The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  The third room was furnished to look like a combination lounge-cum-dining room, and two of its walls supported large two-way mirrors. Artfully concealed around this dual-purpose room were the pinhead cameras and microphones. Whilst obviously providing an area for relaxation and partaking of meals, this unit’s primary function was that of a behavioural observation arena. The fourth room was used to house the observers and their audio-visual recording equipment.

  The fifth basement room had been divided up into four moderately sized and inter-connecting cubicles and a separate en-suite bathroom and shower area. Each of the cubicles contained a military-style cot-bed and full-length locker. All four cubicles shared the bathroom and shower room. This fifth room was used by the quartet of CIA operatives who worked in shifts to guard the basement area 24/7.

  “We’re almost finished here,” said the man in green to the man in blue.

  The scientist controlling the ultra-secret Shrivenham project normally satisfied himself by sitting in the viewing gallery. He could watch the proceedings on the television screen as the surgeon communicated with him through a microphone suspended above the operating table. But today was special to the scientist. Today he was taking a giant step into the unknown, so he had insisted on being present in the theatre as this latest operation was being performed.

  “It took longer than was anticipated,” replied the man in blue, “but seems to have caused you none of the difficulties you had feared might present themselves to you.”

  “Which is why it took so long,” responded the man in green, controlling his annoyance as he spoke, knowing there was no likelihood of any praise coming his way for the care he had taken. He and his thoroughly vetted military surgical team had performed several operations here to date, but neither of them had ever received a warm word from the cold man observing them now more closely than ever before.

  To distinguish himself from the others, as was his habit, the scientist was dressed now in blue surgical scrubs as he observed that this momentous event was reaching its successful conclusion. The thought of the risk he had taken was causing him to have an erection, and he suppressed the giggle threatening to escape from behind his face mask. The device now implanted in the brain of the man on the operating table was one which his so-called professional contemporaries had said couldn’t be perfected for perhaps another two years, and the thought of proving those mental pygmies wrong was making him become even harder. He resisted the urge to stroke his hot member throbbing under the cool cotton surgical scrubs.

  The military surgeon in green coloured scrubs signalled the end of the lengthy and groundbreaking procedure by stepping back from the operating table. He pulled down his mask and warmly complimented the four others in his surgical team, who were even now making way for the male nurses who would wheel the patient to the recovery ward. He glanced at his still unconscious patient, and turned to face the scientist. The words he had been about to use froze on his lips when he looked into the mud-coloured eyes of the scientist. The surgeon remembered that any words of caution to this strange man in regard to the handling of what he and his operating team regarded as patients, would be wasted on the scientist who considered them to be no more than too expensive guinea pigs. He nodded his head to the man instead, and saw the lifeless looking eyes stare back at him without blinking.

  The scientist left the operating room without saying a word to the surgical team, or sparing any kind of look towards the operating table. The guinea pig lying there would only be of interest to him once he was conscious and back out there with the rest of his kind. Only then would he become of interest. Only then would he become the tool worthy of careful handling.

  Once inside his private quarters, the scientist stripped off the surgical scrubs. Naked now, and breathing quickly, he entered the en-suite bathroom stroking his rigid member and stepped into the shower cubicle. He turned on the shower, and through the glass cubicle could see his reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror. Aroused by the sight of himself, but wanting to prolong the sensation, he began slowly masturbating as his excited thoughts on today’s guinea pig and recent events merged in his mind....

  The clandestine overture from the Russians had surprised and delighted him. That he was ahead of their own scientists had not of course surprised, he knew he was light years ahead of anyone else in the field, but their approach at the embassy function had certainly surprised. And the way by which they had separated him from his black beauty had amused him.

  His delight stemmed from their expressed intent as to how the technology could be used, and their kindred words had resonated within his mind and soul. The Americans and the British would have surrendered eventually to their liberal political lobbies urging caution, but the Russians had no such barriers standing between them and absolute power. The kind of power he himself craved. And of course the so-called ‘Comrades’ could allow him to exercise that power to its full potential, because their Gulags were filled with guinea pigs who could be used at no expense to the state.

  This newly presented and wholly unexpected scenario, this new starring role, would accelerate his programme and see him crowned king of the scientific world far sooner than he had imagined. Diversification now, would be a potentially harmful distraction. So the dwarf, Rinaldi, could be forgotten now, the bigger picture had rendered him superfluous.

  His further delicious delight in this development lay in the fact that the Russians had unwittingly provided the answer to his dilemma. By allowing them to whisk him away after the New York lecture, the problem of what to do with his own black beauty had now been solved. Compromising Curtis Melcher would no longer constitute biting the hand that fed and be counter-productive. Far from it, because by setting up Melcher in New York he could discredit the Americans and create a smokescreen for his disappearance at a single stroke. The giggle escaped with his choice of words at the same time as he reached his glorious climax...

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Hostage to Fortune

  New York City’s John F. Kennedy Airport, 9-30pm, Tuesday 25th June 1985

  Alitalia’s direct flight to Rome was scheduled to depart at 10pm, which would be 4am in Italy, and would take eight and a half hours to reach its destination. Antonio Crocci, the dapperly dressed Sicilian with a mission to kill, boarded the plane carrying his usual prejudices along with his hand luggage. He disliked flying. He disliked it for three main reasons.

  For starters, he had a delicate stomach which objected to being introduced to the kind of things the airlines served up as a meal. Secondly, he was naturally unhappy about entrusting his life to some guy he didn’t know. Like the guy who would be steering a few tons of metal through the skies at an altitude of thirty thousand feet, give or take a thousand. Like the same guy who could have discovered he had a cheating wife and had decided to end it all, but wanted to bow out with company. Thirdly, he didn’t like having to sit through the safety drills which merely heightened his awareness of tenuous mortality. Knowing where the oxygen masks and emergency doors were, wouldn’t do him any good if the plane was falling to the ground at so many miles per so many seconds because the pilot had grown tired of living with his unfaithful wife....

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your flight captain speaking and my name is....”

  ‘Tony the Croc’ sighed and closed his eyes. Wishing he could close his ears to the sound of the woman seated nearby who was fervently muttering what sounded like a prayer.

  Rome, Italy, Carabiniere Headquarters, 9am, Wednesday 26th June 1985

  Three landline telephones stood on Sergio Sabbatini’s desk. One of them had the dedicated number he only gave to underworld informants he used, and it was this one which rang as he was about to leave the office for a meeting with Colonel Kovac.

  “Sabbatini speaking.”

  “Buona la mattina, Capitano,[1]” began the unrecognized male voice, and then it
switched to perfectly understandable English as he was still trying to identify it, “Whilst I was waiting for you to answer your phone, I found myself wondering how often you might receive calls on this line, and from whom.”

  “And who exactly has been wondering?”

  “The father of your Caffe Greco dancing partner,” replied the voice.

  Sergio inhaled deeply as his thoughts raced. ‘If he knows about the dancing, what else does he know about? Was my apartment being watched, or did the security man tell him about Maria’s visit? Which of my informants gave Giovanni Orsinni this number?’

  “But that is not the reason for my call,” said the calm-sounding Orsinni, “My daughter is free to choose whichever dance partner she may wish to have. I have information for you.”

  “You have information for me?”

  “This line exists for the purpose of feeding you that commodity Capitano, does it not?”

  “What kind of information do you have?” asked Sergio, intrigued beyond measure.

  “Arriving at twelve thirty at Leonardo da Vinci airport,” answered the still calm-sounding voice, “Alitalia’s direct flight from New York city will be bringing someone of interest to you.”

  “Who, and why?” responded Sergio succinctly, trying to match his caller’s apparent calmness.

  “He’s using his own name,” replied Orsinni, “which is Antonio Crocci, and he has been sent by a dwarf to eliminate Claudio Canizzaro.”

  “Did he say anything else?” was Colonel Kovac’s first response upon being told.

  “He gave a full description of Crocci,” replied Sergio, “right down to his passport number.”

  “Rinaldi certainly seems determined to kill the man,” said Kovac, “and Orsinni is obviously still plugged in to his New York connections. So if he knows all this, why doesn’t he just deal with Crocci himself I wonder.”

  “He may be retired,” responded Sergio, “but Giovanni Orsinni has lost none of his cunning. At this late stage of his Mafioso life, he can’t afford to tell Antonio Bartalucci why he wants to protect Canizzaro. If Giovanni did reveal his connection to the man, it would provide Antonio with the means to bring Canizzaro to the Bartalucci heel. For the same reason, Giovanni cannot risk privately briefing anyone to deal with Crocci. If the Bartalucci Don found out about it, and he would, the Orsinni brothers would each suffer in their different ways. So Giovanni is a hostage to fortune on this. He called the carabiniere knowing that we will move to prevent such a high-profile assassination on Italian soil.”

  Kovac couldn’t fault the summary, so made no comment. Orsinni might indeed be cunning, reflected the Colonel, but then so was Sergio Sabbatini. He was annoyed with himself for not having figured out that the Bartalucci Don seemingly didn’t know about Canizzaro’s connection to Giovanni Orsinni. He was aware of sergeant Zola having nicknamed his captain the Sicilian Volpe, and at times like this he could understand why Sabbatini was considered to have all the cunning of a fox. Kovac smiled across the desk. Tempering his annoyance, he was secretly delighted that his captain’s relationship with the Orsinni woman was already proving its worth. Her father had gone straight to Sabbatini, which justified leaving him and his special squad to handle this, thus preventing interference from others and avoiding any loss of valuable time which could be used to set counter-measures in motion.

  “I can leave the necessary arrangements in your hands, Capitano?”

  “Already in motion,” Sergio assured his Colonel.

  Rome, Italy, Canizzaro’s Villa, 9-30am, Wednesday 26th June 1985

  The door to her uncle’s study was open and as Maria Orsinni entered she saw that his hand still rested atop one of the two landline telephones on his desk. It was the red-coloured one, which she knew was the dedicated line to the Vatican. Canizzaro was frowning as he spoke.

  “Our plans must change, Maria,” he began, “I cannot be with you this afternoon. The Vatican have need of my services. They have also advised me that it could take the rest of the week to resolve what they consider to be a delicate matter.”

  Maria had set aside periods of time over the next three days to be with him, but shrugged her shoulders and smiled to mask her frustration. “So the properties inspection, and the check on management personnel must be conducted at another time. Don’t worry about it. I can just re-schedule my training sessions with Wan Lai Tang.”

  “No,” he responded, shaking his head, “I cannot have you, and everyone else, inconvenienced just because of me. The properties inspection can wait, but you can go alone to the Via Veneto offices, Maria. They are expecting me, and will have prepared themselves accordingly, but the surprise appearance of you by yourself will shake them up a bit. That might work in your favour. Anyway, you can speak to the people there and take a look around the place. You can form your own opinion of the principals there, and judge for yourself how they are conducting themselves. You can relay your impressions to me when you return.”

  Maria sat down in front of him at the desk as she responded, “I would be a complete stranger to them. I could hardly just turn up and expect them to give me the run of the place.”

  Maria saw his head nod at this obviously expected remark as he replied, “But you are aware of who is who, and of what they do there because we have discussed it in detail. You may recall,” he added with a smile, “your insistence that we did so.”

  Maria thought back to the briefing session on ‘LUP’, the property development company owned by her uncle. As suggestively proclaimed by its ‘Live in the lap of LUP’ slogan, which featured in those glossy magazines advertising the kind of homes occupied by the rich and famous, ‘Luxury Unlimited Properties’ operated exclusively in the prestige market of luxury private apartments and villas. But during the briefing session her uncle had expressed his lingering unease following a recent telephone conversation with Giacommo Rosso, ‘LUP’s current manager. Citing seemingly unconvincing reasons, Rosso had apparently attempted to discourage her uncle from visiting the company’s offices on Rome’s Via Veneto.

  “You said,” continued Canizzaro, “that by properly preparing yourself, you would be better equipped to help me. And of course you were correct. You are aware of my fears following the last incident. I have allowed my people too much autonomy, and I must ensure that another Brantano, or anything else illegal, is not being shielded by my name.”

  Maria concealed the self-doubt accompanying her thoughts on Canizzaro’s expectations. She was beginning to wonder if her uncle thought she possessed some kind of criminal divining rod which could be used at will.

  “Even if I was there myself,” he went on, “I wouldn’t see the things you can see. You, Maria, have the ability to sense if something doesn’t look right, or sound right, or even feel right.”

  Maria smiled at her uncle’s flattery. “I would have found it easier to use that ability on your behalf,” she said, “whilst just being there as your silent observer.”

  “Should you chatter,” he said with a smile, “they will be charmed by you. Should you say very little, they will worry about you. But nothing need worry you.”

  “I would still be a complete stranger to them,” she persisted.

  “But one,” he quickly countered, “who will appear before them with my full authority,” he ended with a determined looking smile.

  “Your full authority?” queried Maria, unable to hide her surprise. “Which means what, exactly?”

  “Which means,” he responded, “that you will carry with you the document I will prepare. The document which will convey to its reader that you have the right to be shown whatever you wish to see. It will also make clear that you have the power to take any action you may deem to be appropriate should you discover anything untoward posing a threat to my good name.”

  Maria thought for a second that he was joking, then realized he was being
serious.

  “Well that would certainly guarantee me a warm welcome,” she said, smiling briefly before switching the smile for a frown with the addition, “You seem to be placing a lot of faith in my relatively untried judgement. Most of the people there will be far older than me, and would see me as some kind of privileged youngster who knows nothing about their business. And they would be right about that. They could even think I’m your young mistress, preparing the way to making everything mine when you’ve gone. The main players there, Rosso, and the accountant, Catalani, the ones you yourself appointed, would certainly consider my appearance before them with such a document as an insult to their professional integrity. Perhaps, uncle of mine, you need to give this idea of yours more thought.”

  Having said her piece, Maria sat back and waited for the response. It crossed her mind that he had deliberately suggested she make such a visit, simply to test her reaction. She was now questioning that reaction, wondering if it might have sounded overly patronising.

  “In the first place,” he responded, clearly unperturbed, “I don’t consider my faith in you to be misplaced. And the way in which you’re pleasantly questioning my judgement without offending me, confirms for me your ability to handle whatever age-range may verbally protest about my choosing you to represent me. Giovanni and Tanaka have made that a wise old head you have on your young shoulders, and the argument you sensibly present is testament to that.”

  Maria watched as he leant back in his chair. He was regarding her with a thoughtful looking expression on his face, clearly preparing himself to say more, and she wondered now what was coming. His next words supplied the answer to that and took her breath away.