The Italian Deception

by Darby Philips

  He stood in an alley across from Franco’s S & M club. The lights were dim. There were no crowds. A sign hung from the theatre style ticket both. It read, “Closed Until Further Notice.” It was Saturday night. The place should have been packed. Then Forton’s words from earlier that evening hit home. No one knew where Franco was. Paul feared the traitor might have disclosed his location, but then why would Franco kill the attaché and embassy worker? And $64 million dollars was still missing. The traitor would want that money for himself or herself. Paul couldn’t conceive of them disclosing his location to the Grimaldis until they had it.

  A thought tugged at the back of his mind. Before he could focus on it, a Porsche SUV parked in front of the club. Four men got out. They wore slacks and dress shirts and scanned the area like professionals. They carried no guns. In Italy, only mafia bosses wishing anonymity travelled with weaponless body guards. It was a precaution against police using the weapons to manufacture an arrest.

  One of the men opened the back driver’s side door and a tall elderly gentleman stepped out. He was heavy-set and dressed in casual business attire. Nothing flashy. He smoothed his silver gray hair back along his scalp and walked toward the club, the bodyguards flanking him. He seemed familiar, although Paul knew he’d never seen him before.

  Portia opened the club’s front door. The older man strode up to Portia, said a few words, and hugged her. From Paul’s vantage point, he could see her smile as she hugged him back. Then Paul realized why the silver-haired man looked familiar. He had Portia’s facial features. He guessed that was her father. Mr. Cattaneo. Head of the Cattaneo mafia.

  Paul didn’t think seeing Portia again would affect him, but it did. He felt regret at believing her deceit and remorse that in trying to save her from the Grimaldis, he’d let Eric and himself be recaptured.

  Seeing her father, however, intrigued him. She’d lied about him being dead when they dated, and gloated about him being a crime boss when she’d tortured him. But he didn’t think the FBI knew much about him. It reminded him of how the Camorra crime boss in Italy had operated a powerful mafia empire for years without anyone knowing who he was.

  Paul scanned the area. Seeing no one around, he strode across the street and down the side alley next to the club. The alley was deserted. He shuffled up to the back door and stared at the locked door. Ignoring the smell from the large green dumpster, he retrieved the lock pick set Shelly had given him and entered the club.

  The corridor was dark. He heard voices ahead of him and crept toward them. Portia and her father sat on stools facing each other. Three guards took sentry positions around him. The fourth was absent.

  “Enough with the niceties, Father. Why did you want to see me alone?”

  “I’ve decided it’s time to dissolve the partnership with the Grimaldis.”

  Portia paused, as if stunned by the news. “You can’t!” she said. “I’ve put too much into this alliance.”

  At her outburst, the guards spun toward her.

  Mr. Cattaneo glared at her.

  “I mean,” she continued in a more conciliatory tone. “We still have much to gain by allying with them.”

  He shook his head. “When the Grimaldis were strong, we could use their connection to the La Provincia to gain influence and territory overseas. But since that American agent destroyed…”

  “He did not destroy us.”

  “Us? Never forget you’re a Cattaneo.”

  “Yes, father. But the Grimaldis still have influence. And Giovanni will do whatever I tell him. We can still use his family connection to La Provincia to expand.”

  He shook his head. “For several years, the Ndrangheta have followed Russia’s example of not only blackmailing government officials, but partnering with them. Now, they’re supporting these political partners’ campaign for higher office. Very soon, they’ll have even more power and territory in Europe and North America. Our family has been offered a piece of that territory in North America. I need partners who can shore up our operations here and abroad.”

  “Father,” Portia said, placing her hand on his arm. “I know the Grimaldis can do that. I’ll make sure they can.”

  Mr. Cattaneo sighed. “You’ve always had an ability to manipulate others.”

  Portia smiled and waited.

  “Very well. I’m negotiating with Don Salvini in Montreal. I expect to travel there in a month. You have until that time to convince me the Grimaldi alliance is worth continuing.”

  “Thank you, Father. After we get our revenge…”

  “Enough!” he said, slamming his fist on the bar. “You’ve spent eight months focusing on revenge instead of the business.”

  “But Franco is…”

  Paul was tackled from behind. They crashed to the floor and Paul rolled on top of his attacker. It was the fourth guard. He must have come down the stairs from the office above. Paul punched him in the stomach. The guard blocked and Paul immediately slammed his fist into the man’s throat. As the man gasped for air, Paul glanced into the club.

  Two of the remaining guards charged toward him. Portia and her father stared at him in surprise. His eyes locked with Portia’s. Recognition passed between them. The guards drew closer. Paul leapt up and ran out the back door.

  In the alley, he frantically grabbed a green dumpster and dragged it to block the exit. As he’d finished, the door opened and knocked against the dumpster. The guards stared at him from inside the club. Paul pushed against the dumpster to keep it from moving and reached down to lock the wheels. The guards relentlessly shoved against the door. They’d force it open soon.

  Sprinting down the alley, he turned right at the street and headed for his car. Hoping the other two guards hadn’t run out the front door to stop him.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Paul sped away from Franco’s S & M club before Mr. Cattaneo’s guards could follow. He knew Portia and possibly her father would use all their resources to find him. The smart thing to do was leave Calabria immediately. But this trip was his only shot to visit the places in his fragmented memory, so he drove to the port.

  He parked outside the port of Gioia Tauro and roamed the outer fence until he found a way in. It was late evening and the floodlights illuminated only patches of the container maze. The clank and groan of cranes and rumble of truck engines as they exited the area drowned out all other noise.

  One of the memory fragments he’d put on his Post-it board was of him huddling between containers. It was after he’d been tortured. He tried to find that place now in the hopes that it would jolt him into remembering what had actually happened. The problem was he had no reference point. It could have been anywhere in the maze.

  After what had to have been an hour, he came to a small alcove created by two containers. A memory tugged at him. The containers had changed, but the size of the space was the same.

  He tried to recall what had happened before and after the memory, but nothing happened.

  “Hey,” a voice behind him yelled in Italian. “Our boss wants a word.”

  Turning, Paul saw three large men. They appeared to be dock workers. Two had pipes, one a large hammer. One of the pipe men said, “You think he’s the one the Grimaldis are looking for?”

  Hammer man motioned for him to follow. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Paul shuffled toward them, feigning a defeated look. As he passed the leader, he slammed his elbow into his side, spun, and wrenched the hammer from his grasp. The two other men rushed him and Paul shoved the leader into them. Two tumbled to the pavement. The third swung his pipe. He deflected it with his hammer and swung his weapon down and continued in a swinging arc behind the man’s knees. He tumbled backwards and Paul punched him on the chin as he landed hard on the pavement. His eyes rolled up into unconsciousness.

  The other two men stood and moved to either side of him. Paul threw the hammer at the leader and grabbed the pipe man’s wrist as he swung at him. Paul pulled him forward while thrusting his
free arm under his other shoulder and flipping him into the ground. The leader tried to get away. Paul dashed forward and tripped him. He fell on his face and Paul slammed his head on the pavement until he went limp.

  Paul scanned the area. The sound of cranes and trucks monopolized the noise, but he didn’t hear anything resembling an alarm. He quickly made sure all the men were alive then left.

  The dockworkers may have told others. If the Grimaldis’ men locked down the port, Paul doubted he’d get out.

  Hurrying around a corner, he ran into a short man, who fell backwards. Paul moved to knock him unconscious when he said, “Dario, it’s me. Alesso Vieri.”

  Hearing his undercover name made Paul pause. He stared at the short man wearing an inspector’s uniform, then he remembered him. He was the one who Paul had convinced Giovanni to spare eight months ago when the inspectors had ambushed the Mateo drug buy.

  He helped him stand.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “The Grimaldis have everyone searching for you. They’ll kill you if they find you. And if you tell them what I did, they’ll kill me and my family.” Paul’s mind spun with images. At first, they flashed quickly, like a movie on fast forward. Then they slowed to normal time.

  ***

  He was huddled between two containers. He was wet and shivering, but his body blazed with pain from the Grimaldis’ torture.

  A flashlight came toward him. It bobbed as if held by a man who ran. The beam washed over him and Alesso’s voice said, “Hurry. Franco’s near. I’ll sneak you out, but that’s all I can do.” He grasped Paul under the shoulder and helped him cross the dark corridors of the container yard. Machinery clanked. Men yelled over truck engines. As they reached the edge of their container stack, he peeked out, looking into a small parking lot.

  Dozens of cars of every make and model were parked in rows. “Wait here,” he said. He dashed into the lot. Paul heard an engine roar. Then a car parked in front of him. He was weak, barely able to move his legs and arms. But he made it into the back seat.

  Alesso reached around and tossed a blanket over him. Paul sank in and out of consciousness. Finally, the car jerked to a halt. His rescuer yanked the blanket off him.

  “This is as far as I can take you,” he said, looking like he should have done more. “I have to get back before I’m missed.”

  Paul peered above the back window and saw a sad-looking gas station. A lonely pay phone sat on the left side.

  ***

  The image faded and he stood in the present with Alesso staring at him quizzically. The man had risked his life to help him. To defy the Grimaldis. He was the one who’d helped him escape. He knew that the gas station where he’d left him was the place where he’d called the attaché to pick him up.

  There was another piece of the puzzle he needed answered. “Was there anyone with me? Another man?”

  A puzzled expression crossed Alesso’s face. “What? No. Only you. Now, you must leave.”

  Paul turned, but glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

  “I was just paying my debt,” he said. “I would have died that night if you hadn’t convinced the Grimaldis to spare me. We’re even now.”

  He nodded and hustled toward the exit.

  Paul now knew how he’d fled Italy, but not how he’d escaped the Grimaldis. And he still didn’t know what had happened to Eric. Again, he knew he should leave Calabria immediately, but he had one more place to go.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Wooden floorboards creaked as Paul roamed the boathouse. Dim light from the open dock slowly faded to pitch black. He used the light on his phone to see. The small beam spotlighted dead leaves and other debris as they blew across the floor.

  The door to the office where he’d been tortured stood open. He entered the room and examined every detail. Dark red splotches of dried blood still stained the floor. The chairs where he and Eric had been tortured lay on their sides. The cracked grey cement seemed more weathered. And the smell of salt water permeated the air.

  As he swung the light around, he noticed the little differences. No flicker of oil lamps. A few windows were also broken. The rust had eaten holes in the steel siding.

  He strolled through the boathouse, trying to trigger a memory. Nothing. As his phone light reflected onto the water, an image flashed through his mind. He focused on it, tried to grasp it, then heard a footstep behind him.

  He flicked off his light and reached for a gun, but remembered he didn’t have one. His eyes searched the entrance. It was too dark to see.

  “They abandoned it after you escaped,” Shelly said, flicking on her own light.

  “How did you know I was here? I disabled my GPS.”

  “I know you.”

  He switched his phone light on again. “I saw Portia at Franco’s club. She met her father and I learned what they’re planning.” He quickly filled her in on their conversation as she moved toward him.

  “I had no idea the Cattaneo family was so powerful.”

  “I don’t think anyone did. That knowledge won’t help me, but it’ll help the bureau and others fight the Ndrangheta expansion. It’s much more expansive than we thought.”

  “Yeah, and our traitor isn’t the only one working for the Ndrangheta.” Shelly gestured around the boathouse with her light. “Have you remembered anything?”

  “No. And it’s so damn frustrating!” His eyes drifted toward the room where he was tortured. His phone light glinted off the broken glass and he let his mind go. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but nothing happened. No memory of any kind.

  “Thinking about Eric?”

  Her tone betrayed her. “You know what happened to him, don’t you?”

  She sighed. “Yes and no.”

  Paul turned toward her.

  “Before that night, we had his reports that everything was on schedule and your report indicating he wasn’t responding to you. When you escaped, you told us first that you feared he’d betrayed you and then that you’d seen him tortured. But we never found him. No body. No sightings. Nothing.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think you knew him better than anyone. And your first statement was that you feared he’d betrayed you.”

  Paul wondered what the truth really was. Seeing Eric tortured in front of him seemed to prove he was a victim, but it could easily be subterfuge. The irony of that wasn’t lost on him. It was the same reason the FBI thought he had the $64 million.

  They stood together for a while. Eventually, Shelly shut off her light and waited while he roamed the area, trying futilely to recover his memories. Then he heard another footstep at the entrance.

  He quickly flicked off his light and froze in place.

  “I know it’s you, Dario,” Portia said. “I saw your profile in the light.”

  Even though he’d seen her at the club, something about hearing her words in the dark of this boathouse filled him with feelings of loss and betrayal. But talking to her provided an opportunity. She knew what happened. But he had to be subtle. “How did you find me?”

  “We’ve been searching for you ever since the club. When a bearded man attacked three men at the port, I knew you’d come here next.” She paused. Her voice turned seductive. “How much did you overhear?”

  That was what she really wanted to know. He guessed the Grimaldis didn’t know about the Cattaneo family’s plans. As much as he wanted to press her on that, he had to keep pushing her toward revealing what happened eight months ago. “You obviously didn’t know me that well. The Grimaldis are crippled, and you didn’t get the money.”

  He glanced in Shelly’s direction. He still couldn’t see her in the dark but he knew she’d have her gun drawn, waiting to act.

  “Because you lied to us!” Portia said, venom in her voice.

  “You were torturing me and Eric. What did you expect?”

  “Eric,” she scoffed. “You sacrificed everything for him, and wh
at did it get you in the end?”

  His heart beat faster. This is what he needed to know. He said nothing, hoping that would prompt her to keep talking. When she also kept quiet, he wondered what he should say. Her words were ambiguous. When the silence became awkward, he hoped a vague statement might prompt her to continue. “What he did hurt the Grimaldis as much as it did me.”

  Portia said nothing.

  Uh-oh, he thought.

  “Oh my god,” she laughed. “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You forget how well I know you.” She laughed louder. “Oh, this is too good. You came here to find out what happened, didn’t you?” After her laughter died, she said. “Your mistake was coming here alone.”

  The door behind her burst open. White muzzle flashes illuminated Antonio and Giovanni, firing guns as they charged him.

  Shelly fired toward the Grimaldis. The gunfire showed glimpses of their movements. They rushed forward, their weapons firing relentlessly. Paul darted toward Shelly and grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the back of the boathouse. When they reached the end of the dock, they dove into the water.

  Paul lost his grip on her as they plunged into the murky water. Déjà vu assaulted him. He’d been underwater before, but he couldn’t put it in context. An image played his mind. He was standing. Eric stood next to him and pointed to a statue and whispered something. Paul couldn’t hear the words.

  The scene evaporated and Paul was back in the water. But he recognized the museum. And he thought the diamonds might be there.

  Bullets strafed through the water. Paul frantically searched for Shelly. She grasped his hand. He shoved it forward, indicating they should swim to the left. They swam in that direction and he hoped the Grimaldis wouldn’t be waiting for them.

  Chapter Forty

  Franco stood in front of Don Salvini in the mafia boss’ study and noticed recently repaired bullet holes in the walls.