“In what way?” asked Bellu.
“He confirmed the arrival time in Malta and told me that the subject had departed by sea for Marseilles three weeks ago.”
“That’s all?”
Satta nodded. “Yes, that’s all.”
“So what makes it curious and interesting?”
Satta smiled. “The Maltese police are efficient — it’s a legacy from the British. But they’re not that efficient, and their data is not computerized. Zammit had the information at his fingertips, which means he’s taken a personal interest. Yet when I asked if he knew anything more about the man, he told me they have half a million visitors a year, and he’s understaffed and overworked. He’s holding something back — why?”
They were interrupted by the arrival of the telex reply from Paris. The machine clattered for a long time and the roll of paper that Satta eventually read was over three feet long. He read silently, and Bellu waited expectantly. Finally Satta rolled the paper into a tube, held it between his palms, and leaned back in his chair.
“The premium bodyguard,” he said softly, “was, and maybe is again, a very lethal human being.”
He stood up abruptly.
“Let’s drive to Como and have a chat with Balletto and his exquisite wife.”
In the house by the lake the Ballettos were at dinner sitting across from each other at the polished table. She was thinner but had retained her beauty. He appeared unchanged. She had lost something precious. He still had what was all-important.
The door opened and they turned expecting to see Maria with the dessert. The doorway was filled with the bulk of Creasy. He stood still, his eyes moving from one to the other. They stared back, mesmerized.
Ettore recovered first. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.
Creasy moved forward, picked up a chair, reversed it and sat down, his arms resting on the back. He looked at Ettore. “I’m going to talk to your wife. If you move or say one word, I’m going to kill you.”
He reached under his jacket and put a heavy pistol on the table before him.
“It’s loaded,” he said, with a trace of sarcasm.
Ettore looked at the gun and his body went slack and he sank down into his chair. Creasy turned to Rika. The hard lines of his face softened; his voice became gentle.
“I’m going to tell you a story.”
He told her what he had learned from Fossella: that Pinta’s kidnapping had been a setup — an insurance job. Ettore had taken out a policy with Lloyd’s of London for two billion lire. The deal had been that Fossella would kick back half the ransom to Ettore. Vico Mansutti had been the go-between. He had connections with organized crime; he got a commission. As she listened, Rika’s eyes never left Creasy’s face. Only when he finished did she turn and look at her husband. The hatred that flowed across the table was incarnate — physical. Ettore slumped lower into his chair, his mouth opened and then closed, and his eyes slid away.
“The others? The ones that did it? You killed them?”
Creasy nodded. “I’m going to kill every one that profited. That includes the boss in Rome and the big one in Palermo.”
Silence again in the large, elegant room, then Rika’s voice, half talking to herself, musing.
“He comforted me. Told me we still had each other — life goes on.”
She looked up at Creasy, her eyes no longer reflecting memories — hardening.
“You said all of them?”
He picked up the pistol from the table and nodded.
“I came here to kill him.”
Ettore looked up, not at Creasy but at his wife. His handsome face had lost all its character; his eyes were windows into nothing.
Creasy put the pistol away and stood up.
“Perhaps I should leave him to you.”
“Yes!” The word hissed out. “Leave him to me — please.”
Creasy moved to the door, but Rika’s voice stopped him.
“What about Mansutti?”
He turned and shook his head.
“Don’t worry about Mansutti.”
The door closed behind him.
As Satta and Bellu drove along the lakeshore road, a blue Alfetta passed them, going the other way.
In his penthouse apartment, Vico Mansutti received a phone call. Ettore was hysterical, almost incoherent. Vico could barely understand a word.
“Just wait,” he said sharply. “I’ll be there within an hour. Get a grip on yourself.”
He quickly slipped on a jacket and told his inquiring wife that there was a slight crisis. He would be back late.
In the basement garage he climbed into his Mercedes, switched on the ignition — and half a kilo of Plastique.
Satta was profoundly impressed. He sat back in his chair and said, with great reverence:
“Never, I repeat never, have I tasted a better fritto misto.”
Guido shrugged indifferently. “We are not all peasants in Naples.”
“Obviously not,” Satta agreed, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “But for an ex-criminal, ex-convict, ex-Legionnaire, ex-mercenary, you have some exotic talents. You don’t play backgammon, by any chance?”
Guido looked puzzled. “I do, but what’s that got to do with anything?”
Satta smiled. “It’s prophetic. My stay here is going to be most enjoyable.”
“I told you,” Guido scowled. ‘The pensione is closed — go to a hotel.”
Satta poured the last of the chilled Lacrima Christi and sipped appreciatively. When he spoke, his voice had lost its bantering edge.
“You, of all people, understand the reality of the situation. It’s certain that, by now, Cantarella knows who is running amok among his organization. His facilities are as good as mine — perhaps better. It won’t be long before they trace him back to you, and then some of the boys will be around to ask you questions. They will be much less polite than me.”
Guido shrugged again. “I can take care of myself.”
But he took Satta’s point. Only an hour ago Elio had phoned from Milan to advise that two well-dressed but covertly threatening men had called at his office to inquire about his recommendation of Creasy to the agency. Acting on Guido’s instructions, he had told them simply that he had been doing his brother a favour. Very soon some of the locals would be knocking on the door of the pensione. It was true that, with the Carabinieri colonel in attendance, they would keep their distance.
“I’ll make you up a room,” he said shortly. “But don’t expect breakfast in bed.”
Satta waved a hand deprecatingly. “I’ll be no trouble. And believe me, it’s better — we have a lot to talk about.”
Satta had arrived that evening, after driving all day from Milan. He preferred to drive; it gave him time to think, to review the events of the past week. To come to grips with the reality that one man had taken on the most powerful men in the country.
His mind had gone back to the interview with the Ballettos in the house by the lake. The extraordinary scene that had greeted them.
The normally urbane Balletto had been ashen and literally quivering, his wife all icy disdain, and beautiful. Satta remembered that beauty; fined down now and perhaps even enhanced by the emotional shocks of the past months.
At first Ettore had refused to talk, pending the arrival of his lawyer; but with the news of Mansutti’s sudden death, he had broken completely and turned to Satta in desperation — a priest — a father figure — a protector. The story had poured from him; disjointed, rambling at times, and to Satta pathetic in its plea for understanding. He had hardly interrupted the flow, only occasionally breaking in to clarify a point, keeping his face and his voice sympathetic.
Bellu had taken notes frenetically while Rika had sat silent and cold, her eyes never leaving her husband’s face, her attitude showing nothing more than disgust.
It was the revelation that Creasy was going on, going after Conti and Cantarella, that had astonished Satta. He had assumed that with the kil
ling of Fossella revenge was satisfied; assumed that the bodyguard would now be running hard for the border — for a distant country.
He had left it to Bellu to start criminal proceedings against Balletto and gone to his apartment to think.
The situation created a deep division within him. On the one hand, Creasy’s actions had struck right to the heart of the Mafia — to its pride. One man! If he should go on and get to Conti, the wound could be disastrous; and if the unthinkable happened, and he killed Cantarella, then the wound could be fatal.
The alliance between Cantarella and Conti was the linchpin of the organization. There would be chaos, and within that chaos he, Satta, would move against every boss left alive, and the organization would be set back by a decade or more. He had no illusions. His job as a policeman could only be one of containment. He couldn’t destroy the monster forever, only stunt its growth. But what an opportunity!
On the other hand, his job was to apprehend killers, no matter whom they were killing, or why. It was not a crisis of conscience. Satta prided himself on having his conscience tidily locked away in a little steel lined box. One day, when he got bored with cynicism, he would open it and surprise himself.
It was a crisis of propriety. In his philosophy, laws could and should be bent; but there had to be laws, and only the enforcers should have the unspoken right to bend them. So Creasy presented a dilemma. He created a unique opportunity, but he affronted Satta’s sense of propriety. He wrestled with his propriety late into the night and finally reached a dignified compromise. Early the next morning he reported to his boss, the general, and told him the whole story and explained the compromise. The general was sympathetic. He trusted Satta. Agreement was reached that Satta would be in full control of the case. The press would be told nothing, although inevitably they would sniff out the story within a few days.
So Bellu was left to tidy up in Milan and then proceed to Rome to be close to Conti, while Satta drove south to Naples. He saw Guido as the key, knew him to be Creasy’s closest friend, and suspected his role in the preparations. Instructions were given to bug the telephone of the Pensione Splendide and intercept its mail. Meanwhile, Satta wanted to know everything about Creasy: his capability, his character, his philosophy. Reports could give him facts. Only Guido could give him substance.
On the same day that Satta drove to Naples, an officer in the records department of the Milan Carabinieri filed a copy of a confidential memo; filed it after reading it very carefully. That evening he took dinner with a friend and substantially increased his financial position. As Satta was enjoying his fritto misto, Conti in Rome was listening incredulously on the phone to Abrata, now the undisputed boss of Milan.
Abrata’s information was complete, right down to the details of Creasy’s past history. His voice on the phone was slightly solicitous. He, after all, was not on the death list.
Conti issued precise instructions and hung up and for several minutes sat deep in thought. Then he rang the special number in Palermo and spoke to Cantarella. The nub of this conversation dealt not so much with the identity of the killer but with the astonishing fact that the police and Carabinieri were taking little or no action. As far as Abrata knew, no general alert had been issued.
All inquiries were in the hands of Colonel Satta, who had left Milan that morning, destination unknown. Politics was obviously involved. Black deeds were being hatched!
After this conversation, Conti was even more thoughtful, for in Cantarella’s voice he had detected a shred of fear. Instead of being forceful and deliberate with his instructions, the “arbitrator” had sounded uncertain, even asking for suggestions. Conti had reassured him. Even without the police, Creasy would soon be eliminated. Now that his identity was known, he would be found within hours. Instructions had already gone out through every tier of the organization.
But Conti wondered about Cantarella’s reaction. Certainly the killer, with his background and motivation, was a dangerous threat, but so far he had operated with the benefit of secrecy and anonymity. Now he had lost that advantage. He would pay for his temerity.
But why Cantarella’s unease? Conti concluded that it was the reaction of a politician. He himself had reached his present position due to the ruthless application of violence. He had seen death often.
Cantarella, on the other hand, had progressed through diplomacy. He had frequently ordered violence, but never taken part himself; never had to. Conti had been a soldier and a general. Cantarella always had been the statesman. Conversely, thinking back over the years, Conti decided that the “arbitrator” had never been directly threatened. At least, not physically. Perhaps that lack of experience now created the concern.
It interested Conti. It was something to think about. Finally, before going to bed, he issued instructions for his personal safety. He owned the ten story apartment building that housed the penthouse in which he lived. From its basement garage upward, security was to be tightened to such an extent that a mouse couldn’t get in or out. The same applied to the building that housed his office, which he also owned.
He was not concerned about his movements between the two buildings. Some years earlier he had done a favour for a compatriot in New York. In return he had received, as a gift, a Cadillac. A very special Cadillac, with three-inch armour plating and bulletproof windows. Conti was very proud of the car. Twice over the years it had been fired on, once with heavy calibre pistols and once with submachine guns. On both occasions he had come through unscathed and unruffled. Even so, he ordered that until further notice a carload of bodyguards would follow the Cadillac at all times. He also decided that in the interim he would take all his meals at home. He was well aware that more bosses had died in restaurants than anywhere else, and not from food poisoning.
Cantarella was indeed frightened. It was a new sensation. The thought of a highly qualified killer making him a target sickened him. He went through stages of anger and indignation, but fear was the constant emotion.
Conti had been confident on the phone — only a matter of hours. But as Cantarella sat behind his desk in his panelled study, he had a very cold feeling. He crossed himself and pulled forward a pad of paper and turned his mind to the security of the Villa Colacci. It could and would be made impregnable.
Before he finished his notes, the phone rang. It was the boss in Naples to inform him that it was impossible to question the owner of the Pensione Splendide. It appeared that he and the forever-damned Colonel Satta of the Carabinieri were as thick as thieves. Cantarella’s unease deepened.
Guido rolled a double four, took off his last three counters, and glanced at the doubling dice. Then he picked up a pen, made a quick calculation, and announced, “Eighty-five thousand lire.”
Satta smiled. It was an effort.
“I should have taken your advice and stayed in a hotel.”
It was the third day and he had eaten several excellent meals, even helping out in the kitchen on occasion, the regular customers having no idea that the salad had been tossed by a full colonel.
Apart from having lost over three hundred thousand lire at backgammon, he had enjoyed his stay. Even that loss had its compensations, for if a man could play with such skill and panache, he earned Satta’s grudging respect.
But it was more than just respect. A positive friendship had developed. It may have been partly the attraction of opposites, for no two men could have been more different, at least on the outside: Guido, taciturn, stocky and broken-nosed; Satta, tall, elegant, talkative, and urbane. But Satta found much to admire in the Neapolitan. Once he began to relax and talk, he showed a deep vein of knowledge of his own society and the world. He also had a dry and perceptive sense of humour, which Satta much appreciated. Of course Satta knew a great deal about Guido’s past. During one conversation he had asked whether Guido did not sometimes get bored with his present occupation. Wasn’t it slightly mundane?
Guido had smiled and shaken his head and remarked that if he wanted excitement
he could go back through the paths of his memory. No, he found the small, prosaic things in life made up a satisfying mosaic. He enjoyed running the pensione, the various quirks and foibles of the regulars who came to eat in the restaurant. He liked watching football on television on Sunday nights, and occasionally going out on the town, and perhaps finding a girl. He was content, especially when he had overeducated policemen to beat at backgammon.
On his part, Satta provided Guido with a puzzle. At first he had viewed the colonel as a misplaced social butterfly who had progressed through family connections. It was not long, however, before he saw through the sardonic exterior and recognized the dedicated and honest man beneath. On the second night, Satta’s elder brother came for dinner and afterward the three of them sat late into the night on the terrace, talking and drinking.
There was a very deep affection between the two brothers, and they included Guido in their family conversation so naturally and easily that he felt a warmth of companionship, a warmth that before had come only in the presence of Creasy.
And they talked of Creasy at great length. Although Satta was convinced that Guido must have contact with him, he never pressed the matter. Several times a day he spoke to Bellu in Rome, and each time was told that there was nothing to report on the telephone or in mail intercepts.
“Only conversations between you and me,” Bellu commented once. “And they are fascinating!”
But Satta was content to wait. Although the newspapers were, by now, very close to unravelling the full story, no mention had yet been made of Creasy. They were full of the scandal of the industrialist who had been charged with engineering his own daughter’s kidnap, and of the prominent lawyer who had been blown to pieces, and the connection between the two; and with the Mafia killings of the past days. It wouldn’t be long before they pieced it all together, and Satta tried to imagine the reaction of the public when the whole story came out — the on-going story.
Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1) Page 25
