Antiphon

by B. L. Roberts

  Sorensen was puzzled. “Why let them think you have been killed?”

  “Frederik, I have had dozens of people in several countries, trying to find out what the Mafia are planning, and so far with no luck. Whatever it is Matteo Bramboni and his cronies are planning, they have been able to keep it quiet, and my guess is, they think they are up against me, and are being super careful. After we outfoxed them getting the boys back, you can be sure they have done their homework, and are not taking us lightly any more.

  “If they think they have got me out of the way, perhaps they might be a bit more sloppy, and with a bit of luck, we can find out what they intend doing.”

  Sorensen nodded slowly, then he smiled.

  “So, you’re dead now. Very good. We will have to keep you that way. I have a suggestion.”

  Peters listened as Sorensen outlined his scheme, then nodded.

  “Good thinking. Are you absolutely sure you can trust this person to keep it quiet?”

  “I have used her several times, she is very reliable and discreet.”

  “Do it.”

  Four police cars came screaming to the front of the Sorensen compound a few minutes later, and disgorged their contents. The police ran into the grounds to search.

  “The shot came from up the hill. I think it was from that house.” The guard pointed.

  Two officers remained in the Sorensen home, the others raced back to their vehicles and sped up the hill. Brent Peters lay motionless on the floor, as the siren of the approaching ambulance could be heard. Frederik Sorensen waited at the entrance, to speak to the paramedics as they jumped from the vehicle. As he spoke, they nodded slowly, and one smiled. Then they came inside, gave Peters a perfunctory checkover, pronounced him dead, then hefted his body onto the mobile stretcher they had wheeled inside the residence. A few minutes later, the ambulance departed, followed by Frederik ‘s vehicle, heading towards the city mortuary.

  A middle aged woman, shopping bag over her arm, was walking her small dog further up the hill, and she watched curiously the proceedings unfolding below. She noted the ambulance had left without its siren blaring, also that it drove slowly, towards the city, not towards the hospital. Taking a cell phone from her handbag, she made a call, describing in detail everything she had seen, then continued nonchalantly down the hill, allowing her pet ample time to sniff every post and gateway along the route.

  42

  Luca Bennedetto trembled as he hurriedly dismantled his target rifle, and packed it into its box. Domenico Balboni was also packing up as fast as his fingers would move. He had already removed everything from the room, except for the camera and telescope, and these were now pushed into the bottom of a large carry bag. Balboni had wiped every surface he could think of with a cloth soaked in methylated spirit, and as soon as Luca moved away from the window, he quickly wiped the window frame and chairs.

  “Let’s go.”

  Balboni wiped the door knob as he closed it, then the two men climbed into the car waiting outside. It sped off up the hill. When the police arrived about ten minutes later, they found the house deserted.

  As Luca sat back in the car, his trembling increased, and he started shaking. He had just killed a man! He was now a murderer! He felt a deep shame. He hadn’t known the man he had shot, knew nothing about him, other than what he had been told, which really was nothing. Yet he had killed him. He was sure his shot had struck home. After squeezing the trigger, he kept looking through the rifle sights, and saw the man’s hat fly up into the air as the bullet went home. It was a kill, there was little doubt about it.

  Balboni had also been watching through his telescope. The video recorder, mounted on its tripod, and started before the shot was taken, had recorded it, and he now replayed the image.

  “That was a good shot, Luca. I think you did it. He went down.”

  He stared intently as the video replayed again, firstly showing just the front gate and walls of the Sorensen compound, then the head of Peters, as he walked across the gateway. As the shot echoed, simultaneously, Peters cap was thrown into the air, and he disappeared from sight.

  He replayed that section of the video several times. There could be no doubt. Peter had been hit in the head. It was a specially prepared, hollow-headed, soft nosed bullet, a dumdum. It would have shattered his head. He could not have survived.

  Balboni relaxed, and slapped Luca on the leg.

  “You have done very well, Luca. Good shooting.”

  Many hours later, the car that had picked him up from the small runway, pulled up at Luca’s front door, and he alighted, carrying his rifle case, and a small brown bag. He knocked, and the door was thrown open by Antonio, who almost knocked his father over as he leapt at him. Sylvia came to the door.

  “Antonio came home, just a little while ago. He had been crying, but he is all right, now. He drank some warm milk, and ate some biscuits, and settled down. He told me, the man in the car put a dark bag over his head while the car was driving, and only took it off when he was inside a house. There were other men there. They kept him locked in a room, then brought him home, again with a bag over his head. Antonio thought they were going to kill him, he was very frightened.”

  Sylvia took his rifle case and laid it on a table. She noticed the bag, and also took this from his hand, and opened it. She ushered her son into the house, and turned to her husband.

  “Luca, it is full of money. American dollars. Oh, Luca.” She burst into tears.

  Bennedetto put his arms around his wife. “I had no choice. I either did as they told me, or they would kill our son, and me, possibly you, as well. They meant it, I am sure of that. I had to do what they told me.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Sylvia, we are going to do nothing. There is nothing we can do. We cannot go to the police. They said, if I tell anyone, they will come back, and we will all be killed. They mean it. Also, that I will go to prison for the rest of my life, for murder. I will not spend this money. We will bury it in the garden, and try to forget it is there. I will try to forget what I have done, and you must do the same. Do not say anything, to anybody.”

  “It is a lot of money.”

  Luca looked at his wife sternly.

  “I will bury it, and you will forget it.”

  Bramboni replayed the video on his computer for the sixth time, slow pausing it at the moment of the shot being fired, looking at the pictures, frame by frame. A slow smile came to his face. It had succeeded! Peters had been shot, there was no doubt about it, the pictures proved it, and from the reports he had received from his people in Stockholm, the man was dead.

  The ambulance had been observed, leaving the Sorensen house without it’s siren sounding. That was no emergency journey, with an injured man requiring treatment. It had been driven slowly, not speeding, and not to the hospital, it had not been seen there. It must have taken Peters body straight to the city morgue.

  A weight lifted from Matteo Bramboni’s shoulders. He would not admit it, not even to himself, but he had been afraid of Peters. Peters had outsmarted him completely, to recover the Sorensen brats. Bramboni thought his plan for the boys kidnapping was foolproof, yet somehow, Peters had worked it out. Not only that, he had murdered four of his men, including poor Giovanni.

  Well, that score was settled. Almost. There remained the Sorensens. Before this was over, they too would all be killed, but now, there was no urgency, there would be plenty of time to see that that happened. With Peters gone, he could get on with his plans for the laboratory.

  Bramboni had been hesitant putting his plan to invade the island into practice. He had written down a number of scenarios, tried to calculate what he would be up against, and plan tactics that would see the island’s bodyguards killed, without losing his own men. However, complicating it all, was Peters. That man was dangerous, and clever,. He would have thought out ways
to protect the scientists working on the island, clever ways, and Matteo had agonised over what Peters might have dreamed up, to frustrate him.

  Well, he could stop worrying now. With Peters out of the way, his job was now much simpler. No doubt that fool, Sorensen, would keep the bodyguards, but they would be like chooks that have lost their heads. Without Peters directing them, taking them all out would be a cinch. Now, he could proceed with plans for the island.

  His armoury contained an array of weapons, including four dozen Kalashnikovs, purchased from a Turkish trader, and as yet, never used. They would be ideal for this operation. He had fired one of the Kalashnikovs, they were simple enough to use, and Nicollo would have no trouble training the men how to use them.

  Despite their proven capability, Bramboni despised the weapons. They were too brash. There was no finesse with such a weapon, you just sprayed bullets, and hoped some of them would hit their target. A handgun, held to a victim’s head, was much more sophisticated, and direct, and satisfying. However, for this operation, they would need the firepower the Kalashnikovs provided.

  It would be useful to have more information about how the guards on the island were deployed. There could be one or two, posted at night in the grounds around the laboratory, but he suspected most would be deployed in the building itself, to guard the scientists. He felt confident now, that the attack would not be difficult. With Peters out of the way, the guards remaining had no leader. They would be like headless chooks. His men would quickly annihilate them with the Kalashnikovs.

  43

  A small Volvo SUV pulled into the driveway of the compound, and the gate rolled open to allow it through. Workmen had just completed attaching a steel frame to the top of the gate, and screwed heavy metal sheets to it. One had a small, viewing slot. The extended gate itself, now reached eight feet in height.

  The gate rolled shut behind the car, which continued along the drive, to the house. A middle aged lady alighted, and removed a large case from the back seat. The front door of the house opened to allow her in, and Frederik Sorensen greeted her at the door.

  “Sigrid, thank you for coming at such short notice. I really appreciate it.”

  Sigrid Johannsen smiled. “Mr Sorensen, if I can be of any help to you, it is an honour.”

  Johannsen, in her profession, was accustomed to dealing with celebrities. As one of the country’s foremost make-up practitioners, most of her clientele were film stars, actors, or the wives of wealthy businessmen, trying to preserve an appearance of agelessness. Most of her work was behind the scenes, in film studios, making beautiful film stars even more beautiful, or, more commonly, making ageing film stars look younger.

  She never advertised what she did for the socialites using her skills, her work required discretion.

  Sigrid was an artist in great demand, performing minor miracles on faces that had long since passed their prime, or that needed to be altered. She had first met Frederik Sorensen once or twice socially, and knew him as one of Sweden’s most successful, and wealthiest, businessmen.

  Sorensen had later paid a visit to the film studio, where she was working on the crew of a special documentary he had financed, and he watched her for a while, transforming a youngish Swedish girl into an old, wrinkled, farm wife. She remembered he had been impressed.

  Frederik’s phone call came as a surprise. He did not elaborate on why he needed her, except to say, it was in respect of his family’s safety, and not to discuss it with anyone. Sigrid had been horrified at the story of the kidnapping, and now was intrigued as to why Frederik Sorensen required her. She had come as soon as she could excuse herself from the film set.

  Several hours later she left, giggling to herself, as she drove out from the Sorensen home. That rather nice looking, tall American, had said he wanted to be made to look old, and mean, and, Sigrid thought, she had excelled herself. That the technique she used was common in the film industry, did not matter, it had achieved it’s aim.

  When Peters looked at himself in the mirror after she had completed the make-over, he let out a gasp, and said “Oh my God”, and that is what made her giggle. His instructions were for ‘old and mean’, and she had managed to make him look both; old, and rather repulsive.

  Both the man, whose name she did not know, and who had not been formally introduced to her, and Mr. Sorensen, had been delighted, and the payment Sorensen proffered as she was about to leave, was more than she normally earned in a month, so she was happy. The man had refused her request to take his picture, she would have liked it for her album, but that didn’t matter. As for keeping quiet about the assignment, Sigrid never discussed her work with anyone.

  “My god, Brent, if I hadn’t watched with my own eyes what she did to you, I would not have believed it. Your own mother would never recognise you.”

  Peters mother had died a few years earlier, but he knew what was meant. The face, now staring back at him from the mirror, bore no resemblance to his own. From the forehead, eyebrows, even his nose down, it had been transformed. Now, he was now a rather cranky looking, ugly, and grumpy, old bum.

  “You had better practice how to walk, like an old man.”

  The advice came from Helena, who had also gasped when she saw the new Brent Peters.

  “Take shorter steps, don’t stride. Bend forward a little. Stoop. Maybe a walking stick would help, we’ve got one somewhere, from when Frederik hurt his ankle, skiing. I’ll look for it.”

  When Peters first outlined his plan to Frederik, the Swede shook his head.

  “You’ll be going into the lion’s den. If they recognise you, you really will be dead. Do you think you can learn something?”

  “Frederik, it is worth a try. My Italian is pretty good, I can understand conversation, even spoken quickly. I was posted to Italy for some years, and picked it up. The dialect in Sicily might be a bit strange, but I think I will be all right. If I go in as a rich American tourist, not understanding a word of Italian, there is just the chance they will let something slip, say something that might give me some clue as to their plans. I’d like to go tonight, if you can fly me down to Palermo.”

  Frederik nodded.

  44

  The concierge eyed the old man standing before him, warily. It was late to be seeking a room, and he had already settled himself into a soft chair to doze the night away. He didn’t care for interruptions during his night shift, he liked to catch up on sleep.

  This old man didn’t look like he would be able to pay, although by his accent, he sounded American, and they usually had plenty of money. The sight of a fistful of dollars, produced from the old man’s pocket, persuaded him, and he heaved himself out of his chair.

  “All right, yes, do we have a room. Follow me.”

  The old man leaned heavily on a walking stick as he followed behind, carrying a small suitcase in his other hand. He shuffled after the concierge, grumpily muttering under his breath how difficult it was, dealing with Italians who could not speak plain American. The concierge stuffed the banknotes into his pocket, then returned to his chair, promptly forgetting his new guest, and also overlooking writing him up in the guest register.

  Late the next morning, Peters began the rounds of Palermo’s drinking spots. This time, he was not quite as stooped, the walking stick left in his room, and he was dressed more smartly. At each bar he entered, he threw some large denomination notes on the bar, quickly attracting the attention of the barman, and loudly called out in an American accent, for everyone around to have a drink on him. Not all understood his words, and the barman translated for his patrons. Peters soon gathered a group of willing drinkers around him.

  “Grazie mille”.

  Peters looked at the speaker uncomprehendingly.

  “Sorry buddy, I can’t speak any Italian. I guess you are saying thanks, or some such. That’s alright. I love Sicily, and am having a great time here, and I just wa
nt to show my appreciation to the locals.”

  This time, it was the Italian who had a blank face, and the bartender again translated. The man grinned, nodded his head, and stood back from the bar with his drink. After an hour or so, Peters excused himself, and moved to another bar, where he repeated the performance. It was very late in the evening when he finally returned to his hotel room. It had been an interesting exercise. and he was feeling a little light headed from the beer he had drunk, but one bar, in particular, had made it worthwhile.

  Located near the edge of the city, the locals drinking there were mostly tough looking, younger men, who eyed him suspiciously at first, but when they realised he could not understand Italian, began to talk freely among themselves. They were happy enough to accept his offer of free drinks. One of the men was being questioned about a job he was apparently about to start, and Peters, pretending to study the bar’s architecture, listened intently.

  When he left the bar, he found an empty bench, sat down heavily, scrabbled in his pocket for an old note book and pencil, and starting making notes. Back in Sweden two days later, Peters, still an old man, faced Sorensen in his living room.

  “It was worth the trouble. I heard enough to tell me what Bramboni and his side kicks are on about. One of his soldiers shot his mouth off, described training with Kalashnikovs, and talking about a night landing. He was trying to impress his friends.

  “They are going to attack the laboratory, and from what this man was saying, it is about to happen, probably within days. I thought this might be their plan, and the man confirmed it. I am going to get out there myself, straight away, and I am going to take some more men. From what I could make out, Bramboni has put together quite a small army to make the attack, and I don’t want to be outgunned.