The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3)

by A. J. Quinnell

  At first it had been dangerous but also exhilarating. During the early weeks she had often heard gunfire from the direction of Tiranë, twenty miles to the south. Several times armed groups, some in uniform and some in ragged clothing, had passed by the would-be orphanage. But they had not bothered the nuns, simply begged for food and then passed on. Now it was quiet and Sister Assunta was able to enjoy the peace and the view of the surrounding wooded countryside. Such a green contrast from the stark brown, limestone bareness of her native country.

  There were five nuns in all to run the orphanage. She was the only Maltese and the Superior. The others consisted of a robust Irish lady of indeterminate age and three young Italian nuns. This was no problem for Sister Assunta, because she spoke both English and Italian fluently.

  The orphanage had been set up through the help of several charities, the main one being a private international organisation based in Rome. In Malta her Mother Superior had told her that, strangely enough, it was funded by several wealthy individuals who preferred, in the main, to remain anonymous. However, she knew that the approaching car contained one of the major benefactors, who was coming to inspect progress. Sister Assunta and her staff had managed in a very short time to get the basic facilities of the orphanage organised and had already received the first intake of girls, whose ages ranged from four to thirteen. Within the context of her instructions all those girls had come as orphans, not from broken families or as stray children. All of her girls had been given up at birth, or found abandoned.

  The car pulled up in front of her. The driver was an Albanian whom she knew. Sitting in the back seat was a man. His face was dark and thin. For a second something flashed through her mind. She had a sense of déjà vu, as though she had seen that face many years before. She shook the thought from her head. The man emerged. She looked him up and down, full of a curiosity which was fuelled by the fact that he had an Arab name. He was dressed in a dark finely-cut suit. An extremely thin man with a dark sunken face and a sharply beaked nose. She wondered why an Arab would be financing a Catholic charity.

  Being of a curious and direct nature, Sister Assunta asked that question during lunch, after they had inspected the internal construction work. During the tour she had been impressed by his interest and insight. The orphanage would be employing six lay Albanian women to work under her direction. His first question had been whether she herself could speak the language. She had explained that she already had a working knowledge, thanks to a crash course, and that within a few weeks she would be proficient. He had then asked whether she and the other nuns had comfortable quarters for themselves. She had smiled and said, ‘Enough for our needs.’ He had smiled back and told her how he respected the dedication of herself and her fellow nuns.

  So came her first question when they sat down to a simple lunch. The question was prompted very much by his obvious kindness and interest in the children. Among them had been a young twelve-year-old girl, the only child of parents who had both been machine-gunned during the first night of the uprising. Her name was Katrin and she had blonde hair, a pale face and the eyes of an angel.

  He had held that face in his hands, kissed her gently on the cheek, turned to Sister Assunta and said in a low voice, ‘We must find this child a home where the flower of her character will blossom in a way to fill both our hearts.’

  So she had asked, ‘You are not of the faith?’

  He shook his head. ‘I am not of your faith, Sister.’

  ‘Islam?’ he asked.

  Again he shook his head and his mouth formed its thin smile.

  ‘I have my own faith. It has no direct bearing on any established religion.’

  They were sitting at a round table in the newly constructed dining room; the other four sisters had joined them. The lay workers ate at a separate table. All the nuns listened intently as he went on, ‘Of course I believe in a supreme being. Any man who does not is a fool. I cannot define my supreme being in any usual way. I have searched through all major religions and many minor ones and while I agree with some aspects of all of them, I cannot accept the whole.’

  The first course had been a minestrone. Abruptly Sister Assunta put down her spoon and asked, ‘You are a Mason?’

  He laughed and shook his head.

  ‘Please be reassured, Sister. I am no such thing . . . far from it.’

  Sister Simona asked, ‘If you are not of our faith, why do you support the work of our order here?’

  He turned to the Italian nun and explained. ‘My organisation supports much good work. Over the years we have discovered that such work must be carried out in the field by people who have a vocation. It is not necessary to be religious to have such a vocation.’ He smiled and gestured at them all. ‘But we have discovered that it is easier to find such people within the religious orders. Of course we also support the Arabic Red Crescent and several interdenominational charities. We asked the Augustine order to help on this project because of the proximity of its Maltese branch to Albania, and because over the past months they have gained experience in this ravaged country.’

  Sister Assunta asked another question. ‘The parameters for this orphanage were very clear. It was only to be for girls between the ages of four and fourteen. Why was that?’

  He shrugged disarmingly.

  ‘Naturally, we are very careful as to where we place our limited funds. In giving to charity it is essential that every cent counts. Our research showed that here in Albania charities had already moved quickly to alleviate the suffering of the very very young. On the other hand, my own thinking is that any girl over the age of fourteen is already an adult and is better able to fend for herself. Hence our parameters.’

  Sister Assunta was about to ask another question when he interrupted with one of his own.

  ‘Now that you have the first intake, are you ready for a full house within the next two weeks?’

  She nodded firmly.

  ‘Yes. We are just waiting for delivery of more beds, linen and basic medical supplies. They have been promised for Friday.’

  He nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘Good. As you know, we will try to settle most of our orphans with Italian families. Italy is close and the logistics are simple. You also know that we have set up an office in Bari to handle the adoptions. That office is already in place and you’ll be receiving a visit from its director within a few days. Our policy and philosophy is based on much international research. We do not believe that children should remain for too long in an orphanage, because very quickly it becomes a permanent home and therefore the wrench of adoption is all the greater. Consequently, we would like to view this orphanage as more of a transit home; and our office in Bari is planning accordingly. Hopefully our first adoptions can take place within the next one or two weeks.’ He turned again to Sister Assunta and said sternly, ‘And so, Sister, it is important that neither you nor your fellow sisters nor the lay workers become emotionally attached to these girls . . . I know it is difficult not to become surrogate mothers, especially as many of them will have suffered both mentally and physically. However, with your experience I’m sure you agree with me.’

  Sister Assunta nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course, difficult . . . but I agree with you. It can be painful to us . . . But the faster good homes can be found for these girls the better. It also means that we can help so many more. And there are so many out there who need help.’

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured quietly. ‘So many.’

  Sister Assunta felt comfortable with the knowledge that the benefactor of her orphanage was both intelligent and perceptive. But she could not shake the thought from her mind that somewhere and at some time, she had seen his face before.

  Chapter 61

  Michael kept the scream under his breath. He reached out and grabbed her hand. She hissed at him and the fingernails of her other hand slashed down his back. He groped behind him and caught her wrist, pulled both her arms up above her head, pressing them hard ag
ainst the pillow. She writhed under him, slamming her pelvis into his. She opened her eyes and he could see her orgasm in them, the pupils dilating. Her white teeth were clenched behind red lips. One wet wrist slipped from his grasp and again she raked his back. This time he grunted in pain, and slapped her hard across the face. She grinned up at him, and he felt himself coming.

  Michael almost screamed again as Rene applied the antiseptic to his back.

  ‘Some woman,’ the Belgian commented. ‘Was it worth it?’

  Michael was sitting on a stool in the vast bathroom off the sumptuous bedroom. Rene was sitting on the toilet seat behind him, applying the medication. The woman had left half an hour before.

  ‘I had no choice,’ Michael muttered. ‘I’ve been to half a dozen parties and our little party here tonight was the culmination. That woman Gina is the key to what we’re looking for.’

  Rene grinned and used more antiseptic.

  ‘The things that a man must do in the line of duty . . . I’m proud of you, Michael,’

  The young man grunted with pain and said, ‘I have just learned that sometimes in life you have to take the pain with the pleasure.’

  It had been eight days since Michael’s arrival in Rome, Hedonistic days. He had once seen an old film called La Dolce Vita and assumed that it was exaggerated. He now knew the opposite. The first party had led him on to others. He was the season’s new find. Everybody wanted him at their parties and soirées. Every man wanted his ear; almost every woman wanted his body. He had moved through it all, watching and listening and occasionally making comments to selected people to indicate that, much as he was enjoying himself, he would enjoy something more bizarre and exciting. He had smoked hash and snorted coke and popped pills, indulged in one full-blown orgy, in which he had acquitted himself with great style and energy; and had finally narrowed down his new acquaintances to a group of five. He had invited these five to a party at his own apartment that night, together with another two dozen to fill out the numbers.

  During the past days Rene had been invaluable. He would have made a brilliant actor; he played his part as Michael’s Man Friday to perfection. So much so that several of Michael’s new acquaintances had surreptitiously offered Rene a job after Michael’s eventual departure from Rome. Of course, everybody knew that Rene’s job included that of bodyguard. This simply added to Michael’s glamour.

  The party that night had been an unqualified success. The cook had prepared a cold buffet that would have done justice to the finest restaurant. The champagne was vintage and the drugs of designer status. The woman, Gina Forelli, had naturally arrived late. Michael had never met her, but had been induced to do so by one of his newfound friends, Giorgio Cosselli, who lived life very much in the fast track. He had dined with Giorgio two nights earlier at Sans Souci. They had been alone, and over coffee and liqueurs Michael had agreed to lend Giorgio fifty million lire as seed money for a new night-club venture he had in mind. He knew he would never see the money again, but he also knew that Giorgio knew more about the dark side of Roman society than anyone. During dinner Michael had let slip that he had heard Rome was an interesting place for those who were curious in the occult. Giorgio was a man in his mid-forties who lived the life of a bloodsucker. He was the black sheep of a black family, and his greatest pleasure in life was flirting with danger and the unknown. He had been drawn to Michael like a leaf to a whirlpool, and as he swirled around in ever decreasing circles, mesmerised by the undoubted scope of the young man’s wealth and naïvety, he gushed forth information.

  After dinner they had walked the few blocks to Jackie O’s disco and stood at the bar drinking negronis. Giorgio had pointed her out on the dance-floor. She was tall and almost too thin. Long shimmering black dress, long shimmering black hair, black eyes, red mouth and white face.

  ‘Gina Forelli,’ Giorgio had whispered. ‘She is the one to lead you where you want to go. But be careful, my friend. If there is a witch in Rome, it is she.’ He gave Michael a thumbnail sketch. Gina Forelli was approximately thirty years old, the granddaughter of a Fascist general who had been close to Mussolini. Her mother had been a semi-famous actress in the fifties who had died of a drug overdose. As far as he knew, Gina had never worked. Her first husband had been the third son of a wealthy industrialist who had died in an alcoholic car crash. Some said it was deliberate after catching his wife in bed with three men. Her second husband had been a wealthy businessman twenty years her senior. He had died in bed. The police had found half a dozen broken phials of amyl nitrite on the bedroom floor. Apparently his heart had not been able to stand up to the combination of Gina and the drug. By rights she should have been a wealthy woman but, apart from her other passions, she had a fatal attraction to gambling, and after the death of each husband had blown away her money in Monte Carlo.

  ‘Her nickname is “Zero”,’ Giorgio had explained with a smile.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because too many zeros come up in her life. Especially on the roulette table.’

  ‘What does she do now?’ Michael had asked.

  Giorgio had smiled again. ‘She opens the door to what you are looking for.’

  ‘Introduce me,’ Michael had said.

  Giorgio had shaken his head, it would not be a good idea in this place.’

  ‘How do I meet her?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Giorgio had answered. ‘I’ll tell you outside.’

  The entrance to Jackie O’s is a long, canopied walkway. They had strolled to the end, near to the street. It was dark there. Giorgio stopped and Michael turned to look at him.

  The Italian said, ‘Michael, this deal we talked about at dinner . . . Can’t fail . . . Of course you will be a fifty per cent partner. You are young but you must know that such deals have to be closed quickly. How fast can you transfer the fifty mill. to my account?’

  Michael had looked at him and even in the gloom could see the anticipation and anxiety in his eyes. Very quietly he asked, ‘Would US dollars be all right?’

  ‘Of course . . . even better!’

  Michael reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a wad of notes held together by a thick elastic band. Very quickly and expertly he counted off forty-eight of the notes and pulled them from the band. He held them out and Giorgio stared at Michael, his mouth slightly open.

  They’re thousand-dollar bills,’ Michael said lightly, ‘I haven’t checked the exchange rate but it should be about right.’

  Very slowly Giorgio reached out and took the notes. He did not count them. As he tucked them into his back pocket he muttered, ‘Of course I’ll send you a receipt . . . and a contract. My lawyer is to be trusted.’

  Michael had shaken his head.

  ‘Send me nothing, Giorgio. It is better that nothing is written down.’

  Giorgio had seen the white of Michael’s teeth as he smiled. He had smiled back and said, ‘I will make sure that Zero attends your party.’

  She had entered the apartment late and alone. Rene had been briefed. He took her name and led her through the room to Michael. She was wearing only a tight black leotard under a short wool ivory-coloured skirt. Her black hair was piled high on her head. She wore plain gold rings on all her fingers and a plain gold necklace. No earrings. Michael had noticed that the colour of her skin exactly matched the colour of her skirt. He had felt his heart beating; not out of fear but from anticipation.

  Rene had presented her and then asked, ‘Champagne?’

  She had shaken her head.

  ‘Do you know what a bullshot is?’

  Rene had inclined his head. ‘Of course, Signora. Do you want it half and half?’

  She had studied Rene’s face for a moment. ‘No. Make it one-third bull and two-thirds shot.’

  Michael had been puzzled. ‘What have you just ordered?’ he asked.

  She smiled. Her teeth were also ivory and quite small. She flicked a pink tongue across them. Her voice was very low and he had to lean forward t
o hear her above the noise.

  ‘A bullshot is half beef consommé and half vodka; usually in equal amounts. I asked your butler to go heavy on the vodka.’ She inclined her head slightly to one side and studied him, and in her husky voice said, ‘It’s true what they say.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘They say that Adonis is in town . . . Why did Adonis invite me to his party?’

  For the first time since getting off the plane in Rome Michael felt lost. The realisation washed over him that he was only nineteen years old. In reality the sum total of his knowledge boiled down to weapons and martial skills. The reality was that he had killed people who had tried to kill him and had rarely felt fear. Suddenly he felt fear. It only lasted a moment and then it was washed away by a sense of exhilaration. He had hoped he had kept the fear concealed.

  ‘I’m told they call you Zero.’

  She smiled again. ‘Giorgio talks too much. What else did he tell you?’

  ‘That you are dangerous.’

  Her smile widened, ‘Is that why you invited me?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She lifted her head and laughed. Like her voice, it was husky. Rene moved through the crowd with her drink on a silver tray. She took the glass and drank and nodded her approval. Rene gestured at the laden buffet table. She shook her head and raised the glass. ‘This and those that follow will be my dinner.’ Still looking at Rene, she asked, ‘When will the other guests be leaving?’

  Slightly startled, Rene had glanced at Michael who merely smiled, glanced at his Patek Philippe, nodded to Rene and said, ‘Usher them out in about an hour.’

  In the bathroom Michael stood up, stretched and grimaced slightly in pain. Rene also stood up, still smiling.

  ‘What’s the next step?’ he asked.

  Michael turned and said, ‘The next step is tomorrow night. I’m having dinner with her, alone. Afterwards she’s taking me out to a place in the country.’