Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  “It makes no sense. Rabbia has been a collector for fifteen years and he was loyal — stupid, but loyal — Third, it was done from outside.”

  Bellu interjected, “But who — and why?”

  Satta shrugged and got into his car and said through the open window, “I want Rabbia’s file and the transcripts of all telephone intercepts for the past seventy-two hours — all of them — understand?”

  Bellu looked at his watch and sighed.

  Satta said, “You can forget whatever plans you have for this evening.” A look of irritation crossed his face. “I’ve already cancelled an interesting meeting myself.”

  He thought for a moment. “And increase the surveillance on all those on the red list.”

  He started the engine.

  “I’ll see you back at the office.”

  Bellu stood watching the car drive away. He had worked as Satta’s assistant for three years. For the whole of the first year, he had tried to think up a plausible reason to ask for a transfer. It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked Satta — he had loathed him. There had been no single reason. Not his cynicism, or his sardonic humour, or his extravagant good looks; not even his aristocratic background and casual arrogance. It was just that Satta represented everything that Bellu considered was unsuitable for a senior Carabinieri officer — and perhaps he was jealous.

  Two things had changed his mind. The first was that after working for a year he had begun to appreciate Satta’s persevering but subtle mind — in fact, to understand him. The second concerned Bellu’s younger sister. She had applied to enter Catanzaro University to study medicine. She was well qualified, but his family had no connections, and her application had been turned down. He may have mentioned it in the office, he couldn’t remember, but a week later she received a letter from the university, reversing its decision. Only after starting the course did she discover that a certain Professor Satta, senior surgeon at Naples’ Cardarelli Hospital, had intervened.

  Bellu had confronted his boss, who had looked surprised.

  “You work with me,” he had said. “Of course I had to do something.”

  Bellu had no more thoughts of a transfer. It wasn’t so much what Satta had done, but the way he had expressed it.

  You work “with” me; not “for” me.

  Over the past two years they had developed into a good team. Satta was still cynical, sardonic, and arrogant, and had certainly not become any uglier. But Bellu understood him and even began to absorb some of his characteristics: He took more interest in his food, paid more for his suits, and treated his women with a touch of arrogance — and they liked it. But he drew the line at backgammon.

  Satta read the pathologist’s report out loud.

  “Time of death, between midnight and six a.m. on the thirteenth.” He looked up at Bellu and said, “He left the Papagayo just after midnight, right?”

  Bellu nodded. “That’s what they tell us. And he never reached the Bluenote, which was next on his usual schedule.”

  Satta went back to the report.

  “Cause of death, massive brain damage, presumably brought about by the passage of a projectile.”

  He looked up in disgust. “Presumably brought about by the passage of a projectile.” He snorted. “Why can’t the idiot simply state that he had his brains blown out by a bullet?”

  Bellu smiled. “That would make him sound like everybody else.”

  Satta grunted and went back to the report.

  “Scorch marks below subject’s right eye around projectile entry point indicate that said projectile was fired at very close range.”

  Satta rolled his eyes but carried on. “Large exit hole, approximately fifteen centimetres diameter at back of cranium, indicates that said projectile was a large calibre, soft nosed bullet.”

  “Hooray!” He looked up triumphantly. “At last the projectile has become a bullet,”

  But now, as he continued, his voice contained an edge of interest. “Subject had incision through left hand. Shape of said incision, and skin fragments within said incision, indicate that cause was from a sharp instrument driven through the back of the hand with exit through the palm. Fine wooden splinters embedded in the palm suggest that the hand was pinned to a wooden surface (exhibit: splinters sent to lab, for analysis).

  Extent of blood clotting indicates that incision was inflicted within two hours before subject’s death.”

  Satta sat back in his chair, a slight, sardonic smile on his lips. “Seems like friend Rabbia was half crucified.”

  Bellu smiled back. “But I doubt he’ll be rising from the dead in three days.”

  His boss shook his head.

  “Not after passage of said projectile through said brain.” He went back to the report, and his voice sharpened again with interest: “Traces of an adhesive substance were found on subject’s wrists and ankles and around subject’s mouth.”

  Satta closed the folder and leaned back, thinking deeply. Bellu sat patiently, waiting for the pronouncement.

  “Rabbia was picked up when he left the Papagayo,” Satta said finally, “taken somewhere quiet, and taped to a chair. Then they asked him some questions.” He smiled thinly. “Rabbia was probably reluctant, so they stuck a knife through his hand to encourage him. After learning all they wanted, they shot him through the head and dumped him.”

  He leaned forward, picked a file from his desk, and scanned it.

  “Rabbia’s car was found at two p.m. this afternoon in a side street near the Central Station — nothing in it of interest except” — the sardonic smile came again — “a plastic dachshund with a bobbing head!”

  Next Satta studied the transcripts of the phone intercepts. He didn’t expect to find much of interest because, although phone tapping is practically a national industry, the targets themselves are well aware of it.

  As he skimmed through the pages, Bellu said, “Nothing much except a flurry of calls early this morning — trying to locate Rabbia.”

  Satta tossed the file back onto his desk.

  “The ‘Union Corse,’” he said firmly. “It’s the only explanation — there’s been bad blood since that final drug deal.” He looked at Bellu speculatively. “If they’re behind it, we can expect trouble, and it does follow a pattern. They pick up a small-time member of the group and pump him about the activities of the others — then they plan an all-out attack.”

  “It fits,” Bellu agreed. “Surveillance shows that, since this morning, Fossella and his boys are taking extra precautions — more bodyguards, and not moving around too much.”

  Satta reached a decision.

  “Get me Montpelier on the phone in Marseilles — he might know something.”

  The main strength of the “Union Corse,” the French equivalent of the Mafia, was in Marseilles and Montpelier was Satta’s opposite number in southern France. They had a good working relationship, having met several times at conferences.

  But the Frenchman couldn’t help. He had heard nothing. He thought that if the “Union Corse” were behind it, they might have drafted gunmen in from Corsica itself. He promised to keep an ear to the ground and let Satta know if anything developed.

  Satta hung up and said positively, “It’s got to be the ‘Union Corse’ — it’s logical!”

  In Palermo, Cantarella reached the same conclusion.

  “It must be the ‘Union Corse,’” he told the three men sitting round the table in his study.

  One of them was Floriano Conti, visiting from Rome. The others were Gravelli and Dicandia — top advisers to Cantarella. Conti was irritated and slightly embarrassed — Milan came under his immediate control.

  “Fossella has been making bad decisions lately,” he said. “I told him it was stupid to short-change the French on that deal. He gets too clever sometimes. Because it was the last shipment, before he switched to Bangkok for supplies, he decided to make a little extra.”

  Dicandia voiced an opinion: “He seems to be losing his touch. That k
idnapping was badly handled.” He looked around. “You remember — the Balletto girl. She was abused and then died in the car. People don’t like that — it looks bad and there was pressure for weeks afterward.”

  It was Gravelli’s turn.

  “That job, particularly, should have been done right. And the men responsible should have been severely punished. One of them was Fossella’s nephew, and all Fossella did was confiscate their share of the take.” He shook his head solemnly. “Discipline is important in a business — I think maybe Fossella is getting soft.”

  Conti nodded. “Rabbia was one of those involved, and frankly, he was a stupid man.”

  All having expressed an opinion, they looked to Cantarella for his reaction. The small man sat on his cushion and pondered awhile. Then he made his decision. His voice, as he turned to Gravelli, was soft and polite — it was always so when he issued orders.

  “Cesare, it would please me if you would go to Marseilles and talk to Delorie. If they have started this, I want you to make things right with them. Explain that it is not our policy to do business the way that it was done by Fossella on that occasion. Tell him that Fossella will make good on the transaction.” His voice sharpened slightly. “But do not be apologetic — make him understand that we do this, not because of weakness, but because we are honourable men and we deal fairly in our business.”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow, via Rome,” Granelli said, but his boss shook his head.

  “Wait for two or three days. I don’t want him to think we come running as soon as trouble starts.”

  He turned to Dicandia.

  “Maurizio, please go to Milan and have a talk with Fossella. Indicate our displeasure and our wish that he exercise better control in the future — also, that he must make good on his deal with Delorie.”

  Cantarella’s tone was conciliatory when he turned to speak to Conti.

  “I know Fossella is your direct responsibility, but I think it better that this reprimand come from me.”

  Conti inclined his head slightly in acquiescence, and Cantarella turned back to Dicandia: “Do this thing privately and discreetly. I do not want Abrata to know that Fossella is very much out of favour. It might give him ideas and, overall, the situation in Milan is good.”

  He looked to Conti for agreement, and received it.

  “They counterbalance each other well,” said Conti. “It is wise not to disturb that.”

  Cantarella was pleased with the meeting. He stood up and walked to the cocktail cabinet — small and dapper in his dark blue suit.

  The other followed, and he poured them all a measure of Chivas Regal with a dash of soda.

  Conti would have preferred his usual Sambuca; but when Don Cantarella personally poured you a Scotch — you drank Scotch.

  On Saturday morning in Naples, Guido sat on his terrace drinking coffee and relaxing before the lunchtime rush. He heard the door open behind him and turned to see Pietro carrying a newspaper. The boy laid the paper on the table and pointed to a small item on an inside page. It told of the death, by shooting, of one Giorgio Rabbia — believed to have connections with organized crime. It was just a few lines. Milan is a violent city, and a single death generates little excitement. Guido looked up.

  “So it’s started,” he said. “Pack your things — tomorrow you leave for Gozo.”

  Chapter 17

  Giacomo Sandri rolled off the bed, stood up, and stretched, flexing pleasantly tired muscles. He picked up his watch from the bedside table and glanced at the dial — just after ten. Naked, he padded over to the window, pulled aside the curtain, and looked down at the darkened street. His black Alfa Romeo was parked directly below, and he could just make out Violente’s elbow sticking out from the driver’s window. Satisfied, he dropped the curtain and turned back. The girl was watching him from the bed. He smiled at her.

  “How are you, little one? Did I make you happy?”

  The girl nodded, her eyes on his body.

  “Do you have to leave now?” she asked in a sullen voice. “You only ever stay an hour, and I get bored.”

  Sandri was both pleased and irritated. Pleased that at his age he could still satisfy a fifteen-year-old girl; and irritated that this one was becoming possessive, and therefore a nuisance.

  But as he pulled on his trousers he reflected that if a man liked his girls young, he had to put up with a little childish behaviour. He went to the bed, sat down, and reached to cup a breast; but she rolled away, and his irritation increased.

  “That’s the way it is,” he said, standing up and reaching for his shirt. “You have a nice place here, and plenty of money to spend — you want to go back to Bettola?”

  She didn’t answer and he continued dressing, admiring himself in the full-length mirror. He decided that another change was due. He was uniquely placed to satisfy his desire for girls: he controlled the prostitution side of his uncle’s business. As the young girls flocked to the big city, looking for excitement and money, Sandri and his assistants were on hand to channel them into the bars, clubs, and brothels controlled by the organization. When Sandri spotted a particularly young and attractive girl, he diverted her for his own use, and when he tired of her she was quickly replaced.

  They never returned to Bettola, or anywhere else, except to a succession of brothels. Tomorrow, he decided, he would pass this one on to Pezzutto, who would quickly get her dependent on drugs and so dependent on the organization.

  He felt pleased with himself. It was important to make decisions without emotion. He would look out for another girl — perhaps even younger. As he got older he liked them even younger. He remembered the girl they had kidnapped — how young she had been, her body just beginning to ripen. He felt himself stirring at the memory and for a moment considered getting back into bed; but he discarded the thought. Fossella had told him to stand by from eleven o’clock. Gravelli had arrived from Palermo, presumably to discuss Rabbia’s death, and the implications if it had been done by the French.

  He sat on the bed and thought about that, as he pulled on his shoes. It meant being extra careful for a while, which was a nuisance — especially having an extra man along all the time. Still, he was lucky; Violente was unobtrusive, and his assignment to Sandri was proof of his rising importance. He indulged in a little self-praise, deciding that his progress was the result of a quick brain. He was proud of his quick brain — so much faster than Rabbia’s, who had been dull and stupid. He grimaced at the memory of having been cooped up with him for over two weeks, with only the girl to relieve boredom.

  He stood up and pulled on his shoulder holster, slipped his gun into it, and put on his jacket. The girl had sat up in bed and was watching him.

  “When will I see you again?” she asked petulantly.

  He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “Tomorrow,” he answered with a smile. “I’ll take you for lunch, as a special treat — and afterward I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

  He unlocked the door of the small apartment and stepped out onto the landing. A voice called, “Sandri,” and he turned, reaching under his jacket.

  He did have a quick brain. In an instant it registered that he was looking, very closely, down the black barrels of a shotgun. Then the black turned yellow white.

  Satta became impatient. The actress was unusually lucky. Certainly she had a measure of skill and she understood some of the finer points of the game; but to beat him three times out of five meant she had to be lucky. He rattled the dice and tossed them out onto the green baize. A two and a one — damn! The actress gave him a smile of sympathy — she was a good actress. Then she reached for the doubling dice with an inquiring arch of a shapely eyebrow.

  Satta nodded and gritted his teeth. There was no question of moving her into the bedroom until he had, at least, drawn level. Pride was at stake — after all, he was an expert. He glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. Almost eleven.

  The evening had started so we
ll. She had arrived, dressed in a flame red dress cut low and loose. She had the fragile, delicate beauty that Satta so admired — and high, firm breasts. It was watching those breasts each time she leaned forward that lost him his concentration and the first games.

  The meal had been a parade of his culinary skills. They had started with his own paté, washed down with champagne and followed by an artichoke antipasto prepared with parsley and marjoram in the Roman manner. She had stayed with the champagne while he had had a dry Colli Albani. The tour de force was his specialty, abbacchio brodettato — baby lamb with egg and lemon sauce. With this they drank a pale red Cecuba. They finished, naturally, with gelato di tutti frutti. The actress had been gratifyingly impressed, and Satta had looked forward to a brief, triumphant session at the backgammon board and a longer session in the bedroom.

  His pulse quickened. She had made a bad throw and been forced to expose a counter on her bar point. If he threw a six he could hit it with a back runner and swing the game — in ten minutes they would be in bed. He tore his gaze from her cleavage, rattled the dice, and threw a double six — and the phone rang.

  Bellu stood beside the Alfa Romeo. A police van with a generator was parked in front and floodlighted the scene. Satta climbed out of his car. He looked very irritated. In fact, he looked as he had sounded on the phone fifteen minutes before.

  He greeted Bellu with a grunt and looked into the car.

  “Violente,” said Bellu. “Sandri’s upstairs.”

  “He was found like that?” Satta asked.

  “No,” said Bellu. “He was propped up behind the wheel, with his elbow sticking out the window. The first policeman on the scene told him to get out and when he didn’t, he opened the door. The body fell against him and he pushed it away — he got a shock, and blood all over him.”