The 'plane bumped in heavily with the Fat Man gripping both armrests while closing his eyes in silent supplication. It came to rest in a taxi area a good hundred yards from the main Fiumicino airport buildings, and as the rotation of the turbines decreased the drum of raindrops against the metal skin became the predominant sound.

Before Troy had recovered his raincoat, which was rolled tight in a ball in the luggage rack, the doors swung open and the air conditioned atmosphere gave way to dank humidity, sticky and unpleasant.

There was no airport bus and through a porthole he could see the first passengers down the steps running for the cover of the nearest reception bay.

Troy, stooping, wriggled on his raincoat beneath the arch of the fuselage, and after an exchange of pleasantries with the stewardess standing beside the opening he jog-trotted after them across the streaming apron.

A score of travellers reached the narrow funnel entrance simultaneously from the big jet and the Englishman found himself miserably positioned at the rear of the crowd. He lifted a newspaper protectively above his head as he waited his turn to step into the building.

A girl beside him screamed. As he turned towards her, startled, she rushed him, arms outstretched, striking him in the chest. His body absorbed much of the impact, for she was tiny and her strength was puny, but the few inches he gave saved him from being sandwiched against the airport wall by something solid which rushed at him.

A rubber wheel crunched against the soft leather upper of his right shoe, tearing it open a millimetre from the seam; and the blur of a speeding vehicle, a flash of yellow, was followed by a terrible crunch.

The struggle to get into the dry was dramatically reversed by the thunder of the collision and those who had reached cover came back into the slanting rain to inspect the small, heavy trolley-accumulator which had careered into the masonry at the mouth of the reception funnel. It was driver-less and the small petrol engine which drove it along as well as charging the block of accumulators designed to assist the 'start from cold' of ailing aircraft was still thrumming gamely although the front of the vehicle was stove in and buckled obviously beyond repair.

Reaction set in immediately and Troy found himself shaky at the thought of what might have been. Gallantry told him he should thank the girl who had undoubtedly saved his life by removing him from the line of flight; but instead he left the group to find the fool who had set it in motion.

Apparendy the trolley-acc. had sped in from the direction of an old DC4, one of a dozen aircraft parked close in on the apron, and he ran towards it, pausing under the wing to wip the rain from his eyes.

It appeared to be deserted. There was no crew working on it and the doors were closed. He banged his fist against the underside of the fuselage, hoping to attract attention if some- one was aboard. Impatientiy he beat out a tattoo, but there was no answer.

He looked about him. The apron was empty of human activity. Now the rain was hurtling itself at him and miserably wet he sprinted back to the airport building.

A bunch of Italian officials, all talking but none listening, were grouped around the remains of the trolley-acc. whose motor now stood silent.

"You are not hurt, signor? Come inside, please."

Troy had no intention of standing in the rain.

"A thousand pardons, signor. You are fortunate to be alive."

"What a way to run an airport," growled Troy, his temper smouldering against the wet on his skin. "Who started the damned thing? It could have killed me."

"There will be a full investigation, signor."

"For your sake -- there had better be. Where's the girl who pushed me out of the way?"

"Ah, the blonde."

Troy thought about it. Yes, she had been blonde.

"She has left the airport, signor."

"Damn. Why did you let her go? She saved my life and you don't even give me the chance to thank her."

"Do you speak Finnish, signor?"

"No, of course not."

"Neither do we. That is why we did not detain her."

"Well, it's a bloody poor show."

"Labour is unreliable in these times, signor. One must be alert for accidents. If you lived here you would learn to appreciate this."

Troy stumped off to find his bag. The customs officer listened to his terse declaration politely and signalled him through the hall to the unbonded area with a scratch of chalk and a wave of his hand.

"Buon giorno, signor. A pleasant vacanza."

"Huh," snapped Troy.

A porter took his case and led him to the barrier where he stood for a moment examining the faces of those who were waiting to meet incoming travellers.

Troy knew Sergio Peretti only by name and recommendation, so he played the game of trying to select an individual who, although a newspaperman, was nevertheless enough of a diplomat to be accepted by the Holy Office within Vatican City.

No one seemed to fit the part, and the Englishman was surprised when he was approached by a stocky fellow with a severe American crew-cut wearing ultra-formal business clothes of a dark blue that was almost black. No American looked as American.

"Signor Troy?"

"Yes -- could you be -- Sergio Peretti?"

"Si. I am Peretti. London cabled me this morning that you would be reaching Rome on this flight."

Well, he phrased his sentences like a newsman.

As Troy shook hands he ran a rule over the Italian.

Although first impressions could sometimes be misleading the fellow appeared reasonable enough, a studious character out to please who betrayed the fact by fidgeting nervously with the steel frame of his tinted spectacles. He looked more like a lawyer or an international property negotiator than an exponent of the cut-and-thrust techniques demanded in modern daily journalism.

Perhaps that was why he had failed to impress the foreign desk of the Globe in London. Troy had heard how the Globe's top executives, in the season, were constantly flitting backwards and forwards to Rome on all-expenses-paid 'business' holidays, and they must have met him.

"You are very wet?"

Troy told him what had happened on the apron.

"So. This is an incident that should be reported in my own newspaper. You must let me have the detail for it is one way to make sure that there is a full inquiry. It has been said many times in Rome that the peoples who run the airport are fools, but it is not too often that we are supplied with the proof."

"Yes, I'll do that, but just now I'd like to get moving," urged Troy. "I've been trapped in this damned airport far too long."

"Surely. I have an automobile outside. Please to come this way. Permit me to carry your baggage."

His English was almost perfect, but not quite. The odd word, the inverted construction of some of his sentences, betrayed that he had most likely learned the language outside of the English-speaking world.

Troy handed him the pigskin case, and the Italian dismissed the porter with a couple of hundred-lira coins.

Patrolling the wide forecourt flanking the main airport building was a detail of alpine riflemen, tough-looking smallish men in olive-green uniforms of superior quality who carried rifles at the trail as they had been taught to do in the mountains. It was a sight one expected to see in Fascist Spain, or a banana dictatorship, but not in a country so long associated with la dolce vita.

"Are they hunting the Mafia?" It was a joke.

Peretti looked startled. "No, no," he corrected. "They are the Alpini Militare di Cortina, a powerful formation raised in the Dolomites around Cortina d'Ampezzo. Each man is an expert skier and an expert shot."

"I suppose they are on the look-out for terrorists?"

Peretti nodded.

"The government has adopted severe measures for a country which is said to be blessed with romance," he said, wryly. "Many banditi have been flown into Italy after instruc- tion in violence elsewhere, and there is now a close surveillance on all travellers. Possibly you did not realise that you were being watched from the moment you entered the reception."

"I was too busy dodging runaway airport vehicles."

"... and with the Princess coming exceptional arrangements are being made, particularly at the airport."

Now that was a story. A stringer wouldn't realise it.

"Tell me about..."

"Here is my macchina" interrupted Peretti, indicating a sleek Lancia two-seater in dark, racing green. "Please to get in -- it still rains."

He'd get the facts later. As Troy walked around the back of the car to climb into the passenger seat he noticed that it was fitted with twin straight-through exhaust pipes. They indicated it had been modified to give exceptional engine performance. His deduction was confirmed by the powerful note which sang across the damp concrete of the car park when Peretti started the thing.

As they swept out of the airport Peretti explained that the fast way into Rome was by the autostrada. But this impressive double-carriageway was temporarily closed following a terrorist-carabinieri clash the previous evening when the surface had been damaged by explosive.

He retailed the violence in the matter-of-fact manner of one who had come to accept outrageous acts and inconveniences because they are happening every day.

Then, as the Lancia swung east towards Rome, Troy began to question him about Fletcher.

"This is fantastic," said the Italian. "One day he is here and the next -- birr."

He withdrew his hands from the wooden wheel and flung them expressively and dangerously aloft while the speedometer needle hovered well in advance of the 120 kilometre mark.

"You did speak to him?"

"SI -- every day. He would telephone me at my appartamento on Ischia and we would talk. It was unfortunate that he came to Italy while I was vacationing with my family. I do not make many such trips because I am too committed in Rome. But your office in London did not advise me of Fletcher's visit until he was here, and on this occasion I was out of the cityfor several weeks."

That was a slip-up. Black mark to MacLachlan, thought Troy, with some satisfaction. He knew that Fletcher was being switched so why the devil hadn't he informed the man in Rome. A spot of ammunition for the future.

"You say you spoke to him every day. . . then didn't he tell you anything which might give a clue to his disappearance?"

"Nothing, signor. Your newspaper has already asked me this many times. Signor Fletcher was only concerned with the latest informations and the Roman interpretations on the Royal visit, and since I was vacationing on the island of Ischia I could not be of any great use to him.

"Each day I purchased the newspapers and told him what our Press was saying -- he does not speak or read Italian -- and I arranged for him to talk before edition time at night with one of my colleagues who was producing our newspaper in Rome. After Signor Fletcher disappeared I spoke many times with this man, but he is similarly mystified. It might have been sensible to advise the carabinieri, who have many ears, but your newspaper firmly instructed me not to do this."

"We do not consider it necessary to call in outside help for the time being," said the Englishman evenly, "and I hope you have taken no steps in that direction?"

Troy hung on his reply anxiously.

"I have followed Signor MacLachlan's instructions most carefully and I shall continue to do so for as long as I am in the employ of the Globe. I would not act without his approval when I am accepting his commissions."

"Good." Troy didn't want the police blundering about at this stage though their assistance might be necessary later if he were unsuccessful. "And you have been to this hotel in the centre where the Fletchers were staying?"

"SI... si. . . three times have I spoken with the direttore since Signor Fletcher departed, but no people at the hotel could help me. He knows that you will arrive this evening?"

"Yes, he must do -- since I'm staying there. MacLachlan said he had booked me in. I should have thought he would have done so through you."

Peretti looked puzzled. "Oh, he did not say this. I had made other arrangements for your accommodation ... but it is of no concern. I will drive you to Fletcher's hotel and intro- duce you to il direttore. I am certain he will be relieved to speak with someone from the Globe in London. There is the question of the account and the disposal of the clothes. But first, perhaps, you would like to take a refreshment. I know of a trattoria a kilometre or so along this road where we could take a drink as we talk."

The suggestion was welcome and would not be a waste of time. Troy knew that besides filling in the detail of the picture of Fletcher's activities that had been painted by the editor and MacLachlan in London, Peretti could supply him with the latest developments on the Princess's visit.

He intended to file a story to the Globe that evening. No sense in dragging his feet now he was here, particularly with an Express man operating so energetically.