Chapter Five: All Roads

'Budapest.'

There was an alarming crackle; Harry held the phone away from his ear. 'Mia?'

'I'm still here. Did you say Budapest?'

'Yes.'

'Excellent. I'm looking forward to the ghoulash and Gypsy violins already.'

He sighed. 'This isn't a holiday tour, Mia.'

'No kidding. You-'

Another crackle.

'What was that?'

'Nothing.' It sounded like she was standing in the middle of a football stadium. 'Look, I'll have to put Budapest on hold for a few days; there's something else I have to do first, but I will put a few feelers out. I've got some friends in Hungary.'

'I had a feeling you might.'

Her laughter had always been a pleasantly husky sound. 'Well, I don't know anyone who isn't worth knowing. I've got to go.'

'You sound very tinny – where are you?'

'Probably best you don't know that right now.'

'Mia-'

'I'll be in touch.'

'Mia!'

The line was dead. Harry briefly considered getting her back on the line. Not that she would answer it now if he did call her. Should have had the bloody woman fitted with a homing device, he thought. But this was how these things worked: any operation was always handled strictly on a need to know basis. It was how he handled things himself. That did not make it any easier – he just wanted to know.

He looked at his watch. A few more minutes and he would be due in the briefing room. A few more minutes. The city was covered in a low mist, the air smelt of rain. But it was fresh, at least.

And for those few minutes more he imagined boulevards and pavement cafes, parks and piazzas, all haunted by those grey eyes.

Harry blew out a breath, shoulders squaring and went back down to the Grid.

ooOoo

Mia had never quite taken to Vienna. There was nothing wrong with the city in itself, but she couldn't find much right in it either. Trams and coffee shops filled with cakes of tooth-aching richness, a place that managed to be austere and ornate at the same time. On her first visit, many years before, she had been ridiculously disappointed to find that the Prater Riesenrad now stood in the middle of a modern fair ground. The view from the top revealed any number of small dots below, most of them now riding bumper cars. The city of Harry Lime had been sanitised beyond recognition – she still felt more affinity with those who fled to the sewers.

She had spent much of her life in them.

With such cheerful metaphors in her head, Mia was relieved to head south. It brought a lift to her disposition, even if the weather was almost as bad. A few degrees warmer, but there had been heavy rains. The traffic crawled along the motorways, trucks sending up great sprays of filthy water. The windscreen of her car soon had a heavy frame of brown surrounding the clear patch left by the wipers. The car had been left for her in the airport parking lot and she made a mental note to thank Marcello for the loan. He, however, might not thank her for the condition it was in by the time she was through with it. Budapest would have been an easier next stop geographically. She had made some phone-calls and tried to calculate how long it would take to turn up something on a ten-year-old murder that no-one was supposed to know about.

She prided herself on the thought that if she couldn't find something, nobody could. But if she couldn't... She'd worry about Budapest later.

Her route into the city eventually led her to the river. The current was strong after the rains, the trees lining the banks almost bare. She had seen it on better days, but it was still a beautiful place. Mia turned away from the river, parking in a busy street in the banking district; it was easier to proceed on foot. Through the massive arch that had once been the main gateway to the imperial city, she crossed the Piazza del Poppolo and passed between the twin churches that mark the mouth of the Via del Corso. All roads lead to Rome, she thought wryly; and wondered if the spectres of the ancient Caesars still derived any satisfaction from that adage.

She had almost forgotten how long the street was – and how treacherous. The narrow pavements were insufficient for the sheer volume of people traversing them. And each time she stepped off to avoid the path of an ambling sightseer or matronly signora, she almost collided with a car or fleet of Vespas. She barely paused as she passed the seemingly unending collection of shoe shops, churches, cafes and boutiques. The pavements widened slightly. She had reached the more chichi end and turned off into one of the winding side streets. Some of them were barely more than passageways, others coming to alarming dead-ends. She had to go back and retrace her steps more than once before she found the right place. A tall building with faded green shutters that took up two sides of a quiet square with a fountain.

The brass plaque by the door, however, gleamed. Museo Vincenzo di Gianotti. She had the staff members memorised: the director, Conte Salvatore di Gianotti; Anton Schliemann; Lisa Denning; Andreas Augello and Madeleine Ellis.

It was an old-fashioned bell-pull and she could hear its raucous jangling as she waited. The rain was starting again: a thin, stinging drizzle against the back of her neck. The door opened and a tall young man with a head of closely cropped blonde curls greeted her. The German, Schliemann. Handsome, Mia thought. And she smiled and followed him inside.

ooOoo

When the phone started to ring he ignored it at first. It vibrated, rattling angrily against the desk as though in protest. Silence. Then it started again. Mia had been silent for almost forty-eight hours; she wouldn't call him on that number. And there was no-one else he particularly wanted to hear from. Harry blew out a breath and picked it up, glancing at the tiny illuminated screen. And it took a moment to realise that the number displayed was his own. His own house.

'Livia?'

'Harry.' She was breathless. Her voice was hoarse with the obvious effort at self-control. 'Harry, you have to come home. I-I...' Rising on a note of hysteria.

'Are you all right?'

'I... Yes, I am. I am. But- I'm sorry. You have to come home. Please.'

He could have a team there within minutes. It was his first instinct.

But she hadn't used the code.

It had been her idea, not his. More of a joke – but she had been so eager, black eyes shining. If something ever happened, Harry, and I was made to ring you, should we have a code? So you'd know... And he had humoured her. And at some point it had become something that they had both, in all seriousness, agreed upon.

But she hadn't said it.

The agony of indecision lasted only a few seconds. Harry grabbed his coat and headed for the pods. Halfway across the floor he met Zaf's eyes and almost called to him-

And kept walking.

His drive across the city was erratic at best; he had probably committed about twenty traffic violations before he reached his house. He slowed at the top of his road, cutting the engine and easing the car to a stop against the pavement. It was quiet, not many people around at this time of day – and no cars that he didn't recognise. When he reached his front door he slid the key into the lock as quietly as he was able. It turned noiselessly and he pushed the door open.

ooOoo

'They had a gun. And they held it to my head. I heard it click.'

He had found Livia sitting on the bottom stair, George's head in her lap. She stroked his head convulsively and the cats were chasing each other around the living room, fur bristling. She had stared at him when he entered as though for those few seconds she didn't recognise him and Harry had felt the numbness of relief when he saw her unscathed.

Relatively unscathed. Her dark eyes were huge and fearful.

He got her to the kitchen and made coffee. And then gave her a brandy and her hands shook as they closed around the glass.

'Tell me what happened. From the beginning.' He sat opposite her, adopted a fatherly tone. It was something Catherine had told him he was quite good at when he put his mind to it. And they had both laughed.

The counter was littered with the ingredients of whatever culinary masterpiece she had decided to produce for that night. There was a strong smell of rosemary and fennel seed.

'The doorbell rang. And I looked through the peephole and there was just the one bloke standing there. Delivery, he said – and he was holding something in his hand.'

'Did you see a car? A van?'

'No. But people park further up, don't they? You can't always read the numbers from the road; you've got to walk it.' She was gripping the mug now, knuckles white under the pressure. 'Anyway, I started to open the door and he- He pushed it. Really hard. And I fell-'

'Did he hurt you?' He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. 'Livia.'

She shrugged slightly – a half-movement. Her eyes were fixed on the middle of the table, shoulders hunched. Turning inward on herself. The physical language of the victim. He hated them for it. That unknown them. Almost unknown. And he hated himself for it. 'No, he didn't. He just- And then there were two of them. I don't know where the other one had been; must've been hidden by the side of the door when I looked out. Those peepholes are useless, really.'

George had curled up at their feet, chin flat against the floor, occasionally licking his nose nervously.

'And then the first guy grabs me by the hair and pulls me up and shoves this big fuck-off gun in my face and-and-'

He reached across and took hold of her hands; she gripped his and the tendons in her neck stood out as she swallowed the fear and anger that were choking her words. 'I thought he was going to kill me.' Slow tears ran down her cheeks. 'He said that you would know who they were and why they had come and what would happen. '

'Did they say anything else?'

Livia shook her head. 'No. Mr Big with the gun did all the talking and the other one just stood there, leering at me. And then I heard this sound when he took off the-the, uh-' one hand waved uselessly in the air.

'The safety catch.'

'Yeah.' There was another pause while she rested her head in her hands. 'I didn't even see them leave, I had my eyes closed. I'd left George in the garden and he was going crazy. And then the stupid damn cats started fighting. And-'

And her face crumpled, her body shook and Harry moved to her, holding her awkwardly as he crouched next to her. The dog whined, pattering restlessly up and down the floor.

Livia pulled away slightly, searching her pockets and then wiping her face with her hands. Harry located a box of tissues, placed them in front of her. Her face disappeared into sheets of white and then emerged, eyes reddened and smeared with black. 'Are you in trouble, Harry?'

'Looks like it. I'm sorry, Livia. I didn't think that you'd be dragged into this.'

She sniffed, scrubbed at her eyes and looked achingly young. 'You've got a really crappy job, y'know that?'

Harry smiled at her slightly and hers was watery and threatening to break again. 'I know. Look, Livia. It's best that you go home and stay there. You won't see them again; no-one will hurt you, I promise. But it's best if you stay away from here.'

She nodded; her lips began to quiver. Harry drew her head to rest against his shoulder and he felt her body shaking. Heat came off her like a fever and he smoothed damp hair away from her face. 'I promise, Livia.'

For the second time he found himself in a prayer and it was a prayer that these were promises he would be able to keep.

TBC