There were three people waiting in the room: Franco Delors and a well-dressed, middle-aged couple. Delors came forward, his face beaming, and introduced himself. Sister Simona had been told he would be meeting them. He introduced the couple as Signor and Signora Maccetti: Katrin’s new foster parents.
At first, the atmosphere in the room was naturally tense. Katrin spoke very little Italian, but as she looked at the couple, who were smiling at her nervously, she realised who they were. Shyly she walked towards them and held out the bedraggled flowers to the woman.
Signora Maccetti was a tall, stout woman. She beamed down at the child, stooped down and embraced her, crushing the flowers between them. Her husband was smiling and nodding his head.
Delors turned to Sister Simona with a broad smile and said, ‘There has been a slight change of plan. They were supposed to pick her up from your Augustine convent here in Bari tomorrow.’ He shrugged. ‘But of course they were so impatient to see her . . . In fact, they would like to fly with her to Rome on the early flight and get her settled in as soon as possible.’
Sister Simona’s face showed uncertainty. She watched as Signor Maccetti embraced Katrin, while his wife watched with a maternal smile.
Reassuringly, Delors said, ‘I spoke to the Mother Superior here this afternoon. She said she would leave the decision to you.’
‘I will talk to Katrin,’ Sister Simona said. ‘She is a sensible girl and will make her own choice.’
From a large handbag Signora Maccetti had taken a gift-wrapped parcel. She looked across at Sister Simona and said, ‘Would you please tell Katrin that this is a small gift to welcome her to her new home.’
Sister Simona translated that into Albanian. Katrin looked at the parcel, smiled and held out her hand. She held the parcel and turned to look at the nun. Sister Simona smiled and nodded. Inside was a beautiful pink cashmere sweater with intricate multi-coloured silk embroidery.
The child held its softness and exclaimed in delight, then threw her arms around the woman.
‘I think it will be all right,’ the nun said to Delors.
Sister Simona explained the change of plan to Katrin, who had immediately changed her grey, second-hand, donated sweater for the new one. She held her foster mother’s hand as she listened. She smiled and nodded in agreement.
The nun hugged her and then said to the Maccettis, ‘I’m taking ten days’ holiday before returning to Albania. I’ll be visiting my parents who live near Rome next week . . . I would like to pass by and see how she is settling in,’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Signora Maccetti said, ‘but we had planned to leave on Sunday for Florida, to visit my brother who lives there. He has children of Katrin’s age.’
Again, Delors noticed the uncertainty on the nun’s face.
‘It’s a bit sudden,’ she said. ‘After all Katrin hardly speaks Italian, let alone English.’
Signora Maccetti laughed lightly.
‘We have thought of that. My brother has engaged a maid of Albanian descent who will live in. There will be no problem with the language . . . We thought that the excitement of travel and the Florida sunshine would be good for her,” She patted the child’s pale face. ‘She needs sunshine and the sea, and children of her own age.’
The nun was mollified.
‘When will you be back?’ she asked.
‘In a few weeks,’ Signor Maccetti answered. ‘Of course we will keep in close touch with Signor Delors. When you are next in Italy you must visit Katrin . . . and be our guest.’
‘You will be so welcome,’ his wife added warmly.
And so Sister Simona stood beside the chauffeur-driven Mercedes and gave her charge a last hug, and watched her being driven away to a new life.
Delors gave the nun a lift to the convent. On the way he said cheerfully, ‘Sister Assunta will be pleased that this first one went so well.’
‘You know Sister Assunta?’
‘Only by correspondence. I know of the wonderful work she is doing . . . All of you, of course.’
‘She is an angel,’ the nun murmured, and then said absently, ‘She left for Malta today.’
Delors glanced at her. ‘She did?’
‘Yes . . . she has been working so hard. She needed a break. You know how it is.’
‘Indeed, I do,’ he agreed fervently. ‘When will she get back?’
‘She said a few days.’
Warmly, he said, ‘Give her my respects when you see her.’
She turned and smiled at him. ‘I will.’
Chapter 85
The bays reflected the faith of the people, as much as the limpid blue of the Mediterranean Sea reflected the sun: St Julian’s, St Thomas’s, St George’s and St Paul’s, where the Apostle had been shipwrecked and then welcomed by the heathen Maltese; and in return for that welcome had brought the message of Christianity.
Sister Assunta sat on the north patio of the convent and looked out over the waters of St Paul’s Bay. The water was not tranquil. High-powered speedboats, cruisers and sailing yachts criss-crossed the sea. The turbulence of the water reflected her own mental state. She had been subjected to an inquisition. The Mother Superior was of a character, chilled by experience, practicality and, therefore, cynicism. Sister Assunta’s story of remembering a face through the window of a car twenty years ago had brought a raised eyebrow and a questioning tongue. The nun had stuck to her flimsy guns; insisted on her memory, until her Superior had nodded in dismissal.
A life given to devotion moves along a stony track, but occasionally it illuminates rare moments. Sister Assunta had one of these moments when she heard a quiet cough behind her and turned her head.
She recognised the priest. It was Father Manuel Zerafa, the priest who ran the orphanage in Gozo.
He pulled up a chair and sat silently next to her, looking out over the bay. Then, very diffidently, he said, ‘Sister. Please tell me what you remember about that face in the car.’
Sister Assunta drew a breath as her heart was lifted. The Mother Superior had believed her.
Chapter 86
‘There is a man. At this moment I assume he is contentedly asleep in a luxury villa in the hills of Tuscany. His name is Benito Massaro.’ With that name, Colonel Mario Satta had the complete attention of his gathered friends.
It was dawn in Naples. They sat in the small dining room of the Pensione Splendide. A wet west wind splattered rain against the windows.
On the journey to Naples Satta had, at first, decided to give his information only to Creasy; but as they drove through the wetness he had glanced at Maxie at the wheel, and felt the presence of Frank behind him in the back seat. His thoughts had moved on to all the others who were taking part in what had become, for him, a personal nightmare. He had decided to take them all into his confidence.
Now they sat around the long table while Juliet dispensed coffee and brioches. They were all tired. Either from waiting, or from the tension of activity. It had only been necessary for them to look at the set seriousness of Satta’s face to realise that what he was about to say would be profound. The name Benito Massaro confirmed it. For those who might not be fully conversant with the name, he elaborated.
‘Benito Massaro was the real power behind the Masonic Lodge Pi. Forget the other names which the newspapers dwell on; Benito Massaro is a general. Ten years ago he headed the committee which controlled and oversaw all of the security services of our country. He managed to draw into his Lodge an astonishing number of the most powerful people of Italy. He dispensed patronage on an immense scale. When P2 was discovered, his minions took the blame. He remained aloof.’
Satta surveyed the faces around the table and then came back to linger on the face of Creasy. He said quietly, ‘I learned last night from General Emilio Gandolfo something which caused me grief, humiliation, embarrassment and pain. As a man who has dedicated many years of his life attempting to find crime in my country, it will not be difficult to understand the shock I felt whe
n I learned that Benito Massaro has not only retained his power in my sick country, but has continued to build on it.’ He looked up again at Creasy and slowly at the others. His voice took on a shred of emotion. ‘This may sound dramatic . . . it is certainly ironic that the instruments to smash that power are sitting with me in this room. It is also ironic that only two of you, Guido and young Pietro, are Italian.’
No audience had ever been more rapt.
‘There had been rumours,’ Satta continued, ‘that during the investigation of the Lodge P2, a list of over fifteen hundred names had been mysteriously lost. Those that had not been lost were frightening enough. The known names included nine hundred and sixty-two leading Italian figures. Among them four cabinet ministers, no less than thirty-eight parliamentary deputies and one hundred and ninety senior military and intelligence officers. Included were Michele Sindona, a leading banker connected to the Mafia, who was later mysteriously poisoned in prison. Roberto Calvi, head of the Banco Ambrosiano, known as God’s Banker because he advised and was deeply involved with the Vatican bank. He was found hanging by the neck under Blackfriars Bridge in London in 1982 after his bank had somehow lost one and a half billion dollars.’ Colonel Mario Satta sighed and said, ‘What I discovered last night was that Benito Massaro has been able to form a new Lodge, which we may as well call P3 . . . It threatens the very fabric of my country.’
The men around the table glanced at each other and Creasy asked the question in all of their minds, ‘Mario. We understand about Benito Massaro. What does he have to do with us?’
Satta’s abrupt laugh was chilling. He pointed at Creasy.
‘What you and your son stumbled into represents a very slim chance for me to finally break and destroy Benito Massaro and his threat to my screwed-up country.’
Chapter 87
The rain had stopped and a watery sun lit up the sky. The others had returned to bed, but Guido and Creasy walked out onto the terrace, perhaps in an effort to clear their minds.
Guido said, ‘If I had not known Satta these past six years and had come to appreciate his brain and integrity, I would have thought he was a lunatic.’
Creasy smiled.
‘We have both lived long enough, and seen enough to know that he was telling the truth. Not just about Gandolfo or the rest of them, but also about his thesis that even as a senior officer in the carabinieri he’s powerless to do anything about what he’s learned.’
Guido grunted in exasperation.
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘Who the hell can he trust? He has learned of four other generals senior to him in the carabinieri who are part of P3, He has learned that two cabinet ministers, not on the original P2 list, are members of P3 . . .’ He smiled wryly. ‘He has also learned of a cardinal, two archbishops and five top judges. So who would he report to? How could he start an investigation? Without doubt Gandolfo told him the truth. A man who knows for certain that he is about to die, always tells the truth . . . But such things are compartmentalised. Gandolfo knew only a part . . . perhaps a small part.’
‘That has to be true,’ Creasy agreed. ‘Let’s examine the information in the light of our own operation and in the light of exactly what Gandolfo told Satta. First of all, Gandolfo had been blackmailed these past three decades by “The Blue Ring”. Blackmailed on youthful, sexual and financial sins. He also knew that many powerful men had similarly been blackmailed. He made the connection between Massaro and “The Blue Ring”, although Massaro perhaps used “The Blue Ring” more than they used him. Gandolfo was certain that within “The Blue Ring” they have somewhere the missing list of P2 members - that alone would be worth millions.’ He turned to look at Guido, gave him a tired smile and said, ‘But let’s simplify all this. Thank God, Satta has his own connections, both through his work and, strangely, through his mother. He cannot act unless presented with a fait accompli. Our smashing of “The Blue Ring” on Sunday night at their black mass will give him that fait accompli. His plan is good. He will have a team of junior carabinieri officers nearby; ostensibly about to raid the home of a suspected, corrupt industrialist. When we start the war against “The Blue Ring” on Sunday night, he will be the nearest senior law officer. He will be alerted. He will be the first on the scene with his team. We will be gone. He has the names of at least two honest judges who will have been vaguely prewarned. They will be on the scene shortly afterwards. Nobody, not even the Prime Minister or the head of intelligence or the head of anything else will be able to stop Satta and those judges.’
Guido shook his head and laughed.
‘What a country!’ he said. ‘I can hear a whirring sound . . . It must be Garibaldi spinning in his grave.’
Creasy also laughed.
‘The biggest shock Garibaldi would have had was to learn that the De Muros were part of that whole sick scene. Didn’t that aristocratic family help finance him in his crusade to unite Italy?’
‘They did,’ Guido agreed. ‘And for the past hundred years they have been a pillar of Italian society. Now we learn that their progeny are under the influence of Massaro and, what’s worse, “The Blue Ring”. When Satta told us that the black mass on Sunday would take place in the De Muros’ private chapel, presided over by a genuine Catholic bishop, I worried not for Satta’s sanity, but for my own. Then I remembered that the De Muros are an offshoot of the Medici family . . . They had their own Pope some centuries ago and of course they poisoned opponents to pass the time.’
‘It has to be true,’ Creasy said grimly.
‘It has to be,’ Guido agreed. ‘No one . . . not even a doomed general, could invent that.’
‘We know the location,’ Creasy said. ‘We know the time. We know who will be there. What we do not know yet is whether Satta can convince his mother to plant that weapon for Michael in the De Muros’ palazzo.’
Chapter 88
Tom Sawyer stretched his cramped limbs and watched the sun rise away to his left; it bathed the Comino channel red. He heard the hoot of an owl. He pulled up the binoculars and focused them on a clump of carob trees behind him and to the right.
He saw no owl, just the dark figure of a crouching man moving away from the trees. A few seconds later another dark figure replaced the first. Sawyer glanced at his watch in satisfaction. His men, as usual, were awake and on time. For him it was time to sleep. He stood up on the flat roof of the farmhouse, the binoculars dangling from his neck. Laura would be getting up ready to prepare breakfast.
As he came down the stone outer stairs, a battered old Ford clattered down the dusty track. It pulled up in the courtyard and a plump priest emerged.
He greeted Sawyer and asked, ‘Has the bird-watcher spotted anything?’
Sawyer smiled and nodded.
‘A couple of early kestrels looking for worms . . . or maybe mice.’
The priest smiled knowingly and asked, ‘Is Laura about?’
‘She will be,’ Sawyer answered. ‘This house rises with the sun.’
Laura was up and in the kitchen. She greeted the priest warmly and introduced him to Sawyer as Father Manuel Zerafa. The priest’s face had turned grim. He took Laura by the arm and led her away, talking urgently to her in Maltese. Sawyer heard the word Uomo mentioned. He helped himself to a mug of coffee.
Creasy took the call a few minutes later. Laura simply told him that Father Zefara had to talk to him urgently.
Creasy listened to Father Zerafa, interrupting only to ask, ‘Is she sure?’
Five minutes later, Creasy was back on the terrace of the Pensione Splendide talking to Guido. His words dripped like acid in their anger.
‘I know now who is the head of “The Blue Ring”. He is an Arab. It seems that he is more than likely Michael’s natural father.’
Chapter 89
In his entire life Colonel Mario Satta had never really confronted his mother. She was a lady who combined position, wealth, intelligence and pride, making a formidable character.
For the confrontation, he had
summoned his elder brother, Professor Giovanni Satta, from his surgical duties at the Cardarelli Hospital in Naples to back him up at the family villa in Rome. It had taken an hour to brief Giovanni; but at the end of that hour his brother had been convinced, and together they went into the drawing room to talk to their mother.
Signora Sophia Satta was seventy-four years of age and had a mind that would have turned Machiavelli dark green with envy. It had been rumoured that just before the war Mussolini had made a pass at her during a state reception. She was a tall woman. She had patted his bald head and then reached down and, through his immaculately tailored uniform trousers, had felt his genitals, smiled and said, ‘You are presumptuous both above and below the waist.’
The result was that the Satta family had spent the war in their country estate, rarely venturing to Rome.
She looked at her two sons as they sat opposite her. She tried to keep the affection and pride from her eyes. She had always castigated them for their choice of professions; but to her intimates she had always confided her pleasure.
Of course they knew this. But Colonel Mario Satta was worried that she would not believe or react to what he was about to tell her. In dealing with other people of the world he was seldom wrong, but in dealing with his mother he often made misjudgements.
She listened in total silence, glancing occasionally at her elder son, Giovanni. Mario’s briefing took more than half an hour. At the end of it she merely nodded and said, ‘I have to tell you that it is no secret to me that Emilio Gandolfo had been a puppet of everybody since the day he emerged from his mother’s womb. I have to tell you that many of the people you mentioned were also born to be puppets. Your father died young, but the reason he attracted me and persuaded me to marry him was that he could never had been anybody’s puppet.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Not even mine.’
The Blue Ring (A Creasy novel Book 3) Page 31