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When the waiter had gone, Kristatos sat and chewed silently on a wooden toothpick. His face gradually became dark and glum as if bad weather had come to his mind. The black, hard eyes that glanced restlessly at everything in the restaurant except Bond, glittered. Bond guessed that Kristatos was wondering whether or not to betray somebody. Bond said encouragingly: ‘In certain circumstances, there might be more.’
Kristatos seemed to make up his mind. He said: ‘So?’ He pushed back his chair and got up. ‘Forgive me. I must visit the toiletta.’ He turned and walked swiftly towards the back of the restaurant.
Bond was suddenly hungry and thirsty. He poured out a large glass of Chianti and swallowed half of it. He broke a roll and began eating, smothering each mouthful with deep yellow butter. He wondered why rolls and butter are delicious only in France and Italy. There was nothing else on his mind. It was just a question of waiting. He had confidence in Kristatos. He was a big, solid man who was trusted by the Americans. He was probably making some telephone call that would be decisive. Bond felt in good spirits. He watched the passers-by through the plate-glass window. A man selling one of the Party papers went by on a bicycle. Flying from the basket in front of the handle-bars was a pe
The man’s teeth cut through the rope. He wiped his mouth on a napkin already streaked with tomato sauce, belched sonorously and said: ‘Santos is never wrong about these things. He has a nose for spies. That is why I chose him as the permanent tail for that bastard Kristatos. And who else but a spy would think of spending an evening with the pig? But we will make sure.’ The man took out of his pocket one of those cheap tin snappers that are sometimes given out, with paper hats and whistles, on carnival nights. It gave one sharp click. The maî-tre d’hôtel, on the far side of the room, stopped whatever he was doing and hurried over.
‘Si, padrone.’
The man beckoned. The maître d’hôtel leant over and received the whispered instructions. He nodded briefly, walked over to a door near the kitchens marked UFFICIO, and went in and closed the door behind him.
Phase by phase, in a series of minute moves, an exercise that had long been perfected was then smoothly put into effect. The man near the caisse munched his spaghetti and critically observed each step in the operation as if it had been a fast game of chess.
The maître d’hôtel came out of the door marked UFFICIO, hurried across the restaurant and said loudly to his No. 2: ‘An extra table for four. Immediately.’ The No. 2 gave him a direct look and nodded. He followed the maître d’hôtel over to a space adjoining Bond’s table, clicked his fingers for help, borrowed a chair from one table, a chair from another table and, with a bow and an apology, the spare chair from Bond’s table. The fourth chair was being carried over from the direction of the door marked UFFICIO by the maître d’hôtel. He placed it square with the others, a table was lowered into the middle and glass and cutlery were deftly laid. The maître d’hôtel frowned. ‘But you have laid a table for four. I said three – for three people.’ He casually took the chair he had himself brought to the table and switched it to Bond’s table. He gave a wave of the hand to dismiss his helpers and everyone dispersed about their business.
The i
Bond had hardly been conscious of it. Kristatos returned from whatever business he had been about, their food came and they got on with the meal.
While they ate they talked about nothing – the election chances in Italy, the latest Alfa Romeo, Italian shoes compared with English. Kristatos talked well. He seemed to know the inside story of everything. He gave information so casually that it did not sound like bluff. He spoke his own kind of English with an occasional phrase borrowed from other languages. It made a lively mixture. Bond was interested and amused. Kristatos was a tough insider – a useful man. Bond was not surprised that the American Intelligence people found him good value.
Coffee came, Kristatos lit a thin black cigar and talked through it, the cigar jumping up and down between the thin straight lips. He put both hands flat on the table in front of him. He looked at the table-cloth between them and said softly: ‘This pizniss. I will play with you. To now I have only played with the Americans. I have not told them what I am about to tell you. There was no requirement. This machina does not operate with America. These things are closely regulated. This machina operates only with England. Yes? Capito?’
‘I understand. Everyone has his own territory. It’s the usual way in these things.’
‘Exact. Now, before I give you the informations, like good commercials we make the terms. Yes?’
‘Of course.’
Signor Kristatos examined the table-cloth more closely. ‘I wish for ten thousand dollars American, in paper of small sizes, by tomorrow lunch-time. When you have destroyed the machina I wish for a further twenty thousand.’ Signor Kristatos briefly raised his eyes and surveyed Bond’s face. ‘I am not greedy. I do not take all your funds, isn’t it?’
‘The price is satisfactory’
‘Bueno. Second term. There is no telling where you get these informations from. Even if you are beaten.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Third term. The head of this machina is a bad man.’ Signor Kristatos paused and looked up. The black eyes held a red glint. The clenched dry lips pulled away from the cigar to let the words out. ‘He is to be destrutto – killed.’
Bond sat back. He gazed quizzically at the other man who now leaned slightly forward over the table, waiting. So the wheels had now shown within the wheels! This was a private vendetta of some sort. Kristatos wanted to get himself a gunman. And he was not paying the gunman, the gunman was paying him for the privilege of disposing of an enemy. Not bad! The fixer was certainly working on a big fix this time – using the Secret Service to pay off his private scores. Bond said softly: ‘Why?’
Signor Kristatos said indifferently: ‘No questions catch no lies.’
Bond drank down his coffee. It was the usual story of big syndicate crime. You never saw more than the tip of the iceberg. But what did that matter to him? He had been sent to do one specific job. If his success benefited others, nobody, least of all M., could care less. Bond had been told to destroy the machine. If this u
Signor Kristatos took a toothpick out of the holder, stripped off the paper and set about cleaning his finger-nails. When he had finished one hand he looked up. He said: ‘I do not often gamble on incertitudes. This time I will do so because it is you who are paying me, and not me you. Is all right? So now I will give you the informations. Then you are alone – solo. Tomorrow night I fly to Karachi. I have important pizniss there. I can only give you the informations. After that you run with the ball and –’ he threw the dirty toothpick down on the table – ‘Che sera, sera.’