The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Read online

  ‘That’s a fishing fleet,’ he said, ‘out of Porto Palo on the south-east coast of Sicily. They’re trawling for king prawns. Usually I stop and trade a bottle of Black Label Scotch for a box of them . . . but not tonight . . . Listen Michael, if you need any help with that child, let me know. I don’t know what’s behind it, but I guess she’s on drugs. I had experience with that kind of thing in New York. It’s bloody hell getting them off it.’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Michael said. ‘As far as possible. Creasy wants me to handle it myself. The main thing is that nobody finds out she’s on Gozo. At least until Creasy gets back with some decent papers.’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ Joe answered. He gestured at the deck below him. ‘Wenzu knows how to keep his mouth shut, and so do Frenchu and his sons.’

  They sped across the sea in silence for another ten minutes, Joe was not looking ahead, nor left nor right, just at the screen set into the dashboard panel. Abruptly he grunted, leaned forward and pointed. Among the dozens of blips another one had appeared, brighter than the others. Joe laughed softly.

  ‘That’s Frenchu. From that blip you’d think he was a supertanker instead of a sixty-foot fishing boat.’ He watched the moving blip for a couple of minutes and nodded. ‘That’s him all right. He’s moving sou’ sou’ west at about ten knots.’ He punched some buttons on the computer next to the radar, checked the screen and said, ‘We’ll rendezvous in sixteen minutes.’

  Michael looked at his watch and asked, ‘Can you calculate what time Frenchu’s boat will get back to Gozo?’

  Joe punched some more buttons and said, ‘Assuming he cruises at twelve knots, which he will, you’ll be there at about five a.m. An hour before dawn.’

  ‘I’ll go below, then,’ Michael said, ‘and check the girl out.’

  He found Wenzu sitting outside the door of the aft cabin. Michael nodded, opened the door and went in. She was sitting half-propped up on the large double bed. She was wearing jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt. She looked at him with anxious eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I feel lousy. I need some of that stuff again.’

  ‘It’s a bit early,’ he said, ‘but better now than on the other boat.’ He unlocked a drawer and took out a small box as she rolled up the right-hand sleeve of her T-shirt.

  Chapter 24

  It was a Friday night. Colonel Mario Satta always dined alone on a Friday night. He sat at his favourite alcove table in his favourite restaurant in Milan; he was a man of few habits but this was one. During the meal he would think over the events of the preceding week, and map out plans for the coming one. He did not look like a colonel in the carabinieri. He looked like a successful grand prix driver or an avant garde playwright or the owner of a television company. His clothes were a master tailor’s dream. The dark grey double-breasted suit had the faintest black pinstripe; it had been tailored by Huntsman’s of Savile Row. His cream silk shirt had come, like all his others, from a small shirtmaker in Como. His maroon silk tie was by Armani. His kid leather shoes were made from his personal ‘last’ at his cobbler’s in Rome. His face caught attention, especially from women. It was not conventionally handsome, but his deep-set dark eyes and slightly aquiline nose gave him an air of both authority and mystery. He came from a wealthy and somewhat aristocratic family, which his mother dominated. She could never understand why, with her wealth and connections, her younger son had chosen to become what, in her eyes, was a mere policeman, even though he constantly pointed out that he was in the carabinieri and the youngest colonel in that corps. She would simply sniff and remark that, no matter how beautiful his uniform, he was still a policeman. Her elder son had studied medicine and gone on to become one of Italy’s most eminent surgeons. Even that did not satisfy his mother. She referred to him as an over-educated butcher. She would have preferred her sons to go into commerce, industry or politics. She would also have preferred them to be married to prominent, acceptable socialites from the right sort of family. Instead, her elder son had married a nurse from Bologna, no less, and Mario seemed to have endless affairs with nubile young actresses. She despaired of her sons but she loved them both, and the love was returned.

  Colonel Mario Satta had made his reputation by deep research into the workings of the Italian Mafia. Over a period of years and with the help of his dedicated assistant, Bellu, he had built up dossiers on every major family. It had been at first rewarding and then frustrating and then heartbreaking. His dossiers had been used by the senior prosecuting magistrates in Palermo and elsewhere. One by one he had seen those magistrates and their bodyguards shot or bombed as they closed in on the quarries that he had identified. They were brave and good men, and he had been unable to help beyond passing on his information. Politics and corruption and a combination of both had always protected the killers. Finally, in frustration, he had requested a transfer and a few months earlier had been assigned to the department which investigated political corruption in Italy’s northern industrial heartland. He had taken Bellu with him and, although they had only been at work a few months, many politicians were already looking nervously over their shoulders.

  Colonel Mario Satta’s three main passions in life were good food, beautiful women, and backgammon. More or less in that order. For him, the perfect evening was a meal in a fine and intimate restaurant, or else at his apartment, prepared by himself, together with a beautiful woman and afterwards several games of backgammon - which of course he must win - followed by a satisfying session in bed. But on this night be dined alone with the added anticipation of a date with a beautiful woman on Sunday night. She was not an actress but a television presenter with titian hair.

  He had ordered one of his favourite meals: a special antipasto followed by cappon magro. For the dessert he had spoiled himself and ordered his favourite gelato di tutti frutti. He was always conscious of his waistline but indulged himself on Friday nights. He had just finished the cappon magro together with the last of the Barolo, which was of course a little heavy, but a nice contrast to the dessert which was coming. He looked up as the restaurant door opened and slowly lowered his glass to the table. He saw the man’s gaze sweep the restaurant and alight on him. The man wove his way through the tables towards him. He had a curious walk; light, but as if the outsides of his feet touched the ground first. Slowly, the Colonel rose to his feet and moved around the table. Some of the other diners stopped eating to watch. They saw the Colonel embrace the man warmly and kiss him on both cheeks. No one, not even the maître d’ or the waiters had ever seen Colonel Mario Satta do that before. The men sat down and looked at each other across the table. The maître d’ hovered a couple of metres behind the newcomer.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Satta asked.

  Creasy shook his head, ‘I had a sandwich on the plane, a couple of hours ago.’

  Satta nodded to the maître d’, who moved forward. Without being asked, the Colonel ordered for Creasy: spaghetti alle vongole, to be followed by osso buco. He told the maître d’ to hold his dessert and then bring a double portion when the osso buco was finished. He also ordered another bottle of Barolo.

  Creasy smiled as the maître d’ hurried away.

  ‘You don’t forget much, Mario.’

  The Italian grinned. ‘That was the last meal you ordered at the Cardarelli Hospital the night before your funeral.’

  Creasy nodded at the memory, and asked, ‘How is your brother?’

  ‘He is well, but, as always, works too hard.’

  ‘It’s his vocation.’

  ‘True,’ Satta replied. ‘I also have a vocation, but I don’t work fourteen hours a day. What brings you to Milan? Apart, of course, from my fascinating company and the possibility of losing a large amount of money at backgammon.’

  The wine waiter appeared with the Barolo, ritually uncorked it and poured a sample into Creasy’s glass. Creasy tasted it and nodded his approval. As the waiter left Creasy said, ‘I came to th
row a name at you. All I have is a name and a possible connection to a white slave ring.’

  ‘Throw away,’ Satta said.

  ‘Donati,’

  ‘Christian name?’

  ‘I don’t have it.’

  ‘He lives in Milan?’

  ‘He’s based in Milan.’

  The waiter brought Creasy’s spaghetti. He ate in silence, occasionally glancing up at the Colonel. He knew that Satta’s memory was legendary. Right now he was picking through all the compartments of his mind.

  Finally he said, ‘I know of three Donatis living in Milan. One is a priest, one is a junior conductor at La Scala and the third bakes the best bread in the city. I doubt that any of them have connections with a white slave ring.’ He shrugged and then smiled. ‘But who knows? Last month the priest bought a new car . . . a BMW . . . not a big one, you understand, but it was new.’

  Creasy smiled through a mouthful of spaghetti, swallowed, and said, ‘Have you ever heard of “The Blue Ring”?’

  Again Satta’s mind went through its computer exercise. Creasy had finished the spaghetti before he got an answer. He drank half a glass of wine and then heard Satta say, ‘There is a faint little bell ringing in my head, but I can’t place it right now. I take it that this Donati is connected with “The Blue Ring” which is involved in white slavery?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been established a very long time; probably operates in most southern Mediterranean countries and has tentacles into North Africa and the Middle East. I only have the name Donati, nothing else. Between Donati and the man who gave me the name there was a complete cut-out. Very professional. I suspect that Donati is just the next rung on the ladder, and that there will be very complete cut-outs between every rung all the way to the top of that ladder.’

  ‘And what is your involvement?’

  Creasy sighed and said, ‘This will take some time to explain. I will have to go back to the last time I saw you . . . about six years ago.’

  It took over an hour. Creasy talked and Satta listened, occasionally interjecting to clarify a point. Creasy finished his story as they both finished the gelato di tutti frutti.

  Satta wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin, drank the last of his wine, smiled and said, ‘Is this the Creasy I used to know? I find you now with a fully-grown son and possibly a daughter . . . By the way, I never wrote to you with my condolences about Nadia and Julia.’

  ‘I got your message via Guido,’ Creasy said quietly. There was a silence while he remembered that message. It simply said, ‘The sun sets and in time it always rises again.’ Creasy looked at his friend across the table and said, ‘Good words from a good man.’

  Satta shrugged and dismissed the subject. ‘Anyway. I can tell you that this “Blue Ring” is not connected with the Mafia. If it was I would certainly know about it. Therefore it must be secretive in the extreme because, assuming that it’s lucrative, the Mafia would want a part or all of it. It must also be very powerful and I assume ruthless. I have a colleague who deals with these matters. He is trustworthy. I will confer with him in the morning. How long will you stay in Milan . . . and where?’

  The waiter appeared to clear away the table. Satta ordered two espressos and two double Armagnacs.

  Creasy said, ‘I stay as long as it takes to get a lead on Donati. I checked into a small hotel near the station.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s called The Excelsior and somewhat less comfortable than its namesake . . . but it is discreet.’

  ‘I would offer you my spare bedroom,’ Satta said, ‘but I know you. You prefer to come and go like a ghost.’

  Over the coffee and Armagnac they talked about old times, and especially about Guido Arellio. Since those days, when Creasy was fighting the Mafia, Satta and Guido had become good friends. Satta often visited Guido’s pensione in Naples, firstly for the company, secondly for the food, and thirdly in a vain attempt to recoup his losses from the many backgammon games he had lost to Guido over the years.

  They were the last to leave the restaurant. On the street outside they embraced again briefly, and went their different ways.

  Chapter 25

  It was the second day. Michael was very frightened. He had followed Creasy’s instructions to the letter. They had come ashore at Mgarr I’Xinni an hour before dawn. Frenchu’s Land Rover had been waiting and one of his sons had driven Michael and the girl to the house on the hill. The girl had been sedated and asleep, and Michael wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her in his arms.

  He had placed her on his own bed and then for the next two hours worked feverishly, clearing all the wine out of the cave and other odds and ends which had found their way in there. He stored everything in the spare bedroom, then fetched the mattress and a pile of blankets. He rolled an empty barrel into the cave, connected a hosepipe to a garden tap and filled it up. He had checked the single light set high above the door, then he had gone back to his bedroom. Juliet had been awake. He had sat next to her on the bed, taken her hand in his and talked to her quietly. During the preceding hour he had decided to tell her the truth.

  She had listened without expression and then asked, ‘Will you be with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Yes. Except for a few minutes once in a while, when I have to go into the house to get food.’

  She had nodded and squeezed his hand. So he had injected her with the final dose of methadone and then taken her into the cave. She had been wearing just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. No shoes or socks. She had looked around the cave with apprehension and he had explained that it had been used to make and store wine, and that it was better she stayed there, in case anyone passed by. She had lain down on the mattress and he told her he would be back in an hour.

  In fact, it had only taken him half an hour to go down to the village. The sun had been up by then. Theresa had been surprised, but happy to see him. And then mystified when he told her that she was not to go near the house until further notice, and that she was not to mention that to anybody. He then went to the small grocery and loaded several boxes with provisions, mostly tinned food, fruit, pastas and soft drinks. He had decided not to drink any alcohol for the duration. Back at the house he had stored the provisions and rigged up an extension lead for the phone out to the cave. When he had opened the heavy door into the cave he found her asleep on the mattress. He had gone back out and fetched a folding canvas chair for himself.

  The ordeal had begun about twelve hours later. He had recognised what was happening to her from Creasy’s detailed description. A sense of uneasiness began to come over the girl. She sat cross-legged on the mattress, her back to the rock wall. She began to yawn frequently, and then to shiver. Her eyes moistened and then a watery discharge began to pour down from her eyes and nose. He had told her that he would be back in a moment, gone out and locked the door behind him. From the kitchen, he had fetched several boxes of tissues. Back inside the cave he had opened one and given it to her, but nothing could stop or stem the flow from her eyes and nose. Her T-shirt and jeans became wet with sweat. For several hours he sat with her on the mattress, holding her shivering hand. She began to moan in her throat. The moan of a small animal in pain. Then almost abruptly she had fallen into a deep sleep. He had known that this was what the addicts called the ‘yen sleep’. It would last for several hours, after which she would sink deeper into hell. He had gone out and locked the door behind him, his mind numb.

  It had become night again, and he had walked out past the swimming pool and looked out over the lights of the villages of Gozo and of Comino and in the distance, of Malta. His whole body was suffused with hatred for the men and women who had done this to Juliet. He had thought of Creasy, who by now would be in Milan, hunting them down. He offered up a kind of personal prayer that his father would find them. He had looked into the cave a couple of hours later. She had still been asleep, so he had gone back to the swimming pool, stripped off his clothes and swum fifty fast lengths.


  Two hours later she had woken. It was about twenty-four hours after the last dose of methadone, and she had entered the depths of her personal hell. He had sat in his canvas chair and watched her torture. She began to yawn so violently that he worried she might dislocate her jaw. Watery mucus poured from her nose and floods of tears came from her eyes. Her pupils were widely dilated. The fine dark hairs of her skin stood up, the skin itself cold and covered with goose bumps. From Creasy’s description, Michael knew that she was going through cold turkey.

  Then the misery deepened. Her bowels began to act with shuddering violence. Her jeans stained, and the stench drifted across the cave. Feverishly, she pulled them off, and then her stained knickers and finally her sodden T-shirt, until she was naked. It was as though he was not in the cave, but then he saw her imploring eyes rest on him, and heard her strangled voice begging him to give her an injection. He stood up, went over to the barrel of water, picked up a wooden ladle and splashed the water over her. He repeated the process several times, but there was no way to keep her clean. She started vomiting; just lying there, vomit coming out of her mouth and excrement from her bowels. He had noticed that there was blood in the vomit and his anguish deepened almost to despair. He noticed too that her stomach was rippling, as though there was a tangle of snakes under the skin. He remembered Creasy’s words, and knew that it was caused by extreme contractions of the intestines. Knowing what caused it gave Michael no relief. He knew that from this point on the child would know no rest nor sleep until she either pulled through her hell or died. Irrationally, he thought that the grave he would have to dig would not be very long or very wide.

  Over the next hour he sluiced her down from the water barrel several more times. She was wet, the mattress was wet and the floor of the cave was wet. He looked around him, the ladle dangling from his hand. He had no sense of time, and if he had not been wearing a watch he could not have judged whether he had been in that cave for hours, days, or weeks. His whole body ached and his mind was numb with the shock and the pain of it all. He knew that she had been about thirty-six hours without the drug. He knew that it would take another four to five days before she passed through it or died.