by Bill Cariad
“The transport will be here in two hours,” Wan Cheng-Jian curtly replied, “The necessary modifications were time-consuming, and we had not anticipated your seeming problem with timing. But of course we were not the ones monitoring Canizzaro in London, otherwise we would have prevented his leaving there. And since you mention goods,” he icily added, “in addition to art objects you were supposed to be handing over six children in mint condition, not five used ones, so an adjustment to our financial arrangement will be required. You were supposed to be in control of this project, but instead I find you falling over unwanted visitors and shouting about some Orsinni girl who is no concern of mine. Listen to you, you cannot even control yourself. ”
Woodham watched, transfixed, as the veins in Rinaldi’s neck bulged with coursing blood as he spat out his response.
“The Orsinni girl is connected to the Bartalucci family, so she’s as much your concern as mine. And you are two fucking days late, you bastard, so don’t lecture me about control.”
Woodham considered himself to be a still fit example of early fifties manhood, and in his youth had even been a useful boxer. But the recent eventful hours had virtually knocked him senseless. Apart from occasionally seeing films depicting the kind of people now in this room, nothing in reality had prepared him for this experience. Being this close to people like these was utterly debilitating, he realized, because even just listening to them seemed to drain the energy from muscles which now felt useless.
The Englishman was trembling now; he couldn’t stop it. Prior to accepting Canizzaro’s surprise offer, he knew he had been described within London’s art world as ‘a safe pair of hands.’ Standing now in a corner, literally cornered whichever way he mentally turned, he wondered how his London contemporaries would describe him now. The art curator and ex-boxer stood now in a different kind of corner and fought his trembling; wondering how the nightmare would end. For seemingly endless hours he had been running on reserves of fortitude he hadn’t realized he possessed. With his daughter’s life at stake he had been effectively neutered, rendered powerless to influence what was unfolding here. He watched and listened now, his gift of languages the only helpful tool he had left. Over the past hours he had already heard a great deal.
He now knew that, far from home and right now even further from happy, the Italian-Americans were Mafiosi members of New York’s Gambino family. The one nearest to him was apparently Frank ‘The Gorilla’ Conti. Conti was a mid-forties, medium-height, heavy-set man with a bulging stomach and thick bushy eyebrows which colour-matched the black hair covering the backs of his hands and wrists. Even without the gun which Woodham knew was holstered under his jacket, Frank Conti looked ferocious.
But during his ordeal Woodham had observed that even Conti walked softly around the other one; the tall and powerful looking one of indeterminate age with his hair swept back into a pony-tail. The one now poised like a coiled spring as he faced Ye Cheng Hok, the younger Chinaman obviously tasked to body-guard the one named Wan Cheng-Jian. Whenever the tall one moved, he did so in a manner which had made Woodham think of a big cat stalking prey. He had a soft sounding voice and hard eyes and was the one whom Woodham now also knew had, quote, ‘terminated the undercover reporter.’ Even now, in the throes of this raging argument, he was the one whom the Chinese seemed to be treating with obvious caution and respect. He was the decidedly deadly looking one whom Woodham had heard named as Carmine Forza.
Woodham forced his mind to focus on another person who was contributing to his nightmare. Appearing to be quite out of place in this frightening scenario, the thin and prim looking female in the room was Anna Lorenzo. He had learned she was Conti’s woman and that she was Corsican. From the short hair crowning a plain looking face devoid of makeup, to the non-provocative dress and sensible walking shoes, everything about her appearance benignly suggested her occupation might be that of a schoolteacher. But the Englishman had witnessed how she behaved with children, and would have given almost anything for the chance to tighten his ‘safe pair of hands’ around her neck.
Anna Lorenzo sat now on a hard-backed chair looking perfectly harmless, but Woodham had seen her clean the knife she carried strapped to her thigh and knew that she was as alert as he himself was to the ensuing situation. He also now knew that this was the woman who had masqueraded as La Befana in order to lure six children into the clutches of Luigi Rinaldi, the paedophile mobster who stood behind the office desk exchanging angry words with the representative of a Chinese Triad.
Apart from his own obviously unwelcome presence here, as far as Woodham could discern, the cause of Rinaldi’s anger was three-fold. The raging Italian-American had just been informed by telephone that contrary to Brantano’s provided itinerary, Claudio Canizzaro was scheduled to arrive in Rome this morning. Secondly, and apparently without Brantano’s knowledge, a young woman named Maria Orsinni had seemingly been appointed by Canizzaro to start work in this office this very morning. Thirdly, Wan Cheng-Jian, the Chinese man also venting his own anger, was disputing the price to be paid for kidnapped children because of their condition and because he would be one short of the six he had ordered.
“If I am forced to leave here without the paintings,” said Wan Cheng-Jian, “and my promised merchandise at a revised price, then my Triad will be forced to reconsider our arrangement with New York.”
“Oh yeah?” sneered Rinaldi, “so you are fucking threatening me now?”
Watching and listening to all of this, Robert Woodham would have rubbed his eyes and ears in disbelief had he not been dispossessed of the muscle-power to raise his arms. Clinging to the wreckage of his innate sense of humour, the Englishman told himself that the Italian-American’s rage could not have been described as towering. Standing at around four feet in height, the paedophile mobster was the smallest person in the room. Nevertheless, in the enclosed space the man’s anger was palpable and Woodham knew that nobody in this room was likely to refer to Luigi Rinaldi as a dwarf. In one way or another the Mafia man’s power was obviously known to all present, and the Englishman himself could hardly believe that such malignant evil could seemingly exist within such a diminutive form.
To what Robert Woodham knew would be his everlasting shame; last night, in the presence of his own terrified daughter being held in the grip of Carmine Forza, he had been forced to assist Anna Lorenzo set up the lighting in the basement cells. He had been made to stand with tears in his eyes whilst the children had been filmed performing sexual acts upon Brantano, Frank Conti, and Luigi Rinaldi. Had he refused to assist, Woodham had been assured of his daughter’s inclusion in the filming. And he had watched, helplessly, as a child had died from the shock of it all.
From his corner in the room, a physically and mentally bruised Robert Woodham now watched helplessly once more as eastern and western manifestations of evil appeared ready to abandon words in favour of more direct forms of violence.
Chapter Seventeen
Killing Blows
Maria Orsinni deliberately parked her car some distance from the Via Del Moro building which was her intended destination. On the Fiat’s front passenger seat was her handbag and the small tote-bag containing selective items of clothing. Deciding the tote-bag could join her suitcase in the boot for now, she quickly effected the transfer and secured the car.
This end of the street housed a small commercial parade, and Maria was unsurprised to see people moving about already despite the early hour. Almost immediately, a nearby taverna rewarded her with a view of a handsome looking man quietly setting up the establishment’s outside tables and chairs. He sketched her a wave which she returned with a smile. She saw shopkeepers busying themselves with the dressing of windows and filling of shelves, all performing the grind of regular routines with bored looking faces. Clutching the Gucci handbag which had been a gift from her late mother, Maria began her walking reconnaissance.
It was 6am a
nd she was ridiculously early for the pre-arranged meeting with Ricardo Brantano, but Tanaka’s training had partly dictated the mindset which now ruled her intent. Time spent on reconnaissance, he had said a thousand times, is never time wasted. Her own feminine curiosity and impatience had also played their part, she was beginning a journey into the unknown and was eager to see whatever sights were on offer. Now she had more time to familiarise herself with the general location, whilst soaking up the atmosphere surrounding the building which would be her workplace. So she was at peace with her mindset.
Maria allowed herself the smile with the silent confession that she was now excited by all the things which other people probably took for granted. She was excited to be out here on an unfamiliar street with birdsong in her ears and a spring in her step. She was excited at the sight of normal looking dwelling places which didn’t knowingly house members of the Bartalucci family. She was telling herself that the sense of freedom was euphoric, until her peripheral vision picked out something which abruptly closed down the euphoria.
Regardless of whatever camouflage they might choose to conceal themselves with, there were two forms of Homo-Sapiens that Maria Orsinni could recognise on sight. One of them was Mafiosi and the other was Carabiniere, and as Maria neared her target building she spotted two of the latter attempting to make themselves inconspicuous in doorways across the street. They were actually quite good, she automatically registered, realizing that had she driven all the way to Canizzaro’s building she probably wouldn’t have seen them. Then above her head the birdsong became more of an agitated chatter, and only her eyes moved to the roof of a building across the street to identify the head and shoulders shape of another watcher.
From the moment of her first sighting, Maria’s physical movement had been entirely natural. Anyone observing the scene would have witnessed a young woman’s steady pace being brought to a halt as her facial expression signalled sudden panic. A male watcher might have chuckled at the frantic search inside a handbag, and would certainly have admired the shape of the now annoyed looking subject of his attention who began retracing her steps to retrieve what had obviously been left behind.
Maria quickly returned to her starting point, but she had been on full alert as she did so and had not spotted any more watchers. Satisfied that both she and the parked Fiat were clear of any carabiniere surveillance, she paused beside the car and allowed her busy thoughts to run free. Formative years spent within the Bartalucci environment had made her aware of how these things normally worked. So she had already deduced that, given the early hour, the carabiniere surveillance team had probably been in position all night. A deduction which came with the inescapable conclusion that Canizzaro’s building was being watched for a substantive reason. A conclusion which was worrying her. So she was now questioning the idea of becoming involved in whatever was going on. Lacking information, her intervention might simply make matters worse. She suddenly recalled her father’s words, ‘I spoke to Ricardo Brantano, a man I did not like the sound of...,’ and wondered what the experienced consigliere had heard in the voice of Canizzaro’s office manager.
Maria exhaled an exasperated breath, just an hour ago she had been dismissive of the thought that any difficulty could be attached to the job of office assistant. Yet here she stood on the first day of her contract, seemingly confronted with a major problem before she’d even set foot inside the office. Here she stood, wondering what to do, seemingly unable to reach a decision. She and Tanaka had role-played countless scenarios which might at any time signal the need for her special skills, but he had always warned that her own judgement would be the only finger which could actually pull the trigger. ‘Am I seriously considering’, she silently questioned, ‘placing myself between whatever the trouble is, and the carabiniere? Am I overreacting here?’
That indecisive thought was immediately followed by Tanaka’s voice in her head. ‘An over-reaction can be corrected, but an inadequate reaction can be fatal.’ And in that instant she reached her decision. Whatever was going in inside Canizzaro’s building, no matter what the consequences of action might be, she was the one who had been contracted to assist the man who obviously still respected the memory of her late mother. And she couldn’t assist the man from where she was standing now. She unlocked the car’s luggage compartment and leaned in to discard her handbag before opening the tote-bag from which she extracted the special brassiere and boots. She then stood upright to casually scan her immediate surroundings, and, satisfied no-one was watching, unzipped her tunic-top and took it off along with her ordinary brassiere. She re-housed her breasts in the special leather brassiere, then re-donned the zippered tunic-top.
Maria then moved to the side of the car, opened a door, and sat down to remove the flat-soled shoes. Grunting softly with the effort, she quickly pulled on the calf-length leather boots. She rose to her feet and allowed her slacks to fall onto the stylish looking boots. She also allowed herself the grim smile with the knowledge that should she be required to kick some sense into anyone, the concealed steel toe-caps would certainly make the task easier. She was feeling better already, she had her knives and her boots. Another of Tanaka’s teachings sounded in her head, Those who prepare for the worst, will be better equipped to give of their best. She closed and locked the car door, bent to place the car-key on top of a front tyre, and set off again in the direction of the Canizzaro building whilst paying silent homage to Tanaka. Thanks to the Japanese-American she was mentally prepared for the worst, and thanks to two Italians she was certainly equipped to give of her best. The reassuring proof of this last fact was hidden under her tunic-top. In addition to its standard function, the special leather brassiere was also a Florentine-crafted double shoulder harness. Snug under each arm, the spring-grip twin-echeloned sheaths held the flat steel throwing knives. Commissioned by Paolo, the four knives had been fashioned by a Catanian Blacksmith of the original ‘Brotherhood’. Each knife comprised a specially weighted fillet of hardened brass keyed to, and forming the back of, a six-inch flat steel blade. Another slim fillet of brass acted as the counterweight cross-guard to the strip of bone serving as the grip which nestled at the top of its allotted sheath.
In Maria’s Sicilian birthplace of Catania, a select few of the village elders were known as ‘The Men of Knowledge’. The Blacksmith belonged to this exclusive club, and both he and his fellows had been in agreement; To grip and withdraw, adjust your grip to find the balance without losing skin, all whilst calculating distances and aiming and throwing to successfully strike your target, required skill and precision, an exceptionally good eye, and a natural affinity with the weapon. The Blacksmith had been accused of spending too much time over a hot anvil when he had attempted to describe his witnessed variations of the throw, combined with the speed and accuracy of the Orsinni girl.
The carabiniere surveillance team on the ground were very good, Maria registered anew as she reached the spot where she had earlier performed her forgetful-female pantomime. They had changed their locations, and she glimpsed different-patterned evidence of their wearing reversible jackets. The two on the ground were still using shadow like the professionals she knew them to be, but there was no sign of the one she’d spotted earlier on a roof-top.
She had to think fast as she reached the arched double-doors fronting Canizzaro’s building. She had intended walking past in the first instance, with a half-formed idea of working her way round to the rear of the building, but the small door inset into one of the large arched double doors was invitingly ajar. Realizing that hesitation on her part would send the wrong signal to the watchers behind her, she took a deep breath and pushed the small door fully open. She stepped through the opening to find herself in an enclosed stone-clad courtyard and facing three parked cars. Without turning round she fingered the small door, leaving it ajar again.
From an open window, on the other side of the parked cars, Maria heard raised voices.
&nb
sp; The car carrying Sergio Sabbatini and his sergeant was quietly brought to a halt just short of the arched double-doors fronting the Canizzaro building on the Via Del Moro. It was 6-20am. A shape detached itself from a darkened doorway and approached the car, and Zola wound down his window to listen to the softly-voiced surveillance report.
Sergio was relieved to hear that the unmarked van carrying the elite carabiniere squad had arrived, and was parked out of sight awaiting his possible signal. But Sergio groaned as he heard the news which meant his own early arrival now counted for nothing. The female reported to have just entered the Canizzaro building could be none other than the one he had been ordered to prevent from doing so.
“What do we do now?” asked Zola.
Sergio Sabbatini was still thinking about that as the unmistakeable sound of a shot came from within Canizzaro’s building.
On her stealthy courtyard journey, Maria Orsinni had palmed the bonnets of the parked cars to discover that one of the engines was still cooling down. So she now knew that there had been recent arrivals here, and that this would also have been logged by the outside watchers.
She stood now inside a corridor, and outside a closed door behind which she could hear two male voices angrily competing for dominance. She listened, hoping to hear different sounds which would reveal how many others were on the other side of the door. The worst case scenario was briefly worrying, three parked cars could mean that behind this door twelve or more people awaited her. She dismissed that calculation, silently guessed a more likely one, and mentally braced herself to confront half that number. How many of a possible six would be friendly, and how many of that number were the reason the carabiniere were watching this place, she couldn’t even begin to guess at. Maria could feel the hairs on her neck stiffening and knew there was perspiration on her forehead. These were familiar sensations, so she ignored them. Yet despite her fierce focus, she couldn’t seem to control her thoughts. Thoughts which were currently racing all over the place. Thoughts which were making her hesitate.