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

  Grazzini shrugged, the sardonic smile still on his lips. Creasy went on.

  ‘About six years ago, Gino Fossella, the head capo in Milan, and nominally under the control of Conti, kidnapped a child very close to me and in doing so wounded me, almost to my death. Later the girl died. I killed Fossella and his lieutenants. I was angry. Angry enough to go to the very top. So I blew away Conti and all his lieutenants except you.’

  ‘I know all this,’ Grazzini said impatiently,

  ‘You know it but there are things you don’t understand. I’m explaining to you now. I went on to kill Cantarella in Palermo and all of his top lieutenants. After that I faked my death.’

  Grazzini nodded. ‘With the help of your good friend, Colonel Satta.’

  ‘That’s immaterial. With the death of Cantarella my vengeance was settled. I have nothing against you personally, or the Cosa Nostra in general.’

  The Italian smiled coldly again.

  ‘It takes two to stop a vendetta. You disturbed us. You will pay for it. This time your death will not be fake . . . believe me.’

  Creasy smiled. An open smile. He said, ‘You are not talking to somebody who is ignorant of this matter. In the past six years things have changed. You rose to the top in Rome and in the north, but you can never control Naples, Calabria or Sicily. There are now two Cosa Nostra in Italy. One to the south of Rome and one to the north. In the north you are trying to become civilised, trying to become at least partly respectable. In time, maybe you’ll succeed . . . but not with the likes of Abrata. He represents the last generation.’

  Grazzini was feigning indifference, but Creasy could see the interest in his eyes. He went on.

  ‘Paolo Grazzini is a different breed. Yes, he deals in drugs, or lets his minions do so, and then takes his cut. You deal in coercion and protection, but mostly you deal in corruption in collusion with politicians and big businessmen.’ His voice went quiet, almost reflective. ‘But you do not deal in women; you have no hand in prostitution. When you order killings it is only among yourselves . . . unlike the animals in the south and in Sicily. You do not wage war on civilians. You do not kill women or use them.’

  There was a silence and then Grazzini spoke one word. “So?’

  Creasy shrugged.

  ‘So you tell me what you know about “The Blue Ring” which is a stain on the honour of Cosa Nostra.’

  There was another silence, and Creasy waited, knowing that the Italian’s reaction was going to be crucial. The reaction came.

  ‘Why is it a stain?’

  Creasy knew that he had crossed the first bridge.

  ‘It is a stain on Cosa Nostra, and you personally, because you let such filth operate in your territory.’

  The Italian became angry, and Creasy knew that he had crossed the second bridge.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Grazzini snarled. ‘They are only a rumour, just a name in the dark. There are always rumours, I doubt they exist.’

  Very emphatically Creasy said, ‘They do exist. They exist in your territory and in others. I am going to find them and wipe them out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I hate them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have seen their work,’

  ‘What is their work?’

  ‘They buy and sell young women. They abuse them even beyond an imagination like yours. They abuse their bodies and their minds.’

  Grazzini was nodding.

  ‘I have heard this . . . But is that your business?’

  ‘There is a reason why I have made it my business.’

  ‘What is that reason?’

  Creasy enunciated each word very carefully. ‘Because when they abuse these girls . . . even children . . . they take pleasure from it. The pleasure is more important than the profit.’

  For several seconds Grazzini looked at the top of the table, then abruptly he stood up and turned away and moved across the room. There was a picture on the wall. A still-life of a bowl of fruit. He stood looking at it. Creasy knew that he had crossed the next bridge.

  Chapter 42

  She hit Michael hard across the face with the white stick screaming, ‘Vaffanculo!’ at him. He reeled away from her, almost dropping his pistol, then came back quickly as she took another swipe. He grabbed the stick and pulled her towards him and got an arm around her waist. She bit his shoulder and her false teeth came out. He turned and ran down the steps clutching her under his arm. He saw the old Mercedes pulling up beneath him, with The Owl at the wheel. His wheelchair was bouncing across the cobbles. Jens was running towards the car, his robes flapping. Halfway across the square Michael saw the bodyguard crumpled up, with Miller standing over him. He saw the Australian pistol-whip the bodyguard once more and then run for the corner. Jens had pulled open the back door of the Mercedes. Michael bundled her in and dived after her. The Dane leapt into the front seat and The Owl hit the accelerator. There were screams and shouts above the squealing of the tyres and then they were gone. It had taken no more than twenty seconds.

  Chapter 43

  ‘But we have a vendetta.’ Grazzini was still looking at the painting. ‘You killed members of my family.’ Creasy’s voice was harsh. ‘I killed your brother-in-law, whom I think you hated. I killed your cousin who was a “soldier” and who died in a battle. I did not kill your sister . . . she remarried four years ago and gave birth to a daughter to whom you are a godfather. Conti treated your sister like shit . . . and you know it.’

  Grazzini turned, moved back to his seat and sat down. For the first time his face showed a trace of emotion. ‘There is a vendetta,’ he stated flatly. ‘Only your death can end that.’

  Creasy looked at the Italian steadily for a few seconds and then spoke. ‘Let me tell you of a terrible shame. A stain on any society. About eight years ago, in a village in the mountains of Calabria, a vendetta ended. That vendetta had lasted for thirty years, during which more than twenty men of two families had been murdered. That vendetta lasted so long that nobody could remember why it started. At the end there was only one male member of one of the families left alive. In the wonderful code of such vendettas a boy becomes a man when he is sixteen years old, and then becomes eligible to kill or be killed. That boy was fifteen years old when his mother and sisters informed him that on his sixteenth birthday he must take his father’s gun and avenge the death of his father, brothers, uncles and cousins. He decided that he wanted no part of a vendetta. His mother and sisters were ashamed of his attitude. The local priest knew of the story and informed the press. The story became known throughout Italy and the world.’

  Grazzini was nodding, his face sombre.

  Creasy went on, ‘Many families in Italy offered to take the boy in. Of course the police offered protection. The boy refused all offers. On the night before his sixteenth birthday his mother and sisters left the house, after spitting on him. They left the doors open. One minute after midnight men from the other family came with their guns and shot him at the table where he sat. His mother and his sisters refused to attend his funeral . . . Was that vengeance? Is that what you seek with me?’

  Grazzini looked at the pistol in front of him. He picked it up and then slowly replaced it. Quietly he said, ‘You know our system, I have to maintain my authority.’

  Creasy laughed softly.

  ‘If you have to show how strong you are by putting a bullet into the brains of a bound man, your authority is already lost.’

  Grazzini was silent and then the door burst open and Abrata was calling urgently. Grazzini hurried from the room. A minute later he was back, his face suffused with rage. He grabbed at the gun and pointed it at Creasy’s head. His chest was heaving and his words came out as a snarl.

  ‘Vendetta! You talk of vendetta! You snatched my mother! My mother, you bastard!’

  Creasy shouted back at him. ‘I’ve been tied to this chair for the last twenty-four hours!’

  ‘Your people, then!’ He reached forward and put the muzzle
of the gun between Creasy’s eyes.

  Creasy drew a breath and then said quietly, ‘If it was my people and you pull that trigger then your mother is dead.’

  The Italian was breathing deeply. From behind him Abrata said, ‘Kill the bastard.’

  ‘It’s not your mother,’ Creasy said loudly, and then in a quieter voice he said to Grazzini, ‘When and where?’

  Grazzini withdrew the gun a few inches. ‘Outside the church of her home town. Fifteen minutes ago.’

  Creasy closed his eyes in thought, then he motioned with his head to the chair. ‘Sit down and wait, if it was my people they will phone here within fifteen or twenty minutes. Have a phone on the table.’

  Tension filled the room like an unseen presence. Abrata spoke again. ‘They will try to trade her for him.’

  ‘Never,’ Grazzini snarled. ‘He will never leave this room alive.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Creasy conceded. ‘But fifteen or twenty minutes will make no difference. I don’t make war on innocent women. Not even on the mother of a capo.’

  Another silence, then Grazzini turned and said, ‘Get a phone extension in here. The phone should have a loudspeaker.’

  The call came eighteen minutes later, Grazzini picked up the phone and listened. By now he was back under control, but the gun was still in his hand, and pointed at Creasy’s head. Finally, the Italian put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, ‘He says he’s your son and that he has my mother . . . I didn’t know you had a son.’

  ‘Until a minute ago, I didn’t know you had a mother . . . Let me speak to him.’

  Behind Grazzini, Abrata rolled his eyes and said, ‘The bastard’s crazy.’

  ‘Why don’t you shut your mouth,’ Creasy told him. ‘She’s not your mother.’

  Grazzini wrestled with the two parts of his brain, then he held the phone to Creasy’s ear and punched a button on the console.

  ‘Michael?’ Creasy asked.

  His son’s voice came into the room. ‘Yes, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Are you holding Grazzini’s mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let her go immediately.’

  The console was silent for at least twenty seconds. Finally, Michael’s puzzled voice came through. ‘Did you say that because they have a gun to your head? If so, tell them I have a gun to her head.’

  ‘Michael. It’s important that you do exactly what I tell you. Release her immediately and have her driven to Grazzini’s home in Rome. She is to be harmed in no way. Tell her to phone Grazzini at this number as soon as she is at his home. I assume you have some of our friends with you. You are all to go to the man you know as my brother and to wait for my call there.’

  They heard the click of the phone through the loudspeaker. Very slowly, Grazzini replaced his own receiver.

  Into the silence Abrata said, ‘It’s a trick. Why would he do that?’

  Creasy was looking at Grazzini. He said softly, ‘A man like that would never understand. I told you . . . I don’t make war on women.’

  Chapter 44

  Colonel Satta came into the room. It was not a typical room in a typical hospital, but rather like the suite of a luxury hotel. Only the orthopaedic bed and the stands for the drips betrayed its medical purpose. Also the severely attractive nurse, although her uniform could have been designed by Valentino.

  She was taking Creasy’s blood pressure. She checked the dial, nodded in satisfaction and said, ‘Now all you need is a good sleep.’ She gave Satta a stern look. ‘Which means that your visitor must leave in fifteen minutes.’

  Creasy reached out his bandaged hand and touched her on the wrist and asked, ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Gianna,’ she answered.

  He smiled at her; a very tired smile.

  ‘Gianna, I may have to talk to Colonel Satta for some time. Would you please bring us a bottle of good Barolo and two glasses.’

  ‘Make it three,’ Satta said. ‘Bellu will be here in ten minutes.’

  The nurse sighed in exasperation. ‘Well, you will have to explain to Doctor Sylvestri. He has predicted a possible delayed shock reaction.’

  Satta smiled at Creasy who smiled back. The Colonel turned to the nurse and said, ‘The only shock he’ll get is if you don’t bring that wine within five minutes.’

  She shook her head and bustled out. Satta pulled a chair up close to the bed.

  ‘I talked to Guido. I didn’t go into details. I told him you were fine and will be travelling to Naples tomorrow. Meanwhile he’s heard from Michael, who followed your orders up to a point.’

  Ominously, Creasy said, ‘Up to a point?’

  ‘Yes. And I think he’s right. He’s on his way to Naples with the entire team except for Maxie.’

  ‘Where is Maxie?’

  ‘Maxie is not a million miles from here. Don’t ask me where because I don’t know, but I guess somewhere in the grounds of this little hospital... Michael thinks like you.’

  Creasy nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s stupid and unnecessary . . . But knowing Maxie is somewhere close watching my back makes me feel good.’

  Satta grinned.

  ‘Like I told you: Michael thinks like you.’

  Creasy looked down at his bandaged right hand.

  ‘That doctor Sylvestri got it exactly right. It wasn’t the finger that did the damage. It was being bound so tightly for all those hours that almost gave me gangrene. In a few more hours I’d have lost all my fingers and all my toes.’ He shrugged and half smiled, ‘I hadn’t realised, because you lose all feeling. At first there’s pain, but then the pain goes away and you don’t know that those parts of your body are dying.’

  There was a tap on the door, and Bellu entered, carrying a briefcase. He pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed, put the briefcase down, then leaned over and kissed Creasy on both cheeks. Creasy put his good arm around his neck, pulled him close and hugged him. it had been six years since they had last met. Bellu sat down, picked up his briefcase, put it on his knees and opened it. He took out a slim file and looked at Creasy who said, ‘Tell me.’

  Bellu opened the file and read from the police report: ‘“At ten thirty-two in the morning Signora Grazzini emerged from the church in Bracciano Lago. At the foot of the steps a young man was waiting in a wheelchair under the supervision of a priest. Witnesses testified that the priest was of medium height, blond-haired and slightly plump. Signora Grazzini’s bodyguard, one Filippo Cossa, was moving towards her car. At that moment the young man in the wheelchair tossed aside his blanket and leapt up, holding a pistol. Cossa immediately ran across the square towards her, but was cut off by another man, also holding a pistol. He wore a dark sweater and dark trousers and a black beret. Cossa did not have time to draw his weapon before he was struck down. Signora Grazzini struck out at the young man with her stick, but he grabbed her round the waist and carried her down to a Mercedes which had pulled up. He threw her in the back and went in after her. The priest went into the front seat, and the car pulled away at speed. Some ten seconds later a second car pulled into the square next to Cossa. The latter’s assailant jumped into the passenger seat and that car also pulled away at speed. It is estimated that it took twenty-five minutes to establish police road-blocks on all exit roads out of Bracciano. The prognosis is that this was a highly professional kidnapping.”

  Bellu closed the file, looked first at Satta, then at Creasy, who said, ‘It sure as hell was!’

  Satta shrugged, ‘Like father like son . . . but he had a hell of a team with him. With those boys the president of the country would not have been safe.’ He looked at Creasy. ‘From the timescale, Michael would have used the mobile phone to call Grazzini. We know that an hour later Michael delivered Signora Grazzini to her son’s home in Rome . . . Now tell us, Creasy. Why did he do that, and what happened next?’

  Creasy looked at his bandaged left hand and answered, ‘Of course Grazzini wanted to kill me immediately, and he was b
eing urged on by that little prick, Abrata. You have to understand that Grazzini had a major problem. On the one hand, we had built up something of a rapport. But when Michael snatched his mother it was necessary that he showed his ruthlessness and his machismo. He was then thrown out of balance when I ordered Michael to let his mother go and deliver her to his home.’

  Bellu was enthralled. He asked, ‘You gave those instructions while you were still bound to that chair?’

  Creasy nodded. ‘Yes . . . it was a very calculated risk.’

  Full of curiosity, Satta asked, ‘In return for letting his mother go without condition, he cut off your finger?’

  Creasy’s mind went back to those moments in that room. The moments when his life was precisely on the line. He saw it as though he had wound back a video and was watching it again.

  Grazzini was totally confused. If it was a trick he did not understand it.

  Creasy said, ‘Wait for the call from your mother. If she’s the character I think she is, she will not tell you lies because my son is holding a gun to her head . . . I suggest you wait alone.’

  Grazzini paced the room several times, and then snapped at Abrata, ‘Leave us alone!”

  Reluctantly, Abrata left the room, saying over his shoulder, ‘Don’t trust him. I’ll be right outside.” He closed the door behind him.

  They waited in total silence. Grazzini paced the room. Occasionally he stopped and looked at the painting on the wall as though it contained the meaning of life itself. Creasy watched him and every so often glanced down at his bound right arm. The call came twenty minutes later. The loudspeaker was still switched on, and Creasy was able to follow the conversation. Grazzini’s mother was angry.

  ‘What the hell is happening?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at your apartment.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Maria is here.’

  ‘Are you all right?’