by Bill Cariad
“Jet lag,” said Burbeck, sounding embarrassed. “Always knocks me out.”
The Mercedes quietly moved under the shadowy canopy of Admiralty Arch into Whitehall, and the London Station Chief mentally braced himself for the forthcoming meeting. The pragmatist in him understood perfectly his government’s need to keep pace with the technology involved in order to stay ahead of the Soviets. And after four years of rubbing shoulders with the self-effacing and deceptively clever British counterparts within his own trade, along with the entrepreneurial CEO’s of many other professions, he personally hadn’t been surprised to learn that the low-profile Brits’ were seemingly far ahead of anything anyone else had produced in this contentious field of technological wizardry.
But Harry Albright still couldn’t get his head around the fact that he was about to attend a meeting which would effectively condone what any court in this land or his own would rightly label selected child abuse and murder. A meeting which, his own director had confirmed by phone three days ago, would ultimately give its blessing to America’s Central Intelligence Agency taking responsibility for the baby-sitting of the seemingly perverted genius who had been officially described as ‘Utterly indispensible’ to the now top priority Shrivenham project.
So in the winter of his career, the CIA London Station Chief had been condemned to yet another variation of real-politik. Whilst he was producing the scientific goods for Great Britain and the USA, Theo Burbeck’s ‘boy’ would continue to be allowed his freedom of movement. Freedom to go on performing his bestial extra-curriculum activities within the protective and invisible bubble provided by the largest intelligence agency on the planet.
Harry Albright quietly sighed with the thought that if confirmation had ever been needed, he very definitely had it now. Because the concrete jungle he’d once occupied within New York’s Bronx district, had never been as cold and as hard and as pitiless as the one he inhabited now.
The Mercedes slowed before turning off the street to halt facing the steel-mesh gate set into the facade of the anonymous Whitehall building. Identification was flourished by Albright’s driver, checked and verified by one of the two uniformed and armed police sentries, the gate was electronically opened, and the car was waved through to descend into the underground garage.
A darkly foreboding Whitehall sky outside the windows of toughened glass had earlier thrown the gloom around the room currently containing the two men, and from the ornately corniced ceiling two crystal chandeliers now sparkled with electrically induced brightness. Concealed amongst the chandelier’s glittering crystal droplets, the high-performance listening devices were invisible to the naked eye. Eight hard-backed chairs vacantly awaited occupation around the large table where the two Knights of the English realm appropriately sat facing a wall upon which hung a framed copy of Annigoni’s young Queen Elizabeth.
Sir Thomas Mulhall, the snowy-haired one with the thin face atop a slim body, was the Whitehall mandarin charged with brokering this particular clandestine activity involving his government’s Ministry of Defence and the intelligence services of Great Britain and America. The man seated beside him in the room was Sir Colin Spriggs. Although also white-haired, Spriggs had the body of an ex-rugby prop-forward and the kind of rosy-cheeked face every still-innocent toddler probably associated with an image of Father Christmas. But Spriggs was no benevolent Santa Claus, he was the current Director General of Britain’s MI5.
“Special Branch have phoned an apology,” murmured Mulhall, “Their man can’t make it.”
Glancing down the table and picturing the scene to come, Spriggs was tempted to make a crack about just the two of them up against the magnificent seven. He decided not to.
The room’s floor was carpeted, a wall-to-wall layer of chocolate brown, and its walls themselves wore a covering of eggshell-blue emulsion. Apart from the table and chairs, the room was bereft of any other furniture. The table dominated the room, solidly standing centre-stage, a no-frills modern looking piece of polished Maplewood with sturdy legs. Each of its place-settings was marked by an individual carafe of water topped by an empty glass, and at first glance the scene could almost have suggested that this was a company boardroom prepped for its directors to urgently convene on serious matters perhaps relating to their firm’s market share or its annual accounts. A second glance at the place-settings would have questioned the evident absence of agenda sheets or materials for taking notes.
Mulhall and Spriggs might have been amused by this suggestion of innocence had it been voiced, as over recent past dealings with one another the two had discovered a shared sense of humour. For they were indeed both arbiters of the fate of others, albeit not those directors of the overt commercial variety, and, in a sense, they were shortly about to discuss ‘market-share’ of a sort. The major difference was that their market traded in secrets and they were about to share an important part of it with an organization which, whilst somewhat compatible with their own home-grown varieties, was also understandably considered to be foreign competition. But even the notion of publishing accounts of this forthcoming meeting would not have amused. Accountability was another matter entirely, and any talk of profit and loss would shortly be calculated differently here by all concerned. The silence was broken again by Mulhall.
“MI6 won’t be coming, either. They’re aware of the Italian element of course. But should our man travel there again, the decision making and damage control will fall to the CIA.”
Spriggs refrained from comment, not really concerned about MI6 ’s territorial interests. He had other things on his mind. He was currently torn between relief that he would no longer be responsible for monitoring and concealing the movements and actions of a monster, and his professional misgivings about entrusting that responsibility to a foreign service not renowned for its light-handed approach.
“You come out of this rather well, old chap,” said Mulhall behind a wintry smile, “How might our American cousins summarise? The Shrivenham buck neatly passed to them, and all you have to do is provide backup when asked for it.” The wintry smile reappeared with his addition, “A form of request which we both know their professional pride will not allow them to make.”
Spriggs refused the bait, his thoughts in conflict with it. Knowing that neither of them could claim to have come out of this affair rather well. They had stood by and allowed children to be slaughtered, and he found himself unable to meet the eyes of young Elizabeth on the wall. He could feel his frustration bubbling inside him. An outlet was required. He couldn’t look his Queen in the eyes, but he could challenge Mulhall.
“What do you imagine,” he asked, the bitterness sharpening his tone, “her gracious majesty, a mother herself, would think now of us, her gallant Knights?”
Sir Thomas Mulhall gazed back at him for several silent seconds. The thin face was now devoid of any recognizable expression. The definitive serious poker player’s face. No smile. No hint of the cards he held, or the discovered and mutually shared humour. No sign of remorse.
“Her gracious majesty,” replied Mulhall, his own voice sounding calm, “is spared from ever having to think about the matters which concern you and I on a regular basis. Which is as it should be, as I’m sure you would agree.” The mandarin’s face was suddenly transformed as the wintry smile reappeared, “and just because we’re gallant Knights of the realm, Colin, doesn’t mean we don’t have to shovel up any shit left behind by the peasants.”
Sir Colin Spriggs had no reply to offer to that, and simply sighed quietly as additional thoughts refused omission. The Yanks would eventually swallow their pride and ask for help, and providing backup would not be without its operational difficulties. Nor would it be immune to potential political fallout. When the shit Mulhall had referred to finally hit the fan, who would eventually decide what to do about it? A guaranteed-to-be-politically-dithering Whitehall? A conflicting MI5 or MI6? Or a wholly unpr
edictable CIA?
The sudden sound of knuckles rapping the room’s door signalled the arrival of the others, and Sir Colin Spriggs attempted to clear his mind as he rose to his feet and prepared to meet and greet. He was still avoiding the eyes of his Queen, and was glad she couldn’t hear what was about to be discussed in this particular part of her kingdom.
Chapter Seven
A New Dawn - A New Don
Rome, Italy, January, 1985
Unlike the more widely known palatial dwelling within Rome’s Citta Del Vaticano, outside the Bartalucci stronghold on the Via Angelo Emo, when such occasions arose, there was no throng of worshippers patiently waiting for the white signal-smoke to spiral heavenwards its proclamation of leadership change. To those in the know however, the short burst of rain which fell on the first dawn of the first day of 1985 was acceptably symbolic. It heralded a blood-line transfusion and a new king for changing times.
Having successfully forged vital alliances and safely steered his family through three years of Mafia wars, Carmine Bartalucci would henceforth content himself with perambulation around his beloved garden, tape-recorder on his lap and the strains of operatic divas in his ears. Giovanni Orsinni would be allowed to spend his remaining days alone with his regrets. To perhaps compare what he had given to the past, against what was offered to him by the future. As expected within the ‘family’, Gino Buscharpa had been appointed as the new consigliere to the new Don. A protégé of the outgoing Orsinni, Buscharpa was considered to be just as cunning as his Machiavellian mentor. Antonio Bartalucci’s forty year old newly crowned head would now be turned to the kind of challenge faced by any new broom, namely proving itself to be more efficient than its predecessor.
Fittingly for a new ruler in such close proximity to the Vatican, divine dispensation was the first subject raised following his coronation. During his own reign, Carmine Bartalucci had created a precedent. Giovanni Orsinni’s children had been granted the freedom to leave the Bartalucci environment in order to make their own respective ways along the paths their penitent father had prepared for them.
Antonio Bartalucci was now listening to his father expressing the wish that the precedent be rescinded. Fears were being voiced concerning Giovanni’s daughter, Maria Orsinni.
Chapter Eight
Friendship and Honour
Rome, Italy, January 1985
Fate had decreed that she should shed her twenty-year-old skin on the same day that the Sicilian Mafia’s powerful Bartalucci family was appointing its new Don. Which was not the main reason Maria Orsinni knew she would never forget her twenty-first birthday. As 1984’s calendar was being replaced by its successor; as around the world people were still celebrating the start of a new year; Maria was attending the second of three services resulting from the death of her mother. Defying all predictions, the woman had lived a year longer than had been expected.
Normal rules of practice rarely played any part in Bartalucci family affairs; particularly if they needed something only someone else could supply. Therefore no concessions had been made to this traditional holiday time of year, or to its domestic demands upon anyone in the business of funerals and their related services. So, yesterday, the chauffeured funeral car carrying immediate family only, had followed the hearse in slow procession to the appointed destination. Inside the crematorium a simple eulogy had been read, the deceased had been duly cremated, and the three surviving Orsinni family members had been transported back to their starting point.
Very early this morning, as 1985 awakened to its first day, the carefully prepared ashes of the deceased had been delivered to the securely guarded Bartalucci compound situated on Roma’s Via Angelo Emo. All those who had been selected to sacrifice quality family time in order to perform these various tasks on New Year’s eve and New Year’s day, had wisely not been heard to complain whilst doing so.
Today’s third and more public service of remembrance was being conducted inside the private chapel which stood in the grounds of the Bartalucci compound. The woman being remembered had been the wife of Giovanni Orsinni, the still respected but now ex-Bartalucci consigliere, and the fuller attendance reflected both that and the fact that the woman herself had been loved and admired by many present here today.
Maria Orsinni was dressed in black, like Paolo beside her, and brother and sister watched now as the ornate silver box containing their mother’s ashes was handed to their father by the priest. As their mother had wished, the ashes would ultimately be scattered on a hillside in the woman’s Sicilian birthplace of Catania. Some individuals were approaching the widower now, murmuring their words of condolence and respect, and Maria didn’t resist when Paolo took her arm and led her outside the chapel and away from the crowd.
“Our mother,” said Paolo, “would not have wished your twenty-first birthday to fall on this day. But she would have wished that I kiss your cheek and say buon compleanno! on her behalf.”
Maria’s sad smile now was for her mother, as she offered it in return for her brother’s ‘happy birthday’ words and received his tender kiss.
“I will leave you now, little sister,” said Paolo quietly, “before he comes. Should you ever need me for anything, you know where you can find me.”
Maria had been expecting this and was therefore unsurprised by Paolo’s timing. She knew that he would not wait to embrace his father, or offer any of his own words of condolence or respect. The gulf between father and son had grown too wide, and could certainly never be bridged by a death which she suspected Paolo held his father responsible for.
Men and women were emerging from the chapel now, their respects duly paid, their conversations already beginning on subjects unconnected to today’s event. People with their own agendas for the day still ahead of them, spilling on to the driveway filled by cars watched over by waiting chauffeurs. One or two of the recent mourners glanced to where Maria stood with Paolo.
“Buona fortune, Maria,” said Paolo, kissing her cheek again.
“Good luck to you also, brother,” she responded, “Don’t forget to control that temper of yours.”
“Now you sound like our mother, little sister,” he said in return, turning away from her with a smile which suggested he was leaving her with a message she should understand.
Maria’s thoughts were regretful as her brother turned away; she regretted now not having shared with Paolo, more of her own feelings during the period of their mother’s illness. She wished now that she had shared her knowledge with her older brother. But their mother had been adamant, only her daughter should know the truth of matters. Maria sighed at the memory of making her pledge of silence, and sighed again at its consequences. Each then aware of Paolo’s volatile nature, and fearful of his reaction towards Giovanni Orsinni should he learn the truth, she had honoured a mother’s wish that the son should remain ignorant of the disease which had destroyed her. But as she watched him leave now, not knowing when she would see him again, Maria realized that her earlier suspicion had been correct. Paolo had probably known all along, and would never forgive the sins of the father. She hoped he would forgive his sister.
Two females stood together chatting as they waited for husbands to leave the chapel. “Such a handsome rascal, that Paolo,” said one, “He’s leaving us, Carla, did you know?”
“No, I didn’t,” replied Carla, instantly furious that Theresa knew something she did not, making a mental note to chastise her husband for failing to keep her informed, “Where is he going?”
“To quote my husband,” said Theresa, knowing that would sting Carla, “he’s joining some outfit which provides bodyguards to the frightened wealthy.” Theresa savoured her pause before delivering the verbal knock-out punch, “And you’ll never guess where Maria is going.”
Carla added to her mental note; her husband would go without sex tonight. “Where is Maria going?” she asked through her
teeth.
“She’s taking up some kind of position in Rome with Claudio Canizzaro,” announced Theresa, visibly struggling to wait for Carla’s reaction.
“But isn’t he...?” began Carla.
“Yes he is,” interjected Theresa, unable to wait any longer, “Claudio Canizzaro is the man from whom Giovanni Orsinni stole the woman fated to be his wife.”
“Mother of God,” breathed Carla, staring at the subject of Theresa’s news.
Maria ignored the stares of two women standing by the waiting cars, and moved to join her father who had appeared in the chapel doorway. She remained by his side until everyone had paid their final respects, as she knew her mother would have wished her to do. Despite the fact that she knew her father’s past infidelities with diseased prostitutes had poisoned the body and mind of her mother and hastened the woman’s death. When the last hand had been clasped and everyone was gone, Maria acceded to the surprise request that she accompany her father back inside the chapel. He still held the silver box as she slowly walked by his side, and his words sounded loud in the quiet chapel.
“Thank you, my child,” said Giovanni Orsinni, “I could not have endured this without your presence here today.”
Maria was silent. Her first thought being one of sadness; he hadn’t mentioned Paolo. She couldn’t always tell whether or not her father was being sincere, but thought that this time, on balance, he probably had been. They had just about reached the chapel’s altar, where Father Belinni stood alone and smiling the standard priest’s smile as they approached him. Seemingly waiting to receive an Orsinni blessing, was Maria’s irreverent thought. Then she switched mental gears as a doorway off to the side of the chapel opened, and the wheelchair bearing the frail looking figure of the deposed Don Carmine Bartalucci was pushed through and brought to a halt beside the priest. The man behind the wheelchair was Carmine’s son, Antonio, the new Bartalucci Don. An expectant silence lasted mere seconds.