True to Your Service

by Sandra Antonelli

  Bryce poked his head in the open door. “How are we in here? Painkiller kick in yet?”

  Mae burst into tears.

  Drugs were a wonderful invention. Kitt was in no pain. With the dog between them, he sat with Mae, half inside the van, on the open edge of the sliding door, listening, his left hand bandaged and in a short sling across his chest.

  “Since last year,” Vitali said, cold pack on his jaw, “we have been investigating Aurelio Martini for collusion with UNFed Credit Union clients to conceal undeclared ‘black’ accounts for heirs to some of Europe’s biggest fortunes. I had been assigned to Martini, undercover for some time. I acted as bodyguard and driver. Several times during my investigation, I travelled to London with Martini and a woman named Vivienne Gallia. Do you remember Vivi Gallia, Mae?”

  “Yes,” she said wearily, and yawned.

  Vitali went on. “Yes, yes. You would.” He looked over at Negroni. “I am certain you remember Giacomo from the day in the orchard and the ride to the cemetery in Linguaglossa?”

  Mae snorted, absently stroking Felix, the dog’s head on her lap. “How could I forget a man who smells like a giant vanilla-patchouli scented candle people burn in bathrooms to cover the stink of shit?”

  Negroni blinked. “That is not very nice. You still have a very cruel tongue.”

  “She is right, Negroni.” Vitali jut his chin forward and nodded, “You wear too much porfumo. Fa feddo.” He laughed. “Allora. While I had been assigned to Martini, pretty Negroni had an assignment that put him with pretty women.”

  Negroni dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his foot, “I was engaged undercover to investigate the Orion Foundation, a charitable organisation for refugees and victims of human trafficking.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back and forth as he spoke. “Human trafficking is a high-profit low-risk crime. Forced labour is more frequent in Africa and the Middle East, South and East Asia, and the Pacific. Trafficked women and girls frequently wind up in the sex trade while men are forced into construction work or farming. Edibles, nutraceuticals, greenhouse farming are a burgeoning field.”

  “That’s very punny,” Mae snorted.

  “It’s very what?” Negroni’s brow rumpled with puzzlement.

  “Go on,” Kitt said. Mae was punchy, verging on exhausted silliness. The faster they got through this the better.

  Negroni continued. “Agricultural workers are often subcontracted, as are many working in hospitality—hotel housekeeping staff and in restaurants. There are drug trafficking groups, such as the Enrico Cartel, the Yeoh Triad, and Mafia families, like the Gallia Family, who have combined or switched their business practices and cargo from drugs to human beings. Trafficking for sexual exploitation is the most prevalent. Trafficking for forced labour is rising. We believe, to cut costs, these groups have all combined their business activities and formed a syndicate.”

  “They’re working together?” Kitt said.

  “Si,” Vitali adjusted the cold pack against his skin. “Quite often, even if they are caught, few traffickers are convicted. The work the victims do is often legal—like farm work and hotel housekeeping. There are no standards for screening processes. Poverty, discrimination against women, government corruption, the reach of transnational organised crime, trafficking victims are threatened by immigration officials, arrested and placed into detention centres, or deported; the system works against victims. Victims are seldom brought into the justice process as witnesses, and—forgive me for the statistic—there is a conviction rate that barely surpasses one point five out of one-hundred thousand. It is not a surprise that victims are reluctant to come forward.”

  “We have the information,” Negroni said, “we have witnesses, but we have not been able to convince anyone to come forward to testify.”

  Kitt got to his feet and resettled his hand in the sling. “What is the connection to Jan Vlaming and his stolen family jewellery? Is Vlaming trafficking human beings or is he simply being blackmailed by the Gallia Family?”

  Vitali shook his head. “We do not know who stole the jewellery from the Luxembourg freeport and tried to sell it to Hedison’s, that is still your case. You believe it is blackmail, and perhaps it is, but we believe the connection to Vlaming and human trafficking is through his deceased uncle, Peter Dankwaerts. Peter was once on the board of the UN Credit Union. Vlaming’s Aunt Polly, once a war refugee, is the chair of The Orion Foundation, the charitable organisation for refugees. This only matters because Aurelio Martini once served on the board of the UNCU, alongside Peter Dankwaerts. They remained friends until Peter died early last year, of natural causes. He was an old man, ninety-two. If you remember, Martini’s best friend was Pippino Torrisi, a well-known Sicilian immigration lawyer and advocate for refugee rights—his name was on that hit list alongside yours last July, Mrs Valentine.”

  Hands still in his pockets, Negroni stopped pacing. “We have discovered several things about Vivi Gallia and Martini and how they exploited many, many people using the Orion Foundation as cover. They operated under the façade of that charity, preyed upon desperate people who believed the charity would assist them. Of course, it did not.”

  Vitali shifted the cold pack and gingerly prodded his jaw. “Their exploits included several names you will both know; Ernst Largo, Milton Foley, Walter Molony, and Ruby Bleuville.”

  “Ruby Bleuville is dead,” Mae said.

  “Yes, we heard.” Negroni shook his head. “I befriended Ruby, got close to her. I observed her work, watched her plan, research, and set up a mark, like Julius Taittinger and Jan Vlaming. I watched how operations went with the movement of goods and people in shipping containers, on boats, in trucks, using the routes established by the Yeoh Triad and Enrico Cartel. We believe the Triad or the Cartel are both responsible for the deaths of Bleuville and Foley. They are killing anyone and everyone who was connected to their operation, no matter how small, to ensure no further information is revealed about their operations, and the Gallia Family has been obliging. Things changed yesterday.”

  Kitt turned to look at Mae, her head resting against the doorframe, fingers moving over the dog. She looked like she could sleep for fifteen years. “Who decided they wanted out?”

  A fat grin bloomed under Vitali’s crooked nose. “The head of the Gallia Family has arranged a meeting this morning.”

  “I’m knackered, but,” Mae pulled herself to her feet, the dog hopping out of the van beside her, “are you saying Vivi Gallia was not the head of the Gallia Family?”

  “No.” Negroni said. “We think now she was number two or number three. Now Bianco is number two or number three. We will know more when we analyse the data on his phone.”

  Mae lifted Felix into her arms and held him close, for comfort, for security, for the thing Kitt couldn’t give her with these men watching. “Who is the head of the Gallia family?”

  Negroni pulled his hands from his pockets. “Ascoulta, listen. My government asked that your government step away from this investigation because we were concerned the Gallia Family would get, as Americans say, spooked, and not come in. We have used you as bait, again, Mrs Valentine, to draw out the head of the Gallia Family. The DIA asked your government to include you, to draw the fire, so to speak. We don’t know quite yet who the head is, but they have asked to see you, Mrs Valentine. They will be at the Dankwaerts Estate garden party with Jan Vlaming and his Aunt Polly.”

  Ten minutes later, the van was on its way to the Dankwaerts Estate. Mae sat beside Negroni, the dog between them. The man’s vanilla-patchouli scented cologne may have been heavy, he may have worn too much, but at least this time the pungency of his sweaty summer body odour wasn’t part of the bouquet. Kitt lay across the rear seat, asleep. How she envied him. It was such a godless thing to be exhausted and utterly unable to sleep. Any time she shut her eyes she saw the unimaginable, and it wasn’t the face of a dead woman crushed between cars. She saw Caspar, his bearded face, his brown eyes, and wondered
, in spite of all that had transpired, how he would look after sixteen years. That in itself was awful, but worse was the idea rolling like a marble in her head.

  She stared over the seat at Kitt. He was shattered.

  He opened his eyes. “Do you want to come back here with me?” he said.

  “I think you need the space.”

  He smiled very softly. “Shut your eyes.”

  “I don’t like what I see when I do.”

  “You still see Jill Charteris?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “Who do you think killed her, who do you think killed Llewelyn and Tanja?”

  “Our recent investigations led to significant financial losses for the Yeoh Triad and Enrico Cartel. I am certain that The Consortium’s floor manager, a woman named Hilary, was compromised, extorted into giving Llewelyn tainted tea. I was in the room when she handed him the packet of chai. I believe the Yeoh Triad or the Enrico Cartel are responsible for the deaths of Jill Charteris, my trainee Eva Eaton, Llewelyn, his assistant Morland, and quite possibly Hilary, as she resigned and no one seems to know where she is. The Cartel and Triad are seeking payback for exposing their trafficking and smuggling operations. And they’ve asked the Gallia Family for their assistance to get it.”

  “So, it’s revenge?”

  “That most human need.”

  “Yes.”

  “Kitt, do you think…” she shuddered and shut her eyes for a moment, which only made things worse, so she opened them again.

  “Do I think what, my love?” Kitt said, his cool, blue-grey eyes filled with warmth and kindness, and love.

  Mae shuddered and whimpered and the dog sat up to nuzzle her neck, which only made her whimper more.

  Kitt sat up. “Tell me.”

  Her eyes sparkled with ballooning tears. “Do you think Caspar is the head of the Gallia family?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Split into three sections, the Dankwaerts Gardens surrounded the brick country house, a scaled down version of Het Loo Palace built by King William III and his English wife Mary Stuart. Classic formal English, French, and Japanese gardens were blended with the casual asymmetry of naturally shaped plants and beds mimicking nature. Somewhere on the grounds, amid the party guests and roaming wait staff, they would find the little windmill, the host of the garden party, Polly Dankwaerts, and the head of the Gallia Family.

  She stopped him near a massive, hot-pink azalea. “What if he’s here? What do I do? What do we do?” she said, voice high and tight.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “Breathe, Mae.”

  “I am feckin’ breathing!” she said through her teeth.

  “Look at me.” He took her hand and laid it flat on his chest, over his heart. “Whatever we find, whomever we find, this, here,” he put his hand atop hers. “This bears all, believes all, hopes all, endures all.”

  Her expression transformed from wide-eyed to an out of breath, head-shaking, you-are-full-of-shite squint. “You think quoting St Paul will calm me?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Possibly. I find I want to poke you in the eye less.”

  “Good. So, listen. My life, the one I had before you, without love, made me something of a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.”

  Mae waggled her index finger. “My hole. A clashing knife or a roaring gunshot is probably a better description of your Old Testament existence.”

  His mouth quirked. “The Old Testament is a better, more exciting read, I’ll give you that, but the New Testament does have its moments. Why do you look surprised to know I’ve read the Bible?”

  “Perhaps it’s how I’ve witnessed your former Sodom and Gomorrah Old Testament lifestyle.”

  “Point taken. But just so you know, I’ve read the Quran, the Torah, the Bible, the Sutras, the Vedas, the Book of Mormon. There isn’t always much to do when travelling or much to read, so one makes do with what one finds. I prefer romance novels. And why are you so bloody cynical?”

  “Guess.”

  “If I guess correctly, will you poke me in the eye?”

  “Is that a chance you’re willing to take?”

  He squeezed her hand. “It is. Here’s what I think. When you spend nearly twenty years loving someone who isn’t there, and then find out things about that person, that the man wasn’t who you thought he was, that you aren’t who you thought you were, and you realise what you loved, what you thought you had, what you thought you were, was a fantasy, you become a bit cynical and unsentimental. Is that about right?”

  “One might think that a man who does what you do would be the malcontent misanthrope, but I’m the jaded cynic, which isn’t very fair to you.” She said, holding his gaze. “It’s important you articulate what and how you feel. I know it’s what you need. Expressing emotion, telling me how you feel about me, reminding me, is as much for yourself as it is for me, despite how I mock you for it. Regardless of my unromantic cynicism, I love you. Very much. It’s not impassioned, flowery, or poetic, but it’s simple. To the point.”

  “It’s perfectly distilled.”

  “Is that enough for you, Hamish, those three little words?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take care to tell you more often.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mae placed her other hand on his cheek and whispered. “I like what you say, your declarations, your lovely, impassioned, flowery, poetic, biblical words. Go on making your declarations.”

  “Go on mocking me for it,” Kitt whispered back. He leaned forward, pressing into her, their hands trapped on his chest, and he kissed her, long and slow and deep, not giving a damn that it hurt his left hand, not giving a damn that the kiss mashed his teeth against the raw cut inside his mouth, not giving a damn about who was watching or who saw them through the pink blooms. He was tired of living in the shadow, tired of hiding a basic human need, his human need that was far more basic than revenge.

  Mae relaxed into him for a moment, her arm slipping beneath his jacket and around him. When he lifted his head, she drew her hand away from his and adjusted his sling. “You still smell of chicken shit,” she said, laughing, “but it’s a better scent that Negroni’s cologne.”

  Kitt laughed too and began look about the garden at party guests.

  They wandered past small groups of smartly dressed people who stood beside hazy swathes of tall grasses and vivid spring blooms, long borders of herbs flanked by pathways and background plants with soft colours and no formal shape. A few people did a double-take at their dusty and blood-dappled and bandaged state, and at the dark-suited men and police following them. They crossed through a dividing hedge, leaving the loose informal garden design, moving into a more structured garden, where the tulip-surrounded windmill stood beside a narrow canal dotted with pink and white and purple hyacinth. The windmill, far smaller than the one they had seen this morning, had a small paved patio at the front.

  Kitt snagged a glass of water from a passing server who swallowed nervously and tottered off. He downed the water and glanced at Mae. “There’s Vlaming,” she said, watching the man come out of the white framed door beneath the white windmill blades.

  Vlaming walked toward them and stopped in front of Kitt. “What have I done, Leslie?” he said.

  “You robbed your own family. And my name is Hamish Kitt.”

  Vlaming nodded, his blue eyes bright with tears. “I got people killed, Hamish. I can give back deh money, but not deh lives. My aunt can forgive deh money, but not deh lives.” He turned to the police and nodded. Then he looked back to the windmill.

  Mae followed his line of sight. “Oh, my sweet mother,” she said.

  Glass in hand, Kitt watched three people come out of the little windmill house.

  Mae’s eyes darted from Chanel-dressed nonagenarian Polly Dankwaerts taking a seat at a wooden garden table, to Giacomo Negroni who held a chair for the head of the Gallia Family, a woman who had learned English from American GIs during WWII, and liked to cheat at Monop
oly.

  Nearly ninety, Fiorella Gullo wore a smart, charcoal grey pencil skirt, a lavender twinset with a string of black pearls, and cap-toed black brogues with a heel.

  She waved at them.

  “They said we could see her now.” When she didn’t respond, Kitt put his hand on Mae’s shoulder, giving it a small shake to rouse her from her fatigue and vacant staring.

  She looked up at him from the padded garden chair, bright, late morning sunlight spilling over her, the air sweet with the smell of lavender at the edge of the windmill. “I think,” she said climbing to her feet, “that this is called lucid dreaming. It all feels so real and yet I am fast asleep.”

  “You are awake, Mae.”

  “Then I’m going to pretend I’m not, the way you wanted to pretend I wasn’t with you in Amsterdam yesterday. Was that yesterday? I’m going to keep on faking it, except I don’t have the energy. How are you still standing?”

  “Practice. Give me your hand.”

  She put her hand in his. Kitt nodded at the Dutch police officer at the door of the windmill house. She stood aside and let them pass.

  “Beddita! I wonder if you come, if I see you. So, you know, huh?” The small woman got out of her chair, her arms encircling Mae, squeezing her tightly.

  Still numbed by the shock, Mae automatically let go of Kitt’s hand and hugged Fiorella back.

  The slight woman turned to Kitt, grabbing his face and covering it with kisses.

  Kitt withstood the onslaught of affection. “They say you’re the head of the Gallia Family.”

  Fiorella let him go and glanced at the armed police standing outside the door. She returned to her seat at the table in a small kitchen inside the little windmill house. “Not anymore. Some people screw me, try to squeeze me out. Now I squeeze back. This business had gone to shit. Family don’t matter no more. Today, I am a snitch. Bianco can kiss my ass.”

  “He calls you Picciridda,” Kitt said taking a seat across from her.