What could have given him away, however, was his face. Once handsome but now disfigured by a missing ear and a nasty cutlass scar running down his left cheek that his bushy beard couldn’t hide, it had become a callous face that had seen too much violence and death. Wanted in several countries, with a huge price on his head, he had managed to outfox, outgun and outsail numerous sorties trying to capture him.
As a former boatswain in the British Navy, he knew that iron-fisted discipline was the mother of obedience, and without obedience no ship could function properly, especially one like The Templars Revenge, which depended on a motley crew of lawless cutthroats and brigands to stay afloat and fight.
Naked and shivering, his hands and feet tied to a long rope, the young sailor who had disobeyed an order by the bosun to adjust the sails during a storm, was ready to face his punishment. Regan looked at the quartermaster and nodded. The quartermaster lifted his hand and gave the signal for the punishment to begin. Moments later, the hapless wretch was thrown overboard to be dragged along the keel of the ship.
Keelhauling was one of the most severe and brutal punishments meted out on the ship because more often than not, it resulted in death. Not only did the sharp barnacles encrusting the keel inflict horrendous injuries by ripping the skin to shreds, but drowning was also a real prospect depending on the time spent under water, the ship’s speed and the wind. Instead of feeling sorry for one of their own, the boisterous crew shouted and cheered and wagered on the outcome. On a ship like The Templars Revenge, there was no such thing as compassion or mercy, only survival.
After a few minutes, the sailor’s limp, lifeless body – his contorted face cut to shreds – was dragged out of the water. The quartermaster walked over to the body and examined it. Assured the man was dead, he cut the rope attached to the feet with his dagger, and stepped back. Two men came forward, lifted the man off the deck and threw him overboard. The punishment was over.
Satisfied, Regan turned on his heels and was about to return to his cabin when the quartermaster walked up to him. ‘I think he’s ready to talk,’ said the quartermaster.
Regan nodded and followed the quartermaster below deck.
The man sitting on the floor tied to one of the four-pounder guns was barely conscious. His face was badly swollen, his unkempt hair blood-encrusted, and blood dribbled from the corner of his open mouth. He had been beaten to within an inch of his miserable life. The swelling had closed one of his eyes and his nose had been broken. A bare-chested, burly man stood next to him, rubbing his knuckles.
‘What have you got?’ asked the quartermaster.
The burly man tipped a bucket of water over the motionless wretch. ‘Tell the captain what you’ve just told me,’ he growled.
Regan, who was fluent in Spanish, knew that reliable intelligence was the key to creating opportunities for an ambush or a raid, and vital for keeping a step ahead of the enemy. For that reason, Regan operated an elaborate network of spies in all the major ports, including Portobelo, together with a sophisticated communication chain that would have been the envy of the British Navy. In his cabin he also had some of the best charts available at the time. This allowed him to carefully plan an ambush or intercept, and to use location, speed and timing to his best advantage.
The man being interrogated had been overheard by one of Regan’s spies boasting in a tavern about a mule train transporting a hoard of gold for the Jesuits. After leaving the tavern, dead drunk, the man had been abducted by Regan’s men and was taken to a concealed cove close to Portobelo, where The Templars Revenge was waiting under cover of darkness.
‘How do you know about this mule train?’ asked the quartermaster.
‘I was in charge of it.’
‘How do you know about the gold?’
‘I saw it.’
‘You did? How? Where?’
‘One of the mules fell down a ravine and we had to climb down to retrieve the chest it was carrying. It had broken in half. That’s when I saw it.’
‘Saw what?’
‘Vessels, figurines, masks, jewellery, all of solid gold. A Jesuit priest came up to me and told me that it belonged to the Church and to keep this to myself.’
‘What happened to the chest?’
‘We loaded it onto a ship together with everything else we were carrying, mainly silver from the Potosi mines but ...’ The man stopped talking. He was drifting in and out of consciousness.
‘What?’ pushed the quartermaster impatiently and kicked the man in the chest.
The man opened his good eye. ‘There were several other chests that looked just like the one we retrieved from the ravine,’ he whispered. ‘They were different from the silver chests – bigger, stronger.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘More gold.’
‘What ship?’ said Regan, bending down to hear better.
‘The San Cristobal, bound for Havana.’
Regan smiled and turned to the quartermaster. Suddenly something that had puzzled him made sense. ‘Tell him when he comes round that he has a choice: he can join us, or he can join Davy’s locker. His call.’
Regan returned to his cabin and began to pore over the charts spread out on his desk. The quartermaster, a seasoned campaigner and Regan’s trusted right-hand man, joined him moments later. ‘What do you think?’
‘This explains why the San Cristobal has been given a man-of-war as an escort. For one galleon? Hardly. There had to be more to this than just silver from the mines. Now we know, don’t you think?’
‘I agree. The Spanish are very frugal when it comes to money, and the Jesuits are secretive and influential in all the right places. They wouldn’t send a ship like that to protect just one galleon without good reason. They could have provided a far less expensive escort. And the presence of the Jesuits is also telling. Devious bastards!’
It was well known that Regan hated the Catholic Church with a passion. He could trace his ancestry right back to the Knights Templar, who had been deviously dispossessed by Pope Clement V in 1312. Many of the impoverished and disgraced Templars, including Regan’s ancestors, took to piracy as a new way of life. It was the reason he had named his ship The Templars Revenge.
Regan turned to the chart in front of him. ‘They will take the most direct route to Havana. The fleet is already late and hurricane season is almost upon us. Time’s running out. That means they should be about … here.’ Regan stabbed his right forefinger at a point on the chart.
‘Agreed. So, what’s on your mind?’
‘We are much faster and can easily catch up with them during the night.’
‘There’s no way we can attack two ships like that,’ argued the quartermaster. ‘We’d be blown out of the water!’
‘Of course not. But we can do what we always do. Watch and wait. Just like a pack of wolves. You never know, something can happen. This has served us well in the past. Opportunity favours the brave, right? The weather has become very unpredictable lately, and there are many hidden reefs along the way.’
‘Sure. And besides, the boys need some excitement. It’s been too long.’
‘I agree. We’ll tell them in the morning. In the meantime, full speed ahead. I even know a little shortcut the San Cristobal wouldn’t be able to take. Here, between these two islands. A narrow channel. It’s a little tricky, but we should be able get through, even at night.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said the quartermaster, looking adoringly at his captain. Regan never disappointed when it came to the daring and the unexpected. That’s why the men on board would follow him without hesitation to the gates of hell, and beyond.
25
Florence: 26 October
Grimaldi and Cesaria had an early start. They were eating breakfast in the chief prosecutor’s office when the security guard admitted Jack and Tristan. It was just after seven in the morning and the office staff hadn’t arrived yet. Grimaldi walked around his desk and embraced Tristan. ‘I am so sorry for your lo
ss,’ he said, his voice trembling with emotion.
Cesaria looked at Grimaldi in surprise. This was a rare show of affection by a man who had seen unimaginable violence and cruelty, was dealing with the most dangerous criminals in the land on a daily basis, and was known for his reserve and iron-willed self-control.
‘Thank you for the warning; you did what you could,’ said Tristan, a little embarrassed.
‘It was too late, and for that I’m deeply sorry.’
‘No-one could have done more,’ said Jack, trying to diffuse the awkward moment.
Grimaldi shook his head. ‘I should have.’
‘What matters now is to bring those responsible to justice,’ Cesaria weighed in and turned to Jack. ‘How did it go?’
‘An extraordinary encounter, to say the least,’ said Jack. ‘The body search was quite an adventure ...’
‘I bet,’ said Grimaldi, smiling. The ice was broken. ‘You are among the very few without a life sentence, or two, to have seen the inside of that prison. Pagliarelli isn’t visitor-friendly and neither are my superiors. They were less than enthusiastic about your visit. Anything useful?’
Jack turned to Tristan. ‘Tristan, your impressions?’
Tristan’s extraordinary abilities were well known to both Grimaldi and Cesaria, and both took them seriously because of Tristan’s previous track record and astonishing results. Cesaria looked expectantly at Tristan.
‘I have no doubt that both Silvanus and Aladdin have been involved here, not just in the Landru murder, but most likely in several of the Death Mask Murders.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Grimaldi and lit one of his small cigars.
‘I could feel it, and hear it.’
‘Hear it?’ said Cesaria, frowning.
‘Yes. When we showed them the video and during the conversation that followed, I could hear things. Most of the time it isn’t what’s actually said that counts, but what isn’t. Silence can speak. I could hear what wasn’t said, and it was quite revealing.’
‘Care to elaborate?’ said Grimaldi.
Tristan shook his head. ‘At first, both of them were quite arrogant and dismissive and denied everything, just as we expected, but once Jack mentioned a possible deal involving their families, everything changed.’
‘You obviously chose the right approach, Jack,’ said Cesaria.
‘It would appear so. Needless to say, I made no promises. Everything depends on results. I made that absolutely clear.’
‘And they went along with this?’ asked Grimaldi, raising an eyebrow.
‘They did.’
‘That tells us a lot.’
‘It does. They even went a step further and made a “down payment”, they called it, to keep us interested. Perhaps a significant one, considering the circumstances.’
Grimaldi looked at Jack, surprised. ‘What kind of down payment?’
‘The question on the table was simple enough: I wanted them to help us identify who was behind the murders. In short, who engaged Spiridon 4 to commit these extraordinary crimes; who paid the bills.’
‘And?’ prompted Cesaria.
‘Before giving us an answer, the brothers wanted a word in private. We left the cell.’
Grimaldi blew some smoke towards the open window and looked pensively at Jack. ‘And?’
‘We returned a few minutes later and they made the down payment I mentioned,’ continued Jack.
‘What kind of down payment?’
‘Three words,’ replied Jack, smiling.
‘Ah, you want another crostini before telling us, is that it?’ joked Grimaldi and pushed the plate with the crostini towards Jack.
‘Not at all, but thank you.’ Jack took one and began to munch happily, to let the tension grow. ‘In fact, we need your help with the down payment.’
‘How so?’
‘Because it may mean a lot more to you than to us.’
‘Oh? How curious. Three words you said?’
‘Yes: “Ask Don Lorenzo”.’
Grimaldi looked thunderstruck. Collecting his thoughts, he stubbed out his cigar and for a while, just listened to the church bells.
For whom the bell tolls, thought Jack and kept watching Grimaldi. He could sense this was another moment of destiny. Tristan too had his eyes firmly fixed on Grimaldi, aware that the entire Landru matter rested on those three words.
‘This is quite extraordinary, especially in the circumstances,’ began Grimaldi, speaking softly.
‘How so?’ asked Jack.
‘You’ll see in a moment. Not many people here know this. In the early fifties, a young peasant boy from Calabria came to Florence to make his mark. Within a few short years, he had clawed his way to the top of the criminal tree by forming strategic alliances and eliminating his enemies. During the sixties and seventies, he was the undisputed king of the Florence underworld. That’s when he was given a nickname, as so often happens in Mafia circles: Don Lorenzo, after Lorenzo de Medici, the fabulous Renaissance ruler of Florence and head of the Medici family.’
‘You obviously know who we are talking about here,’ said Jack.
‘I certainly do, and so do you.’
‘Seriously?’ said Jack.
‘Oh yes, and in light of what has just happened in Venice and who we suspect was behind it, this is even more remarkable.’
‘Care to enlighten us?’
‘During the eighties, Don Lorenzo became Don Riccardo. He preferred to use his own name by then—’
‘As in Riccardo Giordano?’ interrupted Jack.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Alessandro’s father? The Alessandro you warned us about?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is crazy!’ Jack looked at Tristan. ‘Can you believe this?’
‘Oh yes, I can. In a way, I’m not surprised. The threads of fate are coming together to form a tapestry of violence and death spreading like cancer. It all fits. I could feel it in Palermo, and I can feel it right now.’
‘Where is Riccardo now?’ asked Jack.
‘He went back to Calabria after the Stolzfus matter blew up and just about ruined the family. He left everything, or to put it more accurately, all that was left of the family business, to Alessandro and went to live on the old family farm just outside Lamezia Terme, home to the richest and most powerful crime syndicates in Europe.’
‘Could we go and see him, do you think?’ asked Jack hopefully.
‘That may not be such a good idea,’ said Grimaldi, chuckling.
Cesaria was smiling too. She knew all about what was happening in Calabria right at that moment. One of the largest criminal trials in Europe was about to get underway. Three hundred and fifty of the most notorious Mafia crime bosses, the capi, were about to go on trial in a fortified concrete bunker, built as a security measure especially for the occasion. The biggest Mafia trial in Italian history was about to begin.
‘Riccardo’s retirement to the farm was short-lived and didn’t quite turn out as planned.’
‘How come?’
‘Bad timing; very bad.’
‘In what way?’
‘Cesaria, why don’t you tell us?’
‘All right. Allow me to do what Jack usually does: tell a story. This story is all about women, Mafia women who’d had enough. It all started with a movement under the banner of “Vedo, Sento, Parlo”, “I see, I hear, I speak”. And boy, are they speaking out! What had always protected the Mafia heavyweights, the capi, from prosecution and conviction was omertà, the code of silence. Based on fear and relentless punishment and retribution, no-one dared to talk or go to the authorities, until now.’
Cesaria paused and looked at Jack.
‘The women are coming out of the shadows and beginning to talk,’ she continued, becoming quite animated. ‘They will be the star witnesses in these trials. Mothers, wives, ex-wives, daughters, lovers. They’ve had a gutful of the violence, the fear, the intimidation. Enough of their sons being expected to follow in
their father’s blood-soaked footsteps, leading to a relentless cycle of secrecy, violence and crime. The picturesque rolling hills and villages of Calabria hide a dark secret. No-one looking at some of the men working in the fields, tending their crops and livestock, would believe that they may be looking at one of the most powerful and ruthless members of the ’Ndrangheta, “Men of Honour”, the Calabrian Mafia, controlling a large part of the European cocaine trade, human trafficking, cybercrime and the lucrative, illicit arms supply to anyone able to pay.’
‘Wow!’ said Jack. ‘That’s quite a story. And Giordano’s involved in all this?’
‘Oh yes. He may be in his seventies, but he’s still one of the key players in Calabria. Powerful, respected, influential. Right now, he’s waiting for the trial to begin while his son Alessandro lives the high life on a yacht on the Riviera,’ said Grimaldi, the bitterness in his voice clear. ‘And all because of this wretched code of silence. But that will change. Everyone trips up sooner or later and when he does, I will be there. You can count on it!’
‘What do you make of Silvanus’s three words?’ asked Jack.
‘I would definitely take them seriously,’ said Grimaldi. ‘Spiridon 4 was an expensive, exclusive hit squad, and Giordano was well known for being a shrewd facilitator; a go-between who made money out of providing such services for those who had deep pockets. We’ve seen this firsthand in the Stolzfus matter. He provided not only a deadly service, but a cloak of anonymity protecting the principals. For a price, of course. A high one.’
Jack nodded. ‘While Silvanus and Aladdin may not know who actually hired them, or why, Giordano would. At least up to a point—’
‘He would certainly know a lot more than Silvanus and his brother,’ Cesaria cut in. ‘He was always very circumspect about the way he did business, and with whom. That’s why he’s survived this long.’
‘Do we know where he is right now?’
‘We do,’ said Cesaria. ‘He’s sitting in a steel cage in a concrete bunker in Lamezia Terme, waiting for the trial to start.’
‘How nice. Could we go and talk to him?’ asked Jack.
The Death Mask Murders Page 16
