The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  “And would she like to add my kind of driving to her collection?” he suddenly asked.

  “Yes, she would,” admitted Maria, noting how smoothly he could deliver his words. Her own honest response had been automatic, but she was wondering now how much of this man’s performance whilst in her company was as artful as his driving, and was wondering where this latest question was going.

  “We can discuss your availability later, but I will arrange for the carabiniere’s advanced driving instructors to give you lessons. My superiors will approve, they will view such an arrangement as a significant move forward in my pumping programme.”

  Maria saw Sabbatini’s quick grin follow his words, but before she could react he was getting out of the car. Cursing under her breath, controlling her own grin which was threatening to escape, she scrambled out herself and re-joined him as he flashed his official credentials to the hotel’s doorman who was, she realized, reluctantly allowing Sabbatini’s car to remain where it was in front of the hotel’s grand entrance.

  They continued on past the disgruntled sentinel and entered the hotel’s lobby to be greeted by two men. One of these was a casually dressed man she immediately recognized. Beside sergeant Zola, who was looking surprised to see her she noted with amusement, was an older and worried looking man who used English as he quietly introduced himself as Carlo Jotti, the hotel manager.

  “Five minutes ago a waiter served Weintrub a drink on the rooftop terrace,” reported Zola. He then added the lie, “Good evening, Signorina Orsinni, what a pleasant surprise.”

  Maria saw the hotel manager’s frown of disapproval directed towards her track-suit as he addressed Sabbatini in accent-free English.

  “Mister Weintrub has been no trouble whatsoever during his stay here. And up until this unfortunate occurrence there have been no complaints of any kind. Given the religious aspect involved, I was obliged to inform the carabiniere of another guest’s observations and suspicions, but I had not expected an officer of your rank to respond.”

  “It is possible,” qualified Sabbatini, “that this unfortunate occurrence is linked to something else I am investigating, sir. With your assistance, it won’t take me long to find out if that is the case. My female colleague and I will just be a couple looking for a table on the rooftop terrace. And so, Signore Jotti, if you would be good enough to take your pass-key and my sergeant to Weintrub’s room, he can have a look around it while I have a look at the man himself. Come to the rooftop when you’ve finished, sergeant, and we’ll take it from there.” He turned his dark brown eyes to his ‘colleague’, linked arms, and smiled as he spoke to her.

  “Shall we go now, my dear, to share the magnificent Roma views from a rooftop terrace?”

  They shared an elevator with another couple, and Sergio Sabbatini could only silently marvel as Maria Orsinni slipped into the role of a companion clinging to his arm and speaking about a non-existent apartment they were furnishing. He was professionally impressed by the expertise of her performance, but found himself to be privately disturbed by the ease with which she could seemingly just ‘turn it on.’ Canizzaro had told him about the business studies course she was doing, but had been unable, or unwilling, to tell him what she would be doing at the end of it. She had evaded the question about her skills, but he knew about the dojo lessons and he had seen the result of her skill with a throwing knife. Wrapped up in a splendid body, she was a woman he was interested in like no other before her, but she was a woman who had killed a man and was knowingly adding to skills which were far more lethal than fast driving. The elevator silently lifted his troubled thoughts to the hotel’s ninth floor level and he stepped out on to the rooftop terrace with Maria Orsinni.

  Maria automatically switched to full-alert-mode as she stepped on to the terrace and took in the scene before her. Above her was open sky holding a crescent-moon surrounded by stars and beaming down upon a fairly crowded terrace with its views of back-lit church domes. In her ears was the conflicting decibel levels of voices being carried by the warm night air, the clink of wine glasses, and the sound of laughter. Candy-striped canvas canopies jutted from the terrace walls. She saw the display of table umbrellas standing like brightly coloured mushrooms over the chattering guests. And she saw the man seated alone at a table with a small suitcase at his feet. Seemingly untroubled by everything going on around him, the man was reading a book.

  Maria squeezed Sabbatini’s arm, and spoke quietly, “Do you see him?”

  “I see him,” he replied, “I also see more people than I’d expected.”

  The word witnesses suddenly flashed through Maria’s mind, and she sensed Sabbatini’s awareness of her tension being transmitted through their still linked arms.

  “I presume,” he began calmly, “that those knives of yours are under that track-suit. Make sure they stay there,” he ended quietly.

  Maria made no response to his command, even though she was tempted to remind him that a shot from his gun would stampede the terrace crowd faster than one of her knives. They strolled along the fringe of the terrace crowd until they reached the man’s table, and in unspoken accord split up to stop on either side of it. Maria knew that Sabbatini was right beside the man now, but she had moved forward slightly to be seen miming an innocent young tourist looking up and pointing with wonder at the crescent moon in its star-studded sky, and, as performed to elicit, the seated man’s voice sounded behind her.

  “Quite beautiful, isn’t it? A view made in heaven for lovers on earth.”

  Maria lowered her arm and turned away from the view. She looked at the table to see the man was looking at Sabbatini. The carabiniere officer was looking down at what she too saw was an English bible in the hands of the white-collared man who was now turning his head in her direction. Then the man’s half-formed and benign looking smile froze on his face as Maria looked into his eyes.

  ‘He knows me!’ thought-flashed as Maria saw a killer’s eyes and an opponent’s indecision as to which way he should move. In real-time everything happened very quickly from that point on, but Maria’s thoughts and reactions were moving faster than could be measured by real-time and in her eyes the man’s movements were unfolding before her in slow-motion. She deliberately held his snake-eyes with her own mesmerising gaze of the mongoose as his hand went inside his jacket and her knuckle-strike to the strong looking neck would have paralyzed him had it ever connected. But it didn’t connect because she didn’t allow it to. There was no need. Somewhere between the knuckle-strike’s selection and commenced execution, the moving figure of Sergio Sabbatini had knocked the man out with a single blow from what she could now see was the butt of his gun. Maria was bringing herself under control when Sabbatini waved his finger in her face and quietly admonished her.

  “Now what could I have said to my superiors, or your uncle, if I had stood by while you attacked a priest in public?”

  Turning away from Maria, Sergio quickly re-holstered his gun as he glanced around the terrace. No one appeared to be paying them any attention, and he sighed with relief. He reached to his belt for the handcuffs as he looked down at the table. He had struck a powerful blow, but the man looked pretty solid and would recover consciousness soon. Right now he was slumped forward with his arms hanging loose at his sides. Sergio left him slumped, but crouched to bring the man’s wrists together under the table and handcuff them. He stood up and eased the man back in his seat and placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He glanced around again at the other occupants of the terrace. There was still no unwanted attention, he noted, and all he needed now was Zola for what should be a trouble-free exit. A sudden afterthought took his hand into the man’s jacket where he found the gun which had been reached for as....

  Sergio turned his gaze back to Maria, instantly confused now by what he saw. He was looking at a beautiful young woman he should never have brought here, a peaceful looking woman who m
oments ago had been a lethal weapon about to strike. And he was still wondering which Maria excited him the most when Zola appeared at his side with the hotel manager.

  Maria had watched Sabbatini’s actions with approving eyes and racing thoughts. The man he had handcuffed had recognized her, and she wanted to know why. Sabbatini had negated the need to defend herself, and had again saved her from the potential glare of publicity, but she had seen how he had looked at her when she had arrested her knuckle-strike and in that moment she had known his profession would always be a barrier between them. Zola was placing the suitcase on the table when she tugged Sabbatini’s arm and questioned him.

  “Why did you strike first? What did you see?”

  “I saw an international ‘Wanted’ poster face without the black hair-dye and false cheeks.”

  Selecting from the still-groggy Weintrub’s key-ring, Zola opened the case and Maria saw the blood instantly leave the face of the La Griffe hotel manager.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Platinum

  The Royal Military College of Science, Shrivenham, Oxfordshire, England, June 1985

  Theo Welbeck was thinking about Platinum and Curtis Melcher. He was alone in the room he had commandeered for CIA personnel only, but even in solitary thought-mode he still used the codename Platinum for the man they were responsible for here. Theo was a currently worried man, and he knew that Langley would crucify him if they ever found out why he was worried. At the very least I could kiss goodbye to my containment specialist of the year award, was the sour thought which suddenly entered his troubled mind.

  Harry Albright is lucky to be out of the game, was Theo’s next thought. He imagined the former London Station Chief sitting in a New York bar planning his next fishing trip, and for a brief moment the thought of retirement was very appealing. But Theo knew these last two thoughts had simply offered themselves as benign diversions away from his current problem, and he brought his concentration back on to the main event.

  Containing situations deemed to have been beyond the control of others, was the game he had been playing and winning since God was a boy. Actually losing control of something himself was a new experience, and one he was not entirely confident of surviving. Baby-sitting their main man here had been a breeze to begin with, and Curtis Melcher had claimed never to have lost him on the occasions when Platinum had ventured outside the Shrivenham compound for trips to London and other parts. And therein lay the roots of Theo’s problem. He had, he was beginning to suspect, lost control of Curtis Melcher. Theo was perfectly aware that Platinum was a sicko in a class of his own, because Melcher had reported the things he had witnessed the guy doing. But Melcher was now displaying signs of being sexually attracted to the guy. Melcher wasn’t just reporting anymore, suspected Theo. Curtis Melcher, suspected Theo, might even be actively assisting the CIA’s Platinum sicko.

  The Americans were continuing to cosset and amuse him in equal measure. The CIA stalwarts who were, quote, ‘Keeping the show on the road and its star attraction safe from harm’s way’ seemed blissfully unaware of their talent to amuse, and their butchery of the English language often defied comprehension. It was hard to take seriously, such morally bankrupted people who considered themselves to be the superior guardians of their so-called free world. One merely had to remind oneself that they had twice now elected themselves to be led by a former and second rate Hollywood actor. ‘That’s entertainment’, their lusty-lunged Ethel Merman would no doubt have cried. And how right she would have been, because the actions of his own guardians could have found their origins in a Hollywood western. Welbeck would have been the town marshal, pinning the Platinum codename on his star attraction as if he were swearing in a deputy for a posse. Oh this must stop, he chided himself. He really shouldn’t mock. After all, Welbeck and company, he allowed the giggle with his choice of words, were simply performing to order.

  He would not of course be divulging the fact to his very own black beauty, who was obviously smitten by yours truly, that he was secretly revelling in his own top billing on this new American show with the butchered title of ‘Beat the Ruskies.’ Although it did him no harm to modestly express doubt, he was quite sure his Russian counterpart was behind him in the scientific race. Just as he was sure the Russian wouldn’t have his very own black beauty. There could only be one Curtis Melcher. It was proving to be a rather interesting development, this seeming attraction and hold he had over the American. Wasn’t it Lord Byron who had said, ‘America is a model of force and freedom and moderation, with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people.’ He smiled to himself now with the thought that his black beauty was certainly coarse, but then that hardly mattered. In time, a compromised Curtis Melcher would serve his purpose.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Virgin Bonding

  Rome, Italy, June 1985

  “You have surprised me on two counts,” said Sergio Sabbatini, frowning as he spoke.

  “How so?” replied Maria Orsinni, returning his frown with one of her own.

  “Firstly,” qualified Sergio as he stood behind her chair, “you are on time.” He waited until she was seated, then bent to whisper in her ear, “And secondly, you look even more beautiful than you did on our first date.”

  Sergio saw her blush and smile at the same time, and marvelled at her apparent surprise to be complimented. He had seen several male heads turn to watch her progress to the table, yet she had glided past them without seeming to lose eye contact with him. He could feel his own face reddening with his thoughts. Then he remembered that he was in the company of a woman who could spot a carabiniere surveillance team without revealing the fact that she had seen them, and told himself now that she would have noticed her admirers.

  She was wearing a figure-hugging dress of shimmering printed silk, its pattern using the colours of black and pale gold and turquoise blue to depict the leaves of an exotic looking plant climbing around her body and reaching for the cowl-shaped neck of the dress. Around her neck, a slim chain held the gold crucifix which nestled between the cleavage of her breasts and her long black hair gleamed and fell to her shoulders. She looked stunning, thought Sergio.

  “You look very dashing yourself, Sergio,” she said with a smile, “I could be dining with Roma’s answer to James Bond,” she ended, laughing softly across the table.

  They were in the Caffe Greco restaurant above the nightclub where they had danced together for the first time, and Sergio grinned at her double-0-seven jibe whilst now wondering if he had made a mistake by turning up in a tuxedo.

  “The waiter is approaching with the menus,” he said by way of deflection, “are you hungry?”

  “Hungry for food,” she replied, smiling again as she added, “and for knowledge.”

  Sergio watched her now across the table as she perused the menu. One month had sped by since Zola had opened the Weintrub suitcase on a rooftop terrace, and ever since that day the sergeant had never referred to Maria Orsinni disrespectfully. While two policemen and a hotel manager had been frozen with shock, she had calmly examined the suitcase contents and informed them that the timer had not been set. Then while he and Zola had bundled the man calling himself Weintrub into Sergio’s car, Maria Orsinni had carried the suitcase which she had continued to hold whilst sitting behind Zola all the way to carabiniere headquarters. Zola had even later expressed the opinion that if they had let Maria question Weintrub they could have probably saved themselves weeks of interrogation.

  “His name is Bloomberg,” said Sergio when the waiter had left with their orders, “and he’s an Israeli. We’ve been told he’s one of the best free-lance assassins in the business, and one of the most expensive to hire because he never fails on a contract. He has a reputation for getting to targets considered by others in his fraternity to be too high-profile to reach and take down.”

  The pre-dinner drinks arrived, and the w
aiter was walking away when Maria spoke.

  “But Canizzaro has no bodyguards,” she said, “and moves around quite freely. He could surely never be classified as difficult to reach.”

  “That’s right,” acknowledged Sergio, watching her closely now, “If Canizzaro had been the sole target, he could have been taken down in any number of ways at any one of a dozen locations. He could also have been killed by any number of assassins with a lower profile than Bloomberg. Men who would have been available for a fraction of the price someone like Bloomberg could ask for and get.”

  “So what are you trying to tell me, Sergio?”

  “Somebody paid Bloomberg’s asking price because he wanted three things regardless of cost. He wanted to be sure that success was guaranteed. He wanted Claudio Canizzaro dead. And he also wanted Maria Orsinni dead.”

  Sergio waited and watched now as Maria sipped wine from her glass whilst absorbing the information she’d been given along with his conclusion.

  “What did Bloomberg have to say about the phone call?” she finally asked.

  “He denied having anything to do with it,” replied Sergio, knowing how she would respond.

  “Which was of course,” she emphatically retorted, “a lie.”

  “Hard to believe otherwise,” acknowledged Sergio, “I think his plan was to provoke carabiniere interest in the Bartalucci family as a smokescreen to conceal the person who gave him the contract. The oblique reference to Giovanno Orsinni was his mistake, because he obviously didn’t know of the relationship between your father and Canizzaro.”

  He watched now as she fingered the crucifix at her neck and his gaze travelled to her breasts, and then he looked up to see her eyes reading his mind and he felt his face reddening again. But she didn’t say anything about his wandering eyes.