The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Page 17

  ‘If you ever call me an old bag again, I’ll take you to bed and prove that you’re wrong.’

  The Ghost, a handsome man in his early thirties, looked at her, nodded and crossed himself.

  As they ate and drank Michael refined his plan.

  Chapter 36

  A single spotlight from a far corner lit him. The two bodyguards were behind, in darkness. They had been changed every two hours. They had been told that even though he was bound and immobile, never to relax their vigilance. They had been told that he was ‘death on a cold night’. His chin was slumped onto his chest. He was practising what he had learned many years ago; he was half-asleep and yet his brain was awake. He had long ago ceased to reproach himself about his negligence. Of course he should have been more careful. Of course he should not have used the same hotel twice. Of course he should have been watching for a waiting car by the kerb. Of course he should have seen and recognised the lurking men for what they were. But that was history. He remembered with irony his lecture to Michael back in Marseille. His mistake was as bad. He thought about Michael. He knew that by now he would be in Italy, looking for him. He knew that Michael would have a team that would be the dream of every leader. He wondered how Michael would handle that team.

  His thoughts then turned to Grazzini. He knew about Grazzini. He was more northern Mafia and not like the animals from Calabria and Sicily, who had long ago given up every vestige of honour in the pursuit of drug dollars. Grazzini was relatively young. He was certainly ruthless, but he kept the code of separating business from family. Would Michael understand that? If not, would Guido or Satta be able to explain it to him?

  As he sat in pain the feeling washed over him; a feeling that Michael would take control. A feeling that the hard and experienced men around him would follow Michael. They would see in Michael a window on himself.

  His thoughts turned to the child-woman in Gozo and a pain went through him. She now had a brother, but above all she needed a father. His thoughts again turned to Grazzini. He knew that Grazzini dealt in drugs, protection, corruption and ostensibly legitimate construction and trade. He did not deal in women. He knew that Grazzini hated his guts and that his death by Grazzini’s hand would be a huge coup for the Rome capo. He knew how he would deal with Grazzini.

  Chapter 37

  Michael just held on to the edge. It was a mental edge. He knew that by the force of his personality, and by his filial association to Creasy, he had managed to dominate a group of vastly experienced hard men. He also knew that his one major exploit would be known to those men. An exploit that had directed a sniper’s bullet precisely into the shoulder of a terrorist from a distance of five hundred metres. An exploit made more significant by the fact that when he had pulled the trigger Creasy had been lying alongside him with the same sniper’s rifle and had, in that category, deferred to Michael’s skills. He knew that in the eyes of the likes of Maxie, Miller, Callard, Satta, and even Guido, he had cut his number. And yet he was not quite twenty years old and the mental burden was heavy. He balanced it with the hatred for the men who were holding his father.

  The Lear jet swept down to the runway. It was raining lightly, but the forecast was that it would be a cool, sunny day. It was four o’clock in the morning. The small airport was fifteen miles east of the city and handled most of the smaller internal charter flights. Michael had been assured that there would be a minimum of bureaucracy. The small jet followed the flashing light of a guide car, which finally pulled to a stop next to a floodlit hangar. A large stretch limousine pulled up alongside. Michael led the way down the steps, and within a minute they had unloaded their personal bags and those which contained the machinery.

  An hour later they were in the safe house on the northern outskirts of Rome. It was another nondescript house in a nondescript suburb. The door was opened by another old lady who showed no surprise at the arrival of five strangers at that time of the morning.

  The priest’s clothing had been delivered, together with the wheelchair and a detailed map of the town of Bracciano Lago. There were also road-maps showing alternative routes from Bracciano to the safe house. They sat around the kitchen table. The old woman prepared a pot of coffee, and Michael went through the details of the plan once more.

  When he finished, Miller said, ‘It’s good and simple, but one thing bothers me.’ He gestured at the Dane. ‘You’re putting Jens in the front line. He doesn’t have that much experience. Why not me or Rene or even The Owl?’

  Michael shook his head and smiled.

  ‘For some reason Jens does look like a priest . . . a slightly over-fed one. We know for sure there will be one bodyguard and it’s possible there may be more. We have a description of that bodyguard, and we know that he usually hangs around outside the church while the old woman is inside. Frank, you will have to be alongside him when she comes out. Rene will be waiting in one of the cars to pick you up, after I make the “snatch”. It’s better if you don’t have to kill him, but do so if necessary.’

  Rene interjected. ‘I guess it’s almost certain that Frank will have to kill him. After all, he’s supposed to be guarding Grazzini’s mother. If he lets her get snatched he’s dead anyway.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Michael said. ‘But he’s been her regular bodyguard for a long time . . . a couple of years. She’s not really regarded as a target, so he won’t be on his toes. Frank might be able to slug him.’

  ‘I’ll play it by ear,’ Miller said.

  Michael turned to The Owl and said, ‘You’ll be driving the other car, ready to collect myself and Jens and the old woman.’ He made a general gesture at all of them. ‘We only take hand-guns which are easy to conceal if there are any random police road-blocks on the way to Bracciano.’

  For the first time The Owl spoke. ‘What if there are road-blocks on the way back?’

  ‘We shoot our way through,’ Michael answered tersely. ‘Sure, if we had more time and people, we could plan it more elaborately and have a safe house closer by.’ He shrugged and looked at his watch. ‘But we don’t have more time. We have to rely on surprise and then speed. The traffic both there and back will be fairly heavy. The police will be reluctant to set up road-blocks.’ He reached down and unzipped the bag at his feet, took out the transceivers and handed them out. They tested them and then Michael pushed the buttons to connect himself with Maxie. Maxie’s voice was slightly distorted but audible enough.

  Michael said softly into the microphone, ‘We are moving in about an hour. Be in position by nine o’clock and check in.’ Maxie’s voice came back, ‘Will do . . . Good luck.’

  Chapter 38

  Grazzini spoke conversationally. He was speaking to Abrata but his words were directed at Creasy.

  ‘Eighteen hours,’ he said. ‘That’s the longest I’ve ever known. He was a Frenchman from the “Union Course”. We caught him about three years ago, trying to pull off an art theft in Rome . . . on my territory, the bastard. I decided to make an example of him. I had two of my best men work on him. The kind of guys who would make the Pope renounce his faith in half an hour. Eighteen hours . . . He surprised me and my guys.’ He turned to look at the bound Creasy. ‘You will not be that stupid, will you? You know what the end result will be.’

  Creasy yawned, then leaned forward slightly and said, ‘Grazzini, I have no argument with you. I am not in Italy to have any arguments with you or your people. I was minding my own business when this clown had me grabbed on the street. Unless he lets me go immediately he will die regretting it . . . and since you are his boss, you will do the same.’

  Grazzini smiled.

  ‘You are in no position to make threats or talk about arguments.’ His voice became angry. ‘You killed my brother-in-law and one of my cousins.’

  ‘Who was your cousin?’

  ‘His name was Vico Di Marco. He was a bodyguard of my brother-in-law. He was a “soldier”. You fried him along with my brother-in-law and two other “soldiers” in that Cadill
ac in Rome.’

  Creasy nodded at the memory.

  ‘Then he died doing his duty, trying to protect his boss. It was nothing personal. I was just the “instrument”.’

  Grazzini snorted in anger.

  ‘We do not like “instruments”. We never forget those who make war on us. I will have revenge. But first you talk.’

  Creasy stretched his shoulders and asked quietly, ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘I want to know why you are in Italy. What is your purpose, who are you with and where is your base, both in Italy, and outside Italy?’

  The Italians received a great shock, as Creasy responded, ‘That’s no problem. Apart from my base outside.’

  Grazzini and Abrata glanced at each other in surprise.

  Creasy’s voice went on, ‘But, Grazzini, I only talk to you. The others have to leave.’

  Immediately, Abrata said, ‘Forget it.’

  Creasy kept looking at Grazzini. A long silence and then Grazzini said, ‘Gino, give me a few minutes with him . . . I would be grateful.’ He spoke as if to an equal asking a favour, but the order was implied.

  At first, anger filled Abrata’s eyes, then they cleared and he said, ‘You realise that it’s a trick. He is cunning, this one. Let us not forget how cunning. Let us not forget the lives we lost to the bastard.’

  Grazzini nodded.

  ‘You are right, of course, and believe me, Gino, I will never forget. But a few minutes before he dies could be useful.’

  Another silence, and then Abrata slowly stood up and nodded at the two bodyguards behind Creasy. They left with their submachine-guns.

  Abrata said, ‘Are you armed?’

  ‘No,’ Grazzini answered. ‘I rarely carry guns these days.’

  Abrata reached under his jacket and pulled out a pistol. He flicked off the safety and put the gun on the table in front of Grazzini, saying, ‘He’s tied up tight . . . but be careful.’

  Grazzini smiled slightly and said, ‘My friend, I have lived so long because I am very careful. I intend to die in bed at a great age . . . I will call you.’

  Abrata gave Creasy a last look which promised a future retribution. Then he left the room.

  Chapter 39

  ‘There’s no doubt about it. She’s a man’s girl and she is going to be a man’s woman.’

  Laura was looking out through the kitchen window and down at the fields below. Her daughter-in-law, Maria, was standing beside her. Paul was digging up a field with a rotovator. Juliet was following him like a little puppy. The noise of the rotovator made conversation between them difficult, but Laura could faintly hear his raised voice. He was telling Juliet what he was doing and why. He reached the last corner of the field, cut out the rotovator, sat on a low wall and pulled out a flask from his canvas bag. The girl sat beside him and they shared a glass of cool wine.

  ‘You’re right,’ Maria agreed, ‘it’s only been a day and a night but already she can twist Paul and Joey round her finger. I wonder if she can do the same with Creasy.’

  Laura thought about that and then nodded.

  ‘Yes, she will. Creasy will see in her his lost daughter grown up . . . but she will not be able to twist Michael any way at all . . . Michael will be the stern elder brother, and he will get mad with Creasy for being soft with her . . . It will make a good triangle for a family.’

  ‘That’s if Creasy ever gets back,’ Maria said, ‘If it’s true the Mafia have him, they will take revenge.’

  ‘He’s lived a long time,’ Laura said. ‘Lived through bad times . . . mostly alone. Now he has Michael, and right now Michael is looking for him. Michael will bring him home . . . and that too will be good.’

  On the wall below them, Juliet was asking questions.

  ‘How long have you had this farm?’

  Paul glanced at her and smiled. ‘My family has farmed this land for generations.’ He pointed at a field of almost ripe tomatoes. ‘Of course it’s crazy, I work about twelve or fourteen hours a day, and when I sell those tomatoes in the market next week I will get about fifteen lire for them. If I cost in the fertiliser and insecticides I used, plus my labour at one pound an hour, I would be losing money.’

  ‘So why do you do it?’

  ‘It’s in my blood,’ he explained, ‘it’s in the blood of all Gozitans. When I hold that fifteen lire in my hand it will feel like free money . . . And there is something else. All the vegetables and fruit we eat on our table are grown in our fields. All the chickens and eggs, rabbits and ducks are reared on this farm. It is hard to explain the satisfaction that gives. If all the shops were to close tomorrow my family would not go hungry.’ He lifted the beaker of wine, took a sip and handed it to her. ‘And would not go thirsty either . . . We have a spring for water and we have vines for wine.’

  She took a sip and smiled up at him. ‘Very good wine, I think I know how you feel.’

  He nodded. ‘Maybe you do . . . Even though you’re a child you have been through much trouble. In all our history, over thousands of years, we have also gone through much trouble. Always being invaded, sold into slavery and used by outsiders. I can remember the last war . . . all the shops were shut then. I was just a child.’ He gestured at his small fields. ‘But I worked on the farm with my father and my uncle, and our family did not go hungry. What food we had left over we sent to Malta, where the people were hungry.’

  ‘So you are a happy man?’ she asked.

  He took back the beaker of wine and drank a little more while he thought over his answer.

  ‘In some ways I am happy. I have a wonderful and strong wife, a son to be proud of, a daughter-in-law whom I love and who will give me grandchildren. I have Creasy, who for me and Laura is a combination of son, brother and father. I also have Michael who now is another son.’ He put a gnarled brown hand on her head, patted it lightly and said, ‘And now it seems I have another daughter. That is good, but for you it is difficult, because you have to replace the two daughters I lost . . . and they were wonderful daughters.’

  She was looking up at the farmhouse above her. She saw Laura and Maria sitting on the patio. Very quietly she said. ‘I know all about Nadia and Julia . . . Michael told me. I can never replace them. I can never take away that pain . . .’ She turned to look at him. ‘But I can love you and Laura and Joey and Maria. I can promise nothing except that.’

  He stood up, brushing the dust of the wall from his backside. He moved to the rotovator. ‘Let’s do one more field, and then I have to go over to a friend who has some problems with his wine press.’

  ‘Can I go with you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Chapter 40

  The car pulled up in front of the church at two minutes to nine. Michael watched from his wheelchair a hundred metres away across the square. He held a book on his blanketed knees. Jens stood behind him, garbed in the black of a priest. Both of them wore hearing aids.

  It was a black car, an old but perfectly maintained Lancia. The driver got out and opened the rear door. An old woman emerged. The driver tried to help her but, imperiously, she waved him away. With the help of a white stick she hobbled up the shallow steps to the entrance. An old priest was waiting for her. He took her by the arm and guided her through the door. The driver climbed back into the car, drove it across the square and parked it beside a small café. Within a minute he was drinking a cappuccino and biting into a brioche.

  Michael glanced around the square, then lifted the book and spoke quietly at it.

  ‘Just one,’ he said. ‘The usual one. Do you see him?’

  Miller’s voice came into the hearing aid. ‘We see him.’

  ‘About thirty minutes,’ Michael said. ‘My priest will take me for a walk.’ He looked up at Jens and nodded. The Dane reverently pushed the wheelchair across the cobbled square to the café.

  Chapter 41

  Creasy tossed the three words across the table, watching the Italian’s face closely for any reaction.

  ‘
“The Blue Ring”.’

  At first there was no reaction. Grazzini’s dark eyes simply looked puzzled. Slowly he repeated the words as a question. ‘“The Blue Ring”?’

  Creasy said nothing, just watched him. Grazzini repeated the words.

  ‘ “The Blue Ring”?’ Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. ‘I have heard something . . . vague rumours . . . over many years . . . I doubt that it exists.’

  Creasy’s voice was flat and direct. ‘“The Blue Ring” does exist. It is my reason for being in Italy.’

  It had immediately become a poker game. Each of the two players trying to fathom out the cards that the other one held. Creasy remained silent.

  Finally Grazzini spoke, ‘If they do exist, they have nothing to do with the Cosa Nostra.’

  Both of Creasy’s hands and feet were now numb. He tried to move his fingers and felt nothing. He stretched his shoulders and said, ‘I know that. If I thought they had anything to do with the Cosa Nostra I would not be tied up here. I would be in Rome, talking to you - and you are the one who would be tied down.’

  Grazzini shrugged dismissively.

  ‘What do you know about “The Blue Ring”?’

  ‘I will tell you,’ Creasy answered. ‘But first I will tell you what I know about Paolo Grazzini.’

  The Italian smiled sardonically and waved a hand in invitation.

  Creasy leaned forward as far as he could and spoke in a matter of fact voice. ‘Paolo Grazzini was a small time “soldier” in Rome until he married the sister of Conti, the chief capo of Rome and northern Italy. That marriage fuelled his career, and he became an important lieutenant although Conti never treated him with the respect he thought he was due,’