She realized she was listing all sorts of reasons to talk to Lupo.
Goddamn it, no.
Not this again.
She wanted to ask him to show her a change again.
And she wanted to ask him more. A lot more.
She smiled. There was time.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Franco Lupo
On the Freighter Zeniča, crossing the Atlantic Ocean; Arrival in Buenos Aires
January 1946
From the ship’s rail they watched the mainland approach, the wide Rio de la Plata estuary narrowing as they reached the large seaport’s Nuevo Puerto, the New Harbor. The heat of the southern winter season was upon them and they sweated in the heavy humid air.
Franco was pensive, having retreated into himself since the death of Havlav and his killer, the passenger Tomas, who was a werewolf (although Franco had not been able to determine whether he was also a Nazi).
Their struggle to dispose of the bodies and clean up the evidence wore on them physically, and cost them several heavy bribes that guaranteed no questions, but also cleaned out their wallets (which, fortunately, were those of the Germans they had replaced). Still, the process had taken a full day and they had managed to sink the two corpses, one of them in pieces, only with the help of one crew member who knew they had paid Havlav for similar services. Of course, his price was steeper.
Franco spit over the railing.
Bastardo maledetto.
He had considered killing that one, too. Only the priest’s entreaties had kept Franco from slitting the pig’s throat.
“You can’t kill everyone,” Tranelli said.
Franco made a face.
Yes, I could.
But it all added to his foul mood.
For some reason, he started thinking of his father, Giovanni, and what had happened between them. It wasn’t all that long ago in years and months, but it might as well have been decades. Franco had been a child, but even then his hand had wielded the glowing blade of the Vatican dagger with amazing sureness for one so young. His father’s blood, corrupted by the lycanthropy sickness, had spilled out over him as he’d driven the blade home. The rest had been a nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken, but only until he had started killing other werewolves, most of them Nazis.
Now, having killed the murderous Tomas, he felt little of the fire that had energized him at the start of the sea voyage. Perhaps, he thought, seeing an innocent such as Havlav slaughtered primarily as a taunt had simply tired him out. But then, he had been willing to use Havlav himself, hadn’t he? Maybe his conscience was pricking his soul.
Even the ample charms of Caterina Cavalli, the wealthy passenger who had taken him to her bed and taught him so much about carnal pleasure, even she no longer held his attention after the murder. He had let her use his body, and she had certainly done so to her immense pleasure, but the spark that had occupied his brain before was gone, leaving behind a dark void he fell into willingly. After a brief but loud row, he had kept to himself and hadn’t even seen Caterina for almost two days despite the proximity of her cabin and the ghost of her alluring scent in the corridor.
For his part, Father Tranelli had retreated into endless bottles of slivovitz and cheap wine, preferring to drink himself to sleep while Franco brooded through the latter portion of their journey. Now that landfall was at hand, the melancholy veil that had settled differently over both of them was lifting, and Franco sensed the possibility of a renewed sense of purpose—and urgency.
There would be contacts to make in order to attempt infiltrating the ratline, the escape route for Nazis—and specifically Nazi werewolves—that extended from the port of Genova right to Buenos Aires, and the larger nation of Argentina.
Tranelli had given Franco what intelligence Corrado and his network had shared with him before the unexpected journey. For instance, the fact that no less a personage than President Juan Perón had not only opened the borders to such immigrants, but also welcomed them openly. As, indeed, the table talk had indicated on that first night of the crossing.
“First we will cable Corrado that we have arrived,” said Tranelli, now taking over. “Then we will eat some food that won’t slide around on the table. I have heard they have steaks the size of platters here. I’m tired of cabbage and potatoes and beef fat passing for actual beef.”
After the ship passed the long breakwater and tugs pushed her into the harbor proper, the hawsers and chains were uncoiled and the ship moored to one of the long piers. Rows of brick warehouses across the busy street were their first glimpse of the Argentine port, but the city’s wide, flat sectors spread out from there and they could see several tall buildings, South America’s first skyscrapers built in the American style.
Leaving their confiscated belongings behind, they were the first to descend the gangplank. The crew set about preparing to unload the ship’s cargo.
Tranelli made the sign of the cross, knelt, and kissed the ground. He smiled at Franco’s smirk. “There was no guarantee we would make it,” he said. “Why not be grateful?”
The priest spoke passable Spanish, so as soon as they spotted a rough-looking dock worker they stopped and made inquiries. The gruff man’s directions took them to La Boca, a waterfront district known for its large population of Genovese immigrants. Logic, said the priest, was that since the ratline went through the port of Genova their contacts—and their quarry—would be also be located here.
But where? That was the question they should put to a prisoner, Franco thought.
They found a busy cable office and Tranelli wrote out a flimsy in his spidery hand.
Franco was amazed at the Italian voices he heard on the crowded streets, speaking in the Genovese dialect his father had preferred. And the music that leaked from the doors of clubs and taverns. It was as if there had been no war at all.
And it was more so when they ate at a crowded churrasquería, where one diner’s serving of steak would have equaled Franco’s entire family’s for two months. They further lightened the Germans’ wallets and gorged themselves on beef, stew, bread, and a strong table wine—”Equal to the best I have ever had, including at the Vatican!” Tranelli proclaimed loudly, his chin covered with grease.
Stuffed, sated, full of plans for the coming mission—as they awaited Corrado’s response and instructions—they made their way back to the ship.
The balmy afternoon air was darkening and most ships in port had lit up as their crews loaded and offloaded cargo. But when they reached their ship, there were no lights. And the ship’s cranes were silent. No one was lifting pallets of crates from the ship’s hold, and no bustling crew worked the cluttered deck. No one wielded the ubiquitous mops and brushes.
“Wait,” Franco said as they stood on the gangplank. “Something’s wrong.” He drew the Beretta from under his coat, while Tranelli clutched his sheathed Vatican blade close.
“We have to go, Franco,” said the priest. “We must see what’s happened—and we have belongings to collect. The stones—they were sent back to Europe to fund the escape plans, I suspect. But we mustn’t lose them!”
“There’s more to worry about than the diamonds, old man!” Franco felt panic beginning to choke him. He started up the swinging gangplank at a run, followed much more slowly by the Jesuit.
When he reached the main deck entrance, Franco looked around and saw no one at first.
The priest reached him, breathing hard.
“Where is everyone?”
Franco shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, but they should be here.”
They made their way to the superstructure and to one of the main hatches, entering the quietly humming vessel’s inner space. “Listen,” said Franco. “The boilers are very low.” The typical throb of the engines was missing.
The long corridor was vacant. Then they entered the crew’s mess hall.
It was a slaughterhouse.
Blood covered the deck and had been splattered on the bulkhe
ads seemingly by the bucketful.
But there were no bodies.
By now Franco was also holding his Vatican blade, for they knew what they faced.
“Dio mio,” whispered the priest, making the sign of the cross.
“God won’t help them now, father.”
“We can pray.”
“Later.”
They stepped down the corridor, surprised at the lack of blood. But then the crew’s quarters yielded what they sought.
A dozen of the crew had been butchered here, where there was both blood and human remains. Their bellies had been torn open, the entrails pulled out and left partially consumed in grotesque mounds. Their throats chewed open, their heads then ripped from their torsos. Ragged limbs with jagged bone protrusions littered the deck, which was awash with more blood.
Breathing hard, they climbed the metal ladder to the upper deck, where they found the officers’ mess and quarters in the same shape. Here was their old table opponent Kamil, his body chewed to pieces. His pig-eyes shut for good. Others with whom they had become friendly. Tranelli stifled a sob. These men were hardy and companionable and hadn’t deserved such butchery.
They steeled themselves and climbed one more ladder, cautiously and as quietly as possible, though their shoes clanged on the steel grating steps.
But there was no one alive on the bridge, either.
The officer Milos Havlik was dead, decapitated and his head mounted on the ship’s wheel like an obscene ornament.
Captain Nepovim had fought them. His body was crumpled in a corner of the bridge, mostly intact, a severed hand still holding the Russian Tokarev pistol he had apparently emptied into his attackers. His head was missing, but they saw that it had been hoisted on the aerial outside the wheelhouse.
For the tenth time, Tranelli made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer.
A useless prayer, Franco thought.
Then he froze as if he’d been struck by lightning.
Caterina!
He must have been sluggish from the food and wine, and then in shock by what they had found, for he hadn’t thought of her until now.
Heedless of Tranelli’s entreaties as he followed, Franco raced down the metal ladders, abandoning all attempts at stealth as he made for her cabin.
The door was ajar, blood splashed on it in a pattern that made it seem artful. Inside, more blood coated every surface, as in the crew’s mess hall.
Franco shouted her name over and over, but there was no answer. Her adjoining cabin was similarly arrayed with recently-spilled blood, but no body or body parts were to be found.
Tranelli dragged the boy out into the corridor and slapped him hard on the cheek.
Immediately Franco’s features hardened in rage. Tears came, but they were no longer a boy’s tears of loss. They were tears of frustrated hate and anger.
“I swear right now I will get the bastard who did this.” His fists were white with the intensity of his clenching the pistol and the dagger.
“That may be, my boy,” said the priest, “but now we had better leave. This place will be swarming with police when someone realizes no cargo is moving. We don’t want to be caught as murderers, or…perhaps caught by the murderer if he returns, or is still here.”
Franco nodded. His reason was returning and what Tranelli said made sense.
They made haste of retrieving as much of their inherited stock of belongings as they could, then took one more quick detour. It was Franco’s idea, and they climbed the decks back to the bridge.
Tranelli stood guard as Franco ransacked the storage lockers and map drawers, carefully avoiding the lumps of meat that had recently been human. But he stared at Havlik’s head on the wheel and the officer’s open, startled eyes, which seemed to follow him in his quest. Finding nothing except nautical items, he then searched the captain’s body, checking under the thick seaman’s coat. He took Nepovim’s papers and passport, several full magazines for the Tokarev, as well as the money Franco had given him—apparently the captain had kept it on his person the entire trip. Then, grimacing, he pried the pistol itself from the captain’s severed hand and pocketed it.
Tranelli was waving at him to hurry, but he didn’t seem panicked.
Franco turned and spotted the door at the rear of the bridge—on a hunch he opened it and found the captain’s cabin. It was masculine, Spartan, and well-kept, a paneled chamber with a small private head, a wider bunk than average, and a full wardrobe. But what caught Franco’s attention was the desk. He pried the drawers open with a letter opener and caught his breath.
There was more money, both Argentine peso and American dollar banknotes, which he pocketed quickly. And there was a captain’s log and a ledger. Plus, there was a sheaf of notes with columns of names and addresses.
“Hurry!” Tranelli called out into the bridge. “I see police lights.”
Who had called the police?
Hurriedly he scooped up the cash, books, and documents, and raced out to where Tranelli was almost jumping out of his skin. They were still far away, but he saw blue flashing lights in the distance, getting closer. It would take them a little while to reach the ship on the crowded pier. They walked as fast as they dared down the open stairs, several decks, and then down the gangplank.
Before long they were losing themselves in a crowd of bustling workers.
Caterina, Franco thought. Murdered.
Or…murderer?
After taking rooms at a waterfront pensión, they set off to find the nearby addresses. As they expected, they were soon back in La Boca district, where the nightlife was vibrant and music from the storefront cantinas clashed with their grimness. The second on the list was a private dwelling, a narrow three-story limestone building sandwiched between two much larger tenements with colorful balconies.
Franco knew they had found at least one safehouse when they watched a man in a dark jacket with a hat pulled down low wait at the door as someone inside checked him out, then allowed him to enter.
Seething with rage, Franco promised they would pay that place a visit.
Father Tranelli countered, “It would be best if we first just follow anyone who leaves there and see where they go.”
When the door opened some time later, while they watched from a dingy coffee shop, two people left—a man and a woman.
And though they were too far to see well, Franco thought the woman was Caterina Cavalli, wearing man’s clothes and with her face hidden.
He rushed from the shop, furious.
Father Tranelli
Tranelli made the sign of the cross. He sensed there were forces swirling about them that neither understood. And he sensed that there were more Nazi werewolves here than they had expected.
He gripped the dagger in his pocket and set off after the reckless youth. The aura of danger threatened to smother him, and he prayed for guidance.
But none came.
A shadow moved in his wake.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Corrado
He let himself into the storage space office. It wasn’t unusual for Ari to ask him to meet on short notice, but they’d never met here.
Inside the door, he stood in the near dark and surveyed the stacks of file boxes and the rows of file cabinets. He couldn’t help remembering the many years of struggle. Giovanni, Franco, Tranelli, Caterina…names from the past.
He was melancholy.
He was careless.
At first he didn’t notice the shape of a body lying near the rear of the unit, behind a small pyramid of cardboard banker’s boxes piled behind the desk at which he and Lupo had sat. And then suddenly he did.
“Maledetto bastardo!” he uttered under his breath. “Ari?”
He couldn’t see. One hand went to the pistol under his coat, the other went for the light switch.
“Ari?” he said again. His heart sank. He couldn’t see any blood, but the shape’s splayed out legs and arms told the story. If that was Ari, he was dead.
>
Corrado stepped forward. Suddenly the thought that he should force a change came to him, and he began his process.
But he had been distracted. He hadn’t checked the shadows in the corners behind him.
The cold round shape of a gun barrel touched his neck and scorched him, and as he began whirling around the pistol barked once. Twice.
Corrado was flung toward the desk, the slugs burning like lightning bolts.
He fell across the surface, knocking off the blotter and stacks of folders as he rolled on his side and fell off. He slid down beside the gray metal and lay still.
One hand twitched, then stopped moving.
The door opened, then it closed.
DiSanto
He slid the key through the swipe-box and waited for the light to turn green. When it did he pushed it forward, jammed a suitcase in front of the door to keep it open, and kicked a gym bag inside while dragging a large case on rollers with him as he entered.
It was a Residence Inn right near the airport, tucked away just off of South Howell. There was a famous strip club across the busy street, a squat building with a garish, suggestive sign, and otherwise only airport-style industrial buildings, monster gas stations, and shut-down plant nurseries dotted the area.
He stood amongst the mess of his luggage around his feet and surveyed the space he would call home for the foreseeable future.
He sighed.
Even as much as he was already missing home and his kids, he burned with lust and a need as great as that of a drug addict. Immediately he started to plan his trysts. Would he entertain Heather—and her friend—here?
Because nothing says “available” like a sparsely-decorated, generic crackerbox.
Featuring the stench of old cologne and illicit cigarettes, no less.
And bad food badly prepared in the kitchenette.
He sighed again.
Christ, what was he thinking? His wife would gut him in court. He’d never see his kids again. He’d be lucky if they didn’t kick him off the force for one reason or another. All he had to do was screw up once, big time.
Wolf's Blind (The Nick Lupo Series Book 6) Page 25
