Guido turned and looked at him, his face, for once, showing emotion.
"Alright!" he snapped. "I helped him, and I'm not ashamed of it. Things changed. I confided in you. I thought you were a man with some honor. I was mistaken."
Now Bellu spoke up. "You're wrong, Guido, very wrong. The colonel has no personal responsibility for Creasy. But I know he has sympathy for him. He'll do everything he can now. Everything."
Guido's anger subsided. He asked sadly, "Well-has he been useful?"
Satta nodded. "Yes-very. I would never admit it to anyone else. His killing of Conti was the whole key. I never realized that Cantarella would react with such panic. Even if Creasy doesn't get to him, his power will be finished. Already the organization on the mainland is in a state of flux. He will never reimpose control. Only here, in Sicily, does he keep his power, and day by day that too will slip away."
He gestured sympathetically. "Come, Guido, sit down. The important thing now is to find Creasy. Only you know his mind. You must try and read it. How will he attack? How will he approach?"
Guido shrugged and walked over to join them.
"Let me see the plan again."
Bellu lifted the newspapers and pulled out the large-scale plan of the Villa Colacci and its surroundings. The three men leaned over it. Satta pointed.
"We learned this morning that Cantarella has cut down some trees between the orchard and the wall to form a lane. Also, the floodlighting has become operational. The outside of the wall and a radius stretching several hundred meters are as bright as day."
"And inside the walls?" asked Guido.
Satta shook his head. "No. Obviously Cantarella doesn't want to light up the villa itself. At night the grounds are dark-but not unprotected. Yesterday two guard dogs were delivered-Doberman pinschers. They're attack dogs-trained to kill."
Bellu interjected, "For one man, it looks impenetrable. The guards at the gate and outside the walls are armed with submachine guns, and there's a small army inside the villa itself. No car or vehicle of any kind is allowed even close to the walls."
Guido smiled grimly. "He'll be expecting all that. He knows exactly the layout of the grounds and the villa itself. He's a soldier, and Cantarella is a fool. He'd be safer moving around instead of closing himself in. The strongest fort ever built is a death trap once the walls are breached. Cantarella's little army won't save him if Creasy gets inside."
"But how will he get inside?" asked Satta.
"I don't know," answered Guido. "But for sure he has a plan, and for sure it won't be conventional."
"There's been an escalation," Bellu commented. "An escalation of method: Rabbia was killed with a pistol, Sandri with a shotgun, Fossella with a bomb, and Conti with an antitank missile." He spread his hands. "What's he going to use on Cantarella?"
There was a thoughtful silence, and then Satta smiled.
"I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised if about now the boss of bosses is digging a fallout shelter!"
"There's another one!"
Paddy pointed at the Alfa Romeo that had just overtaken them. Across its rear window was a sticker printed with two words: "GO-CREASY!"
It was the fifth they had seen since leaving the outskirts of Brindisi. Wally shook his head in amazement and said: "We're transporting a bloody celebrity."
It was three days since they had stepped into the Mobex outside Bari and tossed the newspaper onto the table in front of Creasy. He had looked at the huge photograph and then slowly raised his eyes.
"It's in every newspaper," Wally had said. "And the full story-you show that ugly face anywhere in Italy and it will be recognized instantly. It's bound to be on TV as well." He had spoken lightly, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.
Creasy hadn't said a word. Only his eyes moved between the two of them. Paddy broke the tension.
"Bloody Frenchman! I knew you were a Yank."
"How?"
"The way you eat."
At that Creasy had smiled, and Wally's held breath had whooshed out in relief.
They had offered their help, and Creasy had shaken his head. It was a whole new situation. The danger was acute. He had told them to catch the train to Brindisi and be on their way. It wasn't their affair.
But logic had prevailed. Logic and stubbornness.
They had argued for an hour. Driving the Mobex himself, it would be impossible not to be spotted. With them driving and him hidden in the back, they could take him anywhere in Italy. It made obvious sense, but he spent a long time trying to argue them out of it. Finally he had agreed. He needed only to get to Reggio, and not for three days. After that, they could keep the Mobex-he wouldn't be needing it.
Paddy had tried to force the money back on him; but then he too had been stubborn. They could use the money to ship the Mobex to Greece and then on to Australia. That was his condition.
They had stayed two days in the secluded campsite near Bari. Creasy never left the vehicle except at night to get exercise, and only then while Paddy and Wally kept watch. He hadn't told them how he would cross into Sicily, but he had a plan. He would explain in Reggio. Perhaps Wally could help him there before leaving.
"How does he look without all the hair?" he had asked Paddy. She had shaken her head.
"No idea-I've never seen him without it-I'd be frightened to look!"
"I'm bloody handsome," Wally had said. "I only grew this beard to keep hordes of lecherous females away. What's it all about?"
But Creasy had just smiled and said he'd tell him when they reached Reggio.
One evening Paddy had tried to talk him out of it.
The newspapers had stressed the oppositon. How little chance he had. She was about to say, "Don Quixote, tilting at windmills," but she had looked at his face and into his eyes; and stopped.
She remembered it now as they joined the Autostrada east of Taranto.
"Could you ever feel like that, Wally? Build up enough hatred to do what he's doing?"
Wally took his eyes off the road to glance at her. She was serious, and he thought about it.
"Many people could," he answered. "The difference is having both the hatred and the means. You read his story in the papers. How many men like that are walking around?"
"Do you think he'll do it? Get there and do it?"
He pursed his lips as he considered the question.
"He might. He's come a long way, but he'll need luck-a lot of it. But then, he's had some already-he met us."
Paddy smiled at him, then was silent for a while.
"What are you thinking?"
She smiled again. "I was wondering how you'll look without that hair."
Chapter 21
The walls had stood for centuries, but they had no answer to the bulldozer. It took only half an hour to reduce the small farmhouse to rubble.
Franco Masi stood next to the cart piled high with his belongings. His wife already sat on the cart. She faced away, unable to look, her eyes red from constant weeping.
But Franco looked, and beyond, to the walls of the Villa Colacci; hatred twisted his features. For generations his family had lived and farmed a few rocky acres on the hillside. The occupant of the villa had been a benefactor. Franco had always lived under that protection.
The produce of his farm, the cheeses his wife made, had always been given in homage. He had not believed at first when they told him. It could not be. The benefactor would not do such a thing.
He had begged for an audience, but they told him it was impossible. Don Cantarella would see no one. In twenty-four hours Franco must move. A house had been found for him in Palermo. They gave him the papers to sign.
The bulldozer finished its work, reversed on its tracks, and rumbled up toward the narrow lane.
From the core of his soul Franco uttered up a silent prayer: "Go with God, Creasy."
Wally argued fiercely. Seven thousand lire for a shave and a haircut was absurd. But the barber was unimpressed. He gestured eloquently at W
ally's flowing locks. It was a major job, an hour's work. Take it or leave it.
Wally took it. He had a busy day in front of him and couldn't waste time comparison shopping. At least he didn't have to lose it all.
"A short, neat, conservative haircut," Creasy had explained. "And no beard."
Wally was still mystified. They had arrived at the campsite the night before, and over dinner Creasy had outlined in great detail what he wanted. He had not explained why. One step at a time, he had said; it's safer.
First Wally was to get the haircut and shave. Then he was to purchase a good-quality leather suitcase and a briefcase; a sober business suit, a white shirt, a plain-colored, muted tie, and lace-up shoes. Dressed in this new attire, he was to check into the Excelsior Hotel; into their best suite, registering for three nights. He was then to go to the Avis office in the same building and hire a car for three days. The best model available.
He was to take dinner in the hotel dining room and make a point of ordering a very expensive wine and, with his coffee, a very expensive cognac. Hennessy Extra, Creasy had suggested.
"You want him to appear to be a rich businessman?" Paddy had asked.
"Exactly," Creasy had answered.
Paddy had looked at Wally skeptically. "That would rival the frog turning into Prince Charming."
"Piss off," Wally had said with a grin. "You'll be surprised. I didn't always look like this."
After his expensive dinner, Wally was to go up to his suite and put in a phone call to Australia, an old friend-anyone-and talk for at least twenty minutes.
He was to spend the night in the suite and meet them back at the campsite in the early morning.
While Wally ate stuffed peperoni in Beggio, Satta, Bellu, and Guido ate grilled lampuka in the Grand in Palermo.
"What's your opinion?" Satta asked his assistant.
"He'll come by boat," Bellu said. "Probably fishing boat-commandeered from somewhere in Calabria."
Satta shook his head impatiently and pointed at his plate. "I meant the fish."
Bellu smiled; on occasion he enjoyed irritating his boss. "Slightly overdone."
Satta nodded in agreement and turned to Guido. "It's possible, just possible, that one day the good captain will be promoted to colonel."
"That's a prerequisite?" Guido asked. "A colonel must have a discerning palate?"
"Essential," Satta answered. "We must have standards, or they'll start promoting people for being clever or dedicated. That would be a disaster."
"You mean you'd still be a corporal?"
Satta smiled and said to Bellu, "Have you noticed that Neapolitans have a vicious sense of humor?-Why do you think by fishing boat?"
Bellu shrugged. "How else? He can't use conventional transport. Every plane, ferry, and train is being watched. He's not a man that can be easily disguised."
"It's possible," Satta conceded. "What do you think, Guido?"
"I don't know," Guido said. "It's idle speculation. I've given it enough thought, and I don't have an answer. One thing is sure, though; with his face so well-known, he can't afford to show it-anywhere."
Satta agreed. "It's probably the best known face in Italy today. What a reaction! I wouldn't have believed it." He shook his head in astonishment. "In Rome and the north, girls are wearing T-shirts printed with his photo and 'GO CREASY!' The public's right behind him, and the newspapers are having a field day. I'm not sure it's healthy."
"It's inevitable," Bellu said. "People are fed up with the power of the bosses, and their arrogance. The government fails to do anything, so they make a hero out of this one man-it's natural."
"For me," Satta said, "the great puzzle is, where does he stay? He must be isolated, totally unseen; but how?"
He looked hard at Guido. "You're sure he had no safe house after Rome?"
"Not that I know of," Guido answered. "He never talked of his plans after Rome-you know why."
"It's a great pity," Satta said. "And no contact at your mail drop. We're monitoring it twenty-four hours a day."
"A pity?" Guido asked dryly. "You really want to find him now?"
Satta grimaced. "Guido, believe me. I don't want to see him die. He's done enough." He signaled the waiter, and they ordered desert. When the waiter had left, Satta reached out and put a hand on Guido's arm and said softly:
"It's true. I owe him. I feel I know him, would like to meet him. In fact, he fascinates me. If anyone had told me that one man could have done so much, I would have laughed. I still can't comprehend it, especially the way he killed Conti."
Guido smiled grimly. "Yes, a technicolor funeral."
The other two looked puzzled and Guido explained.
"It's sort of a catch phrase. Every closed fraternity has them. Mercenaries too. It came out in Laos many years ago. A bunch of us were standing around watching an Air America DC6 land at a remote strip. It was carrying ammunition, explosives, and gasoline. It lost its undercarriage and skidded a long way; a wing tip caught, and it cartwheeled." Guido paused as memory took him back.
"Well?" Bellu prompted. "What happened?"
"It blew up," said Guido. "Slowly, would you believe? First the gasoline, then the explosives, and finally the ammunition. We all knew the pilots-two Canadians, good men. When the noise died down, there was a long silence, then an Australian, Frank Miller, summed it up. He said, 'At least they had a technicolor funeral."'
Guido shrugged. "It became a catch phrase. If a mercenary wanted to threaten someone, he talked about a technicolor funeral."'
"What makes a man become a mercenary?" Bellu asked.
Guido smiled at the question.
"A thousand reasons. No two are the same. There are all types: misfits, perverts, misguided do-gooders, plain fools." He shrugged. "Very often it's just an accident-not calculated."
The waiter brought the desserts-a local zabaglione-and, while they ate, there was silence.
But Bellu was curious. For him it was a different world, and his questions started again.
"But Creasy must be special-to achieve what he has. What makes him that good?"
"You've seen his dossier," Satta commented. "It's experience. Experience and training; and perhaps something more." He looked at Guido inquiringly.
"Yes, something more," Guido agreed. "It's like sex appeal-intangible. All the components can be there, but a soldier can lack it, no matter how good he is technically. Here and there, occasionally, you meet one that has it. He is set apart. Maybe it's a combination of luck and willpower. A platoon of trained and experienced soldiers can fail to take a position. One man, with that ingredient, will take it."
"Did you have it?" Satta asked softly.
"Yes," answered Guido. "But Creasy has it in abundance-that's what has carried him this far. And most likely will get him into the Villa Colacci."
"Will it get him out?" asked Satta.
"Who knows?" The question bothered Guido. He was sure that Creasy had figured out a way to get in, but he wasn't sure about the opposite.
Wally parked the hired Lancia alongside the Mobex. Paddy sat on the step and watched him get out. He closed the Lancia's door and stood looking at her silently. For a long while, she didn't move. Then she crossed her arms about herself and began rocking back and forth. Then the laughter started.
Creasy appeared behind her and studied Wally. He nodded and smiled. Paddy slipped off the step and rolled on the grass. Gusts of laughter swept round the deserted campsite.
"Bloody woman!" Wally said.
Creasy agreed. "No appreciation of real beauty."
Slowly Paddy got herself under control and sat up, her arms clasping her knees.
"Wally Wightman," she said, with a broad grin, "you look like a pooftah!"
Wally stood by the black Lancia in his dark-blue, pinstripe suit, holding his black briefcase. He ignored her.
"Do I look alright?" he asked Creasy.
"Perfect," Creasy answered. He turned to Paddy.
"You just do
n't appreciate class, and if he looks like a pooftah, why were you crying all last night?"
"Bullshit!" Paddy said, pushing herself up. "I wouldn't miss him for a year, let alone one bloody night!"
But she walked over and hugged Wally affectionately.
"Go easy, girl," he said with a grin. "You'll rumple my new suit."
They all went into the Mobex and squeezed around the small table. Wally related, in detail, how he had followed Creasy's instructions. "What now?" he asked expectantly.
Creasy reached behind for the map and pointed out the small airfield.
"This is the headquarters of the Aero Club of Reggio di Calabria. I want you to drive over there now and charter an aircraft to fly you to Trapani, on the west coast of Sicily."
Wally and Paddy exchanged glances.
"So that's it," Paddy said. "You're going to fly in."
"Not exactly," Creasy answered. He explained that originally he had planned to charter a night flight by telephone, and if necessary hijack the pilot and aircraft. Wally's offer of help had made it easier.
The previous day's charade had set the scene. Wally would explain that he was a businessman on a tight schedule. He had a series of meetings in Reggio and, as soon as they finished, he wanted to leave for Trapani. If the Aero Club or anyone else checked, they would discover that he was staying in the best suite in a luxury hotel. He spent unstintingly on the best food and drink, hired the best available car, and made expensive overseas phone calls. In short, he was plausible.
Creasy told him to explain that he was not sure exactly when he would want to leave. He would give six hours' notice. It would probably be late evening, and certainly within the next three days.
"Why can't you fix a time?" Wally asked.
"It depends on the weather."
"Then why within three days?"
"Because there's little or no moon."
Wally's curiosity was still not satisfied, but he held his questions while Creasy went on to explain that the Aero Club had four aircraft: two Cessna 172's; a Piper Commanche, and a Commander. It was essential he get one of the Cessnas. In the event of a query, Wally was to say that he had flown in that type before and was familiar with it. He was to pay for the charter in cash, in full, in advance.
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