The Memory Trap by Anthony Price

himself did now), in spite of …
    He took another sip. And then found, to his chagrin, that two English sips almost equalled one Italian bottiglia , effectively.
    But … actually, it was possible that Richardson had got it more than right, with any luck at all. Because, in any perfectly reasonable analysis of the events, it was like old Fred always said: that the elements of any situation were seldom neatly inter-locking, with everyone (on each side—or, often, on more than two sides) pursuing related objectives.
    He drained the last drops of birra , and added his glass to the detritus of the table’s previous occupants.
    If it was like that now— if … it was at least reasonably likely that whoever had been gunning for Audley and (apparently) Kulik in Berlin, might not know about Peter Richardson ’ s private problems (about which even the Italians themselves hadn ’ t known until very recently) in Italy. In which happy case Richardson ’ s present “ unavailability ” might have equally caught them — whoever? — by surprise … as it had also caught the British and Italians … and the Mafia too — ?
    But now he was making pictures. And even pictures of pictures, maybe?
    But now it was time to find out, anyway!
    It was like a labyrinth, just as Cuccaro had said—
    But a labyrinth on different levels (not like a two-dimensional garden maze of evergreen hedges, in the English style: it was a labyrinthine maze of ruins in brick and stone on different levels … brick and stone from which the painted wall-plaster had long fallen away, and the marble had long been plundered and crushed for the lime-kilns of the ignorant plunderers).
    Instinctively, he climbed up , away from the trees at the lower levels: he was here to be seen … either immediately, from some higher level, if Richardson was already here … or (which was much more likely) to be followed from behind, if Richardson had watched him pass from some safe vantage along the way, among the gardens and vineyards and walled houses.
    What was it that they shared, from the old days? Or … if they didn ’ t share it (as he increasingly suspected; because, if they ’ d shared it … then why had he no slightest clue to what it might be — ?) … no, if they didn ’ t share it … what had Fred Clinton given Peter Richardson to do, about which David Audley had had no inkling … but which was a good and sufficient reason for David Audley and the man Kulik to die, in Berlin — ?
    He reached the statue at last, coming out on the highest point—on to a wide stretch of gravel low-walled on its cliff-side and with white ornamental railings above the tiers of ruins on the island-side, with the whole of Capri beyond, and an ugly little chapel at his back. But it wasn’t a statue of the Emperor Tiberius at all, presiding over the tremendous wreck of his palace, as it ought to have been by right and by reason. He’d been quite wrong in his assumption—
    Wrong?
    Even as he frowned up at the statue he was aware that he wasn’t alone on the top of the Villa Jovis (and, if he’d thought more about it, he’d have placed Jupiter himself up there, if not Tiberius. But he would have been wrong there, too, wouldn’t he!)
    Wrong!
    So now there were two men away to his left, over by the railings, admiring their view of Capri from peak to peak.
    But … two men in suits? ( “ That won ’ t do,” Mitchell had said.)
    But, anyway, neither of them was Peter Richardson—
    He realized, as he stared at them, that one of them was returning his stare: a stocky, almost chunky, man. Whereas the other man was still admiring the view, quite unconcerned. But then he moved slightly, away from his chunky friend, no more than two or three steps, running his hand along the top rail lightly as he did so, yet still not turning full-face towards Audley.
    But those steps were enough, even without full-face. Even the steps weren’t necessary. What was necessary now was to decide what