The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  The Tong leader’s eyes told Maria she had been understood, and the man smiled as he spoke, “Yo Cheng Hok and Maria Orsinni are in agreement again.”

  Only when the last of the Burning Hand tong members had left the dojo, did Maria allow herself to switch mindsets and begin to relax. Her watch told her one hour remained until midnight as she accompanied Kimoto to his office, where a demonstrably overjoyed Hanako was released from the flimsy safety of the toilet cubicle. Maria waved away the woman’s words of thanks, and effected not to see the tears on the face of Tanzen Kimoto as he began leading his daughter to the reunion with her mother. They pressed her to accompany them, but she politely declined and instead asked if she could use the office phone to call her taxi driver.

  Tanzen Kimoto paused to watch the Italian woman calmly pick up the office phone. She presented now, he thought, as harmless an image as the one he had seen when she had first opened the door to his dojo only nine hours ago. She had astonished him in the opening seconds of those nine hours, and had continued to do so throughout them. In those nine memorable hours she had destroyed Carmine Forza; persuaded one dangerous Chinese Tong leader to go to war with another; organized the involvement of the American DEA and gifted them Wan Cheng-Jian; and had executed her divide and conquer plan B so successfully that it had effectively neutered what could have been Yo Cheng Hok’s violent reaction to the drugs matter. Tanaka had been correct, thought Kimoto now, Maria Orsinni truly was a warrior worthy of the name. He turned away from the remarkable woman who, by her actions, had safely returned his daughter to his wife, and left the office feeling pleased that Maria Orsinni had glanced up in time to see his deep and most heartfelt bow of respect.

  6 Chop: A word used in China to describe a sealed document (a private message).

  Chapter Forty

  Solutions (and their problems)

  Her call made and responded to with a sleepy sounding Tony’s promise to ‘Be with you in twenty minutes’, and, feeling the need for dojo-free air while she waited for the taxi, Maria decided to get out on to the street. She was in the act of rising from Kimoto’s leather chair when she remembered the item still snug in her zippered top. She extracted the small slim box fashioned from cedar wood and placed it on the desk, imagining now that when next he knelt before his private shrine to the gods, Kimoto would insert into this traditional Okurimono (gift) his rice-paper message of thanks to them for the safe return of his daughter, Hanako.

  Maria walked through the stillness of the dojo, glancing at the floor area still bearing the marks of the Heroin which had been trodden in, and visualised Kiri and Hanako Kimoto busy sweeping away the remaining evidence of their lengthy nightmare. Maybe one day, she thought, she would return here to drink tea with Kiri Kimoto and absorb the teachings of her husband. Outside on the street, she drew in deep lungfuls of the night air as she listened to yet more of the seemingly endless siren sounds emanating from an unseen ambulance or police car. This was, her uncle had told her, ‘the city that never sleeps’. This was, she silently told herself, not the city where she would choose to live. The memory of Canizzaro’s words caused her thoughts to dwell on the man: He would be in bed, of course, when she finally got back to the hotel. He probably would have assumed that she was out somewhere sampling the New York nightlife, and she felt the stab of guilt at the thought of his reaction if he ever found out just what kind of night she had had. Sighing, she made a mental note to be with him at breakfast before he left for his second day of meetings. So here she was, reflected Maria, at the end of her first full day in New York. A day which had began with a disheartening morning reconnaissance, continued with an unscheduled afternoon and evening incorporating the killing of one man and the wounding of several others, and was ending with her Calendar problem still unresolved.

  Tony’s taxi arrived as Maria’s stomach growled its message of hunger. She sank into the back-seat upholstery, wondering if the Waldorf catered to midnight snacks, as her driver’s expected interrogation began.

  “You okay there, Maria Orsinni? You look a little whacked. You look like you’ve maybe gone a few rounds with that guy Kimoto.”

  “I’m fine, Tony, and thank you for coming to get me at this hour.”

  “No sweat, I told you it was okay to call me whenever you finished. Never expected it to be this late, though. So I reckon this qualifies me for a mention in this book of yours, which has gotta’ be heading for the best seller list if your research programme is anything to go by.”

  Maria couldn’t be sure if he saw her smile at that, but the smile was short-lived. Her view of his dashboard clock was telling her that she had already commenced her third day in this city. Time was slipping away from her and she still couldn’t see the solution to her problem.

  “Tony, I would like to extend our contract. Could I just book you up until my return trip to the airport on the 31st ?” she asked, making a mental note to cash more traveller’s cheques.

  “Sure, that’s fine by me. I’ll let my area dispatcher know. So long as he gets his percentage, he’s happy. So no problem.”

  “Grazie, Tony, I’ll settle up with you later.”

  “So when will you want me tomorrow?”

  This time Maria hoped he couldn’t see her frown of uncertainty which his question had caused. She had no real idea of how, or where, or when, she should begin tomorrow.

  “Come for me at ten, please, Tony.”

  “Yours to command,” said Tony.

  Maria’s third day in New York was one hour old when she entered the Waldorf hotel, and, along with her room-key, the reception clerk gave her the handwritten note from her uncle. Having breakfast at 7-30. Would be delighted if you could join me. Maria promptly booked an alarm call. Ten minutes later, still hungry, still fully clothed, she fell asleep on top of her bed.

  At 7-50am on her third day in New York, Maria Orsinni kissed her uncle’s cheek and sat down opposite him at the breakfast table.

  “I got your note, sorry I’m late.”

  “You look tired, my child. I take it you’ve been enjoying some of what New York has to offer?”

  “Time went so quickly,” she replied, silently and unhappily conceding that she had obviously failed to camouflage her weariness with make-up, “and there were so many things to see. But what about you? Did your meetings go as you would have wished?”

  Maria ordered food as she listened, then continued listening as she ate whilst her uncle outlined a day which had been, unsurprisingly, entirely unlike her own. Then he was suddenly saying something which seemed to make her skin tingle.

  “...so Stanhope and Kennedy will be having dinner with me here this evening, and I was hoping that you could join us. But perhaps you have other plans?”

  “No other plans,” replied Maria, calmly adding, “I will look forward to it.”

  “I’m afraid I must leave you now. No, don’t get up. Finish your coffee. Until this evening then, my child, arrivederci.”

  Maria watched her uncle leave as she pondered her reaction to having heard the name Kennedy again. Telling herself that the evening meeting would provide the opportunity to discover more about the man behind the name, she turned her thoughts to her Calendar problem. Toying with her coffee spoon, she noticed the bruising on the heel of her right hand and suddenly conjured an image of Tanaka checking her hands following one of their training sessions. He had quoted words from a book, The Ascent of Man, which he’d said had been written by a man named Bronowski. In her head now was the beginning of a new mindset, triggered by Tanaka’s voice reprising those quoted words. ‘The world can only be grasped by action, not by contemplation, the hand is the cutting edge of the mind.’ She rose from the table with the thought that contemplation of her problem was a problem in itself. Enough! Capitano Doyle had said he was in her a debt. She would call in that debt.

  At 10am on her
third day in New York, shod in her steel-toe-capped boots and wearing a cream-coloured trouser suit over an emerald green blouse, Maria Orsinni retook her seat in Tony’s taxi and relayed to him the address given to her on the phone by Doyle.

  “Greenwich Village,” began Tony, grinning, “will be right up your alley. The ‘Village’, as we New Yorker’s call it, is full of people like yourself, Maria. Creative people.”

  Maria smiled at his words but kept quiet; not really feeling her actions thus far this morning could be described as creative. She had made two phone calls; one to Sergio, one to Doyle. Nothing very creative about that, and on the strength of her first call she was going to be taking a chance with Doyle. So be it, she thought; she had little choice between creativity versus reality. She settled back in her seat; trying to see the future as the present outside her taxi window became glimpses of charming looking buildings standing in leafy surroundings; hearing Tony’s voice telling her that his favourite actor, Dustin Hoffman, lived in one of those houses; registering the overhead sign which told her that they were on Seventh Avenue, and then Tony was telling her that they had arrived at Christopher Street, her destination.

  “There’s the bookshop,” said Tony, “I’ll park up in that alley beside it.”

  Maria got out and glanced around at her colourful surroundings as Tony moved his taxi. She saw all kinds of brightly presented shops, several more bookstores, and bars aplenty for the thirsty. Some of the men she could see on the street looked quite effeminate, she thought, and realized then what that meant. She smiled her non-judgemental thanks to a couple of the Gay men who politely stepped aside to allow her entry to the bookshop. Once inside she counted three men and a woman browsing the book-laden shelves; presenting the to-be-expected book-store scenario. But despite the casual-wear apparel and his positioning behind the cash till, the person she recognized was the unforgettable Mister Pope apparently masquerading as a book-store employee.

  “Don’t ask,” said the finger-pointing Pope, “He’s waiting for you in there.”

  Without speaking, Maria moved as directed and opened the unmarked door which took her into a space which clearly doubled as a stockroom-cum-kitchen.

  “Close the door, sharpish, if you’ll be so kind, and come and sit down,” was commanded by Doyle, rising from his seat behind a table to lean forward and offer his handshake.

  Maria once more surrendered her fingers to the massive fist of the Irishman, and again her hand was gently squeezed. She was gifted the warm smile she’d remembered as she sat down opposite him at the table upon which, she noted, lay two evidently filled syringes amidst an assortment of drugs paraphernalia. She knew his eyes were following her gaze.

  “Mister Pope reliably informs me,” began Doyle, “that even the partial content of just one of those syringes would kill an elephant. So they were loaded by people who knew what they were doing, or, even more dangerous amateurs. Your phone call caught me in the middle of an operation we’re running here to find out which. The people you saw out there are all mine, and the quarry is expected anytime soon. But you said you wanted to see me urgently.”

  “Thank you for doing so,” replied Maria.

  “How did your end game pan out?” he asked bluntly.

  Leaving nothing out, Maria quickly recounted the events which had followed the DEA officer’s own departure from the scene.

  “Difficult beginning, tricky middle, satisfactory end. Yes?” Doyle succinctly summarised.

  “Satisfactory end,” she agreed, reading body language which told her small talk was finished.

  “So what is it,” he began, the smile still on his face but wariness in his eyes, “you didn’t want to talk about on the phone?”

  “It concerns the CIA,” replied Maria, pausing to test the water.

  “Not my favourite agency,” responded Doyle, his smile broadening, “as I’m sure our Mister Pope would have told you,” he ended, waiting.

  “Some of their agents,” resumed Maria, carefully selecting her next words, “will be checking in to the Plaza hotel for the last two days of this month. I need to know their planned arrival time and their reserved room numbers.”

  Maria had seen Doyle’s smile slowly fading as he had listened, and his initial response was the expected question.

  “Why?”

  “Before I asked for this meeting,” replied Maria, “I spoke again with Sergio. In answer to the question I put to him, he told me that you and your wife have two young children....” At the mention of his family, Maria saw Doyle’s body stiffen in his seat as he tersely interrupted her.

  “What has my family got to do with any of this? Whatever the hell this is.”

  “Please don’t be angry,” Maria quickly responded, “I meant you no disrespect by mentioning your family and all will become clear in a moment. If I answer your question why do I want the information, and you decide not to help me, will you give me your word that you will not divulge to anyone what I tell you or act upon it in any way?”

  Maria waited and watched, hoping that Sergio’s judgement of this man was correct....

  “Are you in this country to do any kind of business for the Bartalucci family?”

  “No, I am not,” she answered firmly, realizing she should have thought of this angle of suspicion, understanding his need to know and hoping she would be believed.

  “But you’re here on some kind of business, and you’ve introduced the CIA to our conversation. Which puts my government in the picture you’re painting. So my question now would be; if I knew what your business entailed and kept quiet about it, would my silence be detrimental to the government I have sworn to serve?”

  “There would be some,” replied Maria, “who would say yes, and many who would say no.”

  “Who would say yes?” queried Doyle, clearly intrigued by this exchange.

  “The CIA, of course, and a select few of your government, probably,” answered Maria.

  “Who would say no?”

  “Your wife, I am sure, and any other mother of young children, and yourself, I hope,” replied Maria, watching his body language closely now and not displeased by what she saw.

  “In the land of my fathers,” said Doyle, “they would call you a Sleeveen, Maria Orsinni, for it’s a cunning and manipulative way you have with the words. But Sergio has told me that you would never do wrong to anyone who helped you, and Sergio is one of the very few I believe when something like that is said to me. So, okay, Maria Orsinni, you have bedazzled me with your wordplay, and you now have Mike Doyle’s word that he won’t divulge, or act upon, what you may be about to tell me. So, we’re back to my first question, in extended form. Why do you need this information on the CIA guys you say will be checking in to the Plaza hotel for the last two days of this month?”

  “They will be protecting a man I need to get close to.”

  Maria knew what Doyle’s next questions would be, just as she knew that she was committed now to telling him the reason why she needed to get close to Calendar. If Doyle gave her the information she’d asked for, she would act upon it. She might, or might not succeed in taking Calendar down, but she wasn’t even going to get close to him without Doyle’s help. Which meant, in the event of her succeeding, Doyle would have knowledge which could be used against her. Which meant, she needed to convince herself that she could obtain Doyle’s willing silence because he would understand and agree with the objective of her mission.

  “Who?” responded Doyle, “and again, why?”

  Maria sighed with the thought that it all came back to creativity versus reality; she had no choice. “The who is a man named Evelyn Calendar. As to the why....” She took a deep breath and began relating the story linking Italy’s Carabiniere Capitano, Sergio Sabbatini, and England’s New Scotland Yard Inspector, David Foster, to the scientist at England’s Shrivenham. Whe
n she had finished, Doyle stared at her for what seemed a long time before he spoke.

  “If this Calendar has been raping and slaughtering children in the UK, then why haven’t the Brits stopped him, and why would the CIA be protecting him now?”

  Maria told him what she had learned about the mind control experiments being financed by the British and American governments, and controlled by Calendar.

  “Before he was found dead by questionable means,” ended Maria, “Foster’s source told him it’s a scientific and political race to beat the Russians.”

  “Well it sure beats me,” said Doyle, shaking his head, “You certainly know how to tell a story, Maria Orsinni, and I can see now why you baited me with my wife and children. I suppose Sergio, and the Brit cop, Foster, would substantiate this story if I were ever to find myself in a private room with either of them?”

  “They would.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be bothering them. You’ve already hooked me, Sleeveen.”

  “Can you get me the information I need?”

  “Probably,” he replied, sighing as he added, “but indirectly, which adds to your problem.”

  “I had assumed Pope would be your means to obtaining it. Is he the problem?”

  “I wouldn’t use Pope. He would go to his brother for that kind of information, and you could kiss goodbye to secrecy from that point on.”

  “So...,” began Maria, but was interrupted.

  “A fishing buddy of mine,” said Doyle, “is a guy I would trust with this kind of thing. He’s retired now from professional life, but he will definitely have the contacts who could tell him what you need to know. Harry Albright was a big fish in the CIA pond.”

  Maria could hear Tanaka’s voice in her head : Big fish eat little fish, and was about to speak but was pre-empted.

  “You will have noticed, Sleeveen, that I haven’t asked what you intend to do with Calendar when you get up close and personal. But Harry Albright will ask, and there, I guess, is your problem.”