The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3)

by A. J. Quinnell

  For the past few days Grazzini had been talking to many of the old ones of his ‘family’ and others. He had made it a kind of exercise in public relations; calling them into his office and chatting about their families, if they had one, and their problems, both financial and personal. He had enjoyed the exercise, feeling more like the chairman of a public corporation than a criminal capo.

  He had seen about fifteen of the old ones so far and, towards the end of each interview, had enquired what they knew of an organisation called ‘The Blue Ring’. In each case up to now he had received a blank stare and a shrug of the shoulders. He had begun to doubt the very existence of ‘The Blue Ring’, until he had dropped the name to Torquinio Trento. The old man’s head had jerked up and for an instant Grazzini had seen the fear deep in his eyes.

  ‘“The Blue Ring”,’ Grazzini repeated.

  The old man’s eyes had glazed over, then the fear in them reappeared. He glanced nervously to left and right of the opulent office, as if expecting to see some spectre come out of the panelled walls. Grazzini waited patiently. Finally the old one asked in a tremulous voice, ‘What do you want of me, Don Grazzini? I am an old man who only sits in the sun and waits for death.’

  Grazzini smiled at him.

  ‘Torquinio Trento, before you retired you worked for my brother-in-law, God rest his soul, and before that for his father. Were they not good to you?’

  Very carefully, Trento nodded.

  ‘Of course. They were my family . . . I was their child.’

  ‘You are still their family,’ Grazzini said. ‘Even though they have passed.’

  ‘What do you want of me?’

  ‘I want what you know of “The Blue Ring”.’

  Again the old man’s eyes darted around the room. He moved uncomfortably on the comfortable chair. Again Grazzini waited patiently, until the old man began to speak in a coarse whisper.

  ‘They are not of us, those people. They have nothing to do with us.’

  ‘I know that. Who are they?’

  The old man whispered on as though talking to himself. ‘Compared to them we are saints. Even the bad among us are saints. Their evil has no measure. Even to think about them is dangerous.’

  Grazzini leaned forward, fascinated and asked, ‘Why?’

  The old man’s head jerked up as though he was coming out of a reverie. His eyes focused on Grazzini and his voice firmed up. ‘Don Grazzini, ‘I urge you not to even ask about such people. Your brother-in-law’s father may have died because he once asked.’

  Startled, Grazzini said, ‘He died of cancer.’

  Trento nodded slowly, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead and cheeks. He tucked away the handkerchief, looked down at the desk and whispered, ‘That is what they say. But I know he had contact with those people. His cancer came suddenly. He was only a young man of forty-three. Within a month of being healthy and strong as an ox he was a dead skeleton.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘I am saying he had contact with those people.’

  Harshly, Grazzini said, ‘Are you telling me that they gave him cancer?’

  ‘I am telling you only that they have powers . . . powers that they can use as weapons, more than we know how.’

  Grazzini remembered he was talking to a man who had grown up in the mountains of southern Calabria and was imbued with its suspicions and superstitions. ‘Apart from such powers, what else do they do?’

  ‘They deal in flesh.’

  ‘Flesh?’

  The old man nodded, ‘It is what I have heard. That is all I have heard.’

  Grazzini sensed that he would learn no more from the old man. Courteously, he thanked him and sent him away. For fifteen minutes the capo sat silently. Then he phoned his brother-in-law’s mother who, if he remembered, would be in her late eighties.

  Massimo Bellu looked at his computer screen. For the last hour he had been tracing the lineage of Jean Lucca Donati and he had made an interesting discovery, although he doubted that it could have anything to do with the purpose in hand. But when a brain like Massimo Bellu’s started to interface with a complex computer with almost unlimited information access it became something like pure mental exercise. He had discovered that Jean Lucca Donati’s father had been a very senior official in the Italian Fascist Party. In fact, he had risen so high as to become a personal aide to Mussolini himself. He had been killed by partisans in the last days of the war. Bellu decided to conduct a similar exercise on the forefathers of Anwar Hussein. And again came up with an interesting fact. The Nubian Egyptian’s father had been a senior official in the Cairo court of King Farouk and had been exiled with him and had died in 1952 in the south of France under mysterious circumstances.

  Under Satta’s orders, Bellu already had a surveillance team on both men. Although the teams were highly experienced, both men had vanished two days before and only resurfaced in their respective offices in Milan and Naples that very morning.

  Chapter 50

  She had a face wrinkled like an old apple and a brain as sharp as a new razorblade.

  Grazzini had not seen his late brother-in-law’s mother since the funeral. He felt guilty about this, and opened the conversation by apologising for his busy schedule. She gave him a slightly sarcastic look through her thick spectacles, but she had been mollified by the large bouquet of red and white roses which had accompanied his visit. Old ladies, especially Italian old ladies, never lose their vanity.

  Grazzini approached the subject carefully. They chatted about the weather and the vacillation of politicians, the rising cost of living and the declining value of morals. Eventually she asked about the purpose of his visit. He sat in a chair too low and soft for comfort, with his knees almost up to his chin. The room was heavily over-furnished in a style much beloved by those who shunned modern values. Dark and heavy furniture with dark and thick curtains, the gloom only relieved by the light from the vast chandelier hanging in the centre of the ceiling.

  ‘Signora Conti,’ he said formally. ‘I have come to ask your advice.’

  The bouquet of roses had been arranged by her maid in a large Chinese vase on a table by her side. She leaned towards it, cupped one of the roses in her bony hand and inhaled its aroma.

  ‘You surprise me,’ she said, looking first at the rose and then at Grazzini. ‘Why would such a great capo come to an old lady for advice? I suspect that you come to me for information more than advice.’

  Grazzini coughed uncomfortably at hearing this truth, then he plunged on. ‘This morning I was talking to one of the old ones.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Torquinio Trento.’

  Her eyes studied him through the thick spectacles. She nodded. ‘Yes, I remember him . . . a nice young man.’

  Grazzini smiled.

  ‘Yes indeed. He remembers you well. He asked me to send you his respects.’

  ‘What of Torquinio Trento?’

  Grazzini plunged further.

  ‘He seems to think that your husband’s death may have been connected with an organisation known as “The Blue Ring”.’

  She stared at him for a long time and then said, ‘My husband died of cancer.’

  ‘I know that, Signora. But what makes me curious is why the mention of “The Blue Ring” brought fear into the eyes of the old one.’

  Under her crocheted black shawl the old woman’s thin shoulders shrugged. ‘Torquinio Trento is from Calabria . . . the asshole of Calabria.’ The obscenity shocked Grazzini. She noted the shock and she smiled. ‘Yes, we call them the fearful ones . . . but they only fear what they do not understand. They fear the unknown.’

  ‘What is the unknown?’

  Her laugh was reedy and without mirth.

  ‘They fear black in the night. They fear mystery which the priests cannot explain. They fear the curse of the evil . . . although I never met anyone from southern Calabria who was not evil in himself.’


  Grazzini sighed inwardly and tried to bring the conversation back to reality.

  ‘Do you know anything yourself of “The Blue Ring”?’

  She tapped sharply on the table beside her and instantly the door opened. Her maid came in, a woman almost as old as herself. She gestured with her hand. The maid crossed the room to an old sideboard and poured two glasses of an amber liquid from an unmarked bottle. She gave one to Grazzini and placed the other beside her mistress. The old lady was beginning to enjoy the visit.

  Grazzini sniffed at the glass.

  ‘Very old Cognac,’ she said, ‘A dying old capo left me a dozen cases,’ She smiled. ‘He did not know that the bullet he was dying from was fired by my husband,’

  Grazzini lifted the glass and said, ‘I drink to the memory of your husband . . . a great man.’ He took a sip and savoured the silky taste, then tried to redirect the conversation. ‘Do you know anything of “The Blue Ring”, Signora?’

  ‘Very little,’ she answered. ‘Rumours first started in the early thirties when the Fascists were coming to power.’

  ‘What rumours, Signora?’

  ‘Rumours that there was a connection with the Fascists, It was when Mussolini was trying to crush Cosa Nostra. My father was in prison twice . . . for nothing, you understand.’

  ‘I have heard about it. What about “The Blue Ring”?’

  ‘My father told me that they supplied drugs and women to the Fascists . . . to the top Fascists . . . even to Mussolini himself. He liked women, that old goat. You have to understand, Signor, that when the Fascists made war on the Cosa Nostra they had no one to supply them with drugs and women.’

  Grazzini leaned forward. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘My father told me. When he came out of prison the second time he only lived for a few months. He died of poison.’

  ‘Are you sure? I heard he died of a heart attack.’

  ‘He died of poison,’ she said firmly. ‘He died slowly from poison they gave him in prison . . . poison that I am told was supplied by “The Blue Ring”.’

  Grazzini sat back in his uncomfortable chair, looking at the old woman from between his knees. ‘Did your husband know about this?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘I made the mistake of telling him. At first he thought it was just a woman’s suspicion. But he started to make enquiries about “The Blue Ring”.’

  A long silence and then Grazzini said, ‘And he died of cancer.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Six months later.’

  ‘Do you think they had anything to do with it? The old one does.’

  She shrugged again.

  ‘I believe in poison. I know nothing about cancer,’

  Grazzini pulled himself more upright. His knees were beginning to ache. He glanced at his watch. ‘How would I find out more about this “Blue Ring”, if it still exists?’

  ‘You would ask a priest.’

  He almost spilled the last of the Cognac from his glass.

  ‘A priest!’

  She smiled again; thin and mean.

  ‘Yes, a priest. But a special one. Do you not have good connections with the Vatican? It was always so during the time of my father and my husband and my son.’

  Now Grazzini smiled, also without mirth.

  ‘Yes, of course. We maintain very good connections . . . especially on the financial side. It is very necessary,’

  She nodded in approval.

  ‘Then use those good connections to arrange a talk with a priest who devotes his time to Satanism.’

  ‘What would a priest know about Satanism?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Everything. Don’t you think that the most important thing in any conflict is to know your enemy?’

  Chapter 51

  ‘Will you teach me what you taught Michael?’

  Creasy turned to look at her. He had been dreading the question, knowing that it was coming. They were walking along the cliffs of Ta Cenc. It was late morning and a warm breeze was blowing from North Africa. ‘It’s a different situation,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In the first place, you’re a girl.’

  ‘And in the second place?’

  He sighed. ‘Listen, Juliet, I adopted Michael for a purpose. You know all about it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she stated, ‘I know all about it. And when you adopted him you never thought you would come to love him like a son or that he would love you like a father.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s the way it worked out.’

  They walked on several paces and then her voice hit him between the eyes. ‘You adopted me because of the guilt you felt for all those dead and dying children, which you did nothing about.’

  He stopped and turned to look at her on the dusty path. His voice was angry. ‘I could do nothing about them.’

  She had stopped a few paces ahead.

  ‘I know, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t feel guilty. Creasy, last night you told me always to be honest with you and that you would always be honest to me. You also told me to be the same with Michael, I’m trying to be honest. I woke up this morning knowing I had a father and a brother, but not knowing how to be a daughter or a sister.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She flung a hand out to embrace the island.

  ‘I have a home . . . a beautiful home . . . I feel safe. Yes, I am going to go to school on Monday and study hard and learn the language and be obedient. I’ll grow up to be a woman you and Michael can be proud of. But I’ve been thinking all morning . . . in a few days you will go away and join Michael and chase those evil men. I know I have to stay here with Laura and Paul. I like them, but it’s not easy to stay here while you’re away, doing what you are going to do.’

  ‘You’re thirteen years old, dammit!’

  She smiled, turned and continued walking. He found himself hurrying after her.

  ‘Don’t make it harder for us, Juliet,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not going to,’ she answered. ‘I just want you to promise me that when you and Michael get back you will train me, so that in future I’ll be able to defend myself.’ She stopped again, turned and said very seriously, ‘It’s important to me, Creasy. I never want to be helpless again.’ He had continued walking and she followed, her voice loud. ‘Don’t you understand? It’s important to me!’

  He took her hand and they walked on together. He was deep in thought; she had the wisdom to remain silent. Eventually he turned to look down at her.

  ‘Yes, I understand. We will train you to defend yourself. But I’m not going to turn you into some Modesty Blaise.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘A fictional character. Very young and beautiful. She goes around the world with her faithful sidekick, dealing out destruction and justice to all villains.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you do?’

  He laughed out loud. ‘No, I just deal out vengeance. I don’t like people hurting me or mine.’

  ‘So why “The Blue Ring”?’

  ‘Because you are one of mine. It has nothing to do with guilt.’

  Chapter 52

  This time Creasy took precautions. As he came through customs at Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci airport he was wearing a black moustache to match his newly-dyed short black hair. He also wore thick-rimmed spectacles with plain glass. After putting his small bag into an overnight locker he walked through to the taxi rank carrying a black leather briefcase. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a cream shirt and a maroon tie. He looked like any of the many businessmen flocking into any large city for an overnight stay. To the taxi driver he gave his destination as Porta Cavalleggeri at The Vatican City.

  Rome was not a city he enjoyed, even in early autumn. It always seemed to be too frenetic and its inhabitants unfriendly. The call had come the night before from Guido. Could he meet Papa the next day for lunch at the restaurant L’Eau Vive in Rome? Guido was to call Papa back within an hour. The Rome flight the next morning h
ad been fully booked but Creasy had phoned George Zammit, who had pulled his weight and arranged a seat. He had confirmed this to Guido, who told him that he was to use the name Henry Gould and ask for a Mr Galli.

  Creasy had heard of the restaurant L’Eau Vive. It was apparently run by a female religious order and catered mainly to clerics and their friends from the Vatican. He wondered what the likes of Paolo Grazzini was doing there.

  During the forty-five minute trip he reviewed the situation. He had spent three good days in Gozo with Juliet and established a rapport with her, which pleased him. It had not taken him long to understand the depth of her intelligence which she used, in part, to get around him. He wondered if she did the same with Michael.

  Guido had also told him that Jens had phoned, and that he and The Owl were leaving Copenhagen the next morning and would be back in Rome within forty-eight hours. Michael had also checked in from Brussels and had started the ball rolling with Corkscrew Two. He and Maxie were waiting for Creasy’s call before flying back. I’ll bet, Creasy had thought. No doubt Michael wanted to stay close to the charms of Lucette as long as possible. Guido also had the phone number of the hotel in Capri where Frank and Rene were staying. They could be back in Rome within a few hours of his call.