by Sewell, Ron
Petros returned with the man who opened his eyes. Fear covered his face.
The doctor unzipped the front of her dry bag and positioned the baby between her breasts. She turned. “Thank you.”
While they waited for the hook to lower, Petros shouted, “What are their chances?”
She mouthed. “Not good.”
Secured, she gave a wave to the wireman.
In minutes the craft gained height and flew in the direction of Malta.
“Tuna Turner, my patients are on drips and alive. Out.”
The radio crackled as Alfredo changed to channel sixteen. “Let us go home and land the less fortunate.” He checked the chart, fixed their position, and drew a line direct to Syracuse, the nearest Sicilian port. “Nine hours means we arrive in the early hours of the morning. When we are in range, I will contact the harbour master. It has been a long day. Eat and rest for tomorrow may be even longer.”
***
An orange glow filled the sky above the island.
“The mountain is on fire,” said Alfredo.“This year must be a record, thirteen times Etna has grumbled and spewed out its guts.”
“Our ancestors, like us, have lived with the danger. The soil in which our grapes prosper came from the mountain. Maybe one day she will be angry...Tommaso tell my crew to prepare for coming alongside.”
The Tuna Turner negotiated the entrance to Syracuse harbour at three knots. “We will berth opposite Riva Giuseppe. There is a large car park, perfect for ambulances and the authorities.”
On approaching an empty berth, a blaze of lights lit the ship. Alfredo swore and covered his eyes with a pair of Ray-Bans. Without a scratch on the paintwork, his ship nestled against the ancient berth.
Marco, Simone, ZZ and Amadou secured the ropes fore and aft. As Davide shut down the engines, the babble of the waiting media took over.
The police formed a line and prevented anyone boarding until the harbour master and another clambered across the gap between the ship and the wall.
Alfredo and his crew waited.
“Alfredo Abruzzi?”
“I am.”
The uniformed man held out his hand. “Julio Lucia, Harbour Master. This is Pavlo Silva, the Mayor. Such a tragic mess with the sea becoming a cemetery. A humanitarian problem with no solution. Where are the unfortunates?”
Alfredo pointed. “Seventy two men, women and children are under the tarpaulin. We failed to recover another thirty or so.”
Julio, followed by Pavlo and Alfredo, crossed the deck. Julio lifted the corner of the canvas. The stench of the dead filled the night air. “I have trucks and men with body bags on the jetty. Leave this to them. I have good news. The three survivors in Malta are recovering. I understand it will be some time before they will be fit enough to leave the hospital.” He shouted to a man wearing a one-piece blue coverall on the jetty. “Seventy plus. Inspector, shift those people so the trucks can come closer.”
He turned to Alfredo. “The media are hungry for another disaster. Talk to them and then I’ll have the area sealed.”
“I will speak to three on the forward deck. You choose.”
Julio climbed up to the jetty and walked between the ten trucks adjacent to the ship. “The captain will talk to three of you.” He touched two men and one woman. “Let these through with their cameramen. The rest might as well go back to bed.”
ZZ, wearing tight cut off jeans, a white T-shirt and flip flops, waited for the media to cross the gap. His eyes never left the blonde reporter who negotiated between the shore and the ship with the efficiency of an athlete. Good looking and has taste, he thought. Her clothes not from a local store. She wore a white blouse, dark blue designer jeans and black Doc Marten boots. In her right hand, she carried a Gucci duffle bag. Their eyes met, she laughed and smiled before lowering her gaze.
The three teams guided by ZZ picked their way forward around wires and items of salvage equipment.
“You have five minutes to set up your equipment,” said Alfredo.
Ready, her hair in a French bob, the energetic slim female started to ask questions.
“Wait,” said Alfredo. “I do not intend to repeat myself. My crew and I are tired and could use a good night’s sleep.”
“Where are these people from?” asked the woman.
“I have no idea.”
“We have been told three have survived,” said a man.
“Three out of over one hundred. If it had not been for the sharp eyes of Petros Kyriades they might have been placed with the others.”
For a moment, the cameras focussed on Petros before returning to Alfredo.
“What happened to their boat?” asked the other man.
“It sank. My crew recovered as many as they could but we believe thirty or so went with it.”
“Why did you recover dead people?” said the woman.
“I have no idea who they are or where they came from but they deserve a proper burial.” Alfredo glanced at his watch. “I have said all I am going to say, except goodnight.”
Alfredo, followed by his crew, entered the superstructure and closed the door.
Petros and ZZ guided the news teams ashore.
Before she clambered to the jetty, the blonde held out her hand and whispered to ZZ, “Scarlet.”
ZZ stared at her face; it would always photograph well, and grabbed the opportunity to assist. When she let go she flashed her most innocent smile and placed a card in the palm of his hand.
As the last corpse was hoisted and placed on the jetty, the ship’s engines started. “Alfredo isn’t hanging around,” said Amadou.”
“No point. Job done,” said Petros.
“A coffee and then bed,” said ZZ.
“I’ll be in the mess in ten minutes. I need to see if Alfredo needs any help with watch-keeping.” Petros ascended the ladder to the bridge where Alfredo and Tommaso controlled the vessel as she left harbour. “I’ll give you two a break when we’re clear.”
The night passage through the Straits of Messina remained uneventful.
At noon the following day, Tuna Turner entered Palermo harbour and faced another gathering of the media.
Wearing a smart outfit, Alfredo’s wife stood on the jetty and waved.
He waved back and laughed. “That is a first. Do you think my wife wants to be on television or is here to see me?”
“I shouldn’t worry, she’s talking to my girl friend,” said Tommaso. “Tomorrow we will be old news. Let them have their five minutes of fame. I’m going for a shower before stepping ashore.”
“Help me face the media, Petros,” said Alfredo. “Your keen eyes saved three from a watery grave.”
Together they stood on the jetty, answered a barrage of questions while Alfredo’s wife hugged his arm and Tommaso’s girlfriend wound her arm around Petros.
With every question answered at least twice, Petros held up his right arm. “One more and we’re finished.”
Alfredo pointed to a middle-aged man. “He’s a local reporter, I’ll answer his.”
The last question answered, Petros took a deep breath and grabbed Alfredo. “Let’s get going.”
The two women lingered on the jetty before Isabella said, “What time will you be home?”
Alfredo shrugged. “I have things to do. This evening, maybe six or seven.”
“We eat at seven.”
Petros and Alfredo made their way to the crew’s mess.
“Marco, some sandwiches please and two cups of coffee.” He turned to Petros. “In a few days a manned submersible with its equipment and driver will be on the stern. I will have it delivered early morning but many may become aware of it before we sail. I have ordered my crew to keep their mouths shut. I have promised them a bonus. You need to contact your man in London.”
“Alfredo, take our bar of gold and hide it. If this goes pear-shaped you can give them their bonus.”
“If I thought you might cheat on me you would not be here. I know people i
n Palermo who slit throats for fun.”
Petros gave him a strange look. “You mean the Cosa Nostra?”
“Do not say the name. The rules forbid discussing them around outsiders. And some questions are better not asked.”
***
Scarlet Orlando returned to her flat in the better part of Syracuse and found the middle-aged, grey-haired, Giovanni Silvio watching the news on television. She noted his pensive expression, strolled into the kitchen and made two cups of coffee. One she placed on the small table in front of him.
He lifted his head and gave a suspicious frown. “Where have they been?”
“They were searching for a wreck but didn’t find it. When a boat full of corpses turned up they returned to harbour.”
His snappy mood faded. “As a reporter, don’t you find that puzzling?”
“No.”
“Find a reason to visit that boat.”
“I don’t need a reason. One of the crew is a dish.”
“Most men want to get into your knickers.”
She flashed a sparkling smile. “Must be my irresistible charm.”
“More than likely your bedside manner.”
“Why do you have to lower everything to your level?”
“It’s what you do best. You live in this apartment free of charge and have a good job because for the moment, you satisfy my needs.”
She bit her lip and remained silent.
Giovanni stood, straightened the jacket of his expensive dark blue suit and pushed her aside. “I’ll be back sometime tomorrow. Find out where that boat went and why. Sleep with the guy if you have to.”
She heard the door slam. “Bastard, get stuffed. I’m good at my job. I’ll show you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Irritated, Roland Wallace slammed the handset of the phone into its cradle. “Why do I have to do everything?” His eyes never left the fifty-five inch screen on the far wall as he pressed playback. “I see you, Mr Kyriades, but why are you in Palermo standing on a fishing boat?”
He pressed the memory button on his mobile. “Yes, boss.”
“Peter, where the fuck are you? I want you here like yesterday.”
“Is there a problem?”
“There will be if you don’t get your slack arse over here.”
“Ten minutes.”
The call ended.
***
Peter Fox’s face remained guarded as he entered the private lift to his boss’s penthouse.
Roland looked livid. “When I phone I expect you to jump and never ask how high. Have you been watching the news?”
“Why?”
“The man Kyriades is on a fishing vessel in Palermo. I want to know why.”
Peter shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Why is that name familiar?”
“He’s the guy who found a ship full of gold according to the information Johnston gave us. Your mother’s Sicilian; find out why he’s in Palermo.”
Peter took a deep breath and looked Roland straight in the eyes. “If he’s found it, what do you have in mind?”
“Simple. I want it. And if I have to rid this world of a few nobodies, I will. Time you made tracks. Ring me on my pay-as-you-go when you have some information. In fact ring me tomorrow with information or I’ll have your bollocks grilled and served on a plate for the dog to eat.”
***
Peter Fox arrived in Palermo at six in the evening. Outside the airport arrivals, a chauffeur-driven car waited to drive him to the house of Gabriele Silvio, the Padrino of Palermo.
At the entrance to the grounds, a broad-shouldered guard in a black t-shirt and black trousers assisted by another stern-faced individual, body-searched Peter and emptied his case.
“You know me, why bother?” said Peter in fluent Italian as he shoved everything back.
“The boss demands and we oblige. He’s in the main dining room. Don’t keep him waiting.”
At the main door to the house, a man dressed as a steward ordered him to follow.
Gabriele sat at the end of a long wooden table with the other occupant of the room, his younger brother Giovanni. He stopped in mid-conversation as Peter entered. “Come, wonderful to see you. Your mother, she is well? She’s been away a long time.”
“Always a pleasure to be with you, Padrino. My mother is well and sends her love to you, your wife, and beautiful children.”
“You flew with easy Jet? You must be tired and hungry. Sit at my table and eat, the pasta is homemade.”
The steward pulled back a chair for Peter.
“Roland mentioned you have a matter of great importance to discuss which requires my assistance.”
Peter finished one mouthful before speaking. “I’ll not waste your time. The vessel Tuna Turner, what do you know of her?”
“Ah, Alfredo’s boat. An honest man who pays his dues, and works hard. I have no difficulty with him. Why do you ask?”
“Roland believes a man named Petros Kyriades from London guided him to a shipwreck full of gold.”
“You have my attention.”
“In exchange for a share Roland asks you to supervise the operation.”
Gabriele frowned. “I need more information but my first thought is to let Alfredo do the work as regards the recovery. At a predetermined point in time, we highjack the vessel and take the gold. They carry no weapons and another ex-fishing boat lost at sea will not trouble the police. They have enough problems with boats full of refugees.”
“So I can tell Roly it’s a go.”
“No. Tell him I want fifty percent and you, Peter, at my side. If he agrees then it’s a go. Remind him I could take it all but a war is not necessary. He has London and I have Palermo. Life is good. You may use one of my phones.”
The steward carried a silver tray with six different mobiles. Peter chose an old Motorola.
“When you finish your call, we change the card and the unit is sold. My scavengers, as I call them, deliver twenty a day to one of my shops near the harbour. The passengers from the cruise ships have little time to report their loss before sailing.”
Peter smiled and nodded as he spoke. “Good evening, boss. The deal is fifty percent and I go with him.” After a few seconds, he replaced the unit on the tray. “It’s a go.”
“What did he call me?”
“Opportunist.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t something similar to thieving Sicilian bastard?”
He grinned, “A few of those words sound familiar.”
“Let’s drink to cooperation and prosperity.”
“And why not?”
The two brothers and Peter enjoyed a superb meal and after a few glasses of wine went to their rooms.
Giovanni lay on his bed visualising a ship full of gold.
***
Whenever possible, Petros jogged six to ten miles early in the morning including the weekends. He paused at a busy Palermo crossroads and waited for the lights to change. A few hundred metres along he stopped at a cafe. From the outside, it appeared spotless. He paid for two egg mayonnaise sandwiches and a glass of fresh orange juice from the self-service bar. At an empty table next to a window he sat, ate, and watched the world go by. The noise of conversation throughout the room made it difficult to separate one sound from another. He pressed the memory button on his mobile for James Eden.
“Petros, good morning. Was the cruise beneficial?”
“More than you think. We discovered many large containers in the hold.”
“That’s excellent.”
“We have a name. Jupiter. 1927. Built Harland and Wolf, Belfast. I imagine whoever owned her has long forgotten.”
“If she’s still on a company’s books they may well claim ownership of the cargo. I’ll check it out and get back.” He paused. “Oh, I’ve completed my searches in Germany and Greece and found nothing. What are your plans?”
“A few days relaxation and then continue the cruise. I understand from the captain we’ll be carrying extra cargo
.”
“I recommend you contact me before resuming your cruise. I might have something of interest to discuss.”
“Give you a bell tomorrow.” The line went dead.
For a time, he strolled around the town. In a square, he sat on the worn steps that circled an ornate fountain, and stared at the dark clouds mushrooming from Mount Etna. No one took any notice of him when he contacted and spoke to Maria and Alysa.
***
James Eden lifted the handset on his desk to telephone a long-time-friend at Lloyds Shipping. On the seventh ring, the call connected. “Lloyds, Karen speaking. How may I assist?”
“I’d like to speak to Edward Hammond.”
“Your name please?”
“James Eden.”
“His line is busy. Please can you call back later?”
“No, I can’t. Edward told me to ring him as soon as I gathered certain information for him. You can tell him I’ll call when I’m not busy.”
Karen replied. “One moment, Mr Eden. I’ll interrupt his call.”
Edward came on the line in a few seconds. “James, you must want something.”
“I require a favour.”
“If I charge you the going rate I might be very busy but...”
“Five hundred cash.”
“Strange how priorities can change. What do you want?”
“I need all the information you can find on a vessel named Jupiter. Built 1927 at Harland and Wolf, Belfast.”
“As a starter for ten, anything that old is either scrapped or a museum piece.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Give me a couple of hours and I’ll get back to you.”
“Sooner and with the life history might help.”
“Leave it with me.” The connection ended.
James stood and stared out of his office window overlooking the Strand. The sun kept disappearing behind the dark rain clouds casting shadows over the buildings. With a grimace he returned to his desk and studied a pile of computer printouts.
***
Edward Hammond pressed the keys on his lap top to gain access to the company records. The screen glowed with the words. ‘Records held in the Information Centre’. “Shit.” He grabbed his jacket and strolled the one mile to the Centre, housed in a bland red brick building. The security guard made him sign the register before allowing him to enter. In the cavernous ground floor library, he sat at a computer terminal and entered the Jupiter’s details.