"Ahhh, but that never seems to happen, Rocco darling. But, if you prefer I not."
"No. No, go. I am going out for a short time anyway. I will meet you at Alberto's for dinner."
Adrianna hesitates for a moment, grimacing. "Must we? Alberto's brings back such horrid thoughts. Besides the wonderful handsome young man, Antonio, is no longer there."
"We can go elsewhere. You choose. I'll meet you back here. In the lounge. The bar, at sunset. Yes?"
"Yes, thank you, darling." She comes to the bedside and kisses Rocco on the cheek as he sits up and swings his legs over the side. As she turns to leave, he gives her a lover's swat on the butt. Adrianna squeals in delight, feigns strutting, hips swaying like a street-walker on the prowl as she makes her way to the door. Waves goodbye over her shoulder and is gone.
Rocco gets up, steps to the telephone, dials while sliding into the seat.
After a few moments, Rocco says, "Have you found him yet?"
A pause of several seconds, then Rocco blurts, "Where?" Listens again and asks, "Is he there now?" Again moments pass, then Rocco stands, says, "Keep an eye on him. I'm coming right now. If necessary, keep him there," slamming the phone to rest.
Rocco shoots to his feet. Growls, "The little prick is ruining my vacation." Nonetheless he claps and rubs his hands together vigorously on the way to the closet.
Always good to stay in practice.
In a closed tool shed behind the Muldoon row house, he and the Shanahan brothers meet. Of course the pit bull, his son, Conor, is in attendance. The elder Muldoon sits upon a work bench, hand resting on a vise. Conor stands to his left, leaning against the bench, busy picking strands of corned-beef from between his teeth. Danny and Sean Shanahan sit against the weather-worn wooden walls, each on a rickety, three-legged old wood bar stool. They are across from Muldoon. Eyes fixed on the large, gruff old Irishman.
Danny asks, "Why are we meeting here? Why not our usual so we can have a pint or two?"
"'Cause, lad, no one must hear what I am about tellin' ya. No one." The statement captures the Shanahan's attention immediately.
"And that is?"
"My source in the 'Colonies'," and he laughs with use of the word, "informs me that the murderer of your brother, Paddy, that Kerrigan gent, is in Europe. Not only that, but he passed through London and is now on the continent as we speak."
The brothers slide off their stools. Eyes flashing anger.
Muldoon continues. "He is on his way to Pisa, in Italy. He is searching for a man named Antonio Rizzo. And, he has company. A woman is traveling with him pretendin' to be his spouse. They will be using the name of Frati. Leonardo and Catarina."
Danny steps forward, virtually hissing. "We need to go there. Now. I want revenge. We want revenge for Paddy ... and the Army."
"I know, lads. And it will be so. The cause will support this mission with the cash and the weapons you be needing. You will be leavin' this very night. Driving to London and flying from there. We will cause a scare to draw attention so it will be easier for the two of ya to slip out of the city here. Now go get what you need to travel and meet me in the alley behind Paddy Collins' garage. One hour. I will have everything you need."
Danny clasps the elder Muldoon's hand and says, "We won't be lettin' you or the cause down. Nor Paddy, for sure." Sean comes forward, does as his brother did, and they leave, bursting through the door. Each giving the cool Irish air a fist pump and the loose gravel in the alley a kick.
Conor Muldoon clears his throat and asks, "This is good news. How can you know so much?"
"Me source is good. The best. The conductor of the orchestra so to speak." He laughs and claps his son on the shoulder, continuing, "And we'll be gettin' paid handsomely for it. Can you imagine that? C'mon now, we've work to do."
"We. I never see any of the 'we'."
"If ya did, you'd waste it on that trollup."
At Langley, John MacBeer, the DCI, glances at his watch. Calls his secretary on the intercom and asks, "What time is my next appointment?"
The scratchy reply drones the device. "A meeting in one hour. Upstairs. On the Pisces project."
"Get Zachary on the phone."
"Yes, sir." The click ends the low rushing sound on the intercom, much like the squelch knob on a field radio did in his younger days.
MacBeer has little patience, but it isn't tested. In moments his buzzer signals his secretary's efficiency like an angry bee. He glances at the light, punches the button, and picks up the phone. "Joe?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get up here and brief me on the Pisces' mission. I haven't heard a word from you in days." Click.
He gets up from behind his desk, ambles to his conference table bringing his coffee. Sits, and leans back in the chair, both hands clasped behind his head, looking out his office window for several minutes. Huge cumulus storm clouds have built up late in the day and are preparing to vent their anger on Virginia, hence the sky isn't forecasting a sailor's delight.
Finally, John MacBeer half sighs and half mutters, "Must be an omen."
"What's that, Chief?" Joe Zachary says as he enters.
"Nothing. Sit. Start talking and no bullshit. I want hard facts. An update. I've got a meeting upstairs in less than an hour. Only on this project of yours. Seems strange."
"My project?" He looks with raised eyebrows at MacBeer. "My project? Really? I didn't think anyone was that interested. Bigger things going on in the world. Did you know, hear, that the Israelis lost a man in Italy? At a seaside resort of all places. And ..."
"Get started."
"Yes, sir."
CHAPTER 20
"Be careful not to make
a woman weep."
A proverb
After a few ticks and tocks over one minute, Joe Zachary stops and says, "That's it. We haven't heard from him since London. If he's left, I assume it's to Geneva, and then on to Pisa."
"I understand his schedule. His plan. I want to know what he did or found in London. Where he is right now? What am I supposed to tell the boss, and then the President? We don't know? Are you nuts?"
"Sir, this isn't a high priority Op. You said. 'no rush, just get it done.' And you said it was a good opening assignment for Kerrigan, particularly since what Pisces did to his family." Joe pauses, looks at his notes. "The killing of Ms. McGee is a much higher priority than this. And so is what happened to the Irishman, O'Rourke. We're running into nothing but an universe-size black hole on that front. Along with these we still have Black Ops boiling in Southeast Asia, let alone I've got five operatives in Germany that are up to their a ... their butts getting those sources out. The ones you demanded we must have. This Pisces issue is just a routine, back burner job as far as the Agency goes. Your own words ... Sir."
John MacBeer settles in his seat, slumping almost. His complexion pales back to his normal office pallor after his unrestrained explosion. "You're right." He inhales deeply. Rubs his hands together, relaxes, then clasps them together under his nose. "I'm getting upset about nothing. Continue your brief."
"Yes, sir. Sure you're okay, Chief? Seem a bit out of sorts."
MacBeer shakes his head quickly several times, motions with his index finger to continue and not dally while saying, "No, no, no. Get on with it."
Joe Zachary looks at his folder and in a steady drone ticks off the status of each Op or project. It takes a solid thirty minutes of rapid fire, staccato-like comments, along with Joe pushing several photos forward for MacBeer to view. Then snatching them back and going on to the finish, ending with, "Questions, sir?"
"No. Good job." Then after a brief hesitation he asks, "Will Agent Kerrigan get this done? I mean, he's shiny-penny-new, and possibly I should have had you put someone deeper in experience on this Pisces Op."
"He'll be fine, sir. Pisces is going down ... as is everything and everyone involved. Soon. And, sir, rest assured when I hear anything, I'll keep you on top of it. Won't leave you in the dark."
They b
oth fix their eyes on each other. Unspoken words being exchanged. The moment seems longer than it is since each knows more than what has been said and each is assessing the other. They both want this introspecting staring to end. Two stags with full racks of antlers. Charge or walk away. MacBeer clears his throat and stands. Joe closes his folder and stands as well. Thinking the meeting is over, he takes a step toward leaving when MacBeer asks, "Joe. What kind of man is this Hunter Kerrigan? I should have studied his file more closely. Perhaps I should have gotten to know him better. You know, I knew his father well. Extremely well. Fine man. Loyal to the bone."
Joe Zachary stops and turns as if on a bungee line, before the question is finished. Asks, "What?"
"You heard me. What kind of man is Kerrigan?"
"No, I mean about his father?"
MacBeer frowns. "I said I knew him well. Fine man and loy ..."
"Yeah, you did, and the consensus was he was set-up. Somehow. Well, anyway, about Hunter Kerrigan." Joe pauses, gazes directly into his boss's eyes, a slow grin spreading across his face like a young boy being granted permission to play doctor by the neighbor's daughter. He brings his file folder to chest level, tapping it on his tie.
"Well, John, a Sergeant of his, Skip Raye, I believe that was his name, probably said it the best I've ever heard when he was asked that same question by their Battalion Commander. He quoted an anonymous saying. It went something like this: 'Well, sir. He's the type of man that when he arises in the morning and his feet hit the deck, the Devil says, Oh shit, he's up'. That's the best description I ever heard of Hunter A. W. Kerrigan, the Hawk."
MacBeer, frustrated, stands and with his palms pressed hard down against his meticulously polished mahogany conference table, uncharacteristically stammers, "Wh ... What?"
"Yes, sir. And, sir, he is The Hawk, and The Hawk is out ... sir." Joe smiles, his burnt toast dark eyes sparkling as he nods a departing, "Yes, sir. The Hawk is out and I'd hate to be a rabbit running." And strides out of MacBeer's conference room as his boss stands mute, stunned, perplexed and flushing scarlet as he sits once again.
His secretary eases into the room, says, "Mr. MacBeer, your meeting is in ... Sir, are you all right?"
"Yes. Yes." He feigns a polite smile and returns to his desk, picks up a folder and adds, "On my way. Thank you."
His secretary titters as he brushes past, "Mr. Zachary sure seems up today. Like the proverbial cat."
"He did, did he?" He buttons his suit coat and marches out of the office. As the executive elevator doors slide open like a slow yawn, John MacBeer steps in and turns about, staring out through the still yawning doors. Then, finished and alert again, the doors hiss close.
John mutters, "This needs to end. They all need to die ... Pisces, Kerrigan, Dee, Zachary and DeStefano when he finishes it for me."
After gathering more than sufficient cash, additional passports, ID's, credit cards and such from the bank, Hunter calls Joe again and passes on to him his rough plan and schedule. Then he catches a taxi and picks up Dee where they agreed, the shop Pivoine Su, on Cours de Rive. She's ready and bounds into the taxi and they ride to Geneva's Cointrin International Airport amidst traffic and Dee's shop-til-you-drop babble. There, as Aimee and Laurent Badeau, they stop for a bite to eat of airport restaurant food. At least in Geneva, and other European airports, it's better than the US of A airport saturated fast-food garbage. After ordering and sipping iced-tea while listening to Aimee describe her new outfits, one of which she's wearing, Laurent interrupts, "Good. Sounds great. Beautiful on you." He pauses, puts his hand up, palm outward, and continues. "Now then, we have a slight change of plans."
"What? What's happened? Is there a problem?"
"Nothing. No. A precaution only. We're going to split up so as to not arrive together. You'll take a flight to Pisa ahead of me. I'm goin' to hang back and watch. Then follow, and watch. Then hook up with you."
"Watch for what? Anything in particular?"
Their food order arrives. Bratwurst sandwiches on pretzel rolls and a pile of sauerkraut. Hunter puts a finger to his lips, waits until served and the waitress departs leaving the check on the table. Then he continues. "Ah, let's see. Oh, yes. The Israelis. Others. Anything out of the norm." He takes a forkful of the kraut. "Mmmm. Good. When you get to Pisa, get a taxi and go to the Grand Hotel Duomo on Via Santa Maria. It's in Duomo Square, a few minutes from the Tower. We'll travel as we are, but separately and check in as Leonardo and Caterina Frati. The room is reserved." He takes a gigantic, famished bite of the mustard-loaded brat sandwich. Chews frantically and while still not done, says, "Tell them your husband will be along soon. Stay in your room until I get there. If I'm delayed, order room service if you need it. Got it?" Takes another bite. Slurps, "Try the Dusseldorf Mustard. It's great."
Aimee hurries to finish her mouthful. "Yes, I've got it. How far behind will you be? Try the what?"
"A few hours. Perhaps slightly more. Not long. The mustard. German, great taste."
"Okay. Now then, how do you like this outfit? Be truthful." Takes a healthy bite, chews a few times and points at the mustard, adds while chewing and swallowing, "That is good."
"The outfit looks great. Especially on you." He stuffs in the last of a bratwurst sandwich. "Let's go." He stands.
"I'm not fin ..."
"Yeah you are. We've got to hurry. Your plane leaves in thirty minutes. C'mon." He motions to the waitress, leaving cash on the table. Waits a moment while Aimee stuffs in a mouthful of the brat sandwich and then clamors to her feet. She wipes her hands on a napkin and snatches her bags half choking on the brat. He leads her by the arm toward the ticket counter. As they rush along, Hunter says, "You'll be going through Rome. An hour lay-over, then change planes to Pisa. Keep everything with you. Be watching for any tails, suspicious looking people. Singles or in pairs. Anyone. You know the drill. If you see something out of the norm, sit at the nearest cafe to your departure gate and watch for me. I'll check before I leave when I come through. Okay?"
"Yep."
"Good. Here we are. I'll get the tickets."
Hunter, as Laurent, does just that including his later flight. Then he hands Aimee a envelope with the tickets, some cash, gives her a husbandly peck on the cheek, smiles and waves her along the concourse to her gate. Aimee, glancing back every few seconds, scurries along since they've called the flight for boarding more than several minutes ago. Hunter sits across the concourse, deep inside a dimly lit bar and grill. From the darkened corner table he watches Aimee and everyone else coming, going, sitting, and standing. Then one late and hurrying boarding duo, then at the last possible moment a second. From their dour clothing and general looks Hunter is certain they are eastern bloc. Cheap suits, a few of the ties showing the creases from not being untied, only tightened and slid down to remove. Heavy, scuffed shoes. One duo he doesn't recognize but his bet would be they're Russian. This is based on his "ded reckoning" since one of the men in the other duo he recognizes. His walk is with a nearly indistinguishable limp. He's a Stassi agent. A known assassin, Helmut Faust. His last name means fist, and Helmut has hams for hands.
Someone is drawing a crowd.
Hunter continues sitting, watching until the plane departs. Stands, strolls to a newsstand and purchases a local paper while still watching the departure gate and surrounding area. Then sits again for a time reading his Tribune de Geneva and watching the ebb and flow of activity in the terminal. He sees no other Russian and German duos. Finally, when satisfied all is to his liking, he goes to another terminal and arranges a charter flight to Calabria as Alfonse Battaglia.
Alfonse's plans are different than Leonardo's, Laurent's, and Ian's. But never from Hunter's.
Roberto Catalano steps out of the front door of the Le Oasi B&B to find Chiarina Russo's 1971 white Mercedes-Benz 280 SL Roadster and chauffeur waiting. The driver eyes Roberto who is wearing beige linen slacks, pale blue short- sleeve shirt worn loosely and white slip-on loafers, no socks. At first a poli
te smile of acknowledgment, then a nod of approval of the person. Roberto knows the man is more than a chauffeur. His age hints of a left-over from when Giordano, Chiarina's husband, was alive. Nonetheless Roberto is politely welcomed, the door held open, and as he slides in, the driver asks in reasonable English, "Do you minda the top down?"
Roberto smiles, looking up at the cloudless sky, "No. Is fine. Wonderful in fact," and takes in a deep breath.
The driver closes the door and scurries to the driver's side, slips in, starts the engine which hums to life sounding like a piano's bass keys with the soft pedal applied. They leap away from the Le Oasi as the driver says, "Not longa. Only three or four kilometers unless you would likea to see the city centre. Signora Russo wanta you to seea some of our town."
"Sounds good to me. Drive on, ahhh ... " Roberto shrugs and raises his eyebrows.
"Benito."
"Good. Yes, Benito, the tour sounds like just the ticket before ... whatever."
Benito frowns, not unnoticeably. Nonetheless, the tour goes well and adds only a kilometer or two for the trip to Chiarina's villa. Roberto Catalano realizes they are close when they leave the main roadway and slow for the travel down Strada Vicinale Frammina Morte, which Roberto recognizes from a map he viewed. Then turn again onto another paved but more narrow roadway, Viale Mediterraneo, which parallels the Tyrrhenian Sea. Benito slows, turns and eases onto a gravel road that leads to the Russo home, which is truly a villa by the sea. Roberto sits back for a few seconds taking in the view of the white stucco walls and red tiled roof of the villa while Benito hustles around the hood of the 280 to Catalano's side of the Mercedes.
Why would she want to leave all this? We should keep both.
Roberto's thought is interrupted by Benito opening the door of the car, and Chiarina opening the front door of the villa. She and Roberto meet halfway between the car and the villa. She opens and stretches out her arms, palms gracefully up in a warm polite manner saying, "Buona serva, Roberto." They hug gently, she brushing each of his cheeks with hers, then floats back, leaving her right hand extended. Says, "Ciao."
Ded Reckoning Page 21
