replied impatiently. “For you.”
“Okay, I’m coming.”
“Don’t be long,” she said sharply when he was within earshot. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Mario ignored her crossing through the dining room where his mother was installing his two sons at the table. “Mario here,” he said into the mouthpiece when he had picked up the receiver in the living room.
“I need your help, right away,” growled Colonel Ferrazza. “I’m in Elabored, do you know it?”
Mario recognized the voice at once. “Over there on the road to Keren?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“Exactly. When can you be here?”
“I don’t know. I want to eat dinner first...What do you want?”
“I need your help with something, Mario,” he said. He wasn’t barking demands or giving his opinion in the way he usually would when speaking to him but his tone had softened. “Right now. Important, you understand? You can eat here, there’s a kitchen.”
“What kind of help, Colonel?” said Mario warming to the colonel’s puzzling request while watching Giannina enter the dining room carrying a bowl of steaming pasta.
She cast him a disapproving look.
“I’ll tell you when you get here. Now get in your car,” he said as if that alone would suffice to move Mario to comply. “We’re wasting time. It’s important.”
“You want me to drive all that way because you need help?” said Mario trying to understand. “You won’t even tell me why.” He watched his mother turn in her chair and make a hand signal urging him to hang up the phone and come to the table. It was the same signal she would make to his father.
“I’ll pay you, damn it. Does that interest you?”
“Pay me? Colonel you’ve promised me money before but I’ve never seen any liras. How much?”
“500 lira,” said the colonel gambling it would be a small fortune for a man of Mario’s limited resources.
Mario thought it through for a second. 500 liras was about three weeks salary and well worth the effort, whatever the colonel wanted. He’d skip dinner. “Okay, I’ll come help you.”
“Good. Leave now, right away, you understand? You should be here in an hour. Listen carefully, I’ll give you directions.”
Mario listened while glancing at his watch. When the colonel was through he said, “Maybe closer to eight.”
“You’re a race car driver, aren’t you? Then don’t waste time.” And the line went dead.
Mario hung up the phone and approached the table. He looked down at his boys, at his wife and at his mother and would have like to join them. “I’m not staying for dinner. I have business,” he told them.
“Business?” said his mother surprised turning to look up at him. “It’s the dinner hour, Mario—with your family. Can’t this wait?”
Giannina looked at her mother-in-law, shrugged with great emotion, and helped herself to pasta. “Don’t bother,” she muttered. “He doesn’t care anymore.”
They heard the front door slam and soon the roar of the engine and listened to it fade as Mario drove away.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with him,” grumbled Maria Theresa.