“I don’t like stirring things up while you’re out in the field. It’s bad tradecraft.”
“It’s the surest way to get a response,” she pointed out.
“Hmm.” He thought. “Are there any duplicates of this?” He nodded at the report.
“I made a paper copy at the airport, just before I flew back. And I emailed one to myself as well.”
“Good,” he said, although it seemed to Holly that he said it almost with a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do. Be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course.” She stood up. “I’d better go.”
After she had left him, Ian Gilroy sat for a long time, thinking. He reread the memorandum one more time, although he was already familiar with its contents, and had been ever since he received the original, many years before. He had never imagined that it would come back to trouble him after so long.
Reaching for his cell phone, he dialled a number. It was one he’d committed to memory long ago. For reasons of security, though, he had never stored it as a contact.
“I need something done,” he said when it was answered. “To be carried out immediately.”
He spoke for just under a minute. The call over, he removed the SIM card from the back of his phone and snapped it in two. Then he beckoned to the waiter for another coffee.
16
T HE EELS WERE in Kat’s sink now, waiting to be cooked. She got hold of the first one using the same method Tignelli’s workman had, wrapping her hand in a carrier bag to get a firm grip just below the head. Even so, it writhed vigorously around her fist as she carried it over to the counter, head and tail thrashing in opposite directions.
She’d already laid out a sharp knife, a chopping board and a cleaver. In one decisive movement she stabbed it through the top of the head, pinning it to the board. Then it was a simple matter to lop it off just above the gills with the cleaver. The eel’s long tail wriggled away across the counter, scattering blood. She dropped it into a bowl of water and vinegar, then repeated the process with the other one before cleaning up.
Skinning them was equally straightforward, thanks to a trick she’d learnt from her grandmother. Looping a piece of string behind the gills, she tied both bodies to a doorknob, then got hold of the skin at the severed end and pulled, peeling it away from the flesh like a stocking. A real traditionalist would have told her not to bother – in days gone by, eel cooked su l’ara wouldn’t even be washed, since fresh water would have been too precious a commodity for the glassblowers of Murano, in whose furnaces the dish originated, to waste on anything except drinking. Kat didn’t think of herself as a traditionalist, but she did use the customary five handfuls of bay leaves to line the bottom of the pot. The eels would roast quickly in their own juices, the bay leaves both flavouring them and protecting them from the heat.
She opened a bottle of white wine, a Ribolla Gialla from the mountains to the north: its sharp acidity would cut through the richness of the meat. Then she sent a text.
You’ve got twenty minutes. If you’re late, I’ll do to you what I just did to the eels.
She knew, though, that Flavio would never be so rude as to show up late for food. Sure enough, almost immediately the answer came back.
Better let me in then.
Crossing to the window, she saw a car pull up outside. Flavio climbed out of the back and bent down to say something to the man at the wheel. It would only be going around the corner, she knew: the bodyguards were never more than a short sprint away.
The water for the pasta was already boiling, while in another pan she’d prepared a simple sauce of anchovies, chopped parsley and onions softened in butter. She threw a couple of handfuls of buckwheat bigoli into the boiling water, and opened the door just before he knocked on it.
It was good to be able to kiss him properly, so unlike their snatched moments in the Palace of Justice. Good, too,
“It’s the surest way to get a response,” she pointed out.
“Hmm.” He thought. “Are there any duplicates of this?” He nodded at the report.
“I made a paper copy at the airport, just before I flew back. And I emailed one to myself as well.”
“Good,” he said, although it seemed to Holly that he said it almost with a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do. Be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course.” She stood up. “I’d better go.”
After she had left him, Ian Gilroy sat for a long time, thinking. He reread the memorandum one more time, although he was already familiar with its contents, and had been ever since he received the original, many years before. He had never imagined that it would come back to trouble him after so long.
Reaching for his cell phone, he dialled a number. It was one he’d committed to memory long ago. For reasons of security, though, he had never stored it as a contact.
“I need something done,” he said when it was answered. “To be carried out immediately.”
He spoke for just under a minute. The call over, he removed the SIM card from the back of his phone and snapped it in two. Then he beckoned to the waiter for another coffee.
16
T HE EELS WERE in Kat’s sink now, waiting to be cooked. She got hold of the first one using the same method Tignelli’s workman had, wrapping her hand in a carrier bag to get a firm grip just below the head. Even so, it writhed vigorously around her fist as she carried it over to the counter, head and tail thrashing in opposite directions.
She’d already laid out a sharp knife, a chopping board and a cleaver. In one decisive movement she stabbed it through the top of the head, pinning it to the board. Then it was a simple matter to lop it off just above the gills with the cleaver. The eel’s long tail wriggled away across the counter, scattering blood. She dropped it into a bowl of water and vinegar, then repeated the process with the other one before cleaning up.
Skinning them was equally straightforward, thanks to a trick she’d learnt from her grandmother. Looping a piece of string behind the gills, she tied both bodies to a doorknob, then got hold of the skin at the severed end and pulled, peeling it away from the flesh like a stocking. A real traditionalist would have told her not to bother – in days gone by, eel cooked su l’ara wouldn’t even be washed, since fresh water would have been too precious a commodity for the glassblowers of Murano, in whose furnaces the dish originated, to waste on anything except drinking. Kat didn’t think of herself as a traditionalist, but she did use the customary five handfuls of bay leaves to line the bottom of the pot. The eels would roast quickly in their own juices, the bay leaves both flavouring them and protecting them from the heat.
She opened a bottle of white wine, a Ribolla Gialla from the mountains to the north: its sharp acidity would cut through the richness of the meat. Then she sent a text.
You’ve got twenty minutes. If you’re late, I’ll do to you what I just did to the eels.
She knew, though, that Flavio would never be so rude as to show up late for food. Sure enough, almost immediately the answer came back.
Better let me in then.
Crossing to the window, she saw a car pull up outside. Flavio climbed out of the back and bent down to say something to the man at the wheel. It would only be going around the corner, she knew: the bodyguards were never more than a short sprint away.
The water for the pasta was already boiling, while in another pan she’d prepared a simple sauce of anchovies, chopped parsley and onions softened in butter. She threw a couple of handfuls of buckwheat bigoli into the boiling water, and opened the door just before he knocked on it.
It was good to be able to kiss him properly, so unlike their snatched moments in the Palace of Justice. Good, too,
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