‘But it wasn’t your fault?’
‘No. But the insurance bill was … how you say, the last straw.’
‘And you and Aggie are now here, living quietly on a tiny island, minding your own business.’
‘Yes. We too have new names. So the insurance company doesn’t find us.’
Both men raised their glasses.
‘Is the ferry running tomorrow morning to Naples, Nick?’
‘Every morning, from 8.30, my good Australian friend.’
Tommy got up stiffly from a chair that was not designed for so many hours of sitting.
‘I have someone special I have to talk to,’ he said as he walked towards the bedroom of the red house.
‘If you need my help, just ask,’ offered Nick.
‘True to form,’ Tommy thought as the Stromboli to Naples ferry docked at the wharf on the Bay of Naples; the scheduled three-hour journey had taken four. Continuing with happenings identical to his first trip across the water was a reunion with his Italian designer acquaintances, both deeply tanned and still full of jolly. In case the need arose, Tommy had slipped his new Robert Bergman passport into the pocket of his shorts.
He took shade under a magnificent plane tree in the centre of the piazza that threw its wide shadow over his familiar rubbish bin. It was a scorchingly hot day. Commissario D’Alfonso didn’t approach from the impressive front door of the Anti-Mafia headquarters as Tommy had expected. Instead he weaved his way suavely through the string of taxis at the nearby rank, striding proud in his royal blue shirt, contrasting tie and cream slacks. He greeted Tommy with an exuberant belly laugh and offered up his big hand. A smile sat on his handsome face.
‘Allora, Detective Robin Hood, si.’
‘At your service,’ Tommy replied, as the two detectives walked slowly together. They had both been too long at the wheel, albeit at opposite ends of the investigative world, to care too much for small talk. Their main preoccupation was the problem now before them. The Commissario had made it abundantly clear through his conversations with Spud that he would offer full disclosure, and full assistance. But first Tommy needed to explain the incident involving the little punk with the handgun on the Venice train. Tommy took his time telling his story and the Commissario nodded. Once Tommy’s explanation ended, the Italian offered an impressed look. ‘You’ve been giving our criminals a hard time, Robin Hood.’
With a smile, the big man assured Tommy that his men would follow up the incident and fill in all the right forms. Such was the life of detectives, sometimes slaves to officialdom, even in Italy. Tommy, pleased with the response, pushed the real business to the forefront.
‘I hear it’s over four tonne.’
‘It gets bigger each shipment. We have to stop them.’
‘You know Massimo killed an old man in New Zealand, and the wife hangs by a thread?’
‘And he needs to kill you and your female operative before taking over from the Plati Godfather.’ The Commissario’s comment, and the thought of losing Jude, almost riveted Tommy to the spot.
‘How good is your evidence now that you have lost the drugs?’
‘Italian courts don’t like conspiracies.’
‘Then you need to find the cave.’
‘ We might have only three days before it disappears onto a container ship.’
‘The ship is leaving in a few days?’
‘There is one in three days, and another in five days. We need to find the cave with Massimo inside.’
‘So, what’s the bottom line?’ asked Tommy.
‘The hills are full of Massimo’s spies. There are more than a hundred caves. The forest is huge. My men would be sighted as soon as we entered the Aspromonte.’
‘Even undercover?’
‘Italians look like Italians.’
‘What about a couple of tourists going for a picnic in the mountains?’
‘Massimo knows you.’
‘I’ll work on that.’
‘Does he know your female operative?’
‘He’s never seen her.’
The proposition appealed to the Commissario.
The Commissario’s briefing to Tommy and their joint plans were completed well before the departure of the last afternoon ferry back to Stromboli, ensuring the Australian’s arrival on the Scari dock at 7 p.m. Tommy’s weary body stepped onto the concrete jetty. His spirits lifted with the sight of Jude standing alone, waving. A perfect homecoming for a man searching desperately for a solution to his problem. Jude had lain on a deckchair at the beach all day with Leigh, worrying and praying that an answer could be found. She was now blissfully happy, except for the interfering news of Massimo’s need for revenge.
She kissed Tommy tenderly on the lips and he wrapped his arms around her waist, scooping her up momentarily. They then turned and wandered slowly along the only other road on the island, the coast road, returning to Casa Greco by dusk.
Their arrival was met by a very sombre Leigh. He sat in his lone deckchair, staring out to sea. A dozen fruit flies buzzed around above his head as he worked through problems that Tommy guessed were mostly identical to his own concerns.
‘How did you go, champer?’ asked Leigh.
‘We need a clever plan, Leigh. Are you in?’
‘Of course I’m in.’
‘And so am I,’ Jude added.
‘I’m not too sure about you, Jude,’ replied Tommy.
‘Then get sure. If I was good enough for the Mafia in Griffith, I’m good enough for the Mafia in Calabria … What’s the difference?’
Truth be known, Tommy saw no other way of achieving the desired result without involving Jude to some degree. It was time for surveillance, time to find a cave, time to create a happy couple and a picnic setting in the mountains. Jude was the perfect asset for such a plan. He pulled up a chair, as did Jude, and sat down to detail his plan, one that he’d discussed with the Commissario during their meeting.
In the other hemisphere, seated in a far more formal version of an office was Sandra, not long into work. As per her daily routine, one of the first telephone calls she made was to the Auckland Base Hospital. She had been waiting for a good five minutes, while the less-than-interested nursing sister toddled off to enquire as to the progress of the patient Lynette Peterson. Sandra, expecting a version of the usual pro forma answer and fed up with a longer than average wait to boot, almost hung up in frustration. Just as she moved to take the handset from her ear, she heard a faint young female voice on the other end ask whether she was still there.
‘Yes, of course I’m still here,’ she replied tersely, making a simultaneous note of the call in her diary.
‘Doctor told me that I’m allowed to say to you that Mrs Peterson is recovering and is progressing well.’
‘Simply … wonderful … Nurse, what does that mean?’
‘There’s no need to be short, Detective. I’m just telling you what Doctor said. She’s drifting in and out of consciousness. She spoke for the first time to the night nurse.’
‘You … she … what?’ exclaimed a stunned Sandra. She straightened her back and her posture from its slouched position.
‘Are you deaf, Detective?’ enquired the nurse tersely.
There was no answer to the question or the sarcasm. Sandra simply dropped the phone and sprinted for Spud’s office.
Their plan was a good one, the three of them thought: simple, innocent and highly feasible. Leigh and Jude would fill the back seat of a hire car with breadsticks, wine, picnic rug, plus prosciutto, cheeses and fruit. They would take with them two torches and a map supplied by Mario, which would highlight the ten caves closest to Plati—the immediate area where Mario lost sight of the shipment, the night he was shot at. The Commissario felt that ten would be sufficient for the first day; some were a kilometre apart, and the next most probable ten would feature on the second day, and so on. A distinctly different car would be arranged each day to fool the nit-keepers. They would drive into the region lik
e a pair of lovers and amble hand in hand with their picnic basket, covertly ticking off the caves. Should they locate the right cave, the happy couple would return immediately to a prearranged rendezvous, where Tommy and the Commissario would be waiting. Tommy was aware that his own face was too well known to Massimo; he had to lie low. Should Jude and Leigh find the cave, the investigation would be handed over to the Commissario, and the Australian contingent would disappear back to Stromboli.
The success of the operation depended on a quiet and subtle approach, making sure that Leigh and Jude weren’t seen before they spotted the Mafia. With this in mind, Leigh had suggested that they both wear dark clothing to facilitate a casual, camouflaged approach in the forest. Jude thought she would make good use of her new digital camera with its powerful zoom lens and try to take a couple of photographs of the cave entrance. They would be very much the loving couple out for a stroll in search of a picnic location. The team gave considerable thought to their contingency plan should they be confronted. It was decided that the best response would be to adopt the personas of honeymooning English tourists, no links to Australia.
With the final details of their plan down, Tommy required nothing more than a few minutes with Nick the Greek, who had, only the night before, given his assurance of help. Leigh spied him as he walked across the orchard, and nudged Tommy, who turned and yelled loudly in the direction of their friendly host, who was disappearing in through his front door: ‘Nick, I need a boat!’
The ACA squad car screeched to a halt outside the departure section of Melbourne International Airport. Sandra had said everything she needed to say to Spud on the journey out. In fact she had become so anxious that she had said it several times and had started to babble slightly, repeating herself. ‘My visit to Lynette’s bedside must be kept secret until such time as she can positively state who was responsible for the atrocity. Then pass on the details to Superintendent Fountain, who will take over and, hopefully, clear Cole’s name.’
‘I’ve got it, Sandra,’ said Spud. ‘Just go, your flight is about to leave.’
‘Wish me luck,’ was all that Sandra said as she leaned over and kissed her friend on the cheek. She grabbed her briefcase and overnight bag so hastily that she was out of the car and into the crowd before Spud could wish her good luck. She checked her watch and confirmed that there was a mere half-hour remaining. She looked up at the departure board. The final-call green lights flashed intermittently as she squeezed her way through the milling crowds. It was all push and shove.
She brushed against Dorothy, who stood pouting impatiently at the check-in counter. There was no tracksuit, joggers or sloppy joe for Dorothy this time around. She wore a brand-new pastel-pink Chanel suit with matching pumps and her fair share of bling. She, like Sandra, was full of anxiety, but of a different strain. Her nose was raised more than usual from the floor; she had at last found her station in life.
Her husband was busy at the first-class ticket counter, upgrading their economy seats. He looked a spiv in his navy blue Hugo Boss blazer adorned with gold buttons, matching a pair of white cuffed slacks and cream patent-leather loafers. A white silk handkerchief, blossoming from the chest pocket of his jacket, accompanied his boarding passes. They were off to the south of France.
He glanced back at Dorothy and gave her a charming smile. As he did so, his eyes moved momentarily from her to the rushed figure of Sandra, who had all but hurled a fellow passenger to one side as she fought the crowd. His delighted face turned sour. Mack, with fresh boarding passes in hand and luggage disposed of, stepped away from the counter and paced hastily in the direction in which Sandra had disappeared, looking up at the board to the only final flashing call: to Auckland. Dorothy clomped along behind him, somewhat perturbed at his change of demeanour. Her ruby-painted fingernails grabbed his arm, causing him to turn sharply and face her.
‘Have you seen the Grim Reaper, darling? Not a good way to start a holiday,’ she commented as Mack sank heavily onto a nearby seat. He looked around for some water and took his silk handkerchief from his pocket.
Sandra stepped smartly from her double-parked taxi in front of the Auckland Base Hospital. She bounded through the hospital’s automatic doors, ignored the reception staff and headed straight for Lynette Peterson’s ward.
Half-a-dozen corridors later, she reached Room 7B on the ground floor of the East Wing. The timber door was slightly ajar and the single-bed private room was in relative darkness. Sandra walked gingerly through the door and leaned into the unknown. Lynette lay motionless on her back in a room devoid of any radio or television noise. The only sound that broke the stillness was the constant beep of the heart-rate monitor. Sandra was surprised at the serene look on Lynette’s face. Her hands were clasped together on her lap, her neck bare of any bandages. Clearly the work of her surgeons had been exemplary.
‘Lynette,’ she whispered. There was no hint of a response. She pulled up a mustard-coloured vinyl seat and made herself comfortable. She surveyed the prettily framed photographs of Lynette and Cary in what were more idyllic times, and settled in for the night.
11th July
With a few hours of night sky left, Tommy and Jude stood huddled together on the Scari wharf. A distant band of tiny fairy lights from across the bay twinkled under a near-starless night. Jude’s overnight bag sat cosily alongside the faithful old Bees-Knees, near the mooring post at the end of the pier. A pair of seagulls glided through the inky blackness and settled on a mooring post next to the bags, in search of scraps. Leigh strolled along the far end of the pier, gathering his thoughts, sucking in the coolness of the night air as well as the smoke from his cigarette. The glow from his cigarette tip traced a path as he smoked. Jude shone her torch to illuminate a shiny circle of glassy water. At that moment, the sound of a small motorboat could be heard in the distance, a distinctive put put put put coming from a well-worn engine.
Tommy flicked his torch on and the two lights danced across the otherwise dark sheet of water. Leigh stubbed his cigarette butt under his foot and turned his attention to the increasingly noisy approach of the water craft. A single, stronger light shone in their dazzled eyes as a small blue-hulled fishing boat came into sight. As the boat drew nearer to the trio, the seagulls took flight with a screech and a flutter of wings. All three torches now shone on the edge of the dock as Nick expertly steered his craft into perfect alignment.
‘Tomasso, be quick, before the tide shifts,’ the Greek said. Aggie, seated alongside, gently planted a farewell kiss on the side of his face. ‘Don’t go running away on me now, Nico,’ she said.
‘Never,’ her husband replied. ‘You and me … forever.’
Nick helped Aggie ashore before he reached out and took Jude’s hand, guiding her into the boat. Likewise, the two men and their bags. Tommy’s shoulder bag was somewhat heavier than would be expected for a simple change of clothes and toiletries. He had retrieved his Browning automatic from below the duck pen. Once settled, the four turned to wave a goodbye to Aggie as she disappeared along the pier and back into the darkness of San Vincenzo.
‘You must tell me now, Tomasso, where are we going?’ the Greek captain enquired. Tommy looked across at the man before him and without a word pointed across the bay to the cluster of tiny lights at the foothills of the Aspromonte Mountains.
As dawn broke, Nick the Greek’s blue-hulled fishing boat settled in to a makeshift mooring. They had reached the tiny port at Santa Domenica, below the cliffs of the hauntingly beautiful medieval town of Tropea, to the waiting wet feet of their Italian entourage. Commissario D’Alfonso stood a head above the next tallest man, Mario, and a band of surly plain-clothed Poliziotti, who were doing a less-than-impressive job of pretending to look like fishermen. There was a sweet, pungent smell in the air. Nick could see Tommy’s nostrils flaring as he stepped from the boat.
‘It’s the red onions, Tomasso. Tropea is the home of the red onion. The hills are covered in them,’ said Nick. Leigh, too, snorted the
intoxicating aroma.
The now dozen or more gathered men, and one woman, shook hands as the morning sun made its first impression. The Commissario stepped towards Nick, who seemed to be the only outsider among the police, and handed him his calling card.
‘Tomasso said you are to be trusted. If you need me for any reason in the future, ring my office: I will help you.’
The Greek captain of the now-empty vessel looked down at the card quizzically. Tommy stepped in to explain.
‘It’s what’s called a “get out of gaol free card”, Nick—keep it.’ And with a wink and a ‘See you back in Stromboli in a few days’, he left the Greek to stash the card in the pocket of his shirt and head home across his empty sea. Leigh pushed the small boat into deeper water as Jude cleared the slippery stones.
The others scrambled over the large wet stones towards a gathering of nondescript hire cars in the bayside carpark. They all left in a convoy as invisibly as they had arrived.
In less than an hour, the big Italian in charge of the investigation and the three Australians pulled their car into the driveway of Mario’s modest villa on the edge of the village of Gerace. Gerace was only ten kilometres as the crow flies from Plati, yet thirty-five kilometres along the winding laneways. As with all the villages on the mountain, it overlooked the fishing village of Locri, immediately below. The Commissario had scattered carloads of twitching, adrenalin-riddled investigators to one side of the national park. They would lie in wait, hidden well away, ready to act in an emergency.
The cosy little kitchen of Mario’s home welcomed the strangers with the smell and taste of strong coffee and the cries of a cheeky toddler. Lina, Mario’s dutiful wife, commenced the preparations for a hearty cooked breakfast for all. It was a proud moment for Mario and Lina, having the finest anti-Mafia investigator south of Rome sitting at their well-worn kitchen table. The pride on Lina’s face was evident as she poured second cups of coffee and glanced at the five heads poring over the large topographical forestry map spread across the table. By the end of their breakfast, Leigh and Jude were comfortable in their roleplay as wayward picnicking travellers. The Commissario, too, was pleased with the plan, having assessed their exemplary level of undercover experience. He used the house phone to call his assistant to collect the two picnickers and take them to their task.
On the Run Page 24
