The Devil's Pact (2013)

by James Holland

  You’re tired, that’s all, she told herself, but her mind turned to the news that he had been lost. A prisoner of war, heading to Canada. The ship had been struck by a German U-boat and every single one of the prisoners had been killed. Had he drowned or had the torpedo done for him? She had often wondered. When the telegram arrived, the postman had put an arm around her shoulders and told her how sorry he was. Giovanni’s family had been devastated, but Francesca had felt only relief. She had worn black, had maintained the charade of mourning, but the only tears she had shed were for herself and Cara, then just four years old. She had stayed in Bologna for a month, but the suffocating presence of Giovanni’s family had been too much, so she had gone home, to the place she had tried to escape six years earlier: back to Sicily, her father, back to the misery and poverty of the island. The widowed daughter of a small-town doctor. And then her father had died and suddenly she was alone, with just Cara for company. What could she do? Sell the house? She would do nothing until the war was over. Better to wait, see out the war, then go. Maybe to Rome, maybe to America. Anywhere but here.

  At least Cara was happy, she thought. She had friends, a mother who doted on her. Lots of children had no fathers. ‘You must miss your father,’ one of their neighbours had said to her just a week ago.

  ‘I have my mamma,’ Cara had replied.

  Francesca sighed. Niccolò alive and well, her daughter happy, and yes, her brother was right: Sant’Anastasia might be a backwater, but at least they had a house and food on the table. And at least Francesca had something to do, teaching in the village school where Cara was also a pupil. She hated Camprese’s attentions, but he would give up eventually – surely. What lay around the corner was in the hands of God. And what was around the corner? Niccolò had not talked about it that day and nor had she; neither had wanted to spoil his first day home with talk of war. She wondered whether the Allies would try to invade. And if so, what then? Francesca yawned and turned over. It was incomprehensible. She could not imagine it. Foreign troops and planes and tanks. But, surely, she thought, they would not be interested in Motta Sant’Anastasia?

  It was nearing two in the morning. The three of them had been picked up, made to put their hands behind their heads and marched, the barrel of a Beretta pointed at their backs, up the winding road that led into Villalba. Every time Tanner had tried to speak he had been told to be silent, while Spiro’s pleas had been met with scornful laughter. A building near the town centre – a glimpse of a small central square and church – and then they were pushed inside. Tanner saw the word ‘Carabinieri’ beside the door, but then they were being shoved down a corridor and through a thick, heavy door, where a row of cells awaited.

  Spiro began talking again, but one of the men angrily spoke back. Another grabbed Tanner’s shoulder and chuckled. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said in English, then raised his hand like a pistol and pretended to fire.

  All three were pushed into the same cell, the door clanged shut and the key turned in the lock. It was dark, although a thick shaft of moonlight poured through a small window high above them. Tanner could just make out a single wooden board that was a bed.

  ‘They mean to execute us in the morning,’ said Spiro. ‘Jesus Christ.’ His voice quivered.

  ‘They might mean to,’ said Tanner, ‘but we’re not dead yet.’

  ‘Well said.’ Wiseman struck a match and lit a cigarette. ‘One hidden for emergencies,’ he said, taking a deep draw, then passing it to Tanner.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ said Spiro. ‘Everything was arranged. I just don’t know what could have gone wrong. It’s as though those guys were waiting for us.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Colonel,’ said Tanner, ‘but I’m not interested in what’s gone wrong. This always sounded like a sodding mad idea, but now we need to think about how we’re going to get out of here. With a bit of luck, that submarine will still be there to meet us. If we can get out and to the coast, we might still be all right.’

  ‘But how the hell are we going to get out? We’re locked up in this Goddamn cell,’ said Spiro.

  ‘We’ll leave it an hour or two,’ said Tanner. ‘Chances are, most of them will slope off to bed. Then we’ll call the guard, and you, sir, can pretend to be doubled up in agony. I’ll get the bastard as he comes in to look. Once we’ve got keys and a weapon, we’ll be away in no time.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy.’

  ‘It should be, with this bunch of jokers. Crazy bloody Eyeties.’

  ‘I knew it was the right call bringing you along for this, Jack,’ said Wiseman.

  Tanner grunted, sat down on the bed with his back to the wall, and sighed.

  It was no more than ten minutes later when he heard footsteps and talking, then a key being turned in the lock. Tanner sprang to his feet and stood beside the door. As it opened, he lurched forward and swung his right arm. He felt his fist connect with a man’s head, heard a sharp groan as the Italian fell back into the man behind, then leaped through the door and jumped on both. The first, he now saw in the dim light of the corridor, was dressed in civilian clothes, while the man behind wore the same uniform he had seen earlier.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Spiro, as Tanner looked for the carabiniere’s weapon.

  Both men appeared to be out cold, but then the first groaned, put his hand to his cheek, and spoke.

  Tanner heard the words ‘Don Calogero’ and stopped. ‘What’s he saying?’ he said to Spiro, as he pulled the man to his feet. He turned to Wiseman. ‘Charlie, grab that pistol,’ he said, nodding towards the holster on the policeman’s waist.

  ‘He’s from Don Calogero,’ said Spiro. ‘He’s come to get us.’

  Wiseman took the pistol.

  The Italian spoke again, still rubbing his cheek and glaring at Tanner with fury, while behind, the carabiniere remained sprawled on the floor.

  ‘He is one of Don Calogero Vizzini’s men,’ said Spiro. ‘He said we should not have been imprisoned. He says we are to come with him now.’

  Tanner wiped his mouth. ‘Tell him I apologize,’ he said. ‘Tell him we were told we would be executed. I was just trying to get us out.’

  Tanner listened as Spiro translated, then held out his hand to the man.

  The Italian eyed him suspiciously, nodded, and shook it.

  ‘What about him?’ said Tanner, gesturing at the unconscious policeman.

  The Italian spoke.

  ‘He says we should take him. Don Calogero will need to see him.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ muttered Tanner. He leaned over, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, then pulled him to his feet and flung him over his shoulder. ‘So how far is this Don Calo bloke’s basha?’

  ‘He means house,’ said Wiseman.

  ‘Not far,’ Spiro replied, after another flurry of words.

  No one else was visible at the barracks; the front desk lay abandoned, a lone oil lamp hanging from the wall. Outside the night was quiet, but immediately two more men joined them. Tanner raised an eyebrow. Keeping guard, he thought. In silence they walked across the piazza, past the looming façade of the church and down a short side-street between two sizeable houses. Turning onto a street parallel to the square, they stopped beside a large villa.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Tanner.

  The Italians signalled to them to follow, then climbed the steps to the front door, opened it and ushered them in. Lamps were lit to reveal a high-ceilinged hallway, off which there were a number of doors, and a stone staircase that led to a second floor.

  Tanner heaved the policeman off his shoulder and laid him roughly on the floor. ‘What is this place?’ he asked.

  ‘Don Calo’s house,’ said Spiro, ‘but keep your voice down. We don’t want to wake him.’

  ‘What?’ said Tanner. ‘We’ve got to wait for him to have his beauty sleep before you talk to him?’

  Spiro nodded. ‘That’s what Bartolomeo said.’

  ‘That’s the feller you slugged,’ added Wiseman.

 
Bartolomeo was talking to Spiro again. Tanner listened, then watched two other men pick up the policeman and lug him into a different room.

  ‘OK,’ said Spiro. ‘They want us to get some rest. There’s a room prepared for us. Bartolomeo says we’ll be quite safe here.’

  ‘Really?’ said Tanner. ‘We’ve just broken out of jail, kidnapped a policeman, walked no more than a couple of hundred yards, and we’ll be safe?’

  Spiro smiled. ‘You don’t understand. Don Calogero runs this town. No one would dare come here.’

  ‘Quarter of an hour ago you were thinking we’d be shot at dawn, sir,’ Tanner said, in a low voice. ‘This makes it all OK again, does it?’

  ‘The carabinieri won’t dare squeal to anyone that we’re here,’ said Spiro. ‘There was some kind of mix-up earlier, that’s all. Don Calo’s men were expecting us later and the carabinieri hadn’t been warned off. That’s all. Don Calo’s the king of these parts. Hell, he’s one of the most powerful men in all of Sicily.’

  Tanner looked at Wiseman. What do you think?

  Wiseman shrugged. ‘That’s what we’ve been told,’ he said. ‘It kinda stacks up. After all, Bartolomeo was about to get us out of there before you KO’d him.’

  ‘Very well,’ he muttered. He followed Bartolomeo and the others down a long corridor and into a back room, which looked as though it was normally used as a store. Three palliasses had been laid out, and there, beside them, leaning against the wall, were their kitbags and weapons. Tanner hurried over and grabbed his Beretta. He had taken it from a dead Italian at Mareth and it had become a favoured sub-machine gun.

  ‘Happier now, Jack?’ said Wiseman.

  Tanner smiled ruefully. ‘A little. But I’ll feel even better when we get aboard that sub. I don’t trust these Eyeties. Not one inch.’

  As he lay down on his palliasse and lit a cigarette, retrieved from his pack, he prayed his suspicions would prove unfounded.

  3

  Saturday, 29 May. It was shortly after seven a.m., and Tanner lay awake on his straw mattress, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Spiro and Wiseman slept – he could hear Spiro’s gentle snores. A rat or some other rodent had woken him, scurrying in the corner. Beside him lay his Beretta, while his Colt .45 rested on his stomach. He had slept, but fitfully, and even now felt on edge, vulnerable, irritated by his incomplete understanding of the situation he was in.

  Colonel Spiro had told Tanner something about Don Calogero Vizzini before they had left La Marsa: that he was one of the most powerful men in Sicily, that he was a man of honour, and that he had the authority to help overthrow Fascism on the island. Tanner had asked further questions but the shutters had come down so he had not probed further; he understood his role, and getting involved with Spiro’s work was not part of it. Even so, he couldn’t help wondering. He assumed an Allied invasion was likely, some time in the not-too-distant future. He also guessed that Vizzini was, on the face of it, a Fascist official on the island, but someone prepared to turn, if the time and price were right. Admiral Darlan, in Algeria, had been such a figure, he knew. A pro-Nazi admiral and governor of Vichy French North Africa. His friend John Peploe had told him about it – how the Allies had done a deal with Darlan before the Allied invasion there the previous November. According to Peploe, the US General Mark Clark had been sent by submarine and had paddled ashore for secret negotiations.

  This time the Allies were sending a half-colonel, but Tanner supposed he should not read too much into that; after all, they would hardly parachute a general into the centre of an island as big as Sicily. He was surprised at the location for this meeting, though. Admittedly, he had not seen the place in daylight, but Villalba appeared to be a rather insignificant place: a small town in the middle of the Sicilian countryside, with dusty roads and, as yet, few concessions to the modern world. There was no mains electricity, no sign of any vehicles. The house they were in was large, but rather shabby, Tanner thought. He wondered whether Spiro had been horribly duped, or whether Vizzini had chosen this place precisely for its remoteness. But, then, why not meet somewhere discreet on the coast, as, according to Peploe, General Clark had done in Algeria?

  He supposed all would become clear in time, but the sooner they were on their way the better, as far as he was concerned. Three months he’d been with the Americans; if and when they got back to Tunisia, he was determined to get a transfer – back to the Yorks Rangers, if he had anything to do with it, and if not, to some other regiment. I’m a soldier, he thought. I’m not suited to this kind of work. He thought about his time in Cairo, the previous summer, when he’d been briefly seconded to the Secret Intelligence Service. He’d hated it. Secrets, shadows, nothing what it seemed. Like this place. He sighed. Just what the hell was going on?

  It was not until past eleven o’clock that they finally met Don Calogero Vizzini. Bartolomeo had taken them to a kitchen and given them bread, honey, coffee and oranges, which they had eaten with relish. Don Calo, it seemed, had ‘business’ to attend to in town.

  Then, at last, at a quarter past eleven, with Tanner’s impatience mounting, they had been led into a large drawing room. Old still-lifes, landscapes and poorly painted portraits hung on the walls, and a portly man, dressed in a short-sleeved shirt, braces and dark trousers that covered a bulging stomach, sat in a leather chair beside the fireplace. His thinning grey hair was combed back, while he wore dark-rimmed spectacles over hooded eyes. A trim moustache covered his top lip.

  Tanner wondered who he was and was surprised that someone so casually dressed did not have the courtesy to stand up.

  ‘Don Calo,’ said Bartolomeo, striding over to stand a little behind the man.

  Tanner was dumbfounded. This was Don Calo?

  Spiro stepped forward and introduced himself, shaking hands, then gestured at Wiseman and Tanner.

  Don Calogero nodded, said, ‘Signor Saggio,’ to Wiseman and chuckled.

  Chairs were offered. They sat down. ‘Do as they say,’ Spiro had briefed them earlier. ‘We’re their guests and there are strict codes of etiquette. If they offer a drink or food, take it.’

  Tanner listened now, but understood little. The scene before him seemed so fantastical, so unlikely. He wondered whether Spiro and his colleagues in the OSS had been taken for a ride by the unremarkable-seeming man in front of him. He had seen Italian commanders before, even a captured general, and they were all cockatoos – bedecked in medals and braid, chests thrust forward. Here, though, was a man with no obvious vanity: an ageing Sicilian with a paunch and a cheap shirt. The paunch was, he supposed, the only sign of prosperity. Every other Sicilian he’d seen so far had been stick-thin. Occasionally, Don Calogero interjected; his voice was low and gravelly, and he spoke much more slowly than Spiro did. A confident man, Tanner guessed, and clearly in control.

  After nearly an hour, Don Calogero paused, waved his hand in the air, then clicked his fingers.

  ‘Caffè?’ he asked, looking at Wiseman and Tanner. ‘Vino? Grappa?’ Then before they could answer, he said, ‘Grappa.’ He had made the decision for them. One of his men – not Bartolomeo – disappeared, returning a minute later with a tray, a bottle, and four shot glasses. Don Calogero sat back and smiled, waiting for the grappa to be served. When all had a glass, he raised his and said, ‘Salute. La fine di Mussolini e del fascismo.’ He chuckled again, then sipped from his glass.

  ‘To the end of Mussolini and Fascism,’ repeated Spiro in English. He glanced at Wiseman and Tanner and grinned.

  Tanner drank and felt the liquid burn his throat. Don Calogero looked at him and signalled with his hand – drink, drink – so Tanner knocked back the rest in one gulp.

  ‘E fatto qui,’ said Don Calogero.

  ‘He says they make it here,’ said Spiro.

  ‘Molto buono,’ said Tanner. Very good.

  Don Calogero smiled and nodded, then pointed at him and said something to Spiro.

  ‘He’s asking whether you were the one who knock
ed down Bartolomeo,’ relayed Spiro.

  Don Calogero spoke again, and Spiro looked embarrassed.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ asked Tanner.

  Spiro cleared his throat. ‘He says if you’d been Sicilian you might not be alive today for doing what you did. But he also says he could do with someone like you working for him.’

  ‘Quando la guerra e finita,’ said Don Calogero, then laughed wheezily.

  Tanner understood that. When the war is over. He smiled and nodded. Fat chance.

  ‘Good,’ said Spiro, turning to Wiseman. ‘We have a deal.’ He stood up and shook hands with Don Calogero, who smiled amiably. ‘Grazie mille, Don Calo. Tu sei un uomo d’onore,’ he said, bowing.

  Don Calogero eased himself up out of his chair. ‘Ora di pranzo!’ he said, clapping his hands and rubbing his palms.

  ‘Lunch,’ said Spiro.

  They waited for Don Calogero to lead the way, the older man taking Wiseman’s hand and patting him gently on the shoulder as he passed. ‘Buono, buono …’ he muttered.

  Tanner saw Wiseman smirk and raise an eyebrow – God knows – then followed the entourage out into the hall where the aroma of cooking had wafted through. It smelt delicious.

  Later, around eight o’clock that night. Two of Don Calogero’s men led them – Zucharini and Baldini. Like Bartolomeo, they were small, wiry and middle-aged. Tanner and Wiseman towered over them – at least a foot taller and even broader. Dark hair and skin wouldn’t fool anyone, Tanner realized.

  They left the town as dusk settled. No one was about; Villalba was like a ghost town. Although the sky was darkening, Tanner could still make out the surrounding countryside. He was struck by how empty it was: rolling hills and valleys, with endless fields around Villalba, then open pasture and scrub, but almost no other sign of life. Behind them, Villalba disappeared from view. There were no metalled roads, only white, dusty tracks winding over the folds of the land. Cicadas and crickets chirruped. The scent on the air was strong: soil, wild flowers and young corn. Early summer.