The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3)

by A. J. Quinnell

  ‘I guess you just tell them that I’m a friend of Guido’s . . . Which happens to be true.’

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘Very well.’ Suddenly his face went serious. ‘Ma’am . . . Laura . . . I also knew your daughter Julia. I visited with them a couple of times in Naples. She showed me a lot of kindness . . . She was a very fine lady.’

  There was a silence in the kitchen, and then Laura said, ‘You are especially welcome, Tom Sawyer.”

  Chapter 77

  ‘It’s he very mad at me?’

  Jens took his eyes off the road for a second to glance at her. She was curled up on the seat beside him, her eyes radiating anxiety. The Owl sat in the back seat, the large earphones of his Discman clamped over his ears. Quite frequently he turned to look out the rear window. They would arrive in Naples in about twenty minutes. ‘That’s probably putting it mildly,’ Jens said. Defensively, she said, ‘I don’t see why . . . I only wanted to help. I mean, I can help with the cooking and cleaning and washing and everything at the pensione . . . I know how to do all those things.’

  The Dane sighed and explained to her concisely, ‘We’re in the middle of a hazardous operation which is rapidly approaching a climax. Everybody involved is in danger. Some more than others. Everything had to be stopped in case they were on to you . . . and they were. The last time I saw you was in Marseille. You were lying on a bed in as bad a condition as I’ve ever seen any human being. If our team had been even five minutes late at the airport, you’d be heading back into that condition right now. Creasy had to send Frank and Maxie when they were already planning a very delicate operation. He had to pull Rene away from watching Michael’s back at a time when Michael was extremely exposed. Me and The Owl had to leave our work at headquarters and rush north to take you over from the others . . . No doubt the people in Gozo who were looking after you have been worried sick and will still be worried sick until we get to the pensione and Creasy phones to tell them that you’re safe. Yes, I guess Creasy is mad at you.’

  She cried late into the night in a small room in the pensione. She did not cry because Creasy had shouted at her or been angry, because he had done neither. She cried because of the disappointment she had seen in his eyes when he had looked at her. She had immediately offered to go straight back to Gozo, but he had shaken his head and said, ‘There’s no way I can impose that responsibility back onto Laura and Paul. They’ve had enough tragedy in their lives.’

  She had gone to her room refusing food, locked the door and thrown herself onto the bed, her heart close to breaking. Sleep eluded her, but after midnight she got up and started pacing the narrow room and formed a determination to be the first up in the morning and, come what may, to make herself useful.

  Chapter 78

  General Emilio Gandolfo was a hunter. The stalking of a bird or a stag or a wild boar was his greatest passion. He had hunted in Scotland, Rumania and Botswana; but he never changed his ritual of spending the last two weeks of September hunting for partridge in the hills with his close friend Julio Bareste, a right-wing lawyer with connections as impeccable as his own.

  Every year on the fifteenth of September they would pack Gandolfo’s Range Rover with a selection of food, wine, guns, and the most stylish hunting clothes available that season. They would kiss their wives goodbye and drive off to the isolated cabin in the mountains that they rented each year. Apart from the odd fellow-hunter they would see nobody. They would cook their own pasta, mix their own sauces and enjoy the supply of hams and cheeses and fine wines. They would rise at dawn and return at sunset. The evenings would be spent eating and drinking and fixing the world; which meant moving it sharply to the right. The rare interruptions came only via the mobile phone which Bareste brought with him and left at the cabin.

  Colonel Satta was well aware of Gandolfo’s annual habit. He discussed it at length with Maxie and Frank.

  Chapter 79

  Creasy had begun to feel akin to a general who sits in a command bunker while everyone in the field is preparing for battle. He had daily telephone reports from Rene or Michael. He spoke frequently to Laura in Gozo and to Tom Sawyer, and was quietly confident that no matter what ‘The Blue Ring’ was doing, the situation in Gozo was under control.

  Juliet had surprised everybody by throwing herself into physical work at the pensione. She was up every morning at dawn, first cleaning the kitchen and then going on to the small dining room and, one by one, the guest rooms. She scrubbed the floors and washed the windows and polished the woodwork. At first the men had looked on with amusement, but as they had seen her determination they had viewed her with respect.

  Slowly she had crept into their circle. They began to talk freely in front of her, discussing plans and dispositions. She watched and listened as Creasy used the phone to receive and give information, and to issue orders. To an outsider all would seem relaxed, but she could sense the tension building up, particularly in Guido and Pietro. She had mentioned this to Creasy when they were alone.

  He had nodded and explained, ‘Pietro has never been involved in such an operation. Not even on the edge. Guido on the other hand is very experienced, but has been retired for many years. He feels excitement rather than tension.’

  The call from Satta came just before dinner. Creasy took it alone in his room.

  Satta said, ‘I decided not to resign.’ He waited for Creasy’s reaction but got nothing so he went on, ‘To paraphrase Lyndon Johnson, I can be more effective inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in . . . After Gandolfo is out of the way I’ll go after others of his type. I’m compiling a list in my mind.’

  ‘It will be endless,’ Creasy commented.

  ‘Maybe, but chipping away at it will give me more satisfaction than sitting around looking at my feet.’

  Creasy asked, ‘How are you going to get the information out of Gandolfo without compromising yourself?’

  The Italian explained about the General’s hunting habits and the plan he had worked out with Maxie and Frank.

  Creasy went through it in his mind, then asked, ‘You’re sure you can get those drugs?’

  ‘Yes. I have the right contact, whom you know, and a cut-out between.’

  ‘Is he sure they will work?’

  ‘Yes, given Gandolfo’s age and medical history,’

  Creasy said, it sounds good, unless the General decides to return to Rome with his friend.’

  ‘It’s unlikely. If he does we have a back-up plan. We snatch them both on the road and then arrange a fatal accident later . . . That’s a dangerous road, especially at night.’

  Creasy’s mind was working through all the possibilities. He had much admiration for the subtleties of Satta’s brain; and in Maxie and Frank he had total confidence. He asked, ‘Who’s going to toss that small bomb?’

  ‘We had an argument about that,’ Satta said. ‘I was going to hire a small-time operator to do it, but Maxie and Frank objected. They considered it unwise to bring in anyone from outside.’

  ‘They were right.’

  ‘Yes, anyway. I suggested Rene but again was overruled. They said you wouldn’t want the cover pulled off Michael at this late stage.’

  ‘Again they’re right,’ Creasy said. ‘Not because he’s my son, but because he’s now pivotal to the operation . . . So who’s going to do it?’

  ‘I offered to do it, but the bastards just laughed . . . So Frank’s going to do it. He’s going to use a small frag, grenade. It will cause quite a bang but do little damage.’

  Creasy chuckled. ‘OK. I guess Frank has a mite more experience than you. But how does it affect the time-scale?’

  ‘No problem. Maxie and I will drive up to the mountains in the late afternoon. It takes about two hours. We’ll keep the cabin under surveillance. Frank will toss his grenade at eight o’clock and drive on to us. I’ll have a mobile phone, so will he. If Gandolfo decides to return to Rome with Bareste, then Maxie will set up a road-block at a predet
ermined spot. He will be wearing the uniform of a carabinieri captain. We’ll be following the Range Rover down. Don’t worry, Creasy. Maxie and Frank have it all worked out . . . they seem to be enjoying themselves.’

  ‘I’ll bet they are,’ Creasy said with a trace of frustration. ‘It beats sitting here looking at a phone . . . OK, Mario, keep in touch. Good luck.’

  Chapter 80

  Julio Bareste thought that his friend looked ridiculous wearing the deerstalker hat, but he did not say so. General Gandolfo was extremely sensitive about his taste in most things in life, and his choice of clothes, in particular. Both men wore tweeds, the plus-four trousers being tucked into calf-length tartan socks.

  They felt themselves socially a cut above the hundreds of thousands of other Italian hunters, and this was reflected in their guns. Gandolfo carried a double-barrelled Holland and Holland twelve-bore shotgun, which had been a twenty-first birthday present from his father. For many years he had bragged about its increasing rarity and value, until ten years ago on a visit to London, Bareste had slipped into the discreet showroom of Purdey, the gunsmith’s, and paid a massive deposit on their finest model. He had had to wait five years for it and would proudly tell anyone who would listen that he had to travel to London for two ‘fittings’ while it was being made.

  The day had provided poor sport and they headed back to the cabin in the twilight. They only had four partridge in their leather shoulder-bags. But no matter. It was their first full day and the weather report for the next day was good. They had tossed a coin to decide who would prepare dinner, and Gandolfo had lost, which pleased him, because he prided himself on his cooking.

  They reached the cabin just before darkness. It was small but comfortable: two bedrooms, a well-equipped kitchen, a compact dining room/lounge with a large, stone, open fireplace, and a spacious south-facing patio.

  They changed out of their hunting clothes, took hot showers and put on warm, designer tracksuits. Gandolfo lit the fire while Bareste mixed negronis. There was no electricity in the cabin. Lighting, heating, the stove and fridge all ran on bottled gas. Bareste settled down in front of the crackling fire while Gandolfo bustled around in the kitchen.

  The General had just placed a pot of pasta on the table when the mobile phone rang on the mantelpiece.

  With a muttered curse, Bareste picked it up, pressed a button and barked, ‘Pronto!’ His expression changed from irritation to alarm as he listened.

  Gandolfo hurried to his side asking, ‘What is it, Julio?’

  Bareste held up a hand and asked into the phone, ‘Are you all right? Yes . . . Good . . . Of course I have no idea . . . Calm yourself . . . Wait a moment.’

  He turned to Gandolfo, ‘About fifteen minutes ago a bomb was thrown at the front of my house.’

  ‘God! Was anybody hurt?’

  ‘No, only Carla was at home. Apparently, the front door was damaged, and a window blown in. Carla ran immediately to our son’s house nearby. She is there now with our daughter-in-law, and the children. Paolo of course phoned the police and went straight to the house.’

  The General assumed command. He took the phone and told Carla to phone back as soon as Paolo returned. Then he called carabinieri headquarters and issued a series of instructions. He then took Bareste by the arm and led him to the dining-table, saying, ‘Of course we have to return, but eat first. The best people are now on the job. The Colonel who heads our bomb squad is handling it personally. He will call us from the site. Fortunately, no one is hurt.’

  Bareste allowed himself to be seated. Gandolfo piled the pasta onto the plates and poured the wine. ‘Any idea who might be behind it?’ he asked.

  Bareste shook his head.

  ‘You know how it is with men like us - we make enemies. It’s inevitable.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Gandolfo said firmly, ‘whoever’s behind it is going to be very sorry. Obviously they are unaware of our friendship. They will suffer for their ignorance.’

  The two men ate in silence until the phone rang again. It was Bareste’s son calling from the house. He told his father that it had been a small bomb or grenade. Very little damage. The place was swarming with police and carabinieri. There was a colonel next to him who wanted to speak to General Gandolfo.

  Bareste handed over the phone and went back to his pasta while the General first listened, then asked questions, and then gave further orders. Bareste found himself feeling slightly sorry for the colonel. It was, after all, a fairly minor incident in a country where bombing and shooting were commonplace.

  He said as much after he had spoken to his son again and told him he would be back in Rome within three hours. Gandolfo waved a fork dismissively.

  ‘Of course it’s getting special attention. That’s what friends are for.’ He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be on the road in half an hour.’

  Bareste held up a hand. ‘Now, listen. I’ll go alone. There’s no need for you to break your holiday . . . God knows, you take so little time off! This is a small matter and you’ve done enough. Of course I have to go back . . . Carla would get mad if I didn’t. But I don’t have to go for long . . . one or two days at the most.’ He gestured at the mobile phone. ‘I’ll leave that with you so you can keep in touch, but I refuse to let you spoil your holiday.’

  Gandolfo pretended to insist for a couple of minutes, but his friend was firm.

  ‘Anyway,’ Bareste said, ‘Carla was planning to visit her sister in Florence in a couple of days, so it’s no problem. I’ll be back on Wednesday at the latest . . . Just leave a little sport for me.’

  So it was agreed. Half an hour later they embraced beside the Range Rover and Bareste climbed in and drove off into the darkness. Gandolfo went back inside, washed the plates and pots and stacked them neatly. He decided to have Cognac beside the fire, but had only taken a couple of sips when he started yawning. The unaccustomed exercise and the mountain air had made him sleepy. He took the mobile phone from the mantelpiece, put it on the bedside table, changed into his silk pyjamas, and three minutes later was snoring contentedly.

  Chapter 81

  Michael rang just after ten o’clock.

  At the Pensione Splendide they had finished dinner and were sitting at the small bar, drinking espressi and Stregas. Juliet had just gone to bed. Creasy took the call. It was brief. The black mass would take place on the coming Sunday night. Michael had no idea of the location, except it would be within an hour’s drive of Rome. She was to pick him up. He would be alone and would be body-searched for any weapons or transmitters. He had agreed to give the woman half the money before and half the next day.

  Creasy told him that they were formulating plans with several options, but they were still waiting to find out what Satta could get out of Gandolfo during the next few hours. He would call Michael in the morning.

  Creasy hung up and said, ‘it’s vital we get some clue as to the venue. Otherwise we will have to follow Michael and the woman. They will be very cautious and so it will be difficult.’

  Jens was sitting beside him. The Owl was at the table with his earphones on; he was not much interested in strategy. Guido was on the other side of the bar, polishing a glass.

  He said, ‘I wouldn’t like to go into that situation without a gun or at least somebody good watching my back.’

  Creasy shrugged and said, ‘You wouldn’t like it . . . But you’d do it. I’ve seen you do enough crazy things in the past to get you certified.’

  Guido smiled, winked at Jens, and said, ‘Sure, we should have ended up in the funny house . . . both of us.’

  The Dane said seriously, ‘I think you did. It’s called the Pensione Splendide. What troubles me . . . I’m also an inmate.’ He smiled and gestured for another drink.

  Half an hour and two Stregas later the phone rang again. It was Satta. He knew better than to talk derails on a mobile phone, he simply said, ‘So far so good. His friend left. Lights are out. The boys are going in now. I’ll phone you when it’s over and we�
�re on the road.’

  Creasy said, ‘Location is everything. We have to have at least an idea of where it’s going to happen . . . It’s going to be Sunday night.’

  ‘Understood,’ Satta responded.

  Creasy heard a click and the connection was broken. He hung up, took a sip of his drink, glanced at his watch and said, ‘Maxie and Frank are going in now. The other guy returned home as planned. Satta will phone back when he has something. Could be an hour or so.’

  Guido reached behind him for the bottle of Strega.

  Chapter 82

  The General was a light sleeper hut he heard nothing. The first thing to assail his senses was light; it penetrated his eyelids. He opened his eyes but they were blind in the light. He turned his head, his brain in confusion; coming out of sleep and not knowing where he was.

  The light moved and he realised that it was the beam of a torch. He watched it flicker around the room; saw it light up the wooden walls. Abruptly he knew where he was. He was lying in bed in the cabin in the hills, and somebody was in the room. He pushed himself up in bed, his mind clearing. He remembered Bareste leaving. Maybe he had returned.

  Hesitantly he called out, ‘Julio . . . is it you?’

  The beam of light flickered back into his eyes and he had to close them again.

  A voice said, ‘No, it is not Julio. Be very still. I have a gun pointed at your head.’

  Gandolfo turned his head away. He began gasping in air as fear gripped him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he gasped.

  ‘Be still and be quiet,’ came the sharp reply.