The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3)

by A. J. Quinnell

  Gandolfo’s mind began to work. Thieves. It was not unknown in these hills. There had been two robberies further south the year before.

  ‘I am a General in the carabinieri,’ he said angrily. ‘You will not get away with this.’

  ‘Be still,’ the man repeated. He was speaking Italian with a very strange accent.

  Gandolfo was trying to identify it when he sensed another man entering the room. There was more light but softer. The brightness left his eyes and he opened them. He saw two men, both dressed all in black. They were middle-aged. One was bald with a round face. He was holding a black, silenced pistol in one hand and a slim torch in the other. The pistol was pointed at Gandolfo’s face. The other man was short and square with cropped black hair. Like his body, his face was square. In one hand he carried a gas lamp which Gandolfo recognised from the kitchen. In the other hand he held a canvas bag.

  From their posture and the look on their faces, Gandolfo’s instincts and experience told him that these two men were professionals. Strangely, this made him feel better.

  ‘I have very little money up here,’ he stated. ‘And nothing else of value.’

  At that moment he thought of his Holland and Holland shotgun which was worth a fortune. Then he realised that it was leaning against the wall, about a metre from his left hand. Instinctively he turned his head to look at it.

  ‘Forget it,’ the bald man said; then in English to the other man, he said cryptically, ‘Let’s get on with it,’

  Startled at hearing the language, Gandolfo blurted out, ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’

  The square man moved closer to the bed. He put the lamp on the bedside table and the canvas bag on the floor. The bald man moved around the other side of the bed. The pistol was close, the fat silencer half a metre from the General’s eyes, pointing exactly between them. Gandolfo squeezed backwards against the headboard, his fear increasing.

  ‘We are just here to do a job,’ the bald man said casually. ‘Cooperate and you’ll be all right . . . otherwise you die. We don’t care one way or the other.’ He spoke as though he had arrived to fix the plumbing.

  Gandolfo started to speak, but suddenly the pistol was only millimetres from his forehead. He noticed that the hand holding it was steady and was clad in a black glove.

  The voice hardened. ‘Keep your mouth shut and do exactly as you’re told,’

  The General closed his mouth and swallowed hard. The pistol was withdrawn to about a metre.

  The square man unzipped the bag and took out a plastic bag of cotton wool and a large roll of black masking tape, ‘Put your wrists together,’ he said in English.

  Gandolfo hesitated and suddenly the pistol had moved forward again. Slowly the General brought his hands together. They were trembling slightly. The square man sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled a wad of cotton wool from the bag, reached forward and squeezed it between Gandolfo’s wrists. The General watched in rigid fascination. Then the man took the roll of masking tape, pulled out a long length and wrapped it several times around the General’s wrists. His arms and hands were now immobilised. The bald man stepped back, unscrewed the silencer and dropped it into a pocket of his black leather jacket. The pistol was slipped into a holster under his left shoulder. The square man pulled the sheet and blankets back, revealing the General’s silk-clad body. From the canvas bag he pulled out several rolls of thick foam rubber. He worked quickly. First, he pulled Gandolfo’s legs apart and wrapped several layers of foam rubber around the left one, from the thigh to the toes. He taped it firmly and then repeated the process with the right leg and then taped both legs together. He then did the same with both the General’s arms from the wrists to the armpits. Gandolfo’s fear was now tinged with a query. He started to ask a question but looked into the dark, cold eyes in the square face and shut his mouth.

  Next, the man took a smaller strip of foam rubber, pulled the General’s head forward and slipped it behind his neck. He taped the ends tight across the forehead just above the eyes. Finally, he connected the tape from the wrists to the tape around the ankles. The General was now totally immobilised.

  The man stood back, surveyed his work and said to his companion, ‘He looks like the Michelin man.’

  The bald man nodded. ‘Yeah . . . all trussed up and ready for the oven.’

  They walked out through the open door. Gandolfo heard the bald man’s voice call, ‘He’s all yours. Shout if you need anything.’

  Ten seconds passed in which Gandolfo tried to concentrate and calm himself. He had partially succeeded when a third man came through the door. He was also dressed in black, including his gloves. At first, in the dim light, Gandoffo did not recognise him, but as he pulled up a chair the face came into focus.

  Gandolfo gasped and spoke his name, ‘Satta! God, Satta . . . What’s happening?’

  For a long time Satta looked into the man’s eyes, then he leaned forward. His voice was very low, carried on the wind of hatred.

  ‘You saw the pathologist’s report on Bellu’s body. You know exactly what inhuman things they did to him before they killed him . . . It’s probable that the same pathologist will examine your body. An autopsy is standard in the death of such a senior officer of the carabinieri . . . But they will find no signs of torture . . . not even the slightest bruise.’ He gestured at the padding around Gandolfo’s arms and legs and neck. ‘No matter how much you struggle or resist, no pathologist will ever find a bruise on you.’

  From his pocket Satta took a small plastic box. He opened it and showed the contents to the General: a small syringe, held in place by a thick elastic band. Next to it was a clear, plastic phial holding white pills. Satta explained. ‘The pills are Amiodarone. Each of one thousand ccs. Taken orally, one will cause a massive and fatal heart attack. The drug in the syringe is Digoxin. It has the same effect but must be injected. Both drugs are untraceable. Anyway, there will be no suspicion. You had a mild heart attack six years ago and a bigger one three years later. You took eight months sick leave. You were advised to take early retirement but refused . . . no doubt under pressure from your friends. Anyway, this time you will not have to make that choice. Obviously I prefer that you accept the pill, because a very skilled and diligent pathologist might just have a chance of detecting the puncture mark of a needle, even though it would be in an unlikely place.’

  Gandolfo closed his eyes. His breathing rate increased. He heard Satta’s voice again.

  ‘You know how close Bellu was to me. You are cunning but you are stupid. Do you really think that what you did would go unanswered?’

  Gandolfo opened his eyes and said, as though in pain, ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

  Satta’s voice cracked back at him. ‘You had everything to do with it! You fingered him, knowing what they would do . . . your friends in “The Blue Ring” - Donati and Hussein and no doubt others. You have lived in evil, Gandolfo, and you will die this night. You will not be alone. Your friends will soon be pining you.’

  The General was looking at the ceiling. Suddenly he turned his head, looked into Satta’s eyes, and said, ‘I had no choice . . . even from the beginning. Their hold was like a vice. I had to think of my family . . . let me go and I will help you.’

  Satta leaned forward and spat in his face. ‘You are living the last minutes of your life.’

  He stood up and paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. In a cold, hard voice he explained Gandolfo’s alternatives. He used the Mafia code as a parallel. If a mafioso was discovered to be a turncoat he was given the choice of committing suicide or being killed. If he committed suicide his family were spared. If he resisted, his entire family faced death. In his early anti-Mafia years Satta had been surprised that so many jailed mafiosi cut their wrists. He had later learned that some had done so because they did not want those outside to even suspect that they might break the code of Omertà. He knew that Gandolfo understood that code; but he painted it in the clearest colours. Satta started
pacing faster in his anger, up and down at the foot of the bed. Then he turned to look at the trussed-up General.

  ‘Your wife died ten years ago and you hardly mourned her. In life you treated her like shit; and in death you hardly noticed her passing, so busy were you with your whores and mistresses. But she bore you three sons and a daughter. They all married and gifted you with nine grandchildren and a tenth due to your daughter next month.’ He gestured towards the open door. ‘Those men who trussed you up . . . they are two of many, and they are pussy-cats compared to some of the others. Like me, their leader looked on Bellu as a blood relative . . . Your children and grandchildren will not know they are coming . . . they will visit your children and grandchildren like the plague.’

  He stopped pacing and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at the absurdly inflated man. Gandolfo was looking at the ceiling. Time passed and then he asked hoarsely, ‘What don’t you know?’

  From his jacket pocket Satta took out a small notebook and a ballpoint pen. He sat down saying, ‘From the beginning . . . Your beginning. And to the end . . . Beyond your end. First I want to know where the black mass will take place next Sunday.’

  What could be seen of Gandolfo’s face was the colour of unpolished ivory. Satta watched his lips form into a mirthless smile. His voice sounded already close to death.

  ‘I will tell - and you will not believe me - but when I tell you everything . . . then you will believe.’

  Chapter 83

  In Naples they played poker, but only for matchsticks. When Guido had won enough to supply every arsonist in Italy he quit in disgust and moved to the coffee machine; they had long ago given up drinking Strega.

  Jens looked at Creasy with a pained expression, ‘I thought that a winner at poker was not allowed to quit.’ Creasy smiled.

  ‘True. Guido is very discourteous.’

  Creasy’s mind had not been on the game. It was far away in a cabin in the hills.

  In Gozo, Tom Sawyer sat on the roof of the farmhouse, gazing across the Comino channel. He could see the lights of the fishing boats moving out through the darkness on their way to catch squid. He cleaned his submachine-gun and wondered how long this job would last. He hoped it would stretch out many days. He liked the people he was guarding; he liked the food and he liked the balmy air. Occasionally an owl would hoot softly from the distant darkness. Tom would smile. His guys were awake and doing their job.

  In Rome, Michael and Rene played gin rummy, for money. Rene was well ahead. He laid down a full gin, grinned and said, ‘Just as well you have all that money in the bank.’

  Michael sighed and answered, ‘I quit.’ He looked at his watch, and then at the phone. His mind was also far away.

  Satta came out of the bedroom holding his notebook. Frank was sitting at the table reading a hunting magazine. He looked up and then slowly rose.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Satta’s face was pale and drawn, He lifted the notebook and said harshly, ‘As all right as anyone who has been immersed and almost suffocated in excrement,’ He drew a breath and then exhaled slowly. He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder towards the open bedroom door and his voice filled with sarcasm. ‘The good and honourable General has decided to take the pill.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Frank said heartily, as though hearing that a child had agreed to eat its spinach. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Satta sat down at the table, tossed his notebook onto it and asked apologetically, ‘Frank, do you mind doing it? I don’t really understand . . . putting that pill into his mouth should be one of the great moments of my life . . . but . . . I don’t want to go back in there.’

  The Australian nodded sombrely. He knew that sometimes words and revelations could carry as much impact as a high-velocity bullet.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Maxie. Do you want me to make you a coffee first?’

  Satta shook his head.

  ‘No . . . Thanks, Frank.’ His eyes rested on a small table next to the fireplace. It held a selection of bottles. He stood up, went over and picked up a bottle of Cognac. Frank watched as he uncorked it, put it to his lips and held it there, letting the amber liquid pour down his throat. Then he choked and coughed, recorked the bottle, put it back on the table, turned and said, ‘I just want to get the hell out of here.’

  ‘No problem,’ Frank said briskly. ‘I’ll call Maxie. You go and take a stroll. Get some fresh air and keep watch.’

  He walked to the front door, opened it and whistled softly. An answering whistle came out of the darkness. Maxie loomed up. Quietly Frank explained the situation.

  Maxie nodded, went up to the Italian, punched him lightly on the shoulder and said, ‘Well done, Mario. We’ll do the rest. Get some fresh air.’

  Satta nodded numbly, and then suddenly embraced the man.

  Maxie smiled at Frank over Satta’s shoulder and then said with a light laugh, ‘These Italians get real emotional.’

  ‘Yeah . . . It comes with their mother’s milk.’ The Australian answered.

  Satta broke away with a curse at them both.

  ‘Vaffanculo!’ But it was said affectionately. He picked up his notebook and went out into the night.

  The two men looked at each other. Maxie said, ‘That’s a tough guy who’s seen a lot. Whatever happened in there really shook him up.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Frank agreed and looked towards the bedroom door. With a cynical smile he asked, ‘Did you ever kill a general?’

  The Rhodesian shook his head. ‘No, I only got as high as a half-colonel . . . Did you?’

  Wistfully Frank answered, ‘No, although one or two had me seriously tempted. Let’s do it.’

  Frank fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and then went through to the bedroom.

  He watched them coming. He looked into their eyes and saw no mercy. He saw their eyes looking back at a dead man.

  They eased him up to a sitting position. The box with the pills and the syringe was open on the bedside table next to the mobile phone. Maxie passed two pills over the bed to Frank and then held up the glass of water expectantly. Gandolfo’s eyes were gazing into the distance.

  Frank put his hand on the foam rubber behind Gandolfo’s neck, gripped firmly and said lightly, ‘Open wide. I’ll put it far back on your tongue. Then my friend will put the glass to your lips and tilt it . . . Take a good swallow.’

  Gandolfo stared ahead. His mouth closed in a thin line, Frank’s voice lost its lightness.

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll just have to give you the needle. Then my friend and I head down to Rome and start looking for your bambinos. That suits us . . . Extra money . . . Good money.’

  Gandolfo’s eyes shifted and turned onto Frank’s face. Seconds passed and then his mouth began to open. Then it shut. Then opened again. In a grating whisper, Gandolfo asked, ‘Will it take long?’

  ‘It’s very quick,’ Frank said.

  ‘You won’t feel a thing,’ Maxie lied.

  Slowly the mouth opened wider. The eyes closed.

  ‘Wider,’ Frank urged, leaning forward.

  The mouth opened very wide.

  Holding the pill between two fingers, Frank slipped it between the lips. His fingers came out and Maxie’s hand came up with the glass. Gandolfo gulped twice, some of the water dribbling down his chin. Frank watched his Adam’s apple move up and down twice. He gripped the neck harder and with his right hand squeezed the cheeks to open the mouth. He peered into it and nodded at Maxie. He eased the head onto the pillow and they both stepped back. Gandolfo lay there with his eyes closed. Maxie glanced at his watch.

  The first spasm came after just ninety seconds. Gandolfo grunted in agony. Spasm followed spasm and he started to thrash about on the bed. His mouth opened and vomit spewed out. The two men watched silently, no strangers to death. Finally the body lay still. They both moved forward. Maxie pulled back the cotton wool and felt for the pulse at the wrist. Frank felt for it at the neck. After half a minute they
looked up at each other and shook their heads.

  Maxie said, ‘Kufa.’ A Swahili word much used by mercenaries of the African era. It means ‘dead’ in a very positive way.

  They cleaned up quickly, stripping the body of the foam rubber. The silk pyjama jacket was stained with vomit. Frank rearranged the General’s left arm on top of the bedside table as though he had been trying to reach for the mobile phone. Maxie packed the foam rubber, tape and box into the canvas bag, while in the kitchen Frank washed the glass, dried it and replaced it in the cupboard. He put the hunting magazine back on the rack.

  Two hundred metres away Satta saw the lights of the cabin go out. He was holding a mobile phone. He punched in the numbers. A few seconds later he heard Creasy’s voice.

  ‘Pronto?’

  ‘It’s done,’ Satta said. ‘Perfectly to plan . . . We have all we need. We’ll be with you in a couple of hours . . . Ciao.’

  ‘Ciao.’

  Chapter 84

  The ship from Albania docked in Bari just after midnight. It had been a rough crossing and both Katrin and Sister Simona had been seasick. So the approaching lights of the port and its shelter had assumed an added dimension of welcome.

  They passed through immigration and customs with an ease that surprised Sister Simona, who was well acquainted with Italian bureaucracy. Even though their papers were completely in order, she had expected long delays because of Katrin’s status as a foreign orphan. But as they took their places in the long queue a young immigration officer had passed down the line. He spotted Sister Simona in her white habit, introduced himself, took her large suitcase and Katrin’s small bag and their papers, and ushered them smoothly through the maze of officialdom. Within minutes he was showing them into a room reserved for special immigrants. Katrin clutched the small posy of wild flowers she had picked that afternoon in the grounds of the orphanage. Like herself, they were much wilted from the journey.