Capo

by Peter Watson

  An hour later, refreshed but scarcely relaxed, Annunziata and Silvio were back in the abbot’s study, the chief features of which were a large fireplace and a blue-green tapestry that completely covered one wall. The abbot had with him two other monks, much younger men, tall and lean and clearly very strong.

  “May I introduce Brother Benedetto and Brother Francisco.”

  They both nodded.

  “We have been talking and I now believe there is a way for Nino to be … well, saved. There is a part for each of you to play in this plan, but it will not be easy. And you must leave very soon. But first I will explain the plan.”

  The weather had changed yet again. When Captain Ezio Fracci, of the Lazio Brigade, had first set foot in Sicily a couple of weeks before, the sun had been baking the rocks and the shimmer from the sea hurt the eyes. No more. Now it was raining and the tops of the mountains were smothered in cloud.

  Still, this business would soon be over. He personally thought it had been demeaning for a distinguished regiment to be sent to this godforsaken hole to rescue a foreigner, moreover a foreigner who was an absentee landlord on the island. It wasn’t the job of crack soldiers to arrest Italian civilians, even if they were criminals. But he had done his duty and now it was nearly finished. This time tomorrow they would be in Trapani and aboard ship. A few hours after that they would be at sea, en route for the mainland. Then the row between Italy and England would be over. Italy’s honor would be intact.

  The arrest had gone surprisingly smoothly. A certain amount of money had changed hands—naturally—and this mafioso hideaway had been divulged. The whereabouts of the Quarryman had been sought by the police for years, but Captain Fracci’s unit had succeeded because he had obtained one vital piece of information unknown to everyone else. Through a special contact he had discovered that the local shepherds were on Nino’s payroll and had a system of whistle alarms to warn of any approaching danger. Having plenty of men at his disposal, Fracci had simply removed two of the shepherds before his brigade had even set foot in Quarryman territory. His plan had worked. Greco’s early-warning system had failed. Once the brigade had reached the bivio, a few shots had been exchanged, one of Fracci’s men had been hit in the leg, and one of the Quarryman’s people had been grazed in the head; but that was the sum of the casualties, and now Greco himself was trussed up like a wild boar. When it came down to it, these bandits were no match for a real army.

  Progress was slow, of course. They had manacled Greco so heavily he couldn’t walk. Consequently they had to use a cart, and the roads in these parts weren’t good. They were now just skirting Lake Arancio, prettier than most of the scenery on this barren island but a difficult road nonetheless. Fracci was a northerner himself and couldn’t wait to get back there. The poverty in Sicily appalled him. About a half mile back they had passed a pagliaio, a straw shelter in which a family of four were living. It turned out that the pagliaio was a seasonal dwelling built afresh every year by the family, who came here for a few weeks to collect frogs and snails at the edge of the lake. They sold them at the nearby market at Misilbisi: it was the only work they could find. In Trapani, Fracci had heard tell that in Sicily there were five able-bodied men for each job. He himself had observed the predawn labor auctions for construction projects—and seen wives scolding their husbands who returned home without having secured employment that day. Give him life in Lombardy any time.

  Looking ahead, he could see they were coming to a bivio, a fork in the trail. One road led straight ahead, along the shore of the lake, the waters of which reflected the brown-purple hills beyond. The other road led off to the right, into the mountains. At home, near Milan, Fracci was used to the Alps and the deep-colored fir trees that grew halfway up them, like the beard on a monk. Here, the scraggy gray oaks gave out in the foothills, leaving the bare rock of the mountainside looking bony, devoid of all life save for a few eagles. When the sun shone, the glare from the white rock could give a traveler a headache in no time.

  He saw the men in front of him stop at the bivio. What now? A sergeant was running back. Altogether Fracci’s party numbered two hundred fifty people, about sixty mafiosi, the rest soldiers. The women and children from Bivio Indisi had been let go. The bandits and soldiers made a straggly line about a hundred yards long.

  The sergeant arrived, panting.

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve reached a fork in the road, sir.”

  “I can see that. So?”

  “The signpost doesn’t agree with our map.”

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Our map says that Misilbisi and Partanna should both be to the left, but the sign says Misilbisi is to the left, Partanna to the right.”

  “And we want the Partanna road, yes?”

  The sergeant nodded. “And no point in asking the prisoners. They’re bound to mislead us.”

  Captain Fracci bit his lip. It had been a condition of the guide who had shown them the way to Greco’s bivio that he be allowed to disappear before the attack. Otherwise, he had said, he would be killed by relatives of the Quarryman. Fracci had been forced to agree.

  “OK,” he said to the sergeant. “Tell the men to have a short rest. Time for a smoke.”

  Fracci took out a narrow cigar from his tunic pocket, lit up, and breathed in the thick smoke. He sat on a boulder and took off his hat. This was going to be a difficult decision. Trapani was west and north of here, so either road went in the approximate direction. But that wasn’t enough. Most of his men were traveling on foot and wouldn’t thank him if he chose a road that added twenty or thirty miles to their journey.

  “Look!” The sergeant was pointing. Down the road that led around the lakeshore, two figures could be seen coming toward them. One was dressed in the black of a priest, the other looked like a young woman. “They must be local.”

  “You’re right,” said Fracci. “Come on.”

  He got up and walked forward, past his men, who were sitting smoking, enjoying the rest; past the prisoners, who were making themselves as comfortable as they could, encased as they were in chains or ropes. Fracci walked toward the priest and his companion. The rain had turned the road to mud, brown as almond shells. He slithered about. As Fracci came closer he saw that the priest was quite young, too, about the same age as the woman. When about twenty yards separated them, he stopped and called out: “Father! Can you help me?”

  The priest stopped. He looked surprised, but then smiled. “If I can, sir, if I can. What help is it you need?”

  “You are coming from where, may I ask?”

  The priest looked back down the road he had been walking along. “That way, sir, lies Misilbisi and Dragonara.”

  “And this other road, north?”

  “Smaller, rougher. It is not always on the maps. But, unless I am mistaken, it leads to Partanna, Catalfini—and Trapani, if you go far enough. I have never been myself.”

  “Ah! I am grateful, sir. You are most kind.” Fracci nodded his thanks.

  The priest nodded back. “You could return the kindness, sir.”

  Fracci, about to order his men back on the road, turned to the priest in surprise. “I could? How, sir?”

  “I see you have prisoners. You could let me bless them.”

  Fracci’s eyes narrowed. “May I ask how long you have been a priest?”

  “Certainly, and the answer is: not long. I am still a novice. This is my sister, who accompanies me to my monastery. Though I am still in training, does that matter?”

  Fracci thought for a moment. These two young people looked harmless enough. He nodded. “Go ahead. Then we must leave.”

  The priest, followed by his companion, walked slowly along the line of prisoners, nodding to each one in turn and making the sign of the cross in benediction, until he came to the wagon carrying Nino Greco. There he stopped, reached into his pocket, and took out a small Bible. He held it aloft and slowly turned through half a circle, again facing all of
the men in the line for a moment. As he did so he uttered his benediction: “Quis einem peccat in eo quod cavei no protest.” He finished, turned back to the captain, bowed, and walked on.

  The sergeant watched the priest and his sister walk a few yards and then turned back to his men, giving the order for them to move ahead.

  Slowly they scrambled to their feet, put back their hats, picked up their weapons, and headed away from the shoreline, turning instead to the north: into the hills.

  “I don’t remember this gorge, do you?” They had been twenty minutes on the new road and the sergeant had dropped back again for a quick word with Captain Fracci.

  “No, but then we cut across country on the way in. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. This road seems a bit narrow. Primitive.”

  “The priest did say it was rough.”

  Slowly the sergeant made his way forward again, returning to the head of the column. The weather was still threatening.

  The gorge twisted to the left. The sergeant looked up. Spindly oak trees, their barks covered in gray lichen—the color of the clouds above—leaned over the lip of the cliffs. Birds chattered, hidden in the branches halfway to the sky. He lowered his gaze: the riverbed was dry, just boulders and shingle and marooned driftwood. A few bottles. What looked like a shoe. The path here was overgrown—purple weeds hung out over the tracks and such horse manure as he had seen was very old. Not many people came this—

  He grunted without meaning to. The curve of the valley had opened out into … a stone wall! Five hundred yards ahead, pale yellow rock faced him, scarred with streaks of brown and black. The sergeant looked from left to right, searching for the track, rising maybe to the hills beyond. No, he could see nothing. The road was a dead end!

  He stopped. To his left was a metal contraption of sorts, though badly rusted. Beyond that were boulders, stacked neatly. To the right was a large wooden tripod, what used to be a crane.

  The sergeant took it all in. These were signs of mining. This was a quarry.

  The Quarryman!

  No sooner had he thought this than a wave of warm air slapped into the flesh of his cheeks, and particles of sand and grit stung his eyes and filled his open mouth. As he coughed he sank to his knees instinctively, as an explosion boomed over him. With one hand he fumbled for his revolver; with the other he rubbed his eyes, trying to free the grit from beneath his eyelids. He coughed and spat the sand from his mouth.

  It was a trap, that much was obvious, and the young priest had obviously been part of it. The sergeant tried to open his eyes, but the sting was too much and he closed them again. He began to crawl rapidly to his right, toward the dry riverbed where he knew there were boulders to offer protection. Captain Fracci had been outthought and they had been led up the wrong road, their escape sealed by a blast of dynamite that would have caused a landslide.

  His elbow brushed a boulder and he turned and leaned his back against it. He rubbed his eyes again. His vision was blurred but the grit had worked itself free. A stone landed on his knee and he squealed in pain. Around him, dust filled the quarry and he couldn’t see for more than twenty yards.

  The chatter of the birds had stopped. Only the sound of falling rocks broke the silence.

  The haze began to clear. He saw other men hiding behind other boulders. He looked back: the prisoners were standing in the open, abandoned by the soldiers, who had all sought hiding. They were corralled like cattle.

  He had his revolver out now and he snapped off the safety catch. The haze was rising, thinning. But he still couldn’t see the lip of the quarry. The smell of the explosive drifted on the wind. He heard men groaning. The haze lifted higher. His eyes were still watering, but he could see well enough now: the brigade, and the prisoners, were completely surrounded by high ground. Apart from the boulders of the dried riverbed, there was nowhere to hide. The famous Lazio Brigade was a sitting target.

  The sergeant crawled farther into the riverbed, between two huge rocks, patched with gray-green lichen. As he did so, however, he heard the crack of rifle fire and bullets began zinging off the stones. He looked up to the rim of the quarry, searching for heads, the glint of steel, to aim at. He could see nothing and no one.

  Yes! A flash of fire as shot left a musket.

  He aimed, returning fire, kicking at the shingle, easing still farther between the boulders of the riverbed.

  He heard someone grunt—and looked back, downriver, in time to see Enzo Collepietra, one of the brigade’s soldiers from his own village, fall forward, his stomach blown out of him and plastered over a rock.

  The sergeant began to sweat. They were under fire from both sides of the quarry. It was only a matter of time before they were picked off.

  He heard other men squeal in pain. Fire was being returned, but spasmodically. Where was Captain Fracci? Had he been hit, or knocked out by the explosion?

  The sergeant began to crawl back down the riverbed, hugging the boulders. The captain had been about a hundred yards back, near that final twist in the gully.

  The sergeant’s knees scraped on the rocks. He didn’t look up. Twice he heard the crack of rock as bullets slammed into the boulders uncomfortably close. He passed two more of his men. One had had the side of his head blown away and his eyeball was hanging out. The other had had one of his hands ripped from his wrist and was sitting in the sand staring at it and screaming, blood drenching the trousers of his uniform.

  The sergeant pressed on. Suddenly he saw Captain Fracci lying on the ground. He had been hit before he could reach the safety of the boulders; blood was oozing from his leg.

  The sergeant looked up to the lip of the quarry nearest where he was. He fired off three shots in quick succession and then scrambled toward the captain, held him by the shoulders, and dragged him back toward the boulders.

  “You’re losing blood, sir.”

  “I’ll be fine. How many men killed?”

  “I’ve seen two. But there must be more. This riverbed won’t offer protection forever. They’re on both sides of the quarry.”

  “We have the better guns.”

  “But we can’t see who to fire at—”

  The sergeant stopped speaking. The quarry had fallen silent. The shooting had stopped as quickly as it had begun.

  A few groans were all that could be heard, from men who had been hit.

  “Captain!” a voice shouted from somewhere above. “Captain!”

  Fracci lifted an arm, to acknowledge he could hear.

  “Move your men into the quarry. Leave your prisoners and your guns where they are. Do as we say and your men will come to no more harm. Do you understand?”

  Fracci was in pain and with one hand he tried to stanch the blood oozing from his leg. Even as he did this he quickly growled at the sergeant, “Order the men to fire.”

  “Is that wise, sir? We are—”

  “While they are firing take some men and round up the prisoners. It’s our only chance. Get some hostages!”

  The sergeant looked along the riverbed. Men were crouched behind boulders looking at him, waiting for their orders. The prisoners were about fifty yards away.

  He shouted. “Prepare to fire at will…. Fire!”

  The din resumed. The sergeant scrambled forward until he reached the nearest men. “Sorengo! Limidi! Come with me.” He nodded toward the prisoners.

  The three men dipped between the boulders, working their way downriver until they were opposite the prisoners, who were shuffling slowly back toward the landslide.

  Suddenly Sorengo fell forward against a boulder, his face hitting the stone, so that splinters of teeth broke off and ricocheted into the sand. The sergeant’s gaze met Limidi’s. Neither spoke.

  The sergeant refilled the chamber of his revolver. The fire was now heavy from the lip of the quarry. “Ready?” hissed the sergeant. “It’s our only chance.”

  Limidi nodded. “Ready.”

  The sergeant eased off his belly and crouched. �
�Now!”

  He ran forward, low. As he straightened up he began firing about him, aiming where he judged the lip of the quarry to be. He heard gunfire but kept going. The prisoners were staring at him. Some tried to run but the ropes connecting their feet prevented it and a few fell.

  The sergeant reached the prisoners. He ran into the middle of them, grabbed one of them around the neck, and pulled him toward the cart that held Nino Greco. He turned back. Limidi was right behind him, with his own hostage.

  The sergeant waited. He couldn’t see the people he was firing at, but they could see him, knew what was happening.

  After a few minutes the firing died down and then stopped.

  Limidi stood with his hostage at the back of the cart. The sergeant stood to one side. He still held the man he had grabbed by the neck, but he aimed his gun inside the cart, at Nino Greco. Now the negotiations would start. He waited for the voice that would come again from the lip of the quarry.

  Silence.

  Would any other men from the brigade risk open ground, to join him and Limidi?

  No one did.

  The silence stretched to a minute, two. Five.

  Soldiers were groaning amid the boulders of the riverbed. But no one moved. Fracci’s maneuver had half paid off. But what would happen now …?

  As he thought this the sergeant saw movement to his left and above him. He swung his revolver round, ready to fire. But it was a small object, with what looked like a tail. He watched, transfixed—and then horrified—as the object flew out from the lip of the quarry, seemed to hover for a moment, and then sank, accelerating toward the riverbed. Four sticks of dynamite, bound together with a fuse, landed behind the boulder where the sergeant was sure Captain Fracci lay.

  Before he had time to double-check, the blast of warm air and the boom of the explosion rocked him on his feet. Sand and grit and stones again rose around him, clogging his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils. The man he was holding struggled, but the sergeant held on to him even though he was again temporarily blinded. He pressed the barrel of his revolver against the man’s rib cage. The struggling ceased.