Assignment - Palermo

by Edward S. Aarons

  “Mr. Durell, welcome. I had grave fears for your safety when Pietro came back alone and told me how you had been intercepted. I am Uccelatti.”

  They shook hands. Uccelatti was an urbane Italian whose smiling confidence reflected wealth, perfect grooming, and a cultivated sensibility. His English was only faintly accented. He had thick, peppery hair, a smoothly shaven olive face, and diamond-brilliant blue eyes. His teeth were white and even. He waved his hand graciously for Durell to be seated.

  “Bourbon is your drink, is it not?”

  “Thank you. But I don’t intend to be your guest for long, invited or not.”

  “But you are invited, my dear sir. Did I not send Pietro for you? On my honor, I have been most anxious to meet you. You have my word that we are not enemies.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Uccelatti wore a silk ascot the color of Marsala wine, with fawn-colored slacks and chalk-white sneakers. His grip was slightly callused, as a seaman’s should be. He dismissed Pietro with a nod. It was quiet in the cabin except for the muffled noises from the bikini girls on deck. “You must excuse the external impression the Vesper must give you. It is amusing to have these people aboard. And the young ladies are decorative, eh? You must realize I deeply regret this entire affair, and I wish with all my heart that it had not occurred. I am glad you arrived here safely. Your position in this business is quite well known to me. We have an adequate information service, of course. It is necessary, for one to survive.”

  “You do very well,” Durell said.

  Uccelatti smiled. “I was born to accept the responsibilities of wealth along with the honor of my name. A noble title means little today, but it is an anachronism to which I cling out of sentiment and because here in Sicily the people prefer the old ways. It gives them a comforting sense of continuity. Our worlds are not the same, Mister Durell, and I grant that mine may be only a fading dream. What I possess must be paid for, and I do so daily.” The baron waved a mild hand. “But you did not come here to listen to idle and perhaps useless conversation.”

  “You know why I am here,” Durell said.

  “Indeed. And you bring me risks that I could easily avoid by refusing you a single word.”

  “I want the girl, Gabriella Vanini—and I want my friend O’Malley released. Is he aboard?”

  “He came of his own free will, sir.”

  “Is he also free to leave?”

  “No,” Uccelatti said. “I am sorry.”

  “And Gabriella?”

  “Do nothing rash, Mister Durell, until we have exchanged views, I pray you. You are angry and suspicious. But I am, too—more than you. When you are finished in Sicily, you will go about your business elsewhere in the world. But I must go on living here, if possible, and try to survive.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Durell asked.

  “More accurately, I am concerned—very deeply—for what is happening. I sense contempt in your attitude. You think of me as a criminal, battening on sin and vice. It is not so. I accept nothing for myself from the Fratelli.”

  “You don’t deny membership in the Brotherhood?”

  “I deny nothing because I need your help. I am perplexed, and you may be the only man to solve my problems. So we meet like this. Let us not behave like two jungle animals who meet on the same trail after the same prey. But perhaps I can explain more clearly if I tell you why I named my yacht the Vesper."

  Durell moved a chair against the bulkhead and sat down. The cabin was warm, although the ports were open and a faint sea breeze stirred the silk curtains. Dimly he heard cries from the girl swimmers, a shout from the cameraman, and a little thud on the deck overhead.

  “Our history has been long,” Uccelatti said, “and ancient and troubled. Of the original Siculi, none lived after the Greeks came to Syracuse. Our island has always been used by conquerors, from the Greeks to the Arabs and the Normans. Sicily has been a rich hunting ground for such predators. And the people received nothing but slavery and feudal oppression from those who came to ‘liberate’ us. We were misruled by the ancient Carthaginians and the Bourbons. We are now Italian but not of Italy. There were once giants in our land, remembered by the villagers, who carry figures of these legendary Giganti in their annual processions. We dwell among roses and almond blossoms, but their scent does not cover the stink of oppression that led Sicilians to rebel time and again against rich landlords and foreign nobles, thieves of our natural wealth. Long ago there was an insurrection against the House of Anjou, which succeeded the court of the Swabian, Frederick the Second. For six centuries, from twelve eighty-two, Sicilians were crushed between dishonest rulers from Anjou, Spanish viceroys from Aragon, and Austrian legates. That rebellion in twelve eighty-two was led by men who called themselves Vespers, Mr. Durell. I have remembered them in the name of this vessel. For six hundred years after that revolt the Sicilians hatched plots, planned executions, fought in the villages and the hills—and were always crushed. The survivors inevitably fled into a life of desperate outlawry.” Uccelatti smiled thinly. “The life of a bandit was at least free, you see. And it became the habit of our island.”

  “The Mafia?”

  “And others. Robin Hoods sometimes, murderers and thieves at others. I make no apologies or excuses. It was a necessity. It was war.”

  “It’s not the same today,” Durell said. “The Black Hand, the Cosa Nostra—”

  “We are the Fratelli della Notte.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Until recently, yes. True, we lived on crime. But it was neither violent nor vicious. And our charities—”

  “And murders—”

  “These are only late developments.”

  “This is the source of your distress?”

  “Yes, it is.” A thin shine of sweat showed on the baron’s fine face. “I am more than distressed. I admit I am desperate.”

  “Did the change come,” Durell asked quietly, “when Kronin entered your organization?”

  “That filth,” Uccelatti said.

  “Isn’t he your superior now?”

  “He thinks so.”

  “Where is he now, by the way?”

  “As far as I know, he is still in Naples.”

  “Dollars to doughnuts he’s close by.”

  “No, I would know of it.”

  “You don’t know anything.” Durell spoke angrily. “You’ve been tricked and betrayed. It was nice to hear your little historical lecture, but it only proves you do live in an unreal world of romantic nostalgia for the past. It’s suicidal. The world has changed, and if you don’t change with it, you are doomed.”

  The baron bowed his head. “I know all this.”

  “But what are you doing about it?”

  “I do not know what to do.”

  “Well, for a start, you can tell the truth about Kronin, Zio, and Gabriella. Tell me how Kronin took over the Fratelli to use them to establish a sabotage net in my

  country, like cancer cells in my nation’s bloodstream.” “You are angry, Mr. Durell.”

  “It might help if you were angry, too. How did Kronin get into the Fratelli della Notte?”

  “Vecchio Zio ordered it. He is our chief. One gives him unquestioned obedience.”

  “He may be senile, a very old man.”

  “Yes he is old.”

  “Is he actually alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen him lately with your own eyes?” There was a moment’s hesitation. “Yes.”

  Durell said, “You’re a liar, Baron.”

  Uccelatti flushed. His hands trembled. A motorboat went by, and the wake rocked the schooner slightly. “I saw him, but it was under peculiar circumstances. I am not sure—” He paused.

  “Not sure of what?” Durell asked.

  “Karl Kronin stood beside him. Almost prompting him, I thought.” Uccelatti sighed. “I grew suspicious then. But one does not lightly disobey Zio. The orders are explicit. I must obey. I
t is the rule. Without obedience we die.”

  “Where do you fit into the hierarchy?”

  “Until Kronin appeared, I was Zio’s right hand. But now—I am nothing.”

  “And you don’t like it,” Durell suggested.

  “They wanted to kill Gabriella.”

  “They certainly tried,” Durell said grimly. “If she’s still alive, let me see her.”

  “I am sorry, she is not aboard.”

  “Then, where is she?”

  “I could not believe Zio ordered her death. It came from Kronin. Knowing this, I sent Pietro to Naples, to O’Malley. I promised him safety for himself and Gabriella. O’Malley was angry and jealous of you, in any case. And I had to learn the truth. I do not know it all yet, but soon I shall. I must. So I took matters into my own hands.”

  “What have you done?”

  “I sent Gabriella,” said Uccelatti, “to Vecchio Zio.”

  21

  DURELL let out a long, slow breath. It was as if a tightly coiled spring inside him had relaxed a bit now. The baron clenched his trembling fingers. The sweat stood out in great beads on his handsome face; his blue eyes were dulled now. There was a knock on the door, and Uccelatti said, “Come in,” and Pietro entered. “What is it, Pietro?”

  The man looked at Durell. “Your friends want to come aboard to see if you are safe. I told them to wait, but it is difficult to tell them anything.”

  Durell stood up. “One more thing, Uccelatti. You understand that you may have sent Gabriella to her death?”

  “I know this.”

  “How long ago did she leave?”

  “It has been over three hours. But it takes perhaps two to reach the place.”

  “Where is it? And how many men went with her?”

  The baron looked desperate. “None.” He looked at Pietro. “I considered it safest to send her alone. Whom could I trust as a guard? You have described my situation very exactly, Mr. Durell. I am betrayed, lied to, and I know no man I could trust to keep her alive.” Durell looked at Pietro. “What about him?”

  “Not even Pietro.”

  The other man’s face was like stone.

  “You’ve probably killed her,” Durell said.

  “No, there is a family in the hills—peasants, or at least they live like peasants. An old man and a woman. They live near her destination. I told her to go to them before she finished her journey.”

  “And can you trust them?”

  “Why not? They are my father and mother.” Uccelatti shook his troubled head. “You must understand more, Mr. Durell. Although I carry a noble title and had dreams as a boy far beyond our means, I did not always live like this. The war and the Mussolini years did strange things to everyone. I was born in Sicilian poverty—a very special thing. It is hopeless, but not degrading. One survives somehow—and the Fratelli helped us. My parents were caretakers for Vecchio Zio. He took an interest in me and started me on the upward path, educated me and gave me all I needed to assume my hereditary place. I was foolish, vain, ambitious. In return I did all he asked. Eventually I was set up with the Vesper and became a ‘respectable’ businessman, an industrialist. And, of course, all the Fratelli funds were channeled through my organizations. They still are. It is the price I paid.”

  “And now you regret it?”

  “No, I only regret Kronin. He came into the picture through me. As a boy, I was filled with revolutionary fire. The people were oppressed, savagely mistreated. I sought for years to help them, through youthful idealism. I joined the Communists. Does that surprise you? I am still a member. That surprises me, you see. And not long ago, when I was at Dubrovnik, in Yugoslavia, ostensibly on a pleasure cruise, I was ordered to report to Albania.” “Then, you tried to serve two masters.”

  “Yes. A stupid donkey straddling a deep stream. In Albania I met many Chinese Reds from Peiping. I was treated with much respect. They knew all about me. They had been holding me as a silent agent until a time when I might be useful. Their hatred for your country, Mr. Durell, goes beyond all reason. They decided that the time had come to use me and use my position in the Fratelli della Notte.”

  “That’s where Karl Kronin came in?”

  “I was ordered to recommend him to Vecchio Zio for his present position. I obeyed. It was that or my destruction. They knew all about my false business enterprises, enough to put me in jail for life as a criminal.

  I had no choice. And at first I saw no real harm.”

  “And Zio accepted Kronin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Knowing who and what he is?”

  “I am not sure about that. I was not admitted to their councils after the first meeting. When I went to Zio recently, I was told nothing and ordered to keep silent. Zio gave me these orders.” Uccelatti stood up. “My life is in the balance now. I am a rebel, you might say. By talking to you, I forfeit everything, according to the Fratelli law. But the time has come for decision. Either I am a fool and so deserve to die, or a great evil has been done, which only I can correct. So I have told you everything.”

  “Not everything,” Durell said.

  “What more can I do?”

  “Two things. I want O’Malley first.”

  “I cannot release him.”

  Durell was impatient to be moving. Every moment counted, and he felt time slipping inexorably away. “What you want O’Malley for,” he said flatly, “is as a hostage to fortune in case you’ve made a mistake. But you can’t have it both ways. You must commit yourself or you’re a dead man, Uccelatti. You know this, but you don’t want to face it. But you’ve come too far to my side now. Keeping O’Malley for Zio’s revenge later won’t help.”

  Uccelatti was a tormented man. The sound of sprightly music on deck sharply contrasted with his haunted eyes as he looked at Durell’s implacable figure. He shuddered violently, then was still and regarded Pietro. “What do you think, my friend?”

  Pietro seemed shocked at this request for his opinion. “I do not know, Barone. He sounds logical.”

  “We are emotional, not a logical people. It is a bad fault.” He turned to Durell again. “You asked for two things. O’Malley first. Very well, you can have him. And the second matter?”

  “Tell me where to find Vecchio Zio. You sent Gabriella there, and Kronin will kill her. I don’t know about this old wizard godfather of hers. That’s what I must

  find out. There is a mystery here, and it must be resolved if any of us are to stay alive. So tell me the way. Now is not the time to stick to the rules.”

  Uccelatti said, “But if you try to get in by force, you will never make it alive. Believe me. There are traps. That place is impregnable. Much as I respect your ability, Signor Durell, you will find it too much even for your talents. It is the best-kept secret of the Fratelli. Zio is our chief. He has led us for two generations. He is almost a myth today except to a few of us. One does not even mention his name lightly, as you do.”

  “You must tell me,” Durell said.

  Again the man sighed, then straightened and stood up. “Pietro, release O’Malley. See that he has some food and wine. Quickly! As for you, Signor Durell, I fear I send you to your death. But you insist, and I will not deny you. We are lost in any case. That poor girl, that poor Gabriella—”

  “What is the name of the place?”

  “It is in the mountains. It is called Sangieri. It is an old stronghold, not well known to historians. It is not easy to find. I will describe to you the roads you must follow and I will give you a car to go there.”

  22

  O’MALLEY said, “It’s past midnight. You sure this is the right way?” He rubbed his wrists, where he had been bound helplessly in the Vesper’s engine room.

  They had f oho wed Route 186 southwest out of Palermo, climbing the hills to Monreale. Beyond the royal pleasure grounds of ancient Norman kings they drove by the wine-colored cathedral with its Moorish cloisters. Only an occasional truck or flashy sports car passed them toward the city.
Uccelatti had lent them his gun-metal Jaguar with its built-in bar and two-way radio. The night cooled rapidly as they followed the twisting road into the spiny hills. Durell drove. From Monreale they cut left along a secondary road, picked up the larger highway 586 to Altofione, then climbed again along a twisting route out of the valley toward Lago di Piana d’Albanesi.

  O’Malley sat beside Durell on the front bucket seat. Bruno and Joey sat in the back. There was an air of constraint among all of them. A few minutes after O’Malley spoke Durell found the small graveled road that ran south across a small bridge and then wound into the barren, treeless mountains of interior Sicily.

  “You waiting for an apology, Cajun?” O’Malley asked finally.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Durell said.

  O’Malley looked wolfish in the glow from the walnut-veneered dashboard. “I figured the odds at seven to five I made the right break.”

  “You gambled with Gabriella’s life when you pulled out in Naples.”

  “I figured it was helping her, Cajun. And the way she looked at you and depended on you.” O’Malley paused. “So I was wrong. I was stupid. I never wanted to put her in danger by goin’ to her. She comes first with me. When I saw what happened, I decided to hell with patriotism and I tried to pull her out of it the best I could. So thanks for getting me out of the jam— after I was so dumb about it.”

  “We’re not out of it yet. Gabriella’s had a long start. Kronin might have her by now.”

  “Don’t rub in the salt, Cajun.”

  “You need it,” Durell said.

  The lush coastal area of palms and almond trees was far behind. The mountains, long stripped of their forests by ancient seafarers for ship timbers, looked barren and desolate. Now and then they passed a shepherd’s hut, dark and forlorn, in the craggy defiles. The air turned chilly. There were no road signs. Now and then a rutted trail led from the road Durell followed, and once he lost a precious five minutes at a fork where the branches seemed equally important. Low stone walls lined their way.