"That's the front entrance to the villa," Kaufman said. "This wall runs right round it. We had the place surrounded and were about to move when somebody opened fire. Then you arrived."
I took in the rest of the scene. Two more jeeps were parked yards to the right. A searchlight was trained through the iron gates towards the villa. Mexican soldiers were everywhere, some at the entrance to the farmhouse, but most near the big gates, crouched low, all armed with rifles. When I looked back at our jeep I recognised the driver. It was the man who looked like Jack - the man I had seen in Manchester Square, the man in the VW.
"We found the manufacturing plant," Kaufman was telling Henderson, "big barn back of the farmhouse. Smell of vinegar knocks your head off-"
"What about my wife? To hell with-"
"All right, Jack," Kaufman said quickly. "She's alive - just hang onto that will you?"
He spoke with crisp authority but he looked desperately tired. I suppose we all did. Lucia's face was so drained that her flesh seemed translucent. Jack was grey except for the blood at his forehead, and the lines on Henderson's face might have been chipped from granite.
"No sign of Enrico - no sign of the poor bastard anywhere," Kaufman was saying miserably to nobody in particular.
Suddenly a shout drew our attention to the gates. Kaufman set off at a run, the rest of us on his heels. I stumbled as my foot twisted on something soft. It was the man who had collected me from Cordina's. He was quite dead.
The villa was about fifty yards away, at the end of a drive. It was big, only two stories high but long and rambling, bathed in brilliant white light - and now that I was at the gates I realised that both jeeps were equipped with searchlights. The house was fronted by a wide terrace, at least twenty yards deep, with a sweep of steps rising to a central front door, flanked either side by a series of shuttered windows. The swimming pool set into the right hand side of the terrace was fed by fountains from the far edge. A drive ran directly up to the left hand side of the house and stopped at some big doors which I assumed to be an integral garage.
Someone was saying to Kaufman, "The front door opened, but it closed again, almost immediately."
The man who looked like Jack had followed us in the jeep. Kaufman snatched the microphone, "Murphy?"
"Receiving you."
"Okay at the back?"
"Nothing's moved."
"You got floodlights on? Can you see everything?"
"Even the cracks in the walls."
"What about the sides?"
"I got men posted. There's a door on the left hand side, your right. We've got lights on it and men covering. There's no door the other side, not even ground floor windows, but I've got two men on the wall over there, just in case."
Kaufman was nodding, his eyes closed, visualising the other flanks of the house. He drew a deep breath, "Okay Murphy, I'm ready to start."
"Good luck."
Jack grabbed Kaufman's arm. "You're not going to rush the house. There's no way we can storm that place without Maria getting killed-"
Kaufman hurled him away. "For Chrissake take hold of yourself!"
Both Kaufman and Jack were trembling, so were the rest of us. We stood grouped in a little tableau, clustered around that jeep just outside the gates, the other two vehicles pressed up to the entrance and every Mexican rifle trained on the house. It fell so quiet that I heard water splashing into the swimming pool from the fountains. Then Kaufman's breath rasped as he struggled to control his temper. "Now you listen, Jack. I'm going to try to talk them out. I'm going to try to persuade them to give themselves up. But I don't want another outburst from you until this is all over. You better understand that or else I'll-"
"Jack," I said, a pack of cigarettes in my hand, "here, light these for us, will you?"
Jack's gaze fell from Kaufman's face to my outstretched hand. My movements were clumsy, hampered by that wretched briefcase clamped to my left wrist. Lucia reached across and took the packet, then offered it to Jack. The moment passed, I breathed a small sigh of relief.
Kaufman turned and walked away, passing between the two jeeps, going right up to the gates, in full view of the house. He pushed one gate, it swung open a yard. He made no attempt to go further, instead he stood like a general surveying the field of battle. Beyond him every window in the villa was shuttered, the door firmly closed, no threatening movement came from the house, yet the atmosphere tingled with danger. Lucia trembled beside me. I squeezed her arm. Jack coughed nervously. We all expected a shot to ring out and Kaufman to fall to the ground. But nothing happened. A soft wind rustled the warm air. One of the Mexicans shifted his position, scraping his boots on the ground. Henderson gestured for silence. But it was silent already - my God, it was quiet as the grave.
A minute passed, though it seemed longer. Then Kaufman turned to the jeep on his right and lifted a megaphone from the seat. "Serracino," he shouted. Lucia jumped, though she must have expected it. "Serracino." The name boomed from the megaphone, amplified, bringing an echo - "Serracino...cino ... no."
"You are surrounded ... rounded...ded., Come on out ... on out...out."
It brought no response.
"Come out with your hands up...hands up ... up."
Water plopped into the pool. The soft breeze shivered the twisted branches of the olive trees. We held our breath.
Kaufman replaced the megaphone in the jeep and returned to us. He looked at Jack: "I'm going to send two men in. Just half way up the drive, that's all, just as a probe. When they're in place I'll try again."
I knew why Jack was looking at me. He was waiting for me to say no. But what alternative was there?
Kaufman called two men over. "I'll douse those lights for twenty seconds. When I do I want you up that drive. See those statues take cover there. And keep your heads down when the lights go back on. Got that?"
The statues were about twenty yards in, almost half way to the villa, not far from the edge of the terrace. Both men gauged the distance, then glanced at each other before nodding. "We'll make it," one said, and they walked back to the gates.
"Maybe if I spoke to them," Jack was saying desperately, "if I appealed to them-"
"Okay - when I've positioned the men you can try," Kaufman said with surprising reasonableness. He walked back to the gates and spoke to the men manning the searchlights.
I wondered what response an appeal from Jack would bring none I could imagine. Nor did I believe Kaufman expected one. Events had moved too far for that. I tried to visualise the happenings inside the villa. If Serracino was there so were Weston and Douglas, I felt sure of that.
"Count down from ten," Kaufman was saying to the two men by the gates, "Ten...nine ..."
What a catalogue of killing had brought me to this place, almost face to face with my enemies. Charlie Weston who set me up...Lew Douglas who almost certainly murdered Kay . . .
"six...five...four ..."
Poor tormented Edgar...poor terrified Maria with that bastard Serracino...who had butchered her parents and disfigured Lucia for life.
"two...one...NOW!"
My fists bunched as the lights went out. Blindness. I felt a great surge of hatred for the men up at the house, and exaltation at the thought of their capture, what I would do to them. Then came the explosions! Followed by a man's scream...another scream, high-pitched, terrifying! Lucia cried out beside me. Henderson shouted. The lights came back on and we all gasped at the sight confronting us.
"Mined!" Henderson was saying incredulously, "The bloody place is mined!"
Neither of the two men had reached the statues. Both were only about fifteen yards from the gates. One screamed piercingly into the night, clutching the blooded stump of his right leg where it ended at the knee. The other man lay motionless.
"Get me a rope," Kaufman was shouting, "get me a rope for God's sake!"
Henderson snatched a coiled line from the back of the jeep and ran to the gates. Lucia buried her head in her hands. Jack groaned
with despair. I tore my gaze away from the injured man - my heart sinking at the prospect of ever seeing Maria alive again. Then she was there...Maria was at the top of the steps, by the open front door. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was Maria! One arm twisted behind her, the other shielding her eyes from the glare of the lights. But it was Maria! She was held firmly from behind, her feet were hobbled, she was too far away for me to tell if she was bruised or hurt, but at least she could stand upright. And that was Lew Douglas behind her, I was sure it was.
"Harris!" he shouted, "Harris!"
It was Douglas.
I came to life and dashed to the gates, side by side with Jack. "Maria!" he roared, and might have run up the drive but for Henderson holding him, "Maria!"
Kaufman had snaked a rope out to the injured man who was groaning pitifully but holding on desperately as inch by inch the rope drew him towards us.
"I'm here," I shouted at the top of my voice, "I'm here. This is Sam Harris."
Maria had seen Jack. She screamed his name and started to struggle. Then Douglas got a hand over her mouth and dragged her back across the threshold. He shouted from just inside the open door, "We'll negotiate with you, Harris. You hear that. We'll negotiate with you. Stay there until you read our terms."
Then the door banged shut just as another opened, the garage door, at the top of the drive. It only opened a fraction, then a shade wider, but nowhere near wide enough for a car. Instead a donkey came out. A donkey! It had a sack thrown across its back. The animal blinked nervously at the strong lights, backing away, but someone in the garage must have hit it because it turned again and started towards us.
"Maria!" Jack shouted into the night, freeing himself from Henderson. But Maria had gone. Two of the Mexicans started to lift the injured man past me towards one of the jeeps. He cried out in pain through clenched teeth.
Kaufman was watching the donkey. The animal walked deliberately towards us, keeping to the centre of the drive, the lumpy sack on its back swaying from side to side.
"No way," Kaufman was whispering to himself, "no way that animal can walk through a minefield, unless-"
Suddenly Lucia screamed, "No! Oh God, please no ..."
It was Bonello. The sack was Bonello. His fingertips trailed in the dust on the near side of the donkey, his head bounced on the animal's flanks.
"Get her out of here," Kaufman snapped at me, his eyes still fixed on the approaching donkey. I took Lucia's arm and tried to pull her back from the gates, but she was determined to stay.
The donkey passed the statues and reached the dead Mexican. It paused a moment, nuzzling the man's head. He did not move. Then the animal resumed its slow advance towards us.
Bonello was roped to its back. Looking down at his mutilated body I was reminded of his own words when he described cutting Vito's body down from that scaffolding in Milan all those years ago..."barely recognisable as a man - as a human being - a thing if dignity ..." And I remembered Jack telling me that Bonello was the most cautious man he had ever met. But I was most conscious of my rising nausea and an incredulous revulsion that men were alive who could bear to do such things to another human being.
Lucia turned her head away and sobbed helplessly in my arms as Kaufman untied the ropes. The note was pinned to Bonello's chest. Kaufman read it quickly, then passed it to me without a word.
Maria had written -
'The grounds are mined electronically. They control them from in here. They say they will switch the mines off long enough for Sam to come up to the house. They want to negotiate. They say unless Sam comes in ten minutes they will kill me.'
Chapter Seventeen
Some experiences are never forgotten. That memory will haunt me forever ... that little group of us clustered by those gates ... Kaufman's frustration...Jack's misery...Lucia weeping over Bonello's body ... the injured Mexican groaning pitifully as someone tended the remains of his leg. I felt too angry to be afraid. My hands kept-bunching as if to clasp a throat and throttle someone.
But the shocks were far from over. Kaufman was saying something when his words were lost in the noise - a new, unexpected noise which took us all by surprise ... a clattering sound on the night air. Suddenly a searchlight came out of the sky, red and green navigation lights appeared, and a second later the whirling rotor blades of a helicopter cleared the ridge behind the villa to swoop over us. We scattered instinctively, hands clapped to our ears against the terrifying noise. For an instant the machine hovered directly above us, then it moved nearer the house, to dip down by the pool and come to rest on the terrace.
Its arrival was so sudden, so completely without warning that we were all knocked off balance. The ridge was little more than a hundred yards away - I suppose the land and the direction of the breeze had masked the sound of the machine's approach. But there it was - on the terrace, rotor blades still spinning, the pilot clearly visible. We stood mesmerised for a moment, then I was running back towards the other jeep, not of my own volition, Kaufman was dragging me and shouting at the same time. "That's how they plan to get out. That's their escape route."
Ten minutes had been allocated, ten precious minutes before I was to walk up the drive and into that house to negotiate. Kaufman and the man who looked like Jack worked like demons. The radio transmission equipment was wrenched from the jeep with feverish haste, then Kaufman hugged it in his arms and ran down towards the olive grove. His voice came clearly over the receiver. "Can you hear me?" he kept shouting, "can you hear me?" The man who looked like Jack was waving and shouting back - then Kaufman returned in a rush, gasping for breath. "This is going in that case, Sam. Then we'll know what's going on. We'll hear every damn word said in there."
They unlocked the briefcase, removed the precious list, reams and reams of it bound in a folder, and inserted the transmitter. Positioning the microphone took most of the time. Then Kaufman spiked holes into the top of the case before locking it again. It felt heavy on my wrist, much heavier than before, but not unmanageable. He hurried me back to the gates. "Sam, we'll be listening in on everything. Just you remember that. It's our best chance, Sam. It's our only chance."
I glanced at my watch. Ten twenty-five. The ten minutes were up. Looking up the drive I saw the pilot still inside the helicopter.
"I'm going with him," Jack was telling Kaufman, "I'm going and you won't stop me."
Henderson interrupted. "The door's opening - look, look at the villa."
Every eye focused on the house. Maria stood at the top of the steps, held from behind as before, her feet still hobbled.
"Harris?" came a shout.
I stood between those huge gates and waved. "I'm ready."
"I'm coming too," Jack said behind me.
There was no time to argue. I shouted, "Jack Green is with me. We're coming in now."
Then I started to walk. A delay might have brought a refusal from the house - might have cost me my nerve - might have been wiser. But I was in no mood for wisdom. Not even the sight of the dead Mexican deterred me. I drew level with his twisted body without even knowing if Jack was with me or not. He was, but I don't think I cared. Kaufman had been right all along. This was my story. Mine and everyone close to me - Kay, Edgar, Maria, Jack...and now Lucia too.
I passed the statues. The helicopter's blades had stopped spinning but the motor was still running - I could hear it. The pilot watched me every step of the way - dark glasses shielding his eyes from the glare, an automatic rifle cradled in his arms. I reached the edge of the terrace before it occurred to me that I had walked through a minefield. The shock of that took the edge off my temper, calmed me down a bit - even so every ounce of concentration was keyed up for what lay waiting for me in the house. I passed the helicopter and skirted the edge of the swimming pool - stepped over a diving board - then I was there. At the foot of the steps. I looked up, expecting to see Douglas holding Maria. But the entrance was empty. Just an open door.
Jack caught me up. We climbed the steps shoul
der to shoulder. The deserted lobby was full of menacing shadow, empty of light and the smell of petrol was everywhere - the place reeked of it, with a stench so overpowering that Darmanin flashed into my mind. Poor, frightened Darmanin - another victim, another helpless . . .
"Stop! That's far enough."
A man's voice. A voice I knew. Charlie Weston! Here...waiting for me.
"Shut the door behind you."
He was in a room ahead of us, on the right hand side, light escaped through a half open door, I saw his shadow on the far wall, a gun in his hand.
I did as I was told. The searchlights at the bottom of the drive were shut out as I closed the door. The gloom in the lobby intensified to total darkness. Then lights came on above us. But Weston remained in the room up ahead. "You're not armed I take it?"
"Of course I'm bloody well not armed," I snapped. "For God's sake-"
"What's that you're carrying?"
"The list. I've brought the list. Part of the deal, remember?"
"I can't imagine it tells us anything Bonello left out," he chuckled.
Jack swore and took a step towards the door.
"Stay where you are," Weston snapped. "Face the wall and put your hands above your heads. Both of you."
I nodded to Jack and we turned together, resting our hands on the wall above our heads. The case on my arm weighed a ton. Soft footsteps sounded behind us. A hand patted my jacket, then each trouser leg ... one-handed ... as if whoever it was held a gun in the other. But I was mistaken. When I turned I saw the explanation was simpler than that. The man only had one effective hand. It was Corrao. Pietro Corrao. Our eyes met his as dead as ever behind dark glasses...mine blazing with hate. And beyond him stood Charlie Weston, sneering at me.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 78