In the Mouth of the Wolf

by Jamie Fredric

  Still staying behind the trees, Bruno shouted at the men driving the trucks, waving them toward him. “Hey! Andiamo! Get those Americani in here!”

  “We need some help!” Russo shouted back. “Give us a hand!”

  Bruno led the way through the trees, stopping just outside the tree line. “The three of you go,” he said, waving his hand forward, trying to hold the lamp higher.

  Once the Italians were past the trees, Grant moved closer to the entrance, seeing Moore staring at him, waiting for orders. Grant pointed at him, then pointed to the cave. Moore held a thumb up, looked toward the tree line, then edged his way closer to the entrance before reaching for his knife. Looking at Grant one more time, he saw Grant’s final nod. He rounded the corner and disappeared into the cave.

  Grant continued creeping closer to the trees. His timing would have to be perfect.

  Chapter 16

  Stradale Bellolampo, Palermo

  0700 hours

  Light from the early morning sun slowly broke through a thin layer of clouds and volcano smoke drifting across the horizon. Luigi Castalani was asleep, slouched down behind the steering wheel, with his head resting against the seat. He began to stir as he felt the warm light against his eyelids. Finally, his brain kicked in, and bolting upright, he grabbed hold of the steering wheel and shook his head.

  He opened the door and got out. By the time he had arrived in Palermo, it was way beyond a reasonable time to see Falcone. He decided to pull off the road and call it a night.

  He walked around to the front of the car, looking north along the route of Stradale Bellolampo, looking up to the villa perched on top of a hill, to the villa of Pino Falcone.

  Castalani had dreams beyond becoming part of the higher echelon of the Falcone organization. His dreams included the villa he was looking at. He glanced at his watch. “It is time.” Getting back into the car, he started the engine then pulled onto the blacktop.

  Fifteen minutes later he drove up to the eight-foot high, wrought-iron security gate leading to the main house. A guard, wearing casual workman’s clothes consisting of dark pants, black sweater, jacket, and cap, came to the gate. As he leaned toward the gate, his jacket fell open, revealing a holstered pistol.

  Castalani rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “I’m Luigi Castalani. I’d like to see Don Falcone.” Castalani didn’t recognize this guard, but it was a habit of Falcone’s to give his bodyguard’s different assignments around the property.

  Without a response, the man went to a small guardhouse near the end of the fence, and used an intercom to announce Castalani’s arrival. Returning to the gate, he unlocked it, swung it outward, then waved Castalani through.

  The single lane driveway was nearly three hundred yards long, lined on both sides with tall, graceful Italian cypress. Beyond the cypress and off to the right was a grove of cork trees. Each tree can be harvested twelve times during its lifetime, with all the work being done by hand using a small axe.

  Castalani enviously thought about the extra income Falcone was making off this grove of trees.

  At the end of the drive, the view opened up. Falcone’s two-story home was built entirely of concrete and finished with stucco, painted in the popular Italian color of burnt orange. The house was positioned at the very top of the hill, allowing him a three hundred sixty degree view, with his favorite view overlooking the beautiful blue Tyrrhenian Sea and the Golfo di Palermo, the location of his warehouse.

  Castalani turned off the main driveway, and followed a secondary drive that curved in front of the house. He brought the car to a stop under a portico supported by two large, marble pillars, fashioned from stone originally cut from the quarry in Carrara. Michelangelo selected blocks of marble from this quarry to fashion many of his works of art.

  After parking the car in front of the main entrance, Castalani got out, and stood momentarily in deep thought, imagining his upcoming conversation with Falcone. Finally, he walked toward the house and climbed three black marble steps. Standing in front of the wooden, hand-carved, double front doors, he started to reach for the doorbell, when one of Falcone’s bodyguards opened it partially.

  Castalani removed his cap. “I would like to speak to Don Falcone.”

  Without responding, the bodyguard motioned for him to enter, allowing Castalani entry into the massive, opulent-designed hallway. The floors were covered with white, Travertine marble, the shiniest he’d ever seen. As he followed the man further down the hallway, he glanced overhead at the twenty-five foot tall ceiling, and hanging directly above him was one of the biggest chandeliers he’d ever seen, made entirely of Murano glass. Murano is a small island off Venice known for its spectacular, hand-blown, expensive glassware.

  A maid stepped out of a room that appeared to be a small library. She was carrying a whisk broom and dustpan that had shards of glass in it. Castalani glanced beyond the door, noticing broken glass scattered around the furniture. The earthquake did some damage here, too. He remembered his trip from the cave and the number of times he had to drive around rocks and fallen trees.

  He followed the bodyguard as he turned left into another short hallway. Both sides were lined with original, expensive artwork. Castalani thought that none of these were quite his taste. All would have to be removed. At the end of the hall was an expansive dining room, probably measuring thirty by forty with floor to ceiling windows along the north and south walls. Falcone had a large family and the long, rectangular chestnut table in the center could accommodate at least thirty.

  Sitting at the far end was Pino Falcone, wearing a dark blue silk robe. His thick gray hair was combed neatly and he was clean shaven. A housekeeper stepped near him and began putting his breakfast dishes on a large, wooden tray.

  Falcone folded the morning edition of the Italian newspaper La Reppublica and placed it on the edge of the table. He selected a ripe, red pear from the fruit bowl then picked up a small paring knife.

  The bodyguard stopped Castalani from proceeding further until he got a nod from his boss. Only then was Castalani allowed to approach.

  “Buon giorno, Don Falcone,” Castalani respectfully said.

  Falcone finally motioned with the knife, pointing to a chair, for Castalani to sit.

  Still showing respect, Castalani chose to sit two seats away and slid an ornate, high-backed wooden chair across the floor. He sat stiffly, unable to relax. Silently, he chastised himself for acting like a weakling in front of Falcone, but he had to continue the charade. What he failed to think about was that no one questioned his arrival, his visit. None of the bodyguards had, and so far neither had Falcone.

  Falcone cut a thin slice of pear. Using the tip of the knife, he jabbed it into the fruit, pulling the piece off with his teeth. He looked at Castalani through eyes that gave nothing away, eyes reflecting no emotion whatsoever. When he finished chewing and had swallowed the fruit, he finally asked, “What brings you here this morning, Luigi?”

  Castalani moved closer to the edge of his seat, resting a forearm on the table. “I have succeeded in finding weaponry that will bring us... you more money, more power, and more recognition, Don Falcone.”

  Falcone put the last half of pear on a small dish in front of him. He wiped his mouth with a gold cloth napkin, then dropped it on the table. Pushing his chair away from the table, he slowly stood, then turned away and walked to a large, plate glass window. “Come, Luigi. Join me.”

  Castalani felt more relieved, if only because of the tone of Falcone’s voice. He stepped next to the man who controlled all of Palermo and beyond.

  Continuing to look out across his property and to the sea, Falcone said, “Now tell me, Luigi, what is this weaponry you have and from where was it obtained?”

  Castalani took his time and named each piece of weaponry, leaving the most important for last. “I have stored six canisters that contain the nerve gas Sarin.”

  Falcone slid his hands into his robe’s pockets. “And you stole these from. . .?�
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  Castalani hesitated in telling Falcone the truth, but quickly reasoned it would be better not to lie. “From the American compound, located southwest of Catania. The weaponry isn’t American, Don Falcone, but German made. When Germany invaded our island, they constructed an underground tunnel, storing munitions, expecting to use them during the war.”

  “And have you planned on how to use these... these things, these canisters?”

  Castalani was beginning to feel elated. “Don’t you see, Don Falcone, there may be no need to actually use them.” He turned and faced Falcone, spreading his hands out in front of him. “All that needs to be done is to let it be known that we have the gas. Just the intimation alone should get us. . .get you whatever you demand.”

  “Let me ask you something, Luigi. Whoever it is we threaten, what do you propose be done if they refuse to give in?”

  “Why, use the gas, of course. We would not back down, or show weakness as we have in the past.”

  Castalani referred to how Italy was perceived during and after World War II.

  “You do not think there would be any retaliation against us?”

  “Not as long as we had more of the gas, Don Falcone. No one has any idea on how much we have in our possession.”

  Falcone couldn’t believe that statement. How could Castalani not think the Americans were aware of exactly what and how much was taken? Castalani would not be advancing within the organization. He was a fool. His intelligence was lower than the sheep grazing in the field.

  Falcone turned away and walked back to the table, picking up a crystal glass filled with water. He took a sip, then took the glass with him as he went near Castalani again, not looking at the man when he asked, “And Luigi, when did you intend to tell me about ‘La Mano del Diavolo’?” That’s when he stepped in front of Castalani, nearly toe to toe with him, with his dark eyes seeming to penetrate right through to Castalani’s soul.

  Castalani’s face drained of all color, as he tried to explain. “That is how I was able to accomplish what I did, Don Falcone. Without my group, there would not have been success.”

  “Hmm. Your group was put together behind my back, Luigi. And let me ask you this. Exactly where did you get the weapons you needed for this group?” Castalani’s mouth went completely dry, but before he regained any sort of composure, Falcone asked another question. “Do you have any idea who came to visit me, Luigi?” Castalani shook his head, then jumped when Falcone’s voice boomed in his face. “The CIA! I had a visit from an Agent Fierra! He specifically came here from the American Embassy in Naples to tell me about you and your group! Why did it have to be him to bring me the news, Luigi?” Letting that sink into Castalani’s brain, Falcone added, “I did not tell the agent that I already knew of your group.” Falcone paused briefly before asking, “Are you going to explain to me why you went behind my back?”

  Castalani’s eyes were burning from the sweat dripping into them. There wasn’t any way he was going to be able to bluff his way out of this. “I am sorry, Don Falcone. I just thought I would take the initiative, to show you I was able to think for myself, to come up with a way to help you and the Family. I’m sorry for offending you, Don Falcone.” Castalani bent low as if in respect, when, in fact, he couldn’t look Falcone in the eye. . .he didn’t want to look Falcone in the eye.

  Falcone mulled over his options. He touched Castalani on the shoulder. “Luigi, your Uncle Francesco has been with me a long time, and he has been loyal all those years. He is a man I respect and trust. You will need to regain my trust. Do you understand?”

  Castalani inhaled deeply, almost choking on the air going down his throat. “Yes, Don Falcone.”

  Falcone glanced at his gold watch. This twenty minute meeting had lasted long enough. He put a hand on Castalani’s back. “Luigi, I want you to go to my warehouse. You will need to give me more details about these weapons you have and where you have stored them. I have another meeting scheduled this morning, then I’ll meet you before noon. Perhaps I can invite your uncle to join us.” He waved for his bodyguard. “Escort Signore Castalani to his car.”

  Falcone watched Castalani drive away, then he went to his phone.

  As Castalani drove toward the security gate, he thought about Falcone’s words, about his attempt to “sweet talk” him, to try to hide his total contempt for what he, Castalani, had done.

  Once through the gate, Castalani stepped on the gas, determined to get to Conza cave immediately, to his men, to the weapons and containers stockpiled there. A new plan had just evolved.

  Chapter 17

  Conza Cave

  Light from the lamp filtered through the lower branches. Grant could see that the Italian had set it on the ground. Easing his body through the prickly branches, he saw someone not more than six feet away from him, pacing back and forth. The other three men were approaching the truck that had carried the team.

  Russo opened the driver side door and leaned out, shouting, “Andiamo! Andiamo!”

  Bruno’s concentration was totally focused on the truck. All he wanted to do was just get the damn Americans into the cave. He was completely unaware of the danger lurking behind him.

  Grant was within arm’s reach of him, waiting for his moment. Keeping his eyes glued to his victim’s back, Grant heard some commotion near the truck. Bruno took a half step forward when Grant threw an arm around his neck, his forearm pressing against the throat, cutting off oxygen, his other hand pressing the back of the head forward. Bruno’s body started sagging but Grant wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t relieve the pressure he was forcing against the throat.

  With Grant and his victim literally “in the spotlight” from headlights shining on them, and visible to the team, the Americans had their chance.

  Russo jumped from the cab, raised his Uzi and shouted in Italian, “Drop your weapons! Hands up! Hands up!”

  Grant anticipated what was about to happen and dropped to the ground, dragging the body down, using it as a shield.

  The three Italians stopped in their tracks, initially confused. But Gallo and Luca reacted like the robots they were, quickly sliding their Uzis off their shoulders. The team in the back of the truck opened up with their weapons. Bullets from the Italians’ guns sprayed across the front of the truck then into the air as the two men fell back, hitting the ground solidly. Conti fired his weapon as he spun around in pain, falling to the ground, unconscious. Grant heard the stray bullets impacting against the stone wall behind him.

  “It’s me, sir,” Moore said, warning Grant before stepping out from behind the trees. He reached for Grant’s outstretched hand, pulling him from under Bruno’s lifeless body.

  Grant shouted, “Everybody else okay?”

  “Affirmative!” Russo shouted back. “A bullet grazed Paul’s arm, but he said he’s okay.” He got out of the cab and ran over to Conti, kicking away the man’s weapon. “Got a live one here, but probably not for long. He caught a couple bullets in his chest and thigh. Looks like an artery’s been hit.”

  The rest of the men cautiously approached the two bulky forms laying in front of the truck. Dark patches of red started soaking their clothes. Cranston and Womack knelt next to each man, checking the carotid arteries for a pulse. Cranston reported, “Two dead.”

  Walking up the incline, Adler said, “Time for me to do my thing.”

  “Go,” Grant responded, giving a quick smile, thinking it was one of the only times Adler actually followed his orders. Then he turned to Moore. “What’s your body count in the cave?”

  “Just one. Have to tell you, there’s a shit-load of stuff in there,” he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Gotta be thankful, though, Ray.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “Well, guess none of that gas is leaking, right?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah! Roger that, sir. Roger that!”

  Grant looked around. “Jesus! More bodies.” He wasn’t about to transport them back to AFN. He shouted and pointe
d toward the trucks, “Get those bodies in the cave!” He started walking down the incline, standing over the Italian on the ground. “How’s he doin’?”

  Russo knelt, checked for a pulse, then looked up at Grant, shaking his head.

  Under his breath, Grant said, “And we’ve still got the one tied up.” He took off his hat, rubbed a hand over his head, then turned back up the hill, slapping his hat against his thigh.

  Adler was kneeling next to the mortars when Grant walked in and asked, “Can you safe this stuff while we’re here?” He looked around in almost disbelief at what had been stolen from AFN.

  Adler got up and pushed his hat back with a thumb. “Not if you want to get out of here today.”

  Moore came near them, with the rest of the team following close. “We’ve got some bad news.”

  “Speak,” Grant said.

  “That gunfire killed the engine on one of the trucks.”

  Grant sucked in a lungful of air as he dropped his head back. “Shit!” Settling his eyes back on Moore, he asked, “Tell me it can at least be towed outta here.”

  Moore shook his head. “Not with pancaked tires.”

  Grant rubbed a hand across his face in total frustration. “How the hell are we gonna get this stuff outta here?” He started pacing back and forth, trying to rub the knot out of his neck. He hesitated only briefly before he answered himself. “We aren’t gonna get this stuff out of here.”

  Adler stepped next to him and started to speak. “We. . .”

  “Joe, do you think those canisters are safe to move?”