"Goddamn idiot," Kaufman hissed, "Darmanin. He could have taken us there. This farmhouse, next to a garage-"
"Save your breath," Lucia panted. "Are we nearly there?" She clutched her side.
Moonlight lit the middle of the path but doorways were pools of black shadow.
"Next corner," Cassar said over his shoulder.
The alleyway opened into a small square. The moonlight seemed brighter, no longer obstructed by tall houses crowded together. We found the inevitable church - cars rested their bumpers on its steps. Cassar had his keys out and a moment later Lucia and I were clambering into the back of a Toyota saloon. Cassar gunned the engine and Kaufman said, "Get back to the boat - like fast."
I felt safer in the car. Less vulnerable to a sniper's bullet. And just sitting down gave me a chance to catch my breath.
"Our clothes are at the hotel," Lucia said.
"Well we daren't go back there now," Kaufman turned, his arm along the back of his seat. "Lino's boy will have his work cut out explaining that lot to the cops."
"Where's Jack?" I asked.
"On the boat, don't worry," Kaufman looked out of the window.
Jack was on a boat! It was the first I'd heard of it. Kaufman and his bloody secrets! I swore aloud and Lucia reached across for my hand.
Cassar took his eyes off the road to glance at Kaufman. "You going over on the boat?"
"How long will it take?"
"Depends on the weather. If you're lucky less than four hours to Siracuse, but Enrico might want to land further round the coast."
"Is Enrico here?" Lucia asked in surprise.
"Arrived from Rome at eight o'clock." Kaufman shook his head, "No way we can use the ferry now anyway."
"The Miranda was always a better bet," Cassar told him.
I looked out of the window. Stone walls flashed past, a few crabbed trees, terraces of cultivated land. We were already out of the town and into the country. Sea glistened a couple of miles away, glimpsed between a gap in the landscape. Kaufman swivelled round to Lucia; "What about that? Narcotics men all over the world train tracker dogs to sniff the stuff out and Hardman brings it through in sealed tankers. Wait till Enrico hears that."
When Lucia failed to reply Kaufman twisted back again and looked out of the front window. "Say, we didn't come up this road. The yacht marina is the other way. You moved the boat?"
Cassar nodded. "Had to, the harbour police restrict movement at night. You need special permits and they ask too many questions."
"So where now?"
"A fishing village on the other side of the island. It's very quiet."
"Any trouble - if we move out tonight?"
Cassar shook his head. "Malta's entire navy consists of six coastal patrol boats. The Miranda can outrun them. But it won't be necessary, Alexis will know when to put out."
But Kaufman was only half listening. "Damn stupid kid, Darmanin. He could have taken us there. Proved Rossiter wrong though with all that crap about a leak. That's how they knew where Hardman was meeting you, Sam. The chauffeur told them and got killed for his pains."
"The chauffeur didn't know about Maria," I said bitterly. "And the chauffeur was dead when I arranged to meet his old man. But that's not important - did you hear what Darmanin said? Douglas is still alive - he's still alive-"
"Is-sajjied is alive! That's all we know."
"Rubbish! He set Tony Darmanin up to spy on Edgar. Of course it's Douglas-"
Lucia interrupted. "Is-sajjied couldn't be the Ferryman, could he?"
Kaufman shook his head. "Living in this Gozo place? No way. The Ferryman is based in London."
"The third man," I said softly. "You said three of them were running it. Serracino in Sicily, the Ferryman in London, and a third liaising in between. Is-sajjied is the third man, and Is-sajjied is Lew Douglas!"
Kaufman was looking to the front, so his face was hidden from me, but when he spoke it was in pursuit of his own theories. "Yeah, that's how they knew you were meeting Hardman all right. And as for Maria - well the papers were full of you and Jack going back into business, so they picked it up from the papers. Then they tailed Maria, slipped those incompetents at Bristol, then zap!"
"But why kill the chauffeur?" Lucia asked, "And his father?"
"They didn't kill the chauffeur," Kaufman said, still peering out of the front window, "Henderson did."
Lucia caught her breath.
"He asked me to keep it quiet," Kaufman shrugged. "It'll be on his record, of course. He caught the chauffeur in the cross-fire. He wasn't sure, but they identified the slug later. That's why he was so upset about the kid's old man. Once the kid was killed his family had to be wasted. The Pipeline couldn't risk them staying quiet."
My mouth started to bleed again and I dabbed it with my handkerchief. Through the windows the moonlight showed a narrow road bumping downhill to a tiny harbour. The open doors of a cafe splashed yellow blotches of light across the waterfront. It was only ten o'clock but I was desperately tired.
The Miranda was a very large boat. I remembered Aphrodite as Kay had christened our boat on the Thames. The Miranda was much bigger. She was moored right at the end of the quay, well away from the handful of fishing boats. Lino Cassar drove right up to her. I saw Bonello standing at the rails, with Jack next to him. I breathed a sigh of relief - even when I saw the look on Jack's face.
We said a hurried goodbye to Lino Cassar, and scrambled up the walkway. I ached all over. Alexis, the skipper, introduced himself before instructing one of the crew to show me to my cabin. I looked longingly at the narrow bunk and fought the urge to stretch out for five minutes. Instead I stripped out of my clothes and had a standup wash in front of the hand basin - and I was just towelling myself down when Jack came in. I've never seen so much misery in a man's face.
"Maria is in Corsica," he said. "They're almost certain."
"Corsica?" I sat down quickly on the bunk.
"They reckon she was taken to France in a crate. A crate, Sam! Like a coffin. Jesus - can you believe it?"
I found my cigarettes and lit one for each of us - and I made Jack sit down before he fell down. He buried his head in his hands. "After that they got her to Marseilles, or an airstrip just outside, Bonello knows the name, I've forgotten it. Anyway they had a light aircraft there...and...well they think they've flown her to Corsica."
"But why? I mean Corsica ... I don't understand-"
"Alexis reckons they'll take her across to Sicily tonight - by boat."
I was silent at first. I was relieved in a way, once I recovered from the initial shock. Ever since Llewellyn had told me about the search I had been worried sick that the kidnappers might be panicked into killing Maria. But putting my thoughts into words was difficult. Jack rocked back and forth with misery, running a hand through his hair as if he wanted to pull it out by the roots. "A coffin, Sam ... a coffin-"
"Not a coffin," I said as firmly as I could. "Jack, it proves she's still alive and unharmed. They said they'd produce her tomorrow night to swap for me - they said they would-"
"Oh Jesus, I don't know what to think ..."
After that I talked non-stop. God knows where I found the strength. But I drew on every last ounce of energy to persuade him that Maria would be unharmed. And I think he believed me in the end, even though he was still ashen with worry.
I was so busy talking that I hardly noticed the throb of the turbines and the motion of the deck beneath our feet. Not until I stood up and crossed to the port did I realise we had put out to sea. I stared into the night and watched the lights of Malta recede on the starboard bow. The next land we would sight would be Sicily. I thought of Maria and Kay and Edgar Hardman...and of walking into a town called Alcamo at eight o'clock tomorrow night.
Chapter Fifteen
Gozo lies between Malta and Sicily, but all that lies between Gozo and Sicily is fifty miles of open sea. It was rougher than I imagined, but then I've been brainwashed by the travel brochures which sho
w the Mediterranean as a continuous expanse of blue water linking one golden beach to another. The bright boys at Saatchi and Saatchi should see it late at night - twenty miles from land when the wind blows up. The surface of the sea boiled like a witch's cauldron and smashed tons of black water over the bows of the Miranda. Life was snug and warm in the salon below, but I was glad not to be spending the night on the open deck.
"As treacherous as a Sicilian," Bonello said, forgetting where he was born. "Calm one moment, dangerous the next - such a sea can take the lives of the unwary like that," he flicked his fingers.
"You trying to frighten us?" Kaufman raised an eyebrow. "Like it's been a lulu of a day and we've got to man the pumps all night?"
Bonello smiled. "We are in good hands. Alexis and his crew have spent their lives on the Mediterranean."
Kaufman grunted and sipped rapitala from his glass. The heavy-knit sweater with Miranda picked out in white across his chest was too bulky to fit smoothly under his shoulder holster. He had eased the leather straps a notch but the result was hardly elegant. Whereas Lucia brought a certain chic to her outfit, even if the sweater was too large and the roll-neck gaped like the latest fashion in plunging necklines. All three of us looked like walk-on parts in HMS Pinafore, dressed as we were in identical sweaters, jeans and rope-soled sandals.
The remains of a meal of lampuki littered the table in the mahogany-panelled dining salon. I had eaten well, despite the difficulty with my bruised lip. We drank rapitala and strong black coffee and I fought the urge to go to sleep. Kaufman had done most of the talking, telling Bonello about Rabat, now he asked, "Are we clear of the Maltese Navy?"
Jack glanced at his watch. "Alexis said the first half hour was the tricky part. We've been underway an hour and a half. We're well clear now."
I was reassured by his manner, but I never stopped worrying. He was more distant than usual, cooler, sullen when he spoke to Kaufman - but at least the dazed look had vanished from his eyes. The shock had worn off. Now he was like a coiled spring.
Kaufman turned to Bonello. "Anyone else likely to interfere? Sicilian coastguard - anyone like that?"
Bonello showed his surprise. "La Finanza! We are bound for Castellamare. The untouchable coast. La Finanza never interfere with boats there."
Jack said, "Alexis reckons there'll be plenty of fishing boats about."
"But not fishing," Bonello smiled, "not at night. Castellamare has the most spectacular coastline in the world. It makes the French Riviera look second rate. But it has never been developed. And why? Because Castellamare is the bridge my friends - the bridge between North Africa and the States. The boats land at night unloading in the creeks, behind hidden rocks - landing their cargo of drugs, arms, diamonds-"
"And victims?" Jack asked bitterly. "Is that where they'll land Maria?"
Bonello looked at him. "Perhaps," he said sadly.
"Well, if we know that-" Jack's frustration boiled over.
"Knowing it doesn't help," Bonello countered sharply. "This is Sicily. The FBI call it the aircraft carrier of drugs-"
"Forget the FBI. I'm talking about Maria. If you know-"
"We don't," Kaufman interrupted. "Not for sure."
"Besides, who would help us?" Bonello asked. "Sicilians? Sicilian police? Carabinieri? La Finanza? The publica sicurezza? Those who are not owned by the Mafia are afraid of them-"
"There must be someone! Some way-"
"I'll tell you a story," Bonello leaned across the table. "Last year a young man from La Finanza - the financial police - stayed overnight in Castellamare. The following morning he was found hanged from a tree - the way farmers treat vermin - to frighten others of the same kind. Kill a policeman in other countries and you'll run for the rest of your life. But in Sicily," he shrugged, "a few questions, no answers, and that's an end to it."
Jack said nothing. His quick glance at me was enough. If the police wouldn't help, who would?
"The police are controlled by the politicians," Bonello explained. "And politicians have many links with the Mafia. The Christian Democrats could never hold power in Italy without the Mafia organising their vote in the south. Each accommodates the other. Ask who owns whom and nobody can tell you - because nobody knows any more."
Kaufman sighed. "Okay Enrico - you told us before. You're the only true born Sicilian not in the Mafia - right?"
"Wait a minute," Jack persisted. "If the drugs are landed at this place we're going to - this Castellamare-"
"There's no chance of an intercept now," Kaufman said firmly, "I'm sorry Jack, it's got to be said-"
"So you're going to let it happen? Let them get away with it?" "Jack! Will you listen to me? We don't even know where she is-" "On a boat. Coming from Corsica-" "It's a theory - that's all. Even if it's right-" "Oh for God's sake!" Jack thumped the table. Kaufman was about to add something but Lucia stopped him. She reached across and placed her hands on Jack's clenched fist. "Maria will be at the meeting tomorrow night. That's what it's all about. They won't harm her and we'll get her out - you'll see."
He brushed her aside and stood up. "I'm going on deck for a breath of air," he glared at Kaufman as he crossed to the door. "You come up with some constructive ideas or I'll beat the hell out of you!" Then he stepped into the corridor and slammed the door behind him.
Kaufman rubbed the mark on his face made by the aluminium crutch. It would turn to a bruise tomorrow. "Poor bastard," he said softly.
"Constructive ideas," Bonello sighed. "Does he think we're not trying?"
"He's worried out of his mind," I said.
"We've found out a hell of a lot," Kaufman looked round the table. "Added to what we already knew - we'll work something out by morning."
"It's midnight now," I pointed out. I felt exhausted, but I was worried sick about the passing of time. We had so little left. I said, "Maybe Jack's right - if we know where the drugs are landed-"
"Forget it," Kaufman shook his head. "It's a terrible thing to say, but forget Maria too. They'll produce her tomorrow night-" "But this place - Castellamare-"
Bonello shrugged. "Drugs have been going into Sicily for years. Without local co-operation there's not much we can do about it just concentrate on spotting them coming out. It's hard, but we've had some successes - like the marble from Castellamare."
Kaufman managed a tired smile. "Sicilian marble is the best in the world - red and green, and some veined like malachite. The trick in the early seventies was to ship it out via Genoa. But before it left Castellamare the blocks were cut into slabs and numbered. And holes were cut into the slabs- and in the holes - heroin. Pounds and pounds of it, worth millions at street prices."
"You'll see the marble factory tomorrow," Bonello told me, "Mafia interests still own it - even today."
Kaufman rubbed his face again. "Now they're shipping liquid heroin out in tankers. Holy Christ - what next?"
Bonello frowned. "Do you think there's a connection with the wine rackets?"
"Who knows? Every racket overlaps another in Sicily. Every cellar is its own chemical plant in Alcamo."
Bonello explained to me. "Wine doctoring is big business. Very big, worth a hundred billion lira annually. Every year Sicily exports more wine than can possibly be produced from the grape harvest. It is very successful. The English, Germans, Americans, Swiss - all drink more wine - and anyone who is a wine drinker has drunk doctored wine without knowing it." He shrugged, "It does you no harm. It can cause a slight headache which real wine will not give you, but nothing more than that."
I remembered something Edgar said over lunch at the Hunter's Tower, but it was only a passing thought and Bonello continued before I could pursue it.
"Doctored wine is made from hot water, sugar and enzymes," he said. "Add a little colouring and the wine will become red or white. Total cost? Maybe 130 liras a litre - half the cost of the cheapest real wine. There are expenses naturally - bribes, forging EEC documentation, things like that - but it leaves a good margin of p
rofit."
Kaufman pointed a finger at me. "And where you're going Alcamo - is the centre of the wine rackets. Like I said, come harvest time and every cellar becomes a ..." He dried up, in mid-sentence, as if struck by a sudden thought. Then, very slowly, in an almost awestruck voice, he said, "Every cellar becomes a chemical plant. That's if! By God - that's the cover!"
We stared at him. Nobody spoke. The hum of the engines below decks and the sighing of the wind and sea were the only sounds.
He swung round to Bonello. "Don't you see? They've gone into the manufacturing business. They're actually making the stuff. They're making heroin in a winery. Shipping latex into Sicily and processing there. That's what they're doing - I'll stake my life on it."
His look of excitement was reflected in Bonello's eyes, who said nothing at first, just stared at Kaufman, then at Lucia and me.
"Do you know anything about making heroin?" Kaufman asked me.
I shook my head.
He had looked tired earlier, now he was wide awake. "I'll simplify it, but pay attention. I know you're exhausted, we all are but this is important."
I did my best to rouse myself, but the food and the wine, lack of sleep and my aching body all conspired to make me drowsy.
"The base is opium of course," Kaufman said. "Poppy. Not the oriental or common poppy, but PSL. Papvar Somniferum Linnaeus. You cut an incision into the green seed capsules of a PSL poppy before they ripen. White latex appears - like on a rubber tree. It hardens and turns brown after about fifteen hours. Cut a field of PSL and you can smell the aroma for miles."
"Wouldn't that give you away?" I asked.
"They're not growing it in Sicily," Kaufman snapped.
Bonello explained. "PSL is grown quite legally in many countries. Greece, Turkey, Bulgaria, even Russia. It can be grown anywhere up to a latitude of 56 degrees. It's an all the year round crop, sown in May for August, and in August for April."
"Someone," Kaufman interrupted, "the Pipeline - now imports the latex into Sicily and processes it there."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 74