by Bill Cariad
“From whom?” he asked her, then he realized what was happening as he saw her cut into the heel of her left hand. Even as the trickle of blood appeared, she reached out and pulled his own left hand towards her and cut into it. Sergio felt the prick of the knife and saw his own blood before she pressed their wounds together and spoke to him.
“It is the Sicilian oath that I swear to you now, Sergio Sabbatini. He must answer to God for all the others, but the Shrivenham creature, Calendar, will answer to Maria Orsinni for the lives of your sister Sophia and her daughter Marina.”
Sergio was aware of Maria sliding off her stool again, and he was still looking at the blood on his hand when he heard the sound of the water running from the tap. He rose and joined her at the sink, putting his hand under the water as she reached for the first aid box he kept in the kitchen in plain view. He silently watched as she prepared the plaster to cover her wound, and thought of the oath she had just sworn. Not just any oath, he reminded himself sharply, but a Sicilian blood oath. The form of oath from which there was no escape, no going back on, until it had been honoured. She wasn’t looking at his face as she worked the plaster on to his own hand, but he was studying hers and saw nothing there which mirrored his own conflicting emotions.
“Maria,” he began, struggling now to find the right words, “A little while ago, you said that no one must share what we would say to one another. I should not have allowed you to swear such an oath. So you must withdraw it. It would never be mentioned again by me, and should be forgotten by yourself. You could never get close enough to Calendar to do it anyway, and would be killed in the attempt.”
Sergio saw her deep blue eyes meet his own, and saw there something which chilled the blood in his veins. In that instant he realized that he had forgotten how deadly a Sicilian woman could be when she had sworn to exact revenge.
“Those who have trained me,” she replied, “would tell you that you are wrong.”
Sergio was amazed to see the blue eyes twinkle as she smiled with her addition.
“There is something you can do to help me. Something which wouldn’t compromise you.”
“Tell me.”
“You can help me get my knives through airport security,” she replied.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘Big Apple’ Surprises
John F. Kennedy International Airport, Borough of Queens, New York City, Wednesday, August 21st, 1985
Windsocks hung motionless on their poles, and hot afternoon sunlight bathed the runways and Terminal buildings standing on American soil which had once been a golf course before political will and construction crews had transformed it into Idlewild airport four decades ago. Political tragedy had engendered the public will for change, and on December 24th 1963 the Airport had re-dedicated its name in memory of the nation’s 35th President and its fourth serving leader to die by assassination.
The Alitalia plane bringing Maria Orsinni and Claudio Canizzaro from Rome to New York touched down at 1-30pm local time. They deplaned alongside Grant Jackson, a quietly spoken and middle-aged businessman from California, whom Canizzaro had befriended during the flight. Upon discovering they shared an intended destination, the two men had agreed to share a taxi once they cleared the Terminal. Maria hadn’t been consulted about the arrangement, but a silent appraisal of the heavily tanned and pleasantly mannered Jackson had not disturbed her.
For Canizzaro, later expectantly positioned by the baggage carousel with other seasoned travellers, the waiting time was boring and moved slowly. But Maria wasn’t bored as they waited for their luggage, this was her first trip to a foreign land and for her the time sped by in a flurry of new sights and sounds. Competing with loudspeaker warnings about unattended luggage, strident voices filled her hearing with a variety of national tongues. Whichever way she turned inside the cavernous enclosure, she could see people hurrying as if their lives depended upon getting somewhere not a moment too soon. Children of all ages were milling around, some of the older ones looking bored, and first-time-overseas-traveller Maria wondered if they would grow to appreciate how fortunate their childhood had been. Big men, many of them hugely overweight she thought, bustled around her wearing shirts and trousers so brightly patterned she was glad of the sunglasses she wore.
Their luggage safely gathered, it was time for more queuing and the official formalities which followed and Maria didn’t start relaxing until her suitcases had cleared customs. Inside one of them was the smaller case given to her by Sergio Sabbatini to hold her cosmetics, and inside that was the concealed and lead-lined compartment housing her knives. She smiled at the official as she told him the purpose of her visit was pleasure, and as her passport received its stamp of approval she could hear Tanaka’s quiet chuckle sounding in her head.
“So you are now,” said her uncle, “officially in New York. Your American holiday begins,” he ended with a smile.
Maria returned Canizzaro’s smile, but didn’t speak. She had packed for a holiday, not to have done so would have alerted Graziella, but she certainly wasn’t expecting to have one. She knew only too well that getting to Calendar wasn’t going to be easy. Her time on the ground here would be eaten up by planning a way to reach her target, put him down, and walk away undetected. All of which was a long way short of a holiday, she grimly realized.
Sixty minutes after stepping off the plane, the re-formed trio stood outside the Terminal and Maria thought that she could have fitted her Fiat inside the roomy looking taxi which had responded to Jackson’s raised hand and appeared now before them. The gum-chewing driver with the street-wise eyes in a pock-marked face, introduced himself as Tony and surprised with his compliment to Maria’s simple ensemble of wine-red jacket and white blouse worn over black slacks. Maria was even asked if she was a visiting film star.
“What did I tell you,” said her uncle, “already you are captivating a New York male and you’re not even wearing one of your dazzling evening outfits.”
Maria smiled in response and slid into the car beside Jackson, who was now sandwiched between herself and Canizzaro. The taxi joined the fast moving traffic and she was taking in the infrastructure around her when Jackson spoke.
“Your uncle mentioned that this is your first trip to New York. I guess what you’re looking at now, compares favourably with the beautiful architecture you’ve left behind you in Italy.”
“I haven’t really,” Maria diplomatically replied, “seen enough yet to draw comparisons.”
“This is what they call the Van Wycke Expressway,” said Jackson, indicating the highway outside. “It was named after Robert Van Wycke, who was the first mayor of New York City.”
Maria nodded politely as she received this information, but didn’t say anything.
“It takes around forty-five minutes to reach our hotel,” said Jackson quietly, “and I can keep my mouth shut if you would prefer that,” he ended with a smile.
“I for one,” said Canizzaro, “am happy to learn these things.”
“So here you have your captive audience, Signore Jackson,” said Maria, returning his smile.
Despite having received audience approval, Jackson seemed content to travel in silence for a while and Maria found herself thinking about Tanaka again as she gazed at the photograph taped to the driver’s dashboard. Arms linked and smiling to camera, was obviously Tony and presumably his wife and daughter. She wondered if this would have been the route Tanaka would have taken in reverse when he had left this city to fly to Rome. She thought of how dispirited he had been at that time in his life and sighed quietly now with the wish that they could have been photographed together, or travelled somewhere together before being parted.
“Your President Reagan,” said Canizzaro, “has had much to occupy his mind since his re-election last year.”
“You’ve got that right,” responded Jackson. “You folks ma
y already know about what happened back in June to that TWA flight in the Lebanon?”
“I’m trying,” said Canizzaro, “to recall the details.”
“Terrorists hijacked the plane and held everyone hostage,” explained Jackson. “After a lot of media-reported drama, and high-stakes political poker play between the terrorists and the Israeli’s, and us, the hostages were finally freed. But not before they had killed a US Navy diver and dumped his body on an airport runway in full view of the TV cameras.”
“Which put your President Reagan in an unenviable position,” acknowledged Canizzaro.
“You’ve got that right,” said Jackson.
Maria saw that the taxi driver was obeying one of the overhead signs pointing them to Grand Central Parkway & The Triborough Bridge, and before long she was looking out and down at an expanse of water snaking its way between the sprawl of land below. Down there, so far down they could have been laid out like an architect’s small-scale model, she could see all the other forms of man-made structures necessary to human habitation.
“This bridge spans the Harlem River and part of the East River,” said Jackson. “It’s really a complex of three separate bridges connecting the New York boroughs of Queens, Manhattan, and the Bronx. Pretty impressive piece of work, don’t you think?”
Maria had counted eight lanes of traffic on the majestically styled bridge which was a tremendous height above everything below it and which, when viewed through the taxi’s windshield, seemed to stretch out before them into infinity. She silently agreed with Jackson’s use of the word impressive, and continued to wordlessly marvel at the scale of it all.
“It’s hard to see,” said Canizzaro, “any peaceful end to this Middle East situation.”
“If it isn’t his opposition party,” responded Jackson, “it’s the Jews or those Muslim fanatics currently blowing smoke at Reagan.”
“Or a retired Limey Army General,” Tony shouted over his shoulder, “and the Soviets.”
“I don’t quite follow...,” began Canizzaro, but was interrupted.
“Israel and Palestine,” said Jackson, clearly determined to make his point first, “are each holding one end of a lit fuse connected to the time bomb between them. Reagan keeps trying to put the fuses out, but they just keep fanning the flames. Tony there, is referring to a book written by a Brit General named Hacket. It projects the scenario of the Soviets invading Germany and kicking off world war three. Reagan was allegedly heard saying the hypothesis could become reality.”
“Wouldn’t put it past them,” shouted Tony, “Reagan did say they were an evil empire.”
“Your CIA analysts,” responded Canizzaro, obviously enjoying the three-way conversation, “would probably discount the notion of such an event.”
The mention of the acronym CIA, pulled Maria’s focus away from the impressive view and brought her mind back to the barriers she would have to overcome in order to reach her target at the Plaza Hotel. The CIA could be expected there in numbers impossible to guess at, and would be covering their prize day and night.
“The CIA have had other things on their minds,” said Jackson. “There’s all kinds of allegations flying around about them shipping arms to Iran for the release of hostages, and their Beirut Station Chief was kidnapped last year and they still don’t know whether he’s alive or dead.”
“He’s long gone,” shouted Tony.
Maria realized that the taxi driver was responding to yet another overhead sign which was pointing them to FDR Drive, and Jackson’s travel commentary resumed on cue.
“Named after Franklin D. Roosevelt, the nation’s 32nd President,” said Jackson. “This will bring us into Lexington Avenue, or 63rd street as it’s known, and once Tony fights his way through the Upper Midtown Manhattan traffic, we’ll be at the hotel.”
Within minutes it seemed, their fast multi-lane highway progress slowed to a crawl as Tony joined Midtown Manhattan traffic. Maria saw now that their transportation was just one of dozens of passenger-carrying yellow-coloured taxis. Through gaps between the pedestrians on busy sidewalks, she could also see glamorous looking department stores but everything was dwarfed by the towering skyscrapers which seemed to be reaching impossible heights.
“This is it folks,” announced Tony as he finally brought the taxi to a halt. “Park Avenue’s Waldorf Astoria. The Big Apple’s Grande Dame of hotels,” he ended with a linguistic flourish.
Porters were already emerging from the hotel to deal with the luggage as the taxi disgorged its passengers. Motioning her uncle to go ahead of her into the hotel, Maria moved to the driver’s window, paid the metered fare, and proffered an extra twenty-dollar bill to Tony.
“What if,” she began, letting her eyes tell him this was business, “I wanted a taxi driver who had knowledge of the city and a face I would recognize. What if I would want that driver to wait for me when I asked him to, before returning me here. How would I hire him?”
“During the day, or at night?” he replied, relieving her of the ‘twenty’ without blinking an eye.
“Might be both,” she answered, “I don’t know yet.”
Maria watched as he brought a business card from his shirt pocket and passed it to her.
“The top number gets me during the day up until six. Which is when I normally finish. The other one would find me at night, but I would charge you extra for night work.”
“That’s fine,” said Maria, “Grazie.”
Maria saw him hesitate for a second, then he spoke again.
“I heard that guy say you’re new to what we natives call ‘The Big Apple’. So there are things you should know. If you hired me to take you somewhere in this part of town between eight and ten in the morning, we’d be stuck in traffic you wouldn’t believe. You’d be paying good money to go nowhere fast.” He shrugged his shoulders before adding, “The same goes for eleven thirty to one thirty, and four thirty to six thirty. You sure a taxi is what you really want, lady?”
“I’m sure,” she replied, gifting him a genuine smile of warmth as she added, “But thanks for the warning. How far is the Plaza Hotel from here?”
Maria saw the brown eyes narrow in the pock-marked face as he answered.
“It’s about nine or ten blocks of almost straight line driving from here.”
“So, If you picked me up here tomorrow morning at ten-thirty, we would have a clear run?”
“As clear as you’re ever gonna’ get in this town.”
“I will be waiting outside here, to avoid delay. I’ll see you at ten-thirty.”
“Don’t be too conspicuous,” he said with a grin, “you could cause a traffic jam just standing still at the side of the street. With looks like yours, you should be in show business,” he added, pointing his finger as he winked at her, “Broadway’s theatre-land is four blocks that way. I should take you there and you could knock ‘em dead sweetheart.”
Maria smiled at him, and he sketched her a wave and drove off. She put the business card in her purse, and thought about the man who had given it to her. ‘Had she been too hasty with her choice of driver?’ Only time would tell, she silently told herself. She turned away from the bustle of Park Avenue traffic and stood for a moment looking up at the building which would be her home for the next ten days. Her uncle had already told her that he would be tied up with meetings over the next three of those days, so she would take advantage of his absence and look at the Plaza Hotel in the morning. Familiarising herself with its surrounding area would be accomplished sooner with the aid of Tony the taxi driver. Feeling reasonably pleased with herself, she smiled politely at the uniformed doorman as she entered The Waldorf Astoria.
Inside the hotel, resplendent in their dark green uniforms with gleaming brass buttons, porters were busily engaged attending to both outgoing and incoming guests. Weaving her way through the ac
tivity, Maria crossed the marble-floored foyer and joined her uncle who was in the act of turning away from the reception desk. There was no sign of Grant Jackson, she noted.
“You settled our account with the driver, I presume?”
“I’ve arranged for him to drive me around while you’re away,” she told him.
“Excellent idea,” he said, holding up two room keys as he added, “I’ve checked us both in. We’re on floor thirty.”
“How many floors do they have?”
“Forty-two,” he replied, linking arms as he continued, “What do you think of the Art Deco-style surrounding us?”
“If early twentieth century is your taste,” she replied, “then this is the place to stay, I suppose,” smiling as she added, “But we have luxurious hotels which don’t have to try to look old. I can think of several which go back a lot longer than this one.”
“But we mustn’t,” said Canizzaro, returning her smile, “say that to Signore Jackson.”
“No, we mustn’t do that,” she agreed. “Do you know where he stayed in Rome? Do you know what kind of business he does which enables him to afford Waldorf prices?”
“He told me that he had stayed with friends, and that he is in the oil business. And I am glad that you didn’t put those questions to him yourself in such an aggressive manner.”
“You’re just being a grumpy uncle now,” she said with a smile, “but I forgive you.”
“I am no longer grumpy,” he said, smiling himself now, “because you didn’t say old uncle.”
They began walking towards where they could see elevators in use, and Canizzaro gave her one of the two room keys he held.
“Our suites are immediately opposite one another, does that suit?”
“That’s fine,” she replied, and as they stepped inside the elevator she added, “it’s close enough for me to keep an eye on you and report any funny business to Graziella.”
Canizzaro laughed at that, but Maria wasn’t surprised at the words which followed.