Kyle and Quint got into Genoa’s surprisingly ramshackle Christopher Columbus airport on Thursday eve-fling; their minder from British Intelligence (whom they hadn’t met and probably wouldn’t) was there twelve hours earlier. They’d made no reservations but had no problems getting adjoining rooms at the Hotel Genovese, where they freshened up and had a meal before retiring to the bar. The bar was quiet, almost subdued, where half-a-dozen Italians, two German businessmen, and an American tourist and his wife sat at small tables or at the bar with their drinks. One of the Italians who sat apart, on his own, wasn’t Italian at all; he was Russian, KGB, but Kyle and Quint had no way of knowing that. He had no ESP talent or Quint would have spotted him at once. They didn’t spot him taking photographs of them with a tiny camera, either. But the Russian had not gone entirely undetected. Earlier he’d been seen entering the hotel and booking a room.
Kyle and Quint were in a corner of the bar, on their third Vecchia Romagnas, and talking in lowered tones about their business with Krakovitch tomorrow, when the bar telephone tinkled. ‘For me!’ Kyle said at once, starting upright on his barstool. His talent always had that effect on him: it startled him like a mild electric shock.
The bartender answered the phone, looked up. ‘Signor — ‘he began.
‘Kyle?’ said Kyle, holding out his hand.
The bartender smiled, nodded, handed him the phone. ‘Kyle?’ he said again into the mouthpiece.
‘Brown here,’ said a soft voice. ‘Mr Kyle, try not to act surprised or anything, and don’t look up or go all furtive. One of the people in the bar with you is a Russian. I won’t describe him because then you’d act differently and he’d notice it. But I’ve been on to London and put him through our computer. He’s dressed Eyetie but he’s definitely KGB, name of Theo Dolgikh. He’s a top field agent for Andropov. Just thought you’d like to know. There wasn’t supposed to be any of this stuff, was there?’
‘No,’ said Kyle, ‘there wasn’t.’
‘Tut-tut!’ said Brown. ‘I should be a bit sharp with your man when you meet him tomorrow, if I were you. It really isn’t good enough. And just for your peace of mind, if anything were to happen to you — which I consider unlikely — be sure Dolgikh’s a goner too, OK?’
‘That’s very reassuring,’ said Kyle grimly. He gave the phone back to the barman.
‘Problems?’ Quint raised an eyebrow.
‘Finish your drink and we’ll talk about it in our rooms,’ said Kyle ‘Just act naturally. I think we’re on Candid Camera.’ He forced a smile, swallowed his brandy at a gulp, stood up. Quint followed suit; they left the bar unhurriedly and went up to their rooms; in Kyle’s room they checked for electronic bugs. This was as much a job for their psychic sensitivity as for their five mundane senses, but the room was clean.
Kyle told Quint about the call in the bar. Quint was an extremely wiry man of about thirty-five, prematurely balding, soft-spoken but often aggressive, and very quick thinking. ‘Not a very auspicious start,’ he growled. ‘Still, I suppose we should have expected it. This is what your common-or-garden secret agent comes up against all the time, I’m told.’
‘Well, it’s not on!’ Kyle was angry. ‘This was supposed to be a meeting of minds, not muscle.’
‘Do you know which one of them it was?’ Quint was practical about it. ‘I think I can remember all of their faces. I’d know any one of them again if we should bump into him.’
‘Forget it,’ said Kyle. ‘Brown doesn’t want a confrontation. He’s geared to get nasty, though, if things go wrong for us.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure!’ said Quint.
‘My reaction exactly,’ Kyle agreed.
Then they checked Quint’s room for bugs and, finding nothing, called it a day.
Kyle took a shower, got into bed. It was uncomfortably warm so he pushed his blankets on to the floor. The air was humid, oppressive. It felt like rain, and if a storm blew up it would probably be a dandy. Kyle knew Genoa in the autumn, also knew that it has some of the worst storms imaginable.