A season in hell, p.19
A Season in Hell, page 19
“That’s the worst area in Sicily,” Egan said. “A wilderness of sterile valleys, nothing but mountain and burning sun. The Italian Army had ten thousand men up there at one point trying to catch Salvatore Giuliano, the Robin Hood of Sicily, and they couldn’t do it. Had to get his best friend to betray him in the end.” He shook his head. “It’s not on. I’ll do many things for you, but I refuse to take you to Sicily.” He stood up. “Now if I were you, I’d have an early night. Try and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“All right,” she said dully.
They walked to the door. “If you’ve got a spare key, I’ll let myself in,” he said. “Just in case you’re asleep.”
“Of course.” She gave him one. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”
Egan left and she went into the kitchen, made some more tea and sat at the table, her hands around the cup, thinking.
Jago watched Egan drive away. “Poor old Sarah,” he said. “What a shame.”
He went into the bedroom, whistling cheerfully, showered and changed. What he really needed was a decent meal. There was a French restaurant within walking distance; he’d gone there before, and now seemed a very suitable time to take two or three hours off. There was no sound from the house. He checked that the recorder was on and went downstairs.
Sarah poured a second cup of tea and felt a little calmer. She wasn’t angry with Egan. She could see what he meant. It made perfect sense, all very logical, only she wasn’t interested in sense and logic. She got the telephone book, found the number she needed and rang the booking clerk at Heathrow.
“Can I fly to Palermo this evening?” she inquired.
“Not direct, I’m afraid. Flights to Palermo are via Milan or Rome. There’s a direct flight to Catania, but that’s on the other side of the island, and it doesn’t leave until tomorrow.”
“No, that’s no good.”
There was a murmur of voices at the other end and the woman came back. “Actually, madam, my colleague’s just reminded me we have a holiday charter flight flying direct to Palermo. It leaves at six from Gatwick. It doesn’t give you long to get there, but there is space available. I could book you a seat.”
“Please do,” Sarah said. “What time do we get in?”
“Nine o’clock our time. It’s a three-hour flight. You lose an hour. It will be ten there.”
Sarah made the booking and rang for a taxi. She went upstairs, changed, put a few things in an overnight bag, her passport, traveler’s checks, everything she needed, and hurried downstairs. She stopped in the hall long enough to write a note for Egan and left it propped up on the hall stand. As she went out, the taxi arrived. She jumped in and was on her way.
Egan had a meal in a small café near Piccadilly, but he wasn’t very hungry. He parked the car and walked around the streets for a while. His knee was aching, a sure sign of stress, and he went into a pub, ordered a Scotch and sat down. He was right, he knew that. Everything he’d said to Sarah Talbot made sense, but he felt bad about it, and the thought of her sitting there alone in the house in Lord North Street was too much to bear. He finished his Scotch, got up and left.
He let himself in with the key she’d given him, aware of the silence and of the note at the same moment. He read it with horror and immediately phoned Alan Crowther.
Crowther said, “What’s all this then?”
“Access British Airways computer. See if they have Sarah Talbot on a flight out to any airport in Italy, or to Palermo direct.”
It took Crowther no more than a minute. “She’s on a BA charter flight out of Gatwick. What’s she up to?”
“Trying to commit suicide,” Egan said. “Alan, I’ve got to get over there fast.”
“How can you do that, old son? You aren’t Icarus.”
“I could be. Group Four have a Lear Jet on twenty-four-hour standby at Walsham, near Canterbury, operational on the instant. Ready to fly anywhere.”
“Yes, but only with Ferguson’s direct authorization,” Crowther pointed out.
“Which you can give them,” Egan told him. “Access Group Four’s computer. Top secret, eyes only order, to expect Sergeant Sean Egan and expedite flight to Palermo, Sicily, most immediate.”
Crowther started to laugh. “You’re mad.”
“Yes, but will you do it?”
“I don’t see why not. Ferguson’s face when he finds out will be a picture.”
“Good,” Egan said, “But that’s not all. Direct order to Group Four’s man in Palermo, that’s Marco Tasca. Tell him to expect me and to have the Cessna standing by. Say it’s a repeat of the Angelo Stefano affair, and to have all necessary equipment ready. Tell him this time the target is Bellona. The villa of Rafael Barbera.”
“What on earth are you up to?” Crowther demanded.
“Don’t have time to explain. It’ll take me an hour to get to Walsham. Make sure they’re ready for me when I get there.” He slammed down the phone and went out on the run.
Jago said, “I only just found out. I went for a meal. I thought she was set for the night.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Smith said. “She’s put her head on the block for the last time. I’ve had enough. I’ll ring the Frasconis. Let them know to expect her.”
“You said you didn’t want her harmed,” Jago reminded him.
“Yes, well, this is in another country.”
“And Egan?”
“Can take his chances, and with those people, they won’t be very good, believe me. You can leave it to me from now on. Mrs. Talbot’s finished.” The line went dead, and Jago was surprised to find how much he didn’t like that. Didn’t like it at all.
“Finished, is she?” he said softly, then picked up the phone and rang Heathrow. The best they could do was a late flight to Rome. He could connect to Palermo first thing in the morning.
He went into the bedroom, got his second case from the wardrobe, opened it and took out a large black tin box. Inside was a superb actor’s makeup kit, a selection of hair dyes. There were also several passports:
British, American, Swedish. The photo in each one was genuinely that of Jago, but in a suitable disguise. He chose another British passport in the name of Charles Henderson, Company Director, and got to work, starting on his hair first.
Summoned from the shower when Smith phoned, Salvatore Frasconi took the call in the main sitting room of the villa, dressed in a white bathrobe, a towel around his neck. His twin brother, Danielo, listened in on the extension.
When Smith was finished, Salvatore said calmly, “Leave it to me. She won’t trouble you further, or this Egan. You have my word.”
He put the phone down and started to towel his head. Danielo said, “What do you think?”
Salvatore went out on the terrace of the villa, Monte Pellegrino at one side, the whole sweep of Palermo, the bay, a large ferry plowing in on the other. Danielo followed him out.
Salvatore combed his hair carefully. “To be honest, what interests me isn’t so much the woman and the Englishman. It’s her connection with that old spider Barbera. The situation has infinite possibilities.”
There was a bottle of Zibibbo, the anise-flavored wine from the island of Pantellaria, in an ice bucket on the table. Salvatore poured two glasses and gave his brother one. “The news of the death of Vito will have reached Barbera by now,” he said. “He won’t feel too good, he’ll be off his guard.”
“You think so?” Danielo asked.
“Sure, he’s an old man, but one thing is certain. From what Smith tells me, if this woman goes to see him, he’ll receive her. As I say, that raises interesting possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“That villa of his outside Bellona. Electronic alarms, electric fence on top of the wall.”
“I know. A fortress, but we’ve been over this before. Impossible to get in.”
“Not for the woman.”
Danielo frowned in bewilderment and Salvatore said impatiently, “She needs a car and a driver to get her there. She’d never find it herself. We just make sure it’s our car and our driver she chooses at the airport. That’s easy enough. The other drivers will do as they’re told because they want to stay in business. Our man drives her to Bellona and we have a hit squad follow close behind.”
“And then?”
“He’s bound to be admitted to drive her up to the house. She’ll stay, he’ll leave. On the way out he takes care of the gate guard and our boys move in.”
“I see.” Danielo nodded. “Maybe she won’t want to make the visit tonight. It’s a two-hour drive, remember. Almost midnight by the time she got there.”
“Look, even if she decides to spend the night in a hotel and go on tomorrow, it’s the same, isn’t it?” Salvatore shook his head. “In any case, I don’t think that will happen. If what Smith says is true, this woman is crazy. She won’t be able to wait. She’ll want to see the Don tonight.”
Danielo said, “It’s perfect, Salvatore. Brilliant.”
“Sure it is, and I tell you what I’ll do, Danielo. I’ll make you a nice present. You can be the one to go in with the boys and finish the old bastard off.” Salvatore got up and walked to the balustrade, looking down at the harbor. “A good thing you got me looking after you, little brother. Now pour me another glass of wine.”
And Danielo, the younger by thirty minutes, rushed to comply, as always.
The airfield at Walsham, used by Group Four and the SAS generally for clandestine operations, had been a bomber station during the Second World War, employed mainly by Flying Fortresses of the American 8th Air Force, which explained the length of the single runway. It had been discreetly maintained ever since, and people in the local farming community had always thought it some sort of research establishment.
It was maintained by selected RAF personnel, and when Egan arrived at the gate, they told him to leave the Mini Cooper, and a sergeant took him the rest of the way by Land Rover. The Lear Jet was waiting on the apron by the control tower.
The duty officer, a squadron leader, was standing talking to a young man in flying gear. The squadron leader said, “Sergeant Egan? We were warned to expect you. Rush job, eh?”
Egan handed over his passport and SAS security card. A lucky thing that as he was legally a serving soldier for another six months, as Villiers had reminded him, the card was still in his possession.
The squadron leader handed them back. “Fine. This is Harvey Grant, the copilot.”
The pilots on this service were all freelance, very specially recruited, Egan knew, although usually ex-RAF. Grant and Egan shook hands. “We’ll get going then. My chum’s got things warmed up nicely.”
They went up the ladder and he closed the door. “How long?” Egan asked.
“In this baby, two hours if we get the sort of winds the met report indicates. This is a stopover job?”
“That’s right.”
“How long for?”
“Budget for twenty-four hours, but be on constant standby, ready to leave instantly as required.”
“That’s fine. Fasten your seat belt.”
Egan did as he was told and lay back in the seat. There would be hell to pay when Ferguson and Tony found out about this, but he didn’t care. He closed his eyes as the plane lifted off and considered his next move, remembering his last visit to Sicily. Only a couple of months before the Falklands had exploded. Another job for the dirty tricks department. The Stefano business.
Angelo Stefano, a Dublin-born Italian and expert gunman for the Provisional IRA whose final coup had been the killing of eight British soldiers in a roadside bombing in South Armagh. He’d fled from the wrath of the SAS to Sicily, where he’d holed up in the mountain village of Massama in the Cammarata, impossible to reach, every shepherd on every peak in the mountains a watchdog.
Marco Tasca, Group Four’s man in Palermo and an expert pilot in his own right, had flown Egan into the Cammarata by night. Egan had parachuted in from eight hundred feet, surprised Stefano tending the sheep in the high meadow above his uncle’s farm at dawn and killed him—not that it had bothered him. Stefano was a mad dog who deserved to die.
Of course, getting out in one piece was always going to be the problem. He’d been saved by the unexpected. Stefano had been using a motorcycle to herd the sheep, a Montessa dirt bike, the kind many shepherds used in the high meadows these days. So he’d made the airport at Punta Raisi and got out intact after all.
It would be interesting to see if he could repeat the performance, especially with his left knee the way it was these days, but that was in the lap of the gods.
Jago’s hair was much lighter now, almost the color of straw. He carefully combed it back from his forehead as he blow-dried it. The special instant-tan gel he had put on his face earlier had already darkened his skin, and the line of the scar had faded completely. He selected a blond moustache, carefully gummed it into place and trimmed it a little. The blue horn-rimmed glasses he selected were slightly tinted. He adjusted them, comparing himself in the mirror with the passport photo. The effect was astonishing. More than satisfactory.
He moved quickly now, clearing everything away, then dressed, wearing the checked sports jacket and flannels. He took only an overnight bag and a light fawn raincoat. No possibility of carrying a gun, of course, airport security being the way it was these days, so he’d be a little naked when he reached Palermo. Still, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. He hurried downstairs.
TWELVE
The flight from London arrived ten minutes early at Punta Raisi Airport. Sarah went straight through, ahead of the crowd of holiday makers who formed the rest of the passenger list, and presented her passport.
The uniformed immigration officer was courtesy itself. He examined her passport and stamped it. “Welcome to Sicily, Mrs. Talbot. Business or pleasure?”
“Business, I suppose,” Sarah said, adding, with some truth, “I’m visiting friends. A death in the family.”
“How sad. I’m so sorry, signora.”
He returned her passport, and as she moved away, he nodded to a small man in a tan suit who was leaning against the wall reading a magazine. The man hurried ahead of Sarah across the concourse and out through the glass doors to where the taxis waited. The drivers were lounging in a group, smoking and talking together. The man in the tan suit made a sign, and one of them came forward, a young, muscular man in a short-sleeved white shirt, dark curling hair escaping from under a tweed cap.
“Is she here, Bernardo?” he asked.
“The first one through. She hasn’t got any luggage. The good-looking one. You make your bones on this one, Nino. The Frasconis will be very grateful.”
“You can depend on me, Bernardo.”
As Bernardo moved off, Sarah emerged and hesitated. Nino came forward. “Can I be of service, signora?” he asked in Italian.
Sarah said, “I don’t speak Italian.”
“Ah, American,” he said in English, and took off his cap. “I lived in New York for three years. My uncle has a restaurant in Manhattan. You know Manhattan?”
He was already reaching for her overnight bag. “Oh, yes, I think you could say I know Manhattan,” she told him, hanging on to the bag.
“Where you want to go, Palermo? I take you to a good hotel.”
“No,” she said. “I want to go to a village called Bellona.”
He feigned surprise. “Hey, that’s a long way, lady. Bellona is near Monte Cammarata. Forty, maybe fifty miles.”
“How long would it take?”
“The main highway is okay, but the side roads into the high country are another matter.” He shrugged. “Two hours. Yes, I get you there in two hours for one hundred dollars.”
“I can tell you’ve lived in New York,” she said. “All right, let’s go.” And she gave him her overnight bag.
“You won’t regret it,” he said. “I’ve got a great car for you. Air-conditioning. See for yourself.” They crossed the road to a line of taxis. He paused beside a black Mercedes and opened the door. “My name is Nino, signora. Nino Scacci.”
“And mine is Talbot.” As he slid behind the wheel, she added, “You know Bellona?”
“Sure. I’ve been there before.”
“Then you know the house of Don Rafael Barbera?”
He turned sharply. “Is that where we’re going, signora? You’re a friend of Don Rafael?”
“That’s right.”
“You should have told me sooner. For you I’d have made it fifty dollars.”
“Don’t worry about it, Nino, a deal’s a deal. Now let’s get going.”
On the other side of the road, Danielo Frasconi watched them go by from the rear seat of an Alfa Romeo sedan. He looked very dashing in a designer jacket of soft black leather, a white scarf at his throat. The man in the tan suit, Bernardo, sat up front beside the driver, a hard-looking young man in a denim jacket.
“Okay, let’s go,” Danielo said. He leaned forward as they pulled away and put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “And remember, Cesare, not too close.” He laughed. “After all, we all know where we’re going.”
In spite of the bright moonlight, the main highway was just another highway the same the world over, plenty of traffic about. “It’s a pity we’re not making the run by day,” Nino said, “so you can see something, especially when we go up into the high country.”
“I hear it can be very hot.”
“Hot as the Sahara sometimes. Better in the spring. You can smell the orange groves for miles. Lots of flowers in the high meadows. Poppies, iris, stuff like that, but the people are poor here—real poor. You think you’ve seen poverty in New York, signora? Believe me, you’ve seen nothing.”
“And the Mafia?” she said. “That’s still as strong as ever?”
“Oh, sure. You get Mafia everywhere. The police, the unions, even the aristocracy. You want to stay in business here, the Mafia gets a piece of your action.” He shook his head. “Nothing changes.”
