The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  Staring across his office desk, the Colonel’s face was expressionless as he read Sabbatini’s body language. What was written there was taking him by surprise, stifling the initial response he might have voiced, and he smothered the smile as he paused to thoughtfully review the matters which had been under discussion. Antonio Bartalucci, the new monarch on the Bartalucci throne, was of course known to the carabiniere. As was Gino Buscharpa, the consigliere who had replaced Giovanni Orsinni. But there was still too much they didn’t know about the inner workings of the Bartalucci family. The Colonel reached inside his desk drawer for a file as his thoughts ran on. Inevitably there would be many other changes made now by the new hierarchy of the most powerful Mafia family in Italy. Changes which would probably impact upon the plans drawn up by the carabiniere’s Special Operation Group. Plans which would be spearheaded by Captain Sergio Sabbatini’s newly formed squad. Kovac now released the smile to accompany his diversion.

  “I make pretty good coffee, Sergio, would you like to try it?”

  “Coffee,” responded a clearly surprised Sabbatini, “would be good right now, sir.”

  Effecting not to see the engineered and therefore expected surprise, Kovac rose from his chair and handed the file to the troubled looking young officer.

  “It’s the report on those three who escaped our net. Have a look at it while I make the coffee.”

  Without waiting for a response this time, Kovac moved to the small table housing his coffee-making implements. Having bought himself some time, he used it to do more thinking. In the wake of these recent Bartalucci events, together with the Via Del Moro incident, disputed intelligence reports had confirmed the Orsinni girl’s story of having divorced herself from the protection of her father and the Bartalucci family. The reports further informed she was now living under the wing of her new protector, namely Claudio Canizzaro, and Kovac was one of the few who knew the reason why the Vatican advisor had elected to associate himself with the daughter of Giovanni Orsinni. Sabbatini was one of the many who did not know the reason, and the Colonel was now wrestling with the idea of enlightening him.

  Kovac busied himself filling a tray with cups as the percolator did its job, and his thoughts trundled on. He knew that, completely discounting the brainpower and dedication which had made it possible, there were those within the carabiniere HQ who resented Sergio Sabbatini’s meteoric rise through the ranks. Kovac had heard them say the Sicilian was insufficiently experienced to be given command of a special squad tasked to target organized crime bosses.

  Kovac smiled as he poured from the percolator; Sergio’s squad selection had confounded all of those sceptics. Apart from Zola, the remainder of those chosen by the young officer had been people with proven expertise in specialist fields of law enforcement. The seasoned veterans, perfectly capable of forming their own judgements, equally capable of expressing their own opinions, had accepted their selection without hesitation. Such was the growing reputation of the man now about to taste his excellent coffee.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said the Colonel, proffering Sergio his cup, “to tell me what you think.”

  Kovac saw Sabbatini pause briefly before lifting the cup to his lips, and told himself he must choose his words with care from this point on.

  “I was referring to your opinion of the coffee, Sergio, but the same sentiment can be applied to anything you may ever need to discuss with me within these four walls.”

  Kovac saw himself being regarded through dark brown eyes which steadily held his own with the firmly voiced response.

  “The coffee is excellent, sir.” Sabbatini paused, “Almost as good as my own,” he added quietly.

  Deciding to let that remark pass without comment, Kovac sipped some of his coffee before posing another question.

  “So what do you think about what you’ve just been reading?”

  “The reported location of the Chinaman is a surprise,” admitted Sergio. “ I imagined he would end up in Hong Kong. But it doesn’t surprise me that the Americans are also back in New York, they would have had help from whichever Mafia family they are linked to here. Can we persuade our American colleagues, off the record, to send them back?”

  Kovac wasn’t at all surprised or shocked by the loaded question, but it made him sigh nevertheless. It made him feel old, and out of step with the questioner. It reminded him of how long it had taken to get to where he was now, and of how quickly he could lose it all if he gave up occasionally bending the rules in favour of completely abandoning them. Kovac sighed again with the thought that whether it be adherence to laid down crime scene procedures, or compliance with the laws surrounding extradition, this new generation of police officer was epitomised by Sergio Sabbatini. They knew all the rules, but were willing to break them to achieve success. He eyed his colleague, a brave and intelligent officer, a man of vision even, and reminded himself that he had lived twice as long as the young captain he also outranked.

  “Forensics have complained,” he said, “about your allowing a crime scene to be compromised. And for not having fingerprinted the Orsinni woman.”

  Kovac saw Sabbatini grimace at this news, and, as he wondered what the man would say in his defence, an ironical thought occurred to him. Only recently, representatives from their Ministries of Defence and Internal Affairs, who had applauded Sergio’s innovative ideas concerning international liaison between law enforcement agencies, had voiced the opinion that the Sicilian would have made a formidable lawyer.

  “I think you, Colonel,” began Sabbatini in a calm sounding tone of voice, “would probably prefer to be dealing with an internal forensics complaint, than have found yourself on the receiving end of a Vatican demanding to know why you had involved Claudio Canizzaro, and therefore the Vatican by association, in the lawful killings of Italian and American Mafia members responsible for the death of one of the six children they had kidnapped for the purposes of paedophilia.”

  Kovac was silently acknowledging the judgement of those Ministry representatives, when Sabbatini fired off his next salvo.

  “When you briefed me on Canizzaro, you told me, and I paraphrase here, the young woman is someone Canizzaro considers to be very special. So I didn’t think he would have been impressed had we left her knife in the throat of a man known to have sexually abused children.”

  Having taken the verbal blows without flinching, Kovac found himself nodding his head as Sergio came to the end of his summation. He knew all about the tragic history connecting his captain to the inspector in London’s New Scotland Yard, and had sensed the anger underlying Sabbatini’s calmly delivered, and perfectly correct analysis. ‘The judiciary may have lost a good lawyer,’ he silently told himself, ‘but the carabiniere have gained an even better policeman.’ He was reminded now of another summation, the one attached to the psychologist’s report following the shooting of the Corsican woman. ‘Capitano Sabbatini displays the correct balance between remorse and righteousness. A morally strong individual, he expresses sincere regret at having taken a life. But he realistically presents the fact that the consequence of acting as he has been trained to do, has been the saving of lives more worthy than that of the one which was taken. This officer is mentally sound, and fit to resume his duties.’

  ‘This officer,’ Kovac now told himself, ‘has a silver tongue.’ The Corsican female could have been stopped with a wounding shot, but Sergio had gone in there convinced he would find the children in the hands of paedophiles, so she had been instantly judged and executed. Kovac now also told himself that several things were perfectly clear in his mind at this moment. Despite this young man’s seeming ruthlessness, despite his also triggering the current generation clash within the carabiniere, despite the readiness to cut corners, despite an apparent Sicilian preoccupation with matters of the heart, Sergio Sabbatini was the right man to lead the squad which would be going up against people for whom ruthle
ssness was a way of life.

  “I have already dismissed their complaint,” responded the Colonel, making a mental note to do so as soon as Sergio left the room, and deciding now to change tack.

  “She’s an attractive looking woman, this Maria Orsinni,” he tentatively offered.

  “I wouldn’t dispute that observation,” replied Sabbatini quietly.

  “Earlier,” resumed Kovac, cautiously, “you used the words official interference in response to my suggestion regarding Signorina Orsinni.”

  “Yes, I did,” acknowledged Sergio.

  “Which of course,” continued Kovac, carefully, “my suggestion needn’t be.”

  Kovac saw the dark brown eyes benignly holding his own, and pressed on, “Who knows? ” he resumed behind a smile, “if you were to find yourself becoming...,” he groped for an inoffensive word, “friendly with the woman, then perhaps you might also find a way in which you can learn things which could be helpful to us without damaging that... friendship.”

  “Who knows,” responded Sergio, the trace of a smile on his lips, “I can certainly think of less pleasant ways to pass the time.” He paused, before adding, “And I appreciate the suggestion, Colonel Kovac.”

  Thoughtfully, Sergio regarded the senior officer. He suspected Kovac had some reservations about him. The selection of squad commander had been made by those more senior to him, but Sergio knew the Colonel had told dissenting officers that the decision would have his full support. Sergio respected him for that, but not now just for that. The man had obviously read body language which he had been trying to conceal, and had offered a way through the conflict raging inside him. Sergio had further confirmation now that Kovac might be old-school carabiniere, but he was nobody’s old fool.

  “Sergio,” said the Colonel, “I have reached a decision concerning a matter which has been troubling me. Given the official objectives which will occupy you and your squad, which could include some kind of follow-up to the Via Del Moro business, and taking into consideration what we’ve been discussing concerning your own entitlement to a personal life, the circumstances may very well dictate the need for further contact between yourself and Canizzaro.”

  “Yes, I would imagine so,” agreed Sergio, wondering where this was going.

  “Sergio,” said Kovac, “there is something you should be made aware of concerning Canizzaro.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Pickle Guys Meet

  New York City’s Garment District, Manhattan’s Lower East Side, February 1985

  The three men displaying button-holed white carnations on their jackets were seated at a window booth of the trendy restaurant. The window was open slightly and overlooked a busy Essex Street and New York’s famed Pickle Guys store.

  “So name your price,” said the dwarf.

  “If you will pardon the pun, given our location,” responded the man, “there we have what our British friends would call a pickle.”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about?” snarled the dwarf.

  Luigi Rinaldi suddenly recognized in the man’s face, the features of a Jew. Rinaldi was immediately angry, and immediately suspicious. He had just sat here laying out to this guy what he wanted. He had expressly requested something which could get himself blown away, never mind anyone else. And he had done so to a Jew. He didn’t like Jews, and he didn’t trust Jews.

  “When they find themselves caught between two stools,” qualified the man who had seen and was amused by the other’s discomfiture, “the Brits’ often say they’re in a pickle.”

  Rinaldi was silent; he knew these Jew guys had a weird sense of humour. He stared across the booth trying to decide whether or not his chain was being yanked for fun. Then the guy’s irritating voice travelled across the booth again.

  “The word is already out there on the street. The Gambino family don’t want any trouble with the Bartalucci family. Bad for New York business. Bad for Sicily and Rome business. And they don’t want to mess with the Vatican. Bad for business all round.”

  Rinaldi watched as the face leaned in closer, and the irritating voice softly continued, “So if I take this contract, you, Mister Rinaldi, will be placing me in just such a pickle,” the man ended as he sat back in his seat. He looked to be perfectly calm.

  Rinaldi was a currently angry man but not a stupid one, and forced himself to emulate the Jew guy’s calmness. Forza had recommended this schmuck, who seemed completely relaxed in the presence of his bodyguard. Rinaldi was intrigued by this; not many guys relaxed around Forza. He glanced outside, familiar with his current ‘Little Italy’ surroundings, feeling perfectly safe but nevertheless uncomfortable. He was in unfamiliar waters and knew he must tread carefully. He was putting out a contract against the wishes of the Gambino family council, of which he was a member. A council which had ruled that no hit was to be made on Canizzaro or the Orsinni kid, and Rinaldi knew the chance he was taking by going against their wishes.

  Rinaldi sighed. As far as he was concerned the woman had it coming for taking down Frank Conti, and Canizzaro’s messing with Brantano had lost them millions of dollars. But now, it seemed, he had to negotiate with Jew guy here if this thing was ever going to happen. He tore free the button-holed flower which had been conditional for this meet. ‘Go figure these guys’, he thought, ‘all this James Bond shit for a contract.’

  The scent of pickles was permeating the air being breathed in through his nose. Rinaldi loved pickles. He was crazy about pickles. He preferred the three-quarters sour variety which had been stored in the barrels filled with brine, garlic and spices. And he particularly liked the fact that they came without any of that chemicals or preservatives shit. And he particularly disliked the fact that this Jew guy sitting opposite him was being difficult.

  Rinaldi glanced out the window at the Pickle Guys sign-painted legend above the store-front. ‘We Ship Nationwide’, said the sign, and he thought about having Forza stick this Jew guy in one of the shop’s own barrels for shipment to the bottom of the Atlantic.

  “You don’t have to concern yourself with the business aspects,” said Rinaldi, annoyed beyond measure that he was having to pussy-foot with this guy, “You just have to prove to me,” he smoothly added the kicker, “that you deserve the reputation Carmine here tells me you enjoy. So just name your price before we all die of boredom here.”

  Rinaldi then watched in amazement as the most frightening man he knew on the planet leant forward in the booth to smile at the Jew guy.

  “I think my employer,” said Forza, quietly, “badly presents a perfectly good point Saul. Forget about the business crap, can you do the job?”

  “Why don’t you do it yourself, Carmine?” responded the man as he returned the smile.

  “I have to stay to stay close to my employer for the foreseeable future,” replied Forza.

  “I seem to recall,” said the man who answered to the name Saul, “my former employers expressing an interest in you, Carmine. But here you are.”

  “A misunderstanding,” acknowledged Forza, “The Mossad did send some people. But they stopped doing so.”

  Rinaldi controlled his curiosity as he listened, and kept quiet. Forza was ex-CIA and had come to him when the spooks had shown him the door. There was a lot he didn’t know about Carmine, and he didn’t need to know. He knew enough. He knew he was safe with a guy like Carmine Forza watching his back.

  “As you will no doubt appreciate, Mister Rinaldi,” said the man, “this is not how I would normally conduct this stage of any potential contractual arrangement. I chose this method of contact, and engineered our little... friction, because I wanted to be sure you considered the, shall we say the stakes?, worthy of the, shall we say the prize?” He looked squarely at Rinaldi as he added, “No offence intended.”

  Rinaldi made a supreme effort to hold his temper in check, and mostl
y succeeded.

  “So will you take the fucking contract?” he snarled.

  “If you will accept my fucking price, yes,” replied the man with a benign looking smile.

  Luigi Rinaldi finally relaxed. He wouldn’t let this schmuck irritate him anymore. He would pay whatever price was asked. If this Jew guy was only half as good as Carmine Forza said he was, then pretty soon Claudio Canizzaro and Maria Orsinni would be dead meat.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Hip-Sing Tong

  New York City’s Chinatown, Manhattan’s Lower East Side, February 1985

  The city’s so-named ‘Wall of Democracy’ on Bayard Street was attracting its usual mix of readers and photographers, noted the Tong leader from his passing automobile. Covered with newspapers and posters describing past and current events in China, the wall was being photographed by tourists and avidly read by older members of the local Chinatown community.

  The Tong leader was neither surprised or disappointed by the absence of Chinatown’s younger generation at the wall. He knew that they would be somewhere else, spread between any number of venues designed to attract them, enjoying those fruits of democracy which had never been tasted by their elders. Some of those fruits would have been supplied by his very own Hip-Sing Tong.

  Wan Cheng-Jian scowled inside the chauffeur driven car; the wall had disturbed his troubled thoughts. As a Tong leader he and democracy had been strangers for most of his adult life, and his own back was currently up against a quite different kind of wall. He had lost face by firstly allowing the Americans to endanger his life, and then to save it from the Italians. And he would continue to lose the respect of his Tong until he avenged the death of Ye Cheng Hok at the hands of the American barbarian named Carmine Forza.

  His driver stopped the car outside the Eastern States Buddhist Temple on Mott Street, and Wan Cheng-Jian waited until his bodyguards signalled it was safe to leave the vehicle. The Tong wars had officially ended over fifty years ago, but only a fool believed the truce was permanent. The signal was received, and he left the car and entered the Temple alone. No member of any Tong would ever contemplate taking a life in front of one hundred golden Buddhas gleaming in the candlelight within the incense-scented Temple. ‘But commissioning the taking of a life’, believed Wan Cheng-Jian, ‘ was another matter entirely.’ The Tong leader sat down next to the man whom he would send to take the life of Carmine Forza.