Wu Ming Page 8

  A big bet, commissioner. Never seen so much money in all my born days!

  Chapter 12

  Palm Springs, California, 30 January, afternoon

  Seated on the Chippendale, facing Cary, was Sir Lewis Chester Kennington, a senior MI6 officer who had arrived from London a few days previously. Next to him was Henry Raymond, American director of the same organisation. Stiff, in their perfect grey suits. Combed wool, grey pinstripe, two buttons, waistcoat, probably Anderson and Sheppard, and their shirts had the unmistakable cut of Turnbull and Asser on Jermyn Street. Each of them shod in a pair of black Oxfords. But the ensemble was worn with an impersonality typical of the English, who are more concerned with perfect camouflage inside their office walls than they are with looking good.

  Sir Lewis, about six feet tall and about sixty years of age. White hair combed back, a neatly trimmed black moustache.

  Raymond was perhaps ten years younger, and three or four inches shorter. Soft red hair, parted on the right. They both had the affected accents of members of the upper classes, and very clear eyes, the kind that tend to look washed out and insincere in black and white.

  Cary had dark eyes that could ‘burn through the screen’ and communicate any emotion you liked.

  The FBI agent, fair-haired, medium build, a little over thirty, had introduced himself as ‘Bill Brown’ and remained standing beside the marble fireplace. Athletic-looking, unbuttoned blue jacket, magenta shirt, a tie with a skewed knot, sunglasses (frame too heavy for his features). He had said only a couple of words, but Cary had immediately recognised a Texan twang, like that of his friend Howard Hughes.

  Pouring a trickle of milk into his tea, Sir Lewis said, ‘Mr Leach, you must have been wondering what Her Majesty’s Government wants of you.’

  Cary, an American citizen since 1942, nodded and said nothing. Over the past few days he had been feeling too low to be curious. No one had called him ‘Mr Leach’ for over twenty years.

  Sir Lewis, choosing an adulatory register, referred to the ‘past services’ that he had rendered for His Majesty, as he was then, and the patriotism he had shown during the war, for the benefit of the Crown.

  ‘Your assistance has been extremely precious, Mr Leach. The gratitude of Her Majesty and all the rest of us goes far beyond the honour conferred upon you.’

  ‘. . . a few years too late,’ concluded Cary. He had received the King’s Medal only in 1946, officially for having given the strife-torn motherland his entire salary from The Philadelphia Story and Arsenic and Old Lace.

  Raymond was caught off guard. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Sir Lewis began: ‘Of course you understand that we were waiting for some pretext, a different reason for awarding you the King’s Medal without disclosing the role that you played, and the role played by other valuable informers.’

  ‘Gentlemen, it is not my intention to deliver pointless polemics, let us be clear about that. I was not annoyed at the time, let alone in the year of grace 1954, but my friend and collaborator Alexander Korda was made a baronet in 1941. Or am I mistaken?’

  Who was speaking, Archie or Cary? The spark of memory had relit the flame of his wounded pride, bringing with it a resentful curiosity. What did MI6 want from him? If they were there, in his house, in his drawing room, asking him a favour, well, they had a nerve!

  ‘Mr Leach, we hope that you do not doubt the deep gratitude –’

  This time Cary exploded. ‘Gentlemen, let’s forget about it. We can return to the issue in a moment: I already wanted to enlist in ’39, as David Niven did, but Lord Lothian told me I would be more useful in Hollywood, from where I would report on Nazi sympathisers in the cinematographic industry. Why not, there were Nazis all over the place, even my second wife used to socialise with them, and my Spanish teacher was an Axis spy, not to mention that awful Countess di Frasso. Have you any idea how many interminable parties with unpleasant people I had to endure between ’39 and ’43? I have done my part, even when that damned Hoover and the whole damned FBI were trying everything they could to embarrass me: what’s this Englishman doing on our territory? Couldn’t we dig out the Nazis all by ourselves? Then I point out to Sir William Stephenson that Errol Flynn is keeping company with German agents and, as a British subject, he is guilty of high treason. My God, did I point it out! And what does MI6 do? Nothing. And in fact, for the whole of the course of the war, Flynn is acting the hero on the screen, and I have to put up with the barbs of the London scribblers, calling me a coward because I didn’t join up like David Niven! Then, when the war was over, you give me that damned medal and I, who have among other things become an American citizen, am supposed to be on cloud nine, isn’t that right?’

  Who was speaking, Archie or Cary?

  ‘One second, please,’ Sir Lewis interrupted in the patient but irritating tone of a primary school teacher. ‘Let’s reflect for a moment about what it would have meant to accuse Mr Flynn of high treason or espionage: there would have been a long and tortuous trial, vulnerable to enemy disinformation, and who would have been in the dock? A man adored by women all over the world. We risked turning Flynn into a martyr.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Raymond went on. ‘If you might allow me to give one more . . . contemporary example, the same thing might happen with those suspected of “anti-American activities”. It’s terribly risky having all those trials to identify a handful of Bolsheviks. In Great Britain we prefer subtler, less noisy tactics, but the United States is still such a naive and superficial country –’ Then he turned towards Brown and added, ‘With the greatest respect, of course.’

  Brown remained impassive and gave no indication that he had understood a single word. Probably, Cary thought, he didn’t even know what a ‘Bolshevik’ was.

  ‘If, on the other hand, we had left Mr Flynn a free man, as we did,’ Sir Lewis continued, ‘his well-known impulsiveness would sooner or later have led to the discovery of other elements of the spy network, and in the event his reckless movements in Mexico turned out to be terribly revealing. As to your unpleasant experiences with British public opinion, Mr Leach, things could have been worse. It is our duty, should it become necessary for the security and prosperity of the Crown, to expose our real or suspected agents to public opinion as a diversionary tactic. Please remember that in order to protect the intelligence work of your friend Mr Coward, we circulated the rumour that MI6 had relieved him of his duties because of his lack of discretion. It was the only way to keep the Germans from trying to infiltrate.’

  ‘As to Flynn,’ Raymond continued, ‘there were other ways of getting rid of him, and that’s all I’m saying.’

  Sir Lewis turned to Raymond with ill-disguised annoyance. At almost the same moment, Raymond and Brown saw Cary Grant raise his left eyebrow in an expression of surprise already seen on the big screen. In the few moments of unease that followed, Cary thought quickly. How could I not have worked it out?

  In 1942, Flynn had been arrested on accusations of raping underage girls, with reference to four incidents that had taken place on his yacht, the Sirocco. The two accusers, known as Betty and Peggy, were no younger than twenty-three, they had been deflowered long before Flynn got there, and they were more than consenting, but during the trial the prosecution had had them dressed up as little girls, with tiny shorts and plaits in their hair . . . Flynn had been found not guilty, but the rapist label had stuck to him. That had been the start of his decline as an actor and a man, the alcoholism, the drugs, the self-destruction.

  An MI6 operation.

  Cary was disgusted: Subtler and less noisy tactics!

  ‘Gentlemen, I don’t know what you want of me, but I think this conversation has gone on too long, and –’

  ‘Mr Grant,’ Sir Lewis began, showing him the palms of his hands in a gesture of surrender, ‘yes you’re right, we’re about to get to the point.’

  At least they’d finally stopped calling him ‘Mr Leach’. They had worked out that there was little to be gained from mentioning loyalty to the Crown. ‘Mr Grant, the NATO governments need your help in a delicate matter of international importance. It may seem paradoxical, but we are approaching you as an actor and an . . . elegant man.’

  Raymond pursed his lips, trying to keep from smiling. Cary’s eyebrow arched again, and remained in that position for much of the next hour. Raymond’s face exploded into a joyful expression, as though his shares in the Union Pacific Railroad had just risen by twenty points.

  Chapter 13

  Between Naples and Caserta, 30 January

  The shining shoes sank into the mud and the smell of shit and stables rose up from below. Some makeshift fences planted in the slime in the midst of the dung-heaps, men wandering about among buffalo and cattle, about twenty cars parked not far away, and the buzzing of the flies often louder than the mooing of the cattle. The livestock market in Marcianise, near Caserta.

  Zollo eyed the moron’s convertible. Only a son of a bitch could come to a place like this in a luxury car. Zollo complimented himself for leaving his own in his garage at home. Trimane called his attention to a well-dressed man – hat, scarf, coat – in the middle of the crowd of yokels and livestock breeders. He couldn’t make out his face from where he was standing, but he was the one.

  They came down from the hill where they had been lying in wait, cursing the mud that stained the hem of their trousers. They reached the dirt path leading down to the village. A few hundred metres further, they found the Fiat 1900 borrowed for the occasion. They got in. Trimane lit a cigarette.

  He said, ‘So, you see this road?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I see it.’

  ‘In Italy the roads are not good. If there’s no mud, there’s dust, if there’s no dust there are holes, if there are no holes –’

  ‘There are always holes, Vic. E niente highways.’

  Zollo peered into the rear-view mirror to see if anyone was coming. He wanted to get things over with and head back to Naples. The silence of the countryside made him strangely agitated.

  ‘No good roads, no good cars. Just carts.’

  ‘Jesus! Tin cans on four wheels, they make more noise than a tank, more stench than a gas can, and in the summer you’d think you were in a goddamned oven.’

  The backwardness of Italy was another of Lucky Luciano’s favourite subjects. When he had been pardoned for unexplained meritorious wartime service, and sent across the ocean, Salvatore Lucania had expected something more from his country of origin. For Stefano Zollo, the effect had been no different. He had often heard it said that the Italians had brought organised crime to America, and yet even from that point of view the old country seemed rather antiquated. Would anyone in New York have been dumb enough to slap Don Luciano? One such person, in America, had already ended up in the bay of the Hudson River, with a pair of snugly fitting concrete shoes. A clean and secure system for the concealment of corpses, which had won Zollo the nickname of ‘Steve Cement’.

  The only good things in Italy were the climate and the women. But even that was only partly true, as was demonstrated by the freezing January they had just endured. The women were, indeed, very beautiful, but, as Don Luciano said, they were stay-at-homes, and their clothes were designed for concealment rather than display.

  ‘What do you think, Vic, Marilyn or the Italian actresses?’

  ‘Well I’ll say this, my friend, the Italian girls certainly have tits! When I got here, there were posters showing a girl all covered with mud, a peasant, wearing short short pants and a tight sweater. I found out her name, too . . . Mango, Mogano, can’t remember.’

  Behind him there was the sound of an approaching car. Victor checked the mirror and nodded. The moron’s convertible. Steve got out and grabbed a big wrench from under the bonnet, which was open to look as though they had broken down. He wrapped it up in a copy of Il Mattino and went to stand by the edge of the road. The moron and his friend were laughing their heads off. They had clearly done some good business.

  Zollo took a step forwards.

  He stopped with one hand raised, the newspaper gripped in the other, lined up along his body.

  The moron’s car slowed down and stopped abruptly.

  Zollo approached the passenger.

  Zollo said, ‘Could I have a word?’

  The man looked at him quizzically.

  The wrench came down twice on his head, hard. Despite the hat and the paper, Zollo heard the sound of the skull cracking. The man’s friend heard it too, and as soon as he gave a sign of wanting to react, he saw Trimane, standing beside the Fiat 1900, aiming a gun at him.

  ‘If you know anyone else who’s planning on slapping anyone, tell them what happened to your pal.’

  Zollo took a step backwards and the car, skidding in the mud, set off again.

  Trimane got moving and Zollo joined him.

  ‘Let’s stop off at my house, Vic. I’ve got to change these filthy bloody shoes.’

  Chapter 14

  Palm Springs, California, 30 January, afternoon

  Bill Brown cleared his throat. It was only at that moment that Cary noticed his moccasins, brown penny loafers that clashed with everything else he was wearing. To tell the truth, the whole outfit was a disaster: his trousers and black socks were too short, and revealed the hair of his legs. Christ almighty, was it really possible that Uncle Sam was sending his men about the place dressed like that? Didn’t the FBI agents all wear black suits, white shirts and black ties? Perhaps that Saturday was Brown’s day off and they’d called him in at the last minute. But not even during one’s leisure hours should anyone be guilty of such a lack of taste.

  The American took off his dark glasses, tried to assume a solemn expression and said, ‘Mr Grant, before my colleagues . . .’ Cary noticed horror and a sense of superiority in the eyes of the two Englishmen. ‘Before my colleagues continue, it is my duty to ask you a few questions in the name of the United States Government. First of all, what do you think of the country that has granted you citizenship? Do you consider yourself a good American?’

  ‘Do you?’ Cary fired back.

  ‘I would like you to answer my question, Mr Grant,’ Brown repeated.

  Sir Lewis and Raymond stared at Cary. Their faces showed irritation with the presence of the American and an urgent need to explain the reason for their visit. With vague nods, they made it clear that they had done their best to spare him the third degree, but they were guests of the local government and had to let Brown get on with his job.

  Cary tried to avoid vulgar expressions. ‘What is this, another of those investigations you’re so fond of? You’re expecting me to plead the Fifth Amendment, in my own home, to allow you to conclude that I have something to hide, that I’m not “anti-communist”?’ The two Englishmen could almost see smoke issuing from the actor’s ears. ‘Brown, just as I let you in, I can also throw you out. You’re already standing up, you just have to put one foot in front of the other until you reach that damned door.’

  ‘Mr Grant, I’m asking you this because it is a well-known fact that your friends include Clifford Odets, a writer with socialist sympathies, who financed the Spanish communists during the civil war –’

  ‘Financed the Republicans, agent Brown. They weren’t all communists. There were fascists on the other side, did no one tell you?’

  ‘Mr Grant,’ Brown went on, ‘in an FBI report from 1944 you figure on a list of people linked in some way to communists.’

  ‘Mr Brown,’ Raymond intervened, ‘we consider it a matter of fact that, while it may have been expressed in more colourful terms, Mr Hoover did not look kindly upon Mr Grant’s activities as a representative of the British Crown. It is the firm conviction of MI6 that the Federal Bureau of Investigations deliberately exaggerated –’

  ‘Raymond,’ Brown exploded, ‘I don’t like being interrupted, ok? I didn’t interrupt your solemn blather, so just shut your mouth and let me finish! Your Mr Grant has been directly involved in the production of left-wing films, and last year he even went so far as to defend Charlie Chaplin!’

  Cary rose from his armchair and took a few steps towards the federal agent.

  ‘Mr Brown, this is official. I’m throwing you out of my house. If you want me to add a kick in the pants, I will be delighted to oblige, and given that you’ve said you’re –’

  ‘Gentlemen, please!’ said Sir Lewis, while the two Englishmen got to their feet to separate the combatants.

  ‘So you’re going to kick my ass, are you? You just try it!’ roared Brown.

  ‘Thanks for the permission, but I think I’d rather knock a couple of teeth down your throat,’ replied Cary.

  ‘Gentlemen, some civil behaviour, for heaven’s sake! We are here to discuss a mission . . .’

  The two Englishmen finally managed to re-establish a semblance of calm.

  Sir Lewis straightened his jacket, before solemnly announcing, ‘Mr Brown, Mr Grant’s assistance has been formally requested by the British government. MI6 has incontrovertible proof of Mr Grant’s democratic loyalty, and is willing to convey the relevant documentation to your agency so that Mr Grant need not be subjected to any awkward investigations, which would, during this phase, interfere with the interests of the United Kingdom and also of your government, which I shall inform about the present incident. I assume personal responsibility for the decision to remove you from this house, and I wish that to be specifically mentioned in your report. If Mr Hoover is not satisfied by such guarantees, he can always send an official protest to London.’