Bloody Passage (1999)

by Jack Higgins

  We found him with no trouble, standing in front of a black marble tomb with bronze eternity doors. He was wearing a white Burberry trenchcoat and rain hat, which didn't surprise me. Buying all his clothes in England was one of his affectations.

  I said to Langley, "You stay here," and started forward and in the same moment the chauffeur, whom I'd last seen sitting behind the wheel of the Alfa, stepped from behind a tomb on my right holding a Sterling sub-machine gun in both hands.

  Barzini swung round and I raised my hands and called in English, "It's me, Aldo. Oliver Grant."

  He smiled instantly. "Oliver, baby, what's new?"

  He spoke English with a strong American accent, relic of a boyhood spent in New York where his parents had emigrated for a time and laced with strange, anachronistic slang like something out of a pulp magazine of the thirties.

  He said to the chauffeur, "It's all right, Luigi. Back to the car."

  The chauffeur moved away and when he was close enough, Barzini gave me the full embrace including a smacking kiss on each cheek to show I was considered family.

  He held me away from him and I could feel the strength in those hands. "You're looking good, boy. Where've you been keeping yourself?"

  "Here and there," I said. "You don't look any older. You must keep a portrait in the attic or something." He frowned in puzzlement and I added hastily, "An English joke."

  He thumped his chest and grinned. "I'm fine. Never been better. Different girl every night."

  He roared with laughter and took out a cheap Egyptian cheroot. It was really quite amazing. He just didn't seem to age. Although there was a silver hair or two in the sweeping moustache, the face was tanned and healthy and the teeth were as bad as ever. Some things never changed.

  He glanced over my shoulder at Langley. "Who's your friend?"

  "No friend, Aldo," I said. "I'm in trouble. Bad trouble."

  His face went very still and the gray eyes suddenly had the same sort of shine that you get when light gleams on the edge of a cut throat razor. "And you came to me, boy? That's good. I like that. Tell me about it."

  He gave me one of those vile Egyptian cheroots of his and we sat on the edge of a tomb and I told him the whole story. As I talked, he kept eyeing Langley who waited at the end of the path twenty or thirty yards away, sheltering under the umbrella.

  When I was finished he said softly, "And this is one of them, this bastard here?"

  I nodded.

  He said, "I know of this Stavrou. A big man with Mafia in the States, but not anymore. Why don't you let me get a few friends together and we'll all go down to Capo Passero and break his skull."

  "It wouldn't work," I said. "My sister's on borrowed time now. I've got to go through with it. It's the only way."

  "It's possible, then?"

  "I think so."

  "Good." He smiled cheerfully. "We'll go back to my place and you tell me how we're going to do it."

  I don't think I've ever felt so relieved in my life as I turned and followed him along the path. As we reached Langley he grinned, "Everything all right, old stick?"

  Barzini looked him over. "And this is one of them, this girl-boy?" He shook his head. "Mother of God, what's the world coming to?" He took me by the arm, dismissing Langley completely and said as we moved away, "You know, my friend, there are days when I feel like climbing into one of my own coffins and pulling down the lid."

  5

  A Special Kind of Woman

  I drove back to Palermo in the Alfa with Barzini, and when we reached the funeral premises in Via San Marco we found that Langley had beaten us to it and was standing waiting on the pavement beside the Mercedes.

  "Ah, there you are, old stick," he said as I got out. "What kept you?"

  Barzini remained unimpressed. "I don't like him," he said. "His smile--it's like a brass plate on a coffin. You're sure you want this pig along?"

  For once Langley looked as if he didn't know what in the hell to say next. I said, "He's the banker, remember."

  "All right," Barzini said grudgingly and prodded Langley in the chest with a stubby forefinger. "Only mind your manners and keep your mouth shut."

  We followed him along the candlelit hall; he opened the door at the rear and we passed through into some sort of preparation room. There were corpses laid out, some of them being worked on by morticians. Most of them wore new clothes and the faces had been carefully made up to create some semblance of life.

  Barzini paused briefly to make a suggestion to an old man who was working on the face of a little girl of perhaps seven or eight, then continued on his way calmly. Langley didn't look too happy and I wasn't exactly delighted with the whole thing myself.

  But things were going downhill fast, for when Barzini opened another door, we followed him through into an immense arched room dimly lit, heavy with the scent of flowers. There were rows of coffins on either side, each with an occupant.

  At the far end of the room wooden steps lifted to a small glass office. Barzini mounted them briskly and a uniformed man sitting at a desk inside stood to greet him.

  "These gentlemen and I have business to discuss, Guido," he said. "Go and have something to eat. Take an hour."

  Guido saluted and made himself scarce and Barzini closed the door after him. Langley gazed down through the glass window in fascinated horror at the rows of corpses below.

  "You like it?" Barzini said. "You want I should find a place for you? We call it the Waiting Hall. You'd be surprised how many people have a pathological fear of being buried alive. They like to be certain, so we leave them here for a while. Notice the cord running into each coffin. One end connected to a bell, the other to a ring on the corpse's finger. The slightest movement and a bell sounds up here. That's why we have an attendant day and night."

  There was a moment's silence when he finished and then, quite distinctly, one of the bells above his head tinkled.

  "Good God Almighty!" Langley exclaimed, genuine horror on his face, and his hand dipped inside his coat and came out holding a Walther PPK.

  Barzini laughed harshly. "And just what do you think you're going to do with that?" he demanded and pushed it aside with the back of his hand.

  He opened the door and went down the steps quickly. We watched him cross to a coffin and examine a corpse. The bell tinkled faintly again, he turned and came back.

  "Nothing to worry about. Those warning bells are so sensitive that the least movement of the corpse sets them going."

  Langley's forehead was beaded with sweat and his eyes were wild. "Does it ever happen for real?" he whispered.

  "Twice last year. A middle-aged woman sat up in her shroud in the middle of the night and started screaming." Langley's eyes almost started from his head and Barzini patted his cheek and grinned delightedly. "See, Oliver, he isn't so tough after all."

  He sat on the edge of the desk and pushed another of those lousy Egyptian cheroots into his mouth. "Let's have it. How do we do this job?"

  "All right," I said. "Getting there is no problem. We can go in by boat with the kind of front that would be acceptable to anybody."

  "And the prison?"

  "Something else again."

  I described it in detail and when I'd finished, he frowned. "It sounds like Fort Knox to me. And you say you've got a way in?"

  "I think so. The cliffs on the seaward side are about one hundred and fifty feet high. Supposedly impregnable. Because of that they never have more than two guards on the ramparts."

  "Are you trying to say you think they could be climbed?"

  "If someone on the ramparts was in place to throw down a line at the right moment and pull up a climbing rope. And I'll need a number two. Preferably the sort of guy who's at home on a rock face."

  "But you've still got to get somebody inside to be on the ramparts at the right time," Langley said. "I mean, it's just not on. They don't even let civilians into the bloody place to work."

  "Oh, yes, they do," I turned to Barzini. "
Every Friday night a local operator named Zingari, who's now working for us, sends in a couple of truckloads of women to amuse the troops, special dispensation of Colonel Masmoudi who always has first choice and never fails to pick less than two according to Zingari."

  Barzini seemed amused. "And you're suggesting that your inside operator should be a woman? Someone who would gain access by passing herself off as a whore?"

  "No great trick in that. Zingari, as I said, is working for us and he told me himself he's always having to bring fresh girls in from Tripoli."

  Langley laughed wildly. "For God's sake, Grant, you're living in cloud cuckoo land. Do you realize what you're asking for? A woman able to pass as a whore, willing to act as one if the going gets rough, capable of disposing of two armed sentries on the north wall."

  I said, "It would take an exceptional woman, I grant you, but it's the only way, believe me. The one flaw in their security. The only one."

  Barzini laughed harshly. "I like it and it's just crazy enough to work, but as you say, one would need an exceptional woman."

  "And I suppose you just happen to have one in mind?" Langley said sourly.

  Barzini sighed heavily. "No faith, that's the trouble with you young people today." He turned to me. "There's a girl called Angel Carter appearing at the Tabu this week. That's a beach club on the way to Romagnolo. A new business interest of mine. First show seven-thirty. I'll introduce you tonight. You'll find her rather unusual."

  "Fine," I said. "I'll buy that, but what about my other requirement?"

  "Someone who's good on a cliff face?" he said. "A climber who's also willing to cut throats? An unusual combination." He hesitated. "Did I ever tell you about my nephew, Nino, my brother's boy?"

  "I don't think so."

  "The original wild one. They sent him to university, but he got thrown out. Did his military service in the Alps with a mountain regiment, then came home and killed a man in a quarrel over some stupid girl."

  "What happened?"

  "He took to the maquis. Lived as a bandit in the Cammarata mountains for almost three years. I finally got him a pardon for his mother's sake by laying out a little money."

  "Where is he now?"

  "That's the trouble, he's on the run again. The Mafia this time." Barzini sighed and shook his head. "Would you believe it, but he has to choose the daughter of the Capo Mafia of all Sicily to put in the family way. Ten thousand dollars for anyone who brings in his head. Believe me there haven't been so many looking for one man since the days of Guiliano."

  "From the sound of things I'd say he'd be glad of a way out. How do we get hold of him?"

  "A phone call to the right person is all it takes."

  As he lifted the receiver, the bell tinkled and Langley started violently. Barzini laughed. "Why don't you go and make the check this time, Mr. Langley?"

  Langley glared helplessly at him and Barzini was still laughing as he dialed the number.

  In Sicily on All Saints' Day the children are given presents from the dead and the graves are probably the best kept in the world. In a society so concerned with death it is not surprising to discover that there are at least eight thousand corpses in the catacombs. But the state of affairs at the Capuchin Zita Church was even more interesting. It was a place much visited by tourists and Barzini's informant had insisted on meeting him there face-to-face, just to make sure he was talking to the right person before disclosing Nino's whereabouts.

  There was no sign of anyone when we got there, only a verger in soiled black cassock who swept the floor.

  "I'll wait here," Barzini said. "You two might as well have a look below while you're here. You'll find it very interesting."

  We went down some steps into a high room--an enormously high room. I think it was one of the most horrible sights I have ever seen in my life. The shelves were piled high with desiccated corpses, all with name plates around their necks. Some were skeletons, some had flesh on their bones, eyes that stared, tufted hair.

  We left in a hurry and I think Langley was fractionally ahead as we went up the stairs. Barzini was standing in the centre of the church making a note in a pocket diary.

  "You lousy bastard," Langley said.

  "Didn't you like it?" Barzini shrugged. "The aristocracy of Palermo. Do you know that people come on Sundays to point out their ancestors?"

  "To hell with their bloody ancestors," Langley said. "What's happened to this guy you were supposed to see?"

  "You mean the verger?" Barzini said. "I've already spoken to him. He's just gone. Nino will be waiting at a trattoria on the other side of the village of Misilmeri on the road to Agrigento. Better to make it after dark so I said ten o'clock. That gives us nice time to see Angel Carter."

  He turned and walked out and we followed, utterly defeated.

  You could hear Club Tabu from a long way away and the car park was almost full in spite of the fact that it was so early in the evening.

  Once inside, you could have been in London, Paris or Las Vegas. The decor and design of such places is the same the world over along with the steaks straight from the freezer and the packaged food. There was a casino which seemed to be doing good business and up on the stage a trio played modern jazz brilliantly although nobody seemed to be paying much attention.

  We settled ourselves at the bar and had a drink. Barzini glanced at his watch. "Not long now, then you'll see what I mean."

  A few moments later there was a drum roll and a compere came on stage to announce the commencement of the floor show. The effect was remarkable. The casino emptied of all but the most hardened gamblers and there was a general rush for seats.

  A larger orchestra now took their places on the stand and someone checked the mike. A moment later the compere ran on to a drum roll and announced in four languages that the Club Tabu was proud and happy to present, straight from her sensational run at the Moulin Rouge in Paris, Miss Angel Carter.

  He ran for the wings, the lights went out completely. A single spot picked her out of the darkness, one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever clapped eyes on, long blonde hair hanging straight to the shoulders, a simple green silk mini dress with pleated skirt, black stockings, gold shoes with enormously high heels.

  When she started to sing, you'd have thought it was Judy Garland come down to earth again. The same emotion deep in the throat, the same way of breaking a note in two so that it sent something crawling up your spine.

  She started to work her way through all the old standards. A Foggy Day, September Song, The Lady is a Tramp, and had them eating out of her hand, especially the men when she moved out along the boardwalk above the heads of the audience.

  I said to Barzini, "Listen, she's fantastic, but what in the hell am I supposed to do with her except the obvious thing? She wouldn't last five minutes on the kind of caper we're contemplating."

  "Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that," he said. "She has certain unusual qualities. Anyway, I'd like you to meet her, so we'd better get round to the back now. She only has one more number to do."

  We pushed our way through the crowd to one side and negotiated the stage door with no difficulty as Barzini was obviously known. Angel Carter's name was on the door of a dressing room in a corridor at the rear and we walked outside. She was still singing up there on the stage, presumably an encore. When she finished, the audience stamped and cheered again, but this time it didn't do them any good. The band broke into a fast quickstep and a moment later she came down the steps.

  As she reached the bottom, an astonishing thing happened. Two men in evening dress who had been standing there talking in low tones suddenly grabbed her.

  The larger one, a thoroughly nasty-looking specimen, said in Italian, "Okay, baby, you're coming out with us tonight."

  "Definitely!" the other one said and ran a hand up her skirt.

  They were both obviously pretty drunk. I took a step forward and Barzini pulled me back. Angel Carter pulled free and delivered a high karate kick to the bi
g man's jaw and the effect of that stiletto heel was devastating. At the same time, she put a knee into the other man's gut and gave it him again in the face as he keeled over.

  Such was the vigor of the movement that her blond wig came off and all was revealed, for underneath was a very old-fashioned GI haircut. Angel Carter was a man.

  He stamped down the corridor, clutching the blond wig and cursing fluently in very explicit Anglo-Saxon.

  "Good evening, Angelo," Barzini said.

  Carter stopped dead and glared at him, "And what in the hell's good about it? I'm sick of getting touched up by drunken bums every night. I quit. If you've got anything better to offer, come in. If you haven't, get lost."

  He walked into the dressing room, skirt swirling, and slammed the door.

  Barzini grinned. "Like I said, a very exceptional woman." He opened the door and we followed him in.

  Angelo Carter was seated at a dressing table dialing a phone number. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Barzini gave him a light and Carter started to speak in rapid and fluent Italian to some girl called Rosanna, telling her that he'd be calling just after midnight.

  "His mother was Italian, which explains the Angelo," Barzini said. "Father, American."

  Angelo slammed down the receiver, reached for a bottle of Scotch and poured about three fingers into a tumbler. Barzini said, "So you're going to do the second show?"

  "Only because I owe you," Angelo said. "But, after that, finish. Final and definite." He swallowed half his whisky and looked across at Langley and me. "What's this supposed to be? Open night?"

  "I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine, Major Grant," Barzini said. "You've got a lot in common."

  "No, I haven't," Angelo said firmly. "Not with any major I ever heard of."

  "You were both in Vietnam."