Holly said.
“Not at all – it’s good to see you. And, if I may say so, looking rather better than on the last occasion we met.” Ian Gilroy’s piercing blue eyes scrutinised her carefully. “Are you quite sure you’re up to returning to duty?”
Ian Gilroy was seventy-two and long retired from his job as chief of the CIA’s Venice Section. He kept his mind agile, as he put it, by teaching classes on military history at Camp Ederle, the US base near Vicenza where Holly was stationed. But the main reason he’d become her mentor and confidant was because he’d been a friend of her father’s. One of her earliest memories was of a barbecue at Camp Darby, when she was eight or nine years old. She’d stood on Gilroy’s feet, one foot on each shoe, and he’d marched her round the party like she was a general. All the officers had to salute her in turn, while she barked nonsensical orders that they’d pretended to carry out.
“You must think I’m stupid,” she said, shaking her head. “Me an intelligence analyst, and I never realised my dad was part of that world himself.”
They were sitting outside a café in the centre of Vicenza, in the cool shade afforded by Palladio’s grand basilica. Gilroy stretched his legs out and looked at her thoughtfully.
“I never think you’re stupid, Holly. Quite the reverse. It takes a special kind of detachment to question the assumptions we grew up with, and your father was too conscientious to tell his family the details of what he did. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve discovered?”
She told him about the memorandum, and the realisation that someone might have tried to kill her father because of it. Gilroy heard her out, nodding occasionally.
“And the document itself?” he said when she’d finished. “Where is it now?”
She indicated the backpack at her feet. “In there.”
“May I see it?”
She took it out and handed it to him. For a while he was silent as he read, occasionally flicking back to a previous page to check something. When he was done he placed it on the table and looked at her.
“You’ve seen it before,” she said.
He nodded. “You father gave it to me soon after he wrote it.”
“I thought it must be you. But you never mentioned it.”
“I had no idea it might be significant.” He frowned. “Though actually I did bring it up with you once. I tried to be oblique – I wasn’t sure how much you knew of his professional role, and I didn’t feel it was my place to reveal it if he’d chosen not to.”
It was true, she realised. Almost the first time they’d met, Gilroy had told her that her father had raised concerns with him about an aspect of Operation Gladio. But she’d never put two and two together and worked out that her father was part of the same shadowy world as him.
As if reading her mind, he said, “NATO, Military Intelligence, CIA – during the Cold War, we were all part of the same chess game. But that didn’t stop NATO from running its own, sometimes ill-advised, sideshows.”
“Like Gladio.”
“Like Operation Gladio,” he agreed. “As you know, that was an operation its creators in NATO were careful to keep well away from the real spies. And what a mess it turned out to be.”
She indicated the report. “What did you do with this?”
“I passed it up the line to my superiors.” He shrugged ruefully. “What else could I do? Camp Darby was outside my remit, and as your father says, everyone was in a panic after Gladio was exposed. NATO went into damage-limitation mode. That some of the gladiators felt betrayed would hardly have been a surprise, let alone a priority.”
“Do you think it could be true, what he wrote – that they were being encouraged to regroup by people within the intelligence agencies? Maybe even organised by them?”
He made a very Italian gesture, a back-and-forth wobble of the hand, to indicate the impossibility of knowing such a thing for certain. It was a reminder
“Not at all – it’s good to see you. And, if I may say so, looking rather better than on the last occasion we met.” Ian Gilroy’s piercing blue eyes scrutinised her carefully. “Are you quite sure you’re up to returning to duty?”
Ian Gilroy was seventy-two and long retired from his job as chief of the CIA’s Venice Section. He kept his mind agile, as he put it, by teaching classes on military history at Camp Ederle, the US base near Vicenza where Holly was stationed. But the main reason he’d become her mentor and confidant was because he’d been a friend of her father’s. One of her earliest memories was of a barbecue at Camp Darby, when she was eight or nine years old. She’d stood on Gilroy’s feet, one foot on each shoe, and he’d marched her round the party like she was a general. All the officers had to salute her in turn, while she barked nonsensical orders that they’d pretended to carry out.
“You must think I’m stupid,” she said, shaking her head. “Me an intelligence analyst, and I never realised my dad was part of that world himself.”
They were sitting outside a café in the centre of Vicenza, in the cool shade afforded by Palladio’s grand basilica. Gilroy stretched his legs out and looked at her thoughtfully.
“I never think you’re stupid, Holly. Quite the reverse. It takes a special kind of detachment to question the assumptions we grew up with, and your father was too conscientious to tell his family the details of what he did. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve discovered?”
She told him about the memorandum, and the realisation that someone might have tried to kill her father because of it. Gilroy heard her out, nodding occasionally.
“And the document itself?” he said when she’d finished. “Where is it now?”
She indicated the backpack at her feet. “In there.”
“May I see it?”
She took it out and handed it to him. For a while he was silent as he read, occasionally flicking back to a previous page to check something. When he was done he placed it on the table and looked at her.
“You’ve seen it before,” she said.
He nodded. “You father gave it to me soon after he wrote it.”
“I thought it must be you. But you never mentioned it.”
“I had no idea it might be significant.” He frowned. “Though actually I did bring it up with you once. I tried to be oblique – I wasn’t sure how much you knew of his professional role, and I didn’t feel it was my place to reveal it if he’d chosen not to.”
It was true, she realised. Almost the first time they’d met, Gilroy had told her that her father had raised concerns with him about an aspect of Operation Gladio. But she’d never put two and two together and worked out that her father was part of the same shadowy world as him.
As if reading her mind, he said, “NATO, Military Intelligence, CIA – during the Cold War, we were all part of the same chess game. But that didn’t stop NATO from running its own, sometimes ill-advised, sideshows.”
“Like Gladio.”
“Like Operation Gladio,” he agreed. “As you know, that was an operation its creators in NATO were careful to keep well away from the real spies. And what a mess it turned out to be.”
She indicated the report. “What did you do with this?”
“I passed it up the line to my superiors.” He shrugged ruefully. “What else could I do? Camp Darby was outside my remit, and as your father says, everyone was in a panic after Gladio was exposed. NATO went into damage-limitation mode. That some of the gladiators felt betrayed would hardly have been a surprise, let alone a priority.”
“Do you think it could be true, what he wrote – that they were being encouraged to regroup by people within the intelligence agencies? Maybe even organised by them?”
He made a very Italian gesture, a back-and-forth wobble of the hand, to indicate the impossibility of knowing such a thing for certain. It was a reminder
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