“By the way, you need to add a nickname to Rizzo’s file. Three Fingers. He’s called that for obvious reasons.”
“Yeah, will do. Now, what can you tell me about the Mafia food chain?”
O’Donnell was on a roll, his mind rushing ahead. His sixth sense was screaming at him to follow this to the end. Besides, it would strengthen his clout with the Carabinieri if he could go back to them with a positive link between the Cosa Nostra and the car bombing on their turf. At the moment, O’Donnell wasn’t in their good books. He’d been well and truly hauled over the coals for the injuries Cait and him had inflicted on their attackers, and he had much explaining to do to justify the numerous broken bones their attackers had suffered.
Ice had recently reported back to ASIO when he was updating his field notes after the incident at 8 Via Silvestri that he suspected corruption at the highest level, which included some of the officers who pulled the strings at the Carabinieri. Apparently they weren’t able to quantify many of his findings due to “compromised” forensic evidence that was unable to be relied upon in the end, and as there was no sign of Tariq, the residents of the house were “obviously” illegally squatting and weren’t terrorists.
And the handgun was unregistered and untraceable, and no one was shot, so it was “inconsequential.”
The end result of the investigation by the Carabinieri was that all charges against Cait and O’Donnell’s hospitalized assailants had to be dismissed, and instead Ice received a severe reprimand, with a threat to deport him for operating outside of his authority.
O’Donnell had ruffled more than a few feathers with those in command, and was currently walking on eggshells.
“Tell me, Paul,” said O’Donnell. “Maybe you can answer a few questions for me: who’s the man at the top of the Cosa Nostra, who’re the main players, and who were the two thugs who confronted Cait and me in their safe house? Any ideas?”
“I’m sure you probably know as much as me, or even more about them,” replied Paul. “You’re the one with the database. But what I can tell you is that the guy at the top of the tree is reputed to be Don Giovanni Rizzo. That’s common knowledge.”
“Interesting how he has the same surname as this mafioso Three Fingers,” said O’Donnell. “What’s the relationship?”
“The Mafia’s one big family. It seems they’re all related. Interbred, if you ask me,” said Paul with disdain.
“Marco’s probably a nephew of the Don, or something like that. To my knowledge he’s not the Don’s son, if that’s what you mean. The son’s a local Sicilian playboy who drives a Ferrari and likes throwing his daddy’s money around. You read about him in the papers from time to time.”
“I reckon Marco’s midtier and working his way up the chain of command. He’s got to have good family cred to be put in charge of their cash cow at Cara di Mineo though, so it possibly makes him a close blood relation of the Don.”
“Makes sense. And the rest?” asked O’Donnell, interested in finding out more. He made a mental note to do a search on the database under “Cosa Nostra Sicily” when he was next at his secure computer.
Paul drained his Birra Morena, then continued.
“Can’t really fill you in on the others. To be quite honest, I don’t follow the comings and goings of the Cosa Nostra. Not really on my radar, expect for the fact that they’re gaming the system and need to be stopped.”
Paul burped a frothy beer belch midsentence.
“I imagine the two low-life thugs who attacked Cait and you were bottom-feeders. They’d have been there as minders for this Tariq character. Wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up in the hospital again when the Mafia finally catch up with them.”
“Maybe even the morgue. In the Cosa Nostra’s eyes they must have fucked up big-time, and The Honoured Society isn’t exactly known for its caring and sharing side.”
O’Donnell paused for a moment’s silence to gather his thoughts before continuing.
“Okay, that’s a good heads-up. Thanks.
“So would you be able to come up with a reason to go out to Cara di Mineo again and see if you can find out anything about Rizzo? See if he’s nervous, stressed out, whatever. And also, I really need to know if Tariq’s brother Aziz has turned up there yet. He’s gone to ground as well, although we don’t think that he’s instrumental in the bombing. It’s more a case of finding Aziz, and then hoping that he’ll lead us to his brother.”
“Marco, fungula, you really screwed this up,” said Don Giovanni, stabbing the air with his fat, perfectly manicured index finger, repeatedly pointing it at Three Fingers as if it was a gun.
“I give you a simple job to do, and you blow it. First the bomb didn’t hit the target and this irritante from Care the World is still walking the streets, and now that stronzo Mohammed is God knows where on the run. And we’ve got two of our soldiers in the hospital.”
The Don was really pissed off and needed a whipping boy. He mightn’t have given Marco direct orders to follow this through, but there was always an implied assumption that as capo his nephew should have kept a closer eye on things.
“Yes Don, I’ll have my men find Mohammed . . .”
“On my brother’s advice I stupidly made you the capo on this, so it’s your contract. Now fix it.”
The world had just imploded on Three Fingers. One minute he was riding high, being singled out by the Don for his first major contract, and now he was being berated for something that was totally out of his control.
“Don Giovanni, I did what you asked me to do,” pleaded Marco, hands in front, palms facing upward. “I had two of my best men move into Mohammed’s house to keep an eye on him. How was I to know that the safe house wasn’t really safe after all?”
Three Fingers, tough man that he thought he was, felt a slight involuntary wetness between his legs as he tried to salvage a bad situation. He was clutching at straws and desperately needed to find a way out of the hole that he felt he had fallen into.
“No excuses, Marco,” replied the Don. He wasn’t a person to cross, and certainly not someone to argue with.
“I know you were at the house a quarter of an hour before it was raided. You were obviously followed. But how did these people link it back to you? You were sloppy, Marco. Somehow you’ve have been implicated. I don’t allow mistakes like that.”
The Don took Three Fingers by surprise.
How did he know I was there just before the raid? He must have eyes in the walls, Marco thought to himself. Little did he know that the Don had arranged for a young street kid and his brother to keep a watch on the house and report back with any movements in and out of the place.
The Don had yet to find out about Marco’s mobile phone now being in the hands of the police, but it was only a matter of time. He had contacts in the polizia who would keep him up to date on the investigation. As it was, the Don had already called in some outstanding favors and made some substantial payoffs to the forensic examiners who searched the house. Strangely, the evidence collected at the crime was contaminated, making it inadmissible in any ongoing investigation, so the case against the two hospitalized Cosa Nostra soldiers had been downgraded to trespassing, and even this would be dropped down the line.
“So Marco, tell me why I should give you one more chance to prove yourself.”
As far as the Don was concerned, this was all part of Marco’s initiation, although he wouldn’t let his nephew know. Pushing him hard and treating him with disdain would toughen him up and teach him respect.
Basically, for Marco this was to be trial by fire and if he came out unburned, then he would earn his stripes.
“Don Giovanni, I’ll personally find Mohammed and deliver him to you. On this I swear on the life of my unborn child. I have eyes and ears all over Sicily.”
The Don moved a step closer, positioning his face two inches in front of Marco’s. His eyes bored into Marco’s head with the intensity of a laser beam.
Marco nervously hel
d the glare, then glanced away before he melted.
“Act like a man and look at me! That’s what you can do for starters,” the Don said, a glob of spittle landing on Marco’s chin.
“It won’t be long before all this heat on our operations will make it harder for us to siphon off the cash,” the Don said aggressively. “I already have important people complaining to me that if this doesn’t go quietly, they’ll have to withdraw their support. And you know what that means?”
“What?” stammered Marco.
“Well, let’s just say that it’s not good for business.”
Little did Three Fingers know that the Don would also be searching for Tariq, just in case Marco didn’t produce the goods. The Don was under immense pressure from his fellow members in the Brethren of the True Believers to locate Tariq. The Brethren wanted their assassin back. He was too useful to them to be out of touch and on the run. There were always enemies in the Middle East and Europe who had to be dispatched, and from time to time they needed the chaos and confusion created by a well-placed bomb.
And Tariq was their go-to terrorist.
“And those two intruders who must have followed you to the house. I want to know their every movement. Find out as much information about them as you can. They’re obviously dangerous. But leave the irritante to me.”
“Grazie, Don Giovanni.”
Marco dropped to his knees to kiss the Don’s signet ring. The Don immediately withdrew his hand.
“Goddamn you, just get up and do your job. Find that Mohammed son of a bitch.”
The Don turned his back to Marco and walked over to his desk. By the time he sat down in his large leather desk chair and looked up, Marco was nowhere to be seen.
Dec’s recovery was progressing well and his body was healing, but his mind wasn’t in tune with his physical self. He was having difficulty rationalizing the fact that his sight was gone. All he was able to see was a world of total blackness. One of his five senses had deserted him; the only vestige now of a world full of color, light and vibrancy were images that he was able to drag out from his memory banks, pictures of a life lived to the full over the past twenty-two years.
Jools picking him up from school when he went to the nurse’s office complaining of an ache in his gut, which turned out to be appendicitis; on the helm of his father’s racing yacht, surfing out of control down the face of a two-meter wave at twenty-two knots; Cait saving his life by refusing to board that bus in Laos that later crashed en route to Siem Reap; walking toward the black car in Piazza del Duomo . . .
So many memories. And now no more visuals. Instead Dec had to survive with a lingering presence in his memory banks of past events recorded through his once-functional eyesight.
As is the often the way when one of the primary senses is torn from the body, another rises to the occasion and replaces it. In Dec’s case, powers of insight and perception exploded in his head exponentially, and he regained his vision, but on a different plane. Dec’s mind morphed into a virtual movie screen, playing vivid pictures of what was happening around him in real time. People’s thoughts and emotions took form, while events that were about to occur flashed across the personal screen in his head in 3-D interconnections that suddenly had meaning.
Visions on a different plane were coming at him so fast and frequently that he had trouble processing them all. His perception of reality after coming out of his coma was at square one again. Dec had to retrain his brain once more how to think, process, react.
And to compound the issue, Dec found himself suddenly drifting in and out of a strange new world. A new dimension; a world of spirits and spells, magic and mysticism. The Otherworld. Like learning to walk again, Dec’s dendrites had to learn to function again, but on a different level and with a strange new version of reality. Unlike the mortal world, the Otherworld was a place where he could see clearly, where he could exist with all five senses fired up, a place that in many ways to him was the antithesis of the reality that he was used to.
And Dec was having visions. Graphic hallucinations of events that were affecting his family started flashing in front of his eyes without warning, taking the place of his lost sight.
“Cait, I’ve seen the bomber again. It’s like he’s got a GPS tracker attached to him,” said Dec to his sister. He was still in the naval hospital, but he was no longer in the HDU.
Syzchowski had insisted that Dec remain under observation for another week before he returned to Melbourne. So many unusual twists and turns had plagued Dec since his admission nearly three weeks ago that in his opinion, who knew what could happen next? It wouldn’t have surprised him if Dec miraculously regained his sight and walked out of the hospital tomorrow with full vision.
The plan was that if all was okay, G, Jools and Cait could fly Dec back home next week.
“What did you say his name was again? Tariq, wasn’t it?”
“Got it in one, little bro,” said Cait with an upbeat lilt to her voice. She realized that regardless of Dec’s serious injuries and his blindness that she had to treat him as if all was back to normal. It was important for his recovery not to keep pandering to his injuries.
“He’s in a house with some low trees around it. There are chickens or some type of little animals wandering about, and . . . ah . . . it’s surrounded by dusty fields with some type of really large hill behind it, and I think a whole bunch of old stone buildings. And it’s weird. There’s a whole bunch of what looks like black shadows moving around.”
“Jesus Dec, that’s one clear vision. The ones I have are never that defined. You sure about that?”
“Yeah sis, sure am.”
“Dec, I shouldn’t really tell you this, but I met a guy . . .”
“Hey, that was quick. You’ve only been in Italy a few weeks,” interjected Dec lightheartedly. His cheeky banter was returning.
“No mate, it’s not like that. Like duh . . . this guy’s sort of like a secret agent type of dude, and I’m helping him track down Tariq. I’m going to get that bastard and make him pay.”
“You’re kidding. Do Mum and Dad know?”
“A bit, but if I told them too much about him then I’d have to shoot them,” joked Cait. “It’s top secret stuff.”
Dec smiled and laughed, his face lighting up at his sister’s humor. Cait looked down at him and felt sad, but happy at the same time.
We’re going to get you through this, little bro, Cait mused. And I’ll make sure that Tariq suffers the same fate as Boss-man. He won’t be long for this earth if I can catch him.
With that, Dec and Cait chattered between themselves as if nothing had happened. Reminiscing, laughing, talking shit.
“Okay, little bro. Time to hit the road. Got some secret agent stuff to do.”
Dec laughed again, momentarily forgetting about his current situation. He had a picture in his head of Cait that was as clear as if he could see her standing in full view in front of him.
“So what do you make of that?” said Cait. She was filling O’Donnell in on Dec’s vision of where Tariq was hiding.
O’Donnell had ceased to be the skeptic that he was in the past. He still found Cait’s psychic abilities and Dec’s visions difficult to come to grips with, but now instead of dismissing them cold, he rolled with what they had to say. Their combined visions and insights had proven to be correct too many times for him to simply dismiss them as mumbo jumbo bullshit.
And Cait. What an enigma she was proving to be. He was really warming to her powers of deduction and well, her physical abilities, which took things to a whole new level. The memory of that man in the safe house flying through the air, a meter off the ground, still haunted him.
How did she do that?
“So from what you’ve just told me, it sounds like Tariq’s in the country somewhere,” said O’Donnell, processing what he had just heard.
“But the really interesting part about Dec’s vision is the hill in the background and the stone buildings. That narro
ws it down a lot.”
O’Donnell’s mind was churning. But why? There’s something about what Cait’s just told me that rings a bell.
Ice pulled out his mobile phone and started surfing the web. Nine times out of ten, Mr. Google had the answer.
“Got it!” exclaimed O’Donnell excitedly. “I reckon he’s just outside of Sutera. It’s a medieval town built around a large monolith that pokes up out the surrounding countryside like the Devil’s Tower in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Remember that movie?”
O’Donnell was on a roll. The web was currently the fount of all information for him.
“And all around the base of the rock and climbing up its sides are old stone houses, clinging to it as if they were glued on. Says on Wikipedia that it’s a UNESCO site.”
“Yeah, but why there? There must be other towns like that in Sicily,” said Cait.
“Well, that’s the thing. There’s not. This place was literally dying, abandoned, as most of its residents moved out. Ten years ago it was a ghost town, with only the elderly left. All the young people had gone. Then the refugees moved in. Well, they were actually invited there by the remaining locals, and then the next thing they knew, the economy of the town was revived, and now it’s thriving.”
“Wow, that’s a story with a nice ending,” said Cait.
O’Donnell went quiet again, surfing the web, dragging out more information about Sutera. Cait looked on, fascinated, not uttering a word herself as visions of Tariq started flashing through her mind.
Yes! I can see him now, she thought as pictures of him walking up a steep rocky path ran through her head.
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 68
