by Bill Cariad
The pilot had cheerfully announced that he had made good use of beneficial tail-winds, so the plane carrying its passengers direct from America’s New York city had arrived early. Antonio Crocci, his stomach growling, his mind filled with thoughts of the local contact supplying him with a weapon and Canizzaro’s itinerary, didn’t even register the fact that the carefully briefed stewardess had ensured he was the first of the first class passengers to disembark. Halfway down the steps from the plane he did register the four waiting men he immediately recognized as plain-clothed policemen, but had no option other than to continue stepping down towards them.
“Signore Crocci,” said the dark-haired one with the film-star looks, “welcome to Rome. My name is Sabbatini, and I and my carabiniere colleagues will now escort you to your plane.”
“What the hell do you...? ” began Crocci, but got no further as his arms were gripped by two of them and he was frog-marched away as the one calling himself Sabbatini, the one obviously in charge, strode alongside as he spoke again.
“Signore Crocci, save your worthless breath,” said Sabbatini, “We know why you came here, which is why you are returning to New York on a plane which takes off very shortly.”
“You can’t do...,” began Crocci, but was again silenced as the fourth one patted him down as they moved then reached inside his jacket and extracted his passport and flight ticket.
“I’m an American citizen,” protested Crocci, “you can’t....”
“American law enforcement officers will meet you in New York,” interjected Sabbatini, “so you can lodge your protest with them. I’m sure they will listen as you respond to the questions they will put to you.”
“I’m the one with the questions, smart-ass,” blustered Crocci, “What makes you think it will be me answering questions?”
“Why don’t we tell him, Capitano?” said the one checking his passport as he spoke.
“Something to do with a disappearing witness, wasn’t it, sergeant?” said Sabbatini to the one who had robbed him of his passport.
“Along with this now substantiated connection to Luigi Rinaldi regarding the intended assassination of a prominent Italian citizen,” replied the grinning passport thief.
His mind now filled with thoughts of the nightmare still to come, Crocci was dimly aware of the attention they were drawing from maintenance staff as he was brought to a halt at the steps leading up to another Alitalia plane. He saw his passport and flight documents being given to a uniformed official, who stamped the passport and scrawled something unseen across the paperwork before handing both to another plain-clothed man who calmly pocketed the documentation then stepped forward brandishing handcuffs.
“You will be escorted by the air-marshal,” said Sabbatini, “all the way back to where you came from. Your luggage will follow in due course, though I doubt you will have need of it where I imagine you will be spending the foreseeable future.”
“The air-marshal is an Italian, and a close friend of the man you came here to kill,” lied Zola, “So I would advise you to be very quiet during your journey, Signore Crocci.”
The plane’s expected passengers already on board, Antonio Crocci was led up the steps without further ado. His stomach began howling as he reached the doorway to the plane, and his mind was screaming abuse at Luigi Rinaldi, but he said nothing at all to the very tough looking air-marshal who positioned him in the window seat of a cordoned-off section of the plane which was already preparing to leave. ‘Tony the Croc’ closed his eyes, but could still see the hell below awaiting him after another eight-plus hours of captivity at thirty thousand feet above the ground.
As they watched the plane take off, Sergio turned to his sergeant with a smile.
“That was an inventive piece of fiction, Gianfranco, what made you think of turning the hapless air-marshal into a close friend of Canizzaro?”
“I study at the feet of a master of invention,” replied Zola, grinning as he mocked a bow.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rabbit - Python - Teddy Bear
Lup Company Offices, Via Veneto, 3pm Wednesday, 26th June 1985
As arranged, the couple met on the street which had been made famous a quarter of a century ago when prominently featured in Federico Fellini’s film La Dolce Vita; a scathing satire on the lives of the idle rich. The man smothered his surprise when greeted by the familiar voice coming from an unfamiliar body, and, after hearing what was expected of him, together he and the woman duly made their entrance into the target building. Formerly built as a silk merchant’s warehouse, the LUP building on the Via Veneto was an old three-level construction which had been re-worked to demonstrate how ancient and modern could come together without sacrificing quality. So, apart from the stained glass entrance doors and the new windows, nothing on the outside had been done to detract from the original craftsmanship of the stonemason’s art.
As the female half of this visiting duo knew, inside was where the budget and the flair had been allowed free rein. The building’s top two floors provided luxury accommodation for the company’s manager and his family, and its ground level space was given over to a reception area boasting a fountain as its centrepiece, two public washrooms, a fully equipped staff kitchen, and four offices identified by individual door-legends as the working domains of Giacommo Rosso (General Manager), Alfredo Catalani (Accountant),Gina Scacci (Secretary), and Anna Catalani (Assistant Manager).
From behind her desk with its commanding view of all who crossed the threshold of Luxury Unlimited Properties, Christina Verdi, the young and impressionable receptionist who dreamt of being carried away by one of LUP’s rich clients, wishfully wondered if this day might still bring her life-changing knight in shining armour or Armani suiting. During her short tenure here she had already learned never to judge by appearances alone, as serious wealth often clothed itself in misleading fashion. The couple approaching the desk now, thought Christina, presented just such a challenge to her silent game of guess who has the money?
The young man was smartly suited and handsome but didn’t look like the tycoon type, so was probably a relative. Or possibly the woman’s toy-boy, thought Christina with an inward chuckle. Either way, reckoned Christina, he wasn’t where the money would come from to buy a property in LUP’s luxury price range. Which made the woman the one with the money, decided Christina, dreamily imagining a day when someone might see her in such a fiscal light.
The woman certainly didn’t look young, observed Christina, but wasn’t close enough yet to make guessing her age easier. Whatever her age, she had once been tall but was now stooped and she wore spectacles. Christina didn’t think it had been cold outside today, but a long black coat covered the woman from the neck to the ankles of feet encased in ugly looking flat shoes. She wore gloves, and one hand gripped the heavy looking walking stick which was now being used as a pointer as the couple stopped at the fountain midway between their starting point and the reception desk. Wondering what the woman had found to be of interest, Christina glanced to where the walking stick was pointing and realized that Giacommo Rosso’s office was the object of attention. Then the door to Alfredo Catalani’s office abruptly opened and Feruccio Busoni emerged followed by Alfredo’s wife, Anna.
Christina couldn’t prevent her involuntary shudder at the sight of Busoni, and was glad of the desk which afforded some protection from the man who constantly made foul-mouthed suggestions to her. Her complaints about his behaviour having been ignored, she had come to detest the man who was built like a heavyweight wrestler and was apparently Rosso’s new liaison between management and the construction crews. She calmed herself with the thought that his usual approach would be discouraged by the presence of the couple by the fountain.
Christina suddenly realized that the distressed looking Anna was holding a child’s teddy bear and was attempting to make Busoni take it from her. The man wa
s obviously refusing, but then appeared to become aware of his refusal being witnessed by the couple in the foyer watching the scene. With obvious reluctance Busoni took the teddy bear from Anna, who turned on her heel and re-entered her husband’s office. A puzzled Christina watched an angry looking Busoni begin his walk to the glass doors leading to the Via Veneto, but her vision was obstructed by the fountain so she didn’t see him throw the teddy bear in the waste basket outside the washrooms. Seen now through glass, Busoni was striding away outside on the street when the woman with the walking stick said something to the young man who left her side and followed Busoni outside.
Seemingly deciding an urgent detour was necessary before speaking to a receptionist, thought the watching Christina, the old woman was hurriedly making her way towards the washrooms when the reception desk telephone rang. As Christina picked up the phone, the door to Giacommo Rosso’s office opened and the manager emerged with a client by his side. Christina was listening to the voice in her ear requesting a property brochure be sent to the address she began scribbling down, as Rosso began escorting his client to the street door. When the woman with the walking stick reappeared in view with a teddy bear, held in her free hand and swinging back and forth as she walked, a now bemused Christina was re-cradling her phone when the door to Alfredo’s office opened again and Anna Catalani re-emerged to witness the old woman finally reaching the reception desk.
Christina Verdi’s attention was now split between the rapidly approaching figures of her boss and Anna Catalani, and the person immediately in front of her. ‘The customer comes first,’ she told herself, focusing on the woman with streaks of grey running through wavy brown hair which was cut short. Eyes which Christina thought resembled shiny black buttons, peered from behind the thick-framed spectacles. Wondering why a clearly upset Anna Catalani had given a man like Feruccio Busoni a teddy bear, wondering where the woman before her had acquired what looked like the same teddy bear and why the handsome young man had left her alone to follow Busoni, struggling now to project her aura of unflappable receptionist, Christina opened with her usual company-dictated-rote.
“Welcome to luxury unlimited, Signora. How can we help you?”
“Where did you get that teddy bear?” Anna Catalani loudly asked as she reached the desk with fire in her eyes burning through still visible tears.
Reduced to the role of spectator, Christina watched as her red-faced boss arrived at the other side of the old woman who was turning her head towards the questioner. Christina put the man’s facial colour down to high blood pressure, or embarrassment.
“Lower your voice, Anna,” commanded Rosso, “remember where you are.”
“I was about to explain to your pretty receptionist,” began the woman, ignoring Rosso and smiling at Anna as she addressed her, “that I retrieved it from the waste basket.”
Unsure how she felt about being seen as pretty, as opposed to drop-dead gorgeous, Christina watched as the teddy bear was returned to Anna who was now attempting to smile through her tears as she spoke in Italian, “Grazie, Signora... Signora...?”
“Pellegrino,” said the woman, her voice quiet but firm, “and I am happy to see you re-united with something which obviously has meaning for you.”
“It’s my...,” began Anna....
“I don’t think,” interjected Rosso, “we need bother the Signora with details, Anna.”
Two things then happened so quickly that Christina actually heard herself gasp with alarm. Anna Catalani, her face suddenly twisted with rage, lunged at Giacommo Rosso who was staggering backwards to avoid her clenched fist just as Alfredo Catalani appeared out of nowhere and wrapped his arms around his wife to stop her attack. Christina held her breath as Alfredo whispered something in his wife’s ear, something which made Anna instantly calm down, and Christina released her breath as the couple made their way back into Alfredo’s office.
“I must apologise for my colleague’s behaviour,” said Rosso into the silence at the reception desk. “Can I be of assistance, Signora Pellegrino?” he asked, clearly straining with the effort to induce an air of normality into his question.
“I think,” responded the woman quietly, “it is your colleague who requires the assistance. My own business can be conducted on another day.”
As the woman turned to leave, Christina caught the flash of anger her boss didn’t see.
Again as arranged, and still inhabiting the Pellegrino persona, Maria Orsinni waited in her Fiat for Gianfranco Zola. She was parked up in the Via Veneto, keeping the entrance to the LUP building in sight without making it obvious, and she was mentally reviewing the drama she had witnessed inside Canizzaro’s building. The original plan had been to size up Rosso prior to tomorrow’s scheduled meeting. Whilst Zola, combining his knowledge of the construction industry with his police experience, had been tasked to unobtrusively take the LUP company temperature. But Zola had recognized the man he’d said was named Busoni, so the plan had changed. Maria hadn’t been phased by the change, ‘A plan must allow for flexibility’, Tanaka had said, ‘in order to incorporate the unexpected whilst still achieving the objective.’ Maria smiled to herself with the thought that Paolo would have interpreted that as ‘plan with what you know, but go with the flow.’
Something was clearly not as it should be ‘in the lap of LUP’, reflected Maria, and she was uneasily beginning to suspect what a part of that something could be when Gianfranco Zola eased himself into the front passenger seat of her Fiat and immediately began reciting his findings.
“Busoni led me to a villa on the Via Molise,” he pointed a directional finger at the Veneto street scene they could see through the Fiat’s windshield, “that’s just behind....”
“I know where the Via Molise is,” anticipated Maria, impatient to hear more of what she didn’t yet know.
“I flagged down a carabiniere patrol car,” continued Zola, untroubled by Maria’s impatience, “and they contacted headquarters on my behalf. My HQ says the villa is privately owned by Giacommo Rosso.”
“So who lives there, I wonder?” queried Maria. “It can’t be Rosso,” she added, “he lives in the LUP building with his family.”
Zola gave a shoulder shrug with his response. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t want the patrol car officers to hear too much before I’ve had a chance to speak to Sergio. All the shutters are closed,” he added, “and had I not seen Busoni go inside, I would have said it’s unoccupied.”
Maria pondered that information for a moment, then challenged its conveyor.
“Sighting Busoni took you by surprise. Why? What made you think he was worth following?”
The carabiniere sergeant was frowning as he replied, “Because I’ve read the file we have on him. Feruccio Busoni, known to his associates as ‘The Python’, is Mafia born and bred. He’s one of the Lucchese family here in Roma, and they wouldn’t be using a serious man like Busoni on anything small-fry.”
Maria gave this latest information more considered thought. Whilst nowhere near as powerful as the Bartalucci family, the Lucchese family were still strong enough to command respect within the Mafia fraternity.
“So you recognized Busoni,” mused Maria aloud, “because Sergio’s special squad is tracking the Lucchese family?”
“We’re tracking several families,” replied Zola, unknowingly winning more of Maria’s respect because he held eye contact with her as he spoke.
“So just how serious,” asked Maria, “is Busoni considered to be by the carabiniere?”
“He’s the chief enforcer for the Lucchese family,” replied Zola. “He’s as serious as you can get within....”
As he suddenly stopped talking, Maria read Zola’s body language and saw the indecision. She instinctively realized that because of her own background, he was searching for words which would be inoffensive to her. ‘Sergio has chosen his sergeant well’, she
told herself, ‘I like this man who agreed to help me today, and is even now striving to be considerate. My father used many words to describe the carabiniere, but considerate was never one of them.’
“...within their ranks,” concluded the carabiniere sergeant.
Maria used the silence which followed to speculate upon what kind of situation could have brought a man like Busoni into the world of LUP. Zola’s voice cut into her thoughts.
“What happened when I left you?”
Maria quickly recounted what she had seen and heard, then, while Zola was still thinking about that, she posed her next question with a knowing smile.
“So what did your father say when you told him we’d talked about LUP, and that Maria Orsinni had floated the word fraud into the conversation?”
Zola paused for thought, surprised at how comfortable he felt about confiding in a woman who was so closely connected to the kind of people he was pledged to destroy. The more time he spent in the company of Maria Orsinni, the more he was beginning to understand Sergio’s attraction to her. She could certainly capture a man’s attention, in or out of disguise, and she had been quick to adapt to the change of plan back there, and she was nobody’s fool. He shrugged his shoulders again as he replied, “I spoke to my father because I figured you would want the feedback.”
“You figured right,” acknowledged Maria, “So what did he say?”
“Well, he said he knew that LUP is owned by Canizzaro, and he said that he knows and dislikes Rosso. My father doesn’t believe that Rosso’s lifestyle could be funded by salary alone, and said he wouldn’t be surprised if Rosso was regularly using the rabbit trick.”
“What does that mean? What is the rabbit trick?”
“Making something disappear whilst leaving it in place,” Zola enigmatically qualified, adding with a smile, “like the magician does with his rabbit in the hat.”
“I still don’t...,” began Maria, but her failure to understand had not surprised.