The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  Impressed by the Italian, he had given Canizzaro permission to visit the dojo whenever he wished, and Jasmine had again been amazed. But she had embraced him, which meant she had approved of the precedent. Wan Lai-Tang sighed now as Maria Orsinni approached him to bow her respect. Tanaka had told him of her speed of development under his own tutelage, and that capacity to quickly absorb and implement difficult disciplines had continued to impress. But there were dangers which came with such impressively fast development.

  “Your young body,” he told her, “will struggle to deliver the demands of your impatient mind. You must listen to your body, my little Samurai, and avoid injury to those parts which must strengthen at their own pace.”

  Wan Lai Tang saw the Orsinni head nod understanding, before returning her bow.

  ‘If you suspect a man, don’t employ him. And if you employ a man, don’t suspect him.’

  Charles ‘Chuck’ Bowman was a Texan with a Chinese proverb and two Italian problems on his mind. The proverb had been repeating itself in his mind ever since he’d first spoken to the guy wearing the white clerical collar on the hotel’s rooftop terrace.

  The first problem was a home-grown domestic one. He had brought with him to Rome, all the goddamned way from San Antonio, three women rolled into one. On the outward trip to a planned mix of business and pleasure, he had been accompanied by a happy enough wife, the ever-anxious mother of his daughter, and a recently made grandmother. His three-headed woman had brought with her the photographs of their first grand-daughter, who had been christened Susanna by their local pastor.

  The female-driven plan, not up for questioning by the males of the Bowman clan, had been to have the photographs blessed inside the American community church of Santa Susanna. But the goddamned church had been closed down for urgent repairs. So now, in their fancy bedroom at the La Griffe hotel, the head of the Bowman clan had an unhappy combination of wife, mother, and grandmother spilling hot tears all over the well-travelled and unblessed Kodaks.

  When he had spotted the guy on the rooftop terrace, the white clerical collar and his own theatrical producer imagination had given him the bright idea of having the photographs blessed right outside the recognizable front doors of the church of Santa Susanna. The second problem now on his mind had arisen from that bright idea. He had approached the guy, intending to run the idea past him for comment, then even flirting with the thought that maybe the man of the cloth would perform the ritual for a few bucks, and his trained theatrical eyes had seen the black hair dye and the facial cheeks shaped by hidden prosthetics. And he had seen the open bible.

  ‘Set the saddle on the right horse,’ was another proverb they used back in San Antonio.

  So he wouldn’t be employing the guy wearing the phony collar. But should he be doing something else? Should he be having a quiet word with the hotel manager?

  ‘Talk of the devil and he is bound to appear’ had been Gianfranco Zola’s response to the call received at carabiniere headquarters. ‘The bait hides the hook’ had been Sabbatini’s thought.

  The taped call had been played several times. The caller had made no attempt to disguise his voice by distorting it. The language used was English, yet the speaker was Italian, and the carabiniere computer had failed to match the voice with any of the others in its data-bank. The computer had confirmed that part of the message was quoting from the English bible’s Book of Proverbs. The full message had been brief enough to prevent the call being traced, and potent enough to receive the attention it was currently getting. Sergio replayed the tape again now.

  ‘The assassination of a prominent Vatican advisor is in the end-phase of planning. So are the ways of everyone that is greedy of gain. Which taketh away the life of the owners thereof. That’s how an ex-Bartalucci consigliere might phrase it.’

  “He might just be a religious nut,” said Zola quietly as the tape was switched off, “but he’s referring to Giovanni Orsinni and Claudio Canizzaro.”

  “Which could be what we’re supposed to think,” responded Sergio.

  “The suggestive connection to Canizzaro cannot be dismissed,” said Zola, who had been made aware of Colonel Kovac’s disclosure.

  “Which could be how we’re supposed think,” countered Sergio, rising to his feet to express his doubt. “It doesn’t feel right, Gianfranco. Why warn us in the first place? And why the oblique reference to Giovanni Orsinni’s involvement? Think about it, whoever made the call is unaware of the connection between Canizzaro and Orsinni. Whoever made the call wants to involve the carabiniere, and knew that suggesting Bartalucci involvement would get our attention. Which of course it has.”

  “Which still leaves,” persisted Zola, “the matter of what could be Claudio Canizzaro’s threatened assassination. So what do we do about that?”

  “I will go and talk to him,” replied Sergio. “You stay here, but call me if anything develops.”

  ‘Believe nothing of what you hear, and only half of what you see’ was one of the two proverbs occupying the mind of Charles ‘Chuck’ Bowman as he sat himself down in the hotel manager’s office. ‘A good dog deserves a good bone’ was the other one. The La Griffe hotel management had stepped up to the plate and solved his domestic problem, and had given him back a happy wife and grandmother. The photographs of Susanna would be blessed in the church of San Paolo, a beautiful place of worship just a little ways from the hotel to whom he now owed a debt. To the folks back home, one Italian church would look pretty much like any other they had in these parts. Which had been how, using more persuasive lingo of course, the hotel manager had sold the concept to Mrs Bowman. Who had taken to the idea like a bee takes to molasses. So the dutifully blessed Kodaks would be triumphantly passed around the Bowman clan in San Antonio. End of ‘problemo’ so far as Chuck Bowman was concerned.

  “How else can we be of service to you, Signore Bowman?” asked the hotel manager.

  ‘Speak not of my debts unless you mean to pay them’ was the proverb which flashed through the Texan’s mind as he cleared his throat for the reply. “You’ve got yourself a goddamned phony priest staying here at your fine hotel, and I just thought you should know about it.”

  Whilst simulating being thrown to the ground, the execution of the grip and release at speed demanded supreme confidence, an ability to land properly even when unexpectedly thrown, faultless co-ordination between hand and eye to find the target, and nerves of steel because a mistake could cost the loss of fingers.

  A blur of steel left the tumbling body which was still completing the break-fall when the knife struck its target and its track-suited propellant flowed upright with Wan Lai-Tang’s voice in her head. ‘Prepare to fight with one as you would fight with many.’ But there was no waiting number of opponents to be confronted this time, she was alone in the gymnasium. She smoothly powered down to approach the target boards mounted at various points around the training floor. ‘The same knife cuts bread and fingers’ was the proverb amusedly recalled as Maria Orsinni pulled her four knives from the target boards. She had thrown three of the knives from various stance-positions, all of them difficult, but this last one had been the trickiest and she had nicked a finger-pad with the edge of her knife. She sucked at the trickle of blood as she ran the sequence back in her mind, and saw now the way by which she could gain a fraction of a second the next time she practiced the move.

  Deciding to call it a day on training, she zipped up her track-suit top to cover the leather brassiere, and all of its contents, and left the gymnasium. She would have a shower, and maybe even a nap before dinner, she thought. She was passing the lounge/library room when she heard the voices of her uncle and Sergio Sabbatini, and heard the words which immediately stopped her in her tracks.

  “Why would anyone wish to assassinate me?” exclaimed Claudio Canizzaro.

  The Israeli assassin finished relaying his order to room servic
e and re-cradled the phone. He had decided to have an early dinner sent to his room. A decision arrived at mainly because of his reluctance to lose sight of the small suitcase currently standing beside the bed. Later tonight the timer would be set for the early hours of tomorrow morning, and the suitcase would be left at the chosen location. But in the meantime he wasn’t about to make a second mistake. He wasn’t about to draw attention to himself by walking into one of the La Griffe hotel’s dining rooms carrying a suitcase. Certainly not the suitcase containing enough explosives power to vaporise the hotel. And besides, he was already annoyed with himself for having made what he now considered had been the first mistake. At the time of drafting the message he had allowed his ecclesiastical cover to get the better of him, and had inserted the totally unnecessary extract from the English bible’s Book of Proverbs.

  ‘Bold is the mouse that breeds in the cat’s ear.’ Proverbs had always been used in his boyhood synagogue to convey something or other, and in his mind now that particular one summed up his self-perceived carelessness. He shook his head, replacing the self-rebuke with the reminder that the carabiniere still had nothing to connect David Weintrub to the phoned message. The Israeli decided that after he had enjoyed his room service dinner, he would get some air and take in the view from the hotel’s magnificent rooftop terrace for the last time. He could take the suitcase up there, it was small enough not to arouse undue attention, and anyone who did see it would think it just held more of the books he had been using as camouflage. The Israeli smiled to himself. There wouldn’t be time to indulge himself with rooftop terrace views in the morning, as he was checking out early from the hotel. Tomorrow morning, three other people would also be checking out early from Canizzaro’s villa.

  He smiled again. Tomorrow, he would be checking in at a hotel in Brazil. Tomorrow, he would begin making inroads into Luigi Rinaldi’s generous fee.

  Quickly appraised of the taped phone message warning of a Vatican advisor’s impending assassination, and its oblique reference to her father, Maria Orsinni’s first question was directed towards the carabiniere officer.

  “Has the voice been matched to any known...?”

  “No,” anticipated Sabbatini, “and our voice analysts have said the speaker is simply reading a message he had been given to read, and could have no connection to the expressed intent.”

  “And you say he used words,” said Canizzaro, the puzzlement evident in his voice, “which sounded like something from the bible?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Sabbatini, “apparently they’re from the English bible’s Book of Proverbs.”

  “There are many Vatican advisors, Capitano Sabbatini,” said Maria quietly, “so why have you come here so quickly? Is it because the Bartalucci name was mentioned? Is it because of who my father is? Or is it perhaps because you think that either he or the Bartalucci family have sent me here to assassinate Claudio Canizzaro?”

  “Maria, my child...,” began Canizzaro, “I am sure....”

  “Let him answer,” interjected Maria, her tone of voice instantly silencing Canizzaro.

  Maria saw Sabbatini’s dark brown eyes regarding her steadily as he broke the awkward silence which had now fallen over the trio.

  “The Bartalucci name did get my attention, it’s true, but then it would. My current assignment is to go after the Bartalucci family and put as many of them as possible behind bars. As to the question concerning your motive for being here, Signorina Orsinni, I think it might be helpful to you both if I tell you I know about the brother’s Orsinni.”

  Maria stared at Sergio Sabbatini, forcibly reminded now of the man’s profession, wondering if it was purely coincidental that he had used the phrase brothers Orsinni, wondering what else he might know that could put her father behind bars. Conscious of her uncle’s own stare in her direction, imagining his concerns, she was about to say something when the cell phone clipped to Sabbatini’s belt rang for attention.

  Watching him take the call, Maria saw Sabbatini’s body language signal that he was listening to something which was pertinent to his presence here before them. Which was not immediately confirmed as he re-clipped the cell phone to his belt.

  “That was my sergeant,” said Sabbatini, trying, and failing, to appear calm as he spoke.

  “Our HQ just took a call from the concerned manager of La Griffe hotel on the Via Nazionale. An American staying there has reported that another of their guests has been masquerading as a man of the cloth. Apparently the American is in the entertainment business and says that the man wearing a white clerical collar and booked in as David Weintrub, is also wearing prosthetic cheek-pads and is using black hair-dye.”

  “Could be just a con-man,” said Maria, surprised by the introduction of different subject matter, but remembering the witnessed body-language. “The La Griffe will be filled with rich pickings,” she pointed out, even more surprised now to see that Sabbatini was clearly about to take his leave of them as he responded.

  “My sergeant said as much to the hotel manager. But the American apparently also told the manager that, and I quote, ‘Every time he has spoken to the goddamned phony at his table on the hotel’s rooftop terrace, the English bible the goddamned phony has been pretending to read has always been open at the same goddamned Book of Proverbs page.”

  “But that’s the same...,” began Canizzaro.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Maria, bracing herself for the challenge.

  She watched the dark brown eyes once more holding her own without flinching.

  “My sergeant will meet me there,” he responded, the smile quickly flashing, “but it might be a good idea for me to also be accompanied by a woman who can still look beautiful in a track-suit, and look nothing like a policewoman. Okay you can come with me. We can talk on the way.”

  Maria stopped Canizzaro’s obviously intended-to-be-vocalised objection with a fierce look and a shake of her head. She followed behind Sabbatini, and was unable to stop her gaze dropping to the carabiniere officer’s good looking buttocks.

  The drive to the hotel on the Via Nazionale was commenced at speed by Sabbatini, and, just as quickly, Maria was reminded that she was seated alongside an expert driver. She had no personal experience of handling a car at speed through traffic, and briefly wondered how she might ever obtain the chance to learn the skill.

  Weaving the car through seemingly impenetrable gaps in traffic, her fast driver said he didn’t mind conversation. Maria kept her eyes on the road even as he answered the few questions she had by creating new ones in her head.

  “Do you believe my father is involved in whatever is going on?”

  “No, I do not. Whoever is behind the call is ignorant of his relationship to Canizzaro.”

  “Will my uncle be protected?”

  “We don’t have enough proof to confirm he’s a target. You said it yourself, there are many Vatican advisors. We can’t protect them all.”

  The dialogue was just as snappy as his gear-changes, thought Maria.

  “Yet you came to my uncle.”

  “I had no choice. My superiors also heard the Bartalucci name on the tape. I’m supposed to be pumping you for information on the Bartalucci’s. It was expected of me to make my first port of call to where I would find a Vatican advisor with a connection to the Bartalucci’s ex-consigliere.”

  “Pumping me?”

  “My superiors thought it a good idea. I persuaded them to accept my refusal.”

  “Yet you have taken me out to a nightclub.”

  “I seem to recall we both enjoyed the occasion.”

  “You asked me a lot of questions.”

  “How else can I get to know you?”

  In the face of oncoming traffic, Sabbatini overtook two other cars and Maria braced herself for the collision which never came. She glanced across at her driver, who appea
red to be completely relaxed. Still thinking of everything Sabbatini had been saying, she realized they were on the Via Nazionale and within sight of the hotel.

  “The capitano is a skilled driver.”

  “A necessary tool of the capitano’s trade,” he replied, “And for what trade do you collect your skills, Signorina? I am told you have many.”

  Maria was thrown by the question he had never asked on their date. She didn’t have any form of what Sabbatini obviously meant by the word trade. No profession to put her name to. No achievements she could cite to justify her arsenal of martial arts skills. And no words to describe the future role which Tanaka had foreseen and Wan Lai-Tang was continuing to train her towards. Her turbulent thoughts now comprised a confusing mix of how to answer the question, admiration for the questioner’s driving skill, and unsettling suspicion of his motive behind their... relationship? She was still tasting that word on her tongue when he brought the car to a halt outside the La Griffe hotel.

  “The Signorina’s collection doesn’t include your kind of driving,” was all she could manage in flip-response to him as he released his seat belt and leant across her to scrabble in the car’s glove compartment. She saw him transfer the holstered handgun from the glove compartment to a clip on his belt, wondering if it was the same gun he had used at the Via Del Moro, suddenly wondering if he might have to use it again, wondering who had told him what about her skills.