The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  Maria smothered her frustration with the thought that she had come this far, and had succeeded in winning over Doyle. Throwing in the towel now was an unacceptable option.

  “Could you persuade this man Albright to meet with me privately?”

  “Once I tell him what you want, he will probably insist upon it. You wait here while I go make the call. I will have to say things about you to Harry, and I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”

  Mike Doyle returned to find Maria Orsinni standing to one side of the door as he entered the room. She appeared calm, and looked beautiful, and sexy, and definitely dangerous, thought Doyle as he delivered his message with a smile.

  “Okay, apart from the brief testimonial on Maria Orsinni, all I’ve told him about is the CIA movements information you seek. You’ve got his attention, and your meeting. This is his home address,” he told her, handing over the slip of paper, “and he is waiting for you now. Pope tells me you have your own transport, so it won’t take you long to get there. So, I guess this is where we part for the second time. I don’t know if we’ll ever meet again, Maria Orsinni, but I do know that Mrs Doyle would want everything to work out for you.”

  Mike Doyle was just a little surprised when she stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek and whispered Grazie in his ear. But then he was just puzzled as she continued standing there in front of him, clearly not in a rush to leave, biting her lip in the same way that Mrs Doyle did whenever she wanted something. “Is there something else on your mind?” he asked her.

  “You guessed,” she said, grinning just like Mrs Doyle did sometimes, thought the DEA officer.

  “So what’s on your mind?” he duly asked.

  “Just how big a fish,” she asked, “was Harry Albright in that pond of his?”

  Mike Doyle hesitated for a second, then answered her question.

  West 64th Street, Manhattan’s Upper West Side

  Harry Albright was continuing to enjoy his retirement from the CIA, but he still kept in touch with ‘the movers and the shakers.’ A part of him still missed the adrenalin rush which had been a regular feature of his operational life, but he knew he had been one of the lucky ones: He had managed to leave with his professional reputation intact. Unlike others he knew, who had seen their career-long achievements count for nothing against the fallout from failure in the autumn of those careers.

  Harry was proud of many of the things he had achieved in the service of his country, but having sacrificed a lot to get the position, he had willingly subscribed to a CIA Station Chief’s mantra: Do whatever it takes to prevent any screw-ups going public, so he was also ashamed of some of his past actions. For the most part, he had always been able to rationalise his sometimes less-than-wholesome decisions by pointing his conscience to the consequential upside. Upsides such as; better men still lived because he had ordered the deaths of men unworthy of the name. But his conscience had steadfastly refused to be pointed away from his actions surrounding one chapter of his life which would never find its way into his operational memoirs... and that chapter would have been entitled Shrivenham. Harry couldn’t recall the author’s name but whenever he thought about Shrivenham, the writer’s words always came back to haunt him: Conscience gets a lot of credit that belongs to cold feet.

  Harry glanced at the framed portrait of his family, and sighed. Sometimes when he and his wife had been talking about their kids, now adults, and the grandchildren, he had been unable to prevent the memory of Shrivenham’s monster surfacing in his mind. The thought of those mutilated children left nowhere for his conscience to hide. Shrivenham had been the screw-up he had prevented from going public, but he had never been able to reconcile his conscience with that particular action. And now, it seemed, if Mike Doyle’s call was on the level, Shrivenham had emerged from the darkness of his memory to confront him in the person of some Italian woman who had obviously impressed his fishing buddy....

  “The Upper West Side,” said Tony, examining the slip of paper she had passed to him, “Classy, Maria, classy. Good thing your driver shaved this morning. Sit back and enjoy the ride, lady.”

  Maria didn’t tell him that enjoying the ride still wasn’t on her agenda, so she once more settled back in her seat and replayed in her mind the meeting with Doyle. But it didn’t take her long to decide there had been no other way to where she was now, so she changed her mindset and relaxed; allowing herself to take in the passing scenery. Had he been beside her now, thought Maria with a smile, Signore Jackson would be competing with Tony to be the first to tell her the history behind the many fine buildings she could see.

  Unchallenged, Tony’s running commentary reigned supreme. So she was talked through an area signed overhead as Chelsea and The Garment District, learning that what had once been open farm-land had undergone many life-changes before currently being home to art galleries, antiques shops, and a large Gay community. Later she was told that only the superlative skill and knowledge of her taxi driver had prevented their being bogged down in the heavy traffic around the district housing many theatres of entertainment; and later still received an apology for only having been allowed a glimpse of the city’s famed Central Park before her driver announced... rather hoarsely, thought Maria... that they were now on Amsterdam Avenue in Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

  Looking out of her window at what was obviously an affluent area, Maria was immediately captured by her sighting of two magnificent looking examples of modern architecture. Which Tony told her were those of The Lincoln Centre and The Metropolitan Opera House. Lost in the moment, Maria decided that she would, as a gift to them both, persuade her uncle to accompany her to the opera before they left New York. Her taxi turned into the overhead-signed West 64th street and came to a final halt outside what Tony declared was ‘a pretty grand looking town house’, and Maria’s thoughts on anticipated pleasure came to the same abrupt halt. Tanaka’s voice sounded in her head: It does no harm to relax occasionally, providing you remain alert at all times. Maria smiled to herself as she switched mindsets.

  “How long do you reckon you’ll be?” asked Tony.

  “I’m not really sure,” replied Maria, glancing at her watch to see it was just past noon. She used his rear-view mirror to meet his eyes as she added, “It could be five minutes, or one hour.”

  Tony pointed, and through the windscreen Maria saw the glass-fronted building with its Ricardo’s Restaurant sign projecting from its facia.

  “Looks like I can park right here, but I’m gonna’ go freshen up,” said Tony, “and probably grab a bite to eat. You can get me in there whenever you’re ready to go.”

  “Grazie, Tony, enjoy your break.”

  They both alighted, and, thinking he was worth every dollar he was being paid, Maria watched Tony walk away. She climbed stairs leading up to an imposing looking door fronting the so-described ‘grand looking town house.’ The door’s Lion-headed knocker and ornate bell-push presented her with an announcement choice, so she rang the bell and waited now for what she imagined would be a servant fittingly attired for his role within such a palatial looking house. So she was surprised when the man who responded to the doorbell and to whom she gave her name, introduced himself as Harry Albright as he ushered her inside. He was a tall, pale-faced man with greying hair on his head, canvas shoes on his feet, and a wool shirt and dirty jeans covering his slim body. His eyes were brown, and alert looking, and were openly studying her. In his sixties; thought Maria, but not yet in his dotage.

  Politely informing her that his wife was out shopping somewhere whilst he had been left to restore their garage to some form of order, Albright led her through a high-ceilinged reception area which was dissected by a gleaming marble staircase. A woman’s touch was evident in the choice of paintings which hung on the walls, and in the artistically arranged flowers which stood in tall vases like colourful sentries on either side of the staircase which dre
w the eye to the Minstrel gallery above. Bypassing doorways opened to reveal a spacious looking lounge and an opulent looking dining room, Maria was taken into a room which immediately identified itself. This, she saw at once, was the trophy room of a proud man.

  Maria visually scanned the scene before her. Mounted on one wall of the study was a glass-fronted case displaying a variety of medals. Another wall was adorned with framed photographs; all depicting variably aged versions of Albright in army uniform looking parade-ground smart; Albright in battle fatigues astride a tank; and several memorials to Albright in civilian clothes showing him shaking hands with people of different nationalities; some of whom Maria recognized as former heads of sovereign states. One wall had been dedicated to photographs of Albright shaking hands with American Presidents who had long since ceased to hold the office. Beneath another wall, which held fishing rods and a rifle, encased in a glass cabinet and lying on beds of velvet, was a selection of handguns.

  Albright had moved to position himself behind a desk upon which lay neatly placed box-files, a filled pipe-rack, and an ashtray fashioned from a military shell casing. He stood now, waiting... looking tense, thought Maria... indicating by hand that she should sit opposite him. As she did so, Maria noted two more things: The first of these was the framed photograph atop the desk and depicting a smiling group she assumed was the man’s family. The second thing was that a desk drawer to Albright’s right had been left open.

  “I apologise,” said Maria, “for interrupting your work, and thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

  “I’ve agreed to meet you,” began Albright as he sat down, “for a number of reasons. The surprising content of Doyle’s call is but one of them. To be frank, the main reason was to look you in the eye as you tell me whether or not you come here representing Sergio Sabbatini?”

  Maria wasn’t fazed by Albright’s opening. She had realized that Doyle would have needed to qualify the reason he was involved with her in the first place, and that qualification could only have been made by explaining his professional connection to Sergio having resulted in his introduction to Maria Orsinni.

  “I must firstly respond,” she began, smiling her polite smile, “by asking you to rely on your memory for this meeting, instead of recording it.”

  Maria saw his brown eyes widen slightly, prefacing his attempt to return her smile as he lifted the recording machine from the open desk drawer and laid it on the desk.

  “Old habits die hard,” said Albright, letting her see him switch off the recorder.

  “Grazie,” began Maria again, losing her smile but keeping her tone pleasant as she continued, “I have come here to place myself in your debt should you decide to help me. I never forget those who help me, and my friendship could be of value to you, Signore Albright.”

  Maria saw his body language sending mixed signals, and knew that he was asking himself why he would ever need the friendship of a complete stranger.

  “But we should, you and I,” she resumed calmly, “be clear on the understanding which must exist between us and which will govern our conversation from this point on. For my own part, I realize that you will have questions I must answer to take us forward. Some of those answers would seriously compromise me should you ultimately decide not to give me what I came here for. In that event you could choose to make life very difficult for me, or even encourage your former colleagues to arrange for my life to be taken from me. Should you unwisely initiate such an action, you would leave me with no alternative to retaliation.”

  Harry Albright had faced many dangerous people in the course of his operational career, but couldn’t immediately recall having been threatened so politely by anyone as beautiful as the Italian woman seated before him now.

  “I am prepared to give you those answers,” resumed Maria, “if I firstly receive your answers to the two questions I have for you. The first one stems from my knowledge that you were the CIA’s London Station Chief in 1985, and that for a short period of time your operational umbrella covered sensitive matters connected to Shrivenham, in England. My first question is: Did you feel, and still retain, perhaps, disgust at the fact that children were raped and mutilated by someone your service protected? My second question is: Would you lose any sleep if the creature responsible for the horrendous deaths of children, no longer existed on this planet?”

  Harry Albright stared at the Italian woman as he attempted to marshal his thoughts. She had rocked him with her two questions; she obviously knew more than was healthy for her. Sabbatini, and others? had obviously shared a lot with this attractively dressed female who looked like she strolled down catwalks for a living, but who sounded like one of the hard-bitten agents he had controlled in days gone by. But could he control the Italian bombshell sitting in front of him now and waiting for his response? He took a deep breath with the thought that before he could answer that, he needed to know more about this woman and her reason for being here. He also needed to keep his wits about him; there was more to this person than met the eye.

  “Since we’re off the record,” said Albright, “my answer is yes, to both parts of your first question, and no, to your second question. So how far forward are we now?”

  “To return to your first question, Signore Albright, I don’t think Sergio Sabbatini would consider me to be his representative. He probably would be horrified to know I’m here with you now.”

  Maria paused to ensure she had firm eye contact, knowing she had reached the point of no return. “I came here,” she resumed, “by my own volition, for the information which will help me to fulfil a Sicilian pledge of honour.”

  “A Sicilian pledge of honour?” was repeated slowly, and the incredulity could also be heard.

  “Yes,” confirmed Maria, steadily holding his gaze.

  “What form of pledge,” began Albright, again slowly, “could you have made which necessitates your need to know the movements of specific CIA officers?”

  “The unbreakable form,” replied Maria, quietly.

  “How do you even know these officers intend to stay at the Plaza hotel?”

  “By way of an unimpeachable source,” answered Maria, watching him take the deep breath to ask the question she had been waiting for.

  “Why, exactly, do you want this information?”

  “The man those CIA officers protect,” replied Maria, injecting the steel into her voice, “will answer to me for his raping and butchering of children.”

  Harry Albright held his breath for a second before exhaling slowly; thinking about killers. Up until Shrivenham, he believed he had seen and heard most of their type in his time. The ones who looked tough, and were. The ones who boasted, the ones who didn’t. The contract ones with dead eyes, and the psychopaths with crazy eyes. Shrivenham’s Evelyn Calendar had been an amalgam of some of those types, but had transcended all of them in the horror stakes.

  Whilst there had been no mistaking her words; no misunderstanding of her stated intention; the Italian woman looked nothing like a killer. She was just sitting there in front of him, looking perfectly composed, looking gorgeous, looking harmless. But there was, if you were a highly trained observer who really knew how to look, an aura about her that told you she was something out of the ordinary. Harry Albright, highly trained observer, sighed with his unspoken questions. Was he looking at something bad? Or was something good looking at him?

  “Would you object to my making a phone call in private?”

  “If I say yes,” replied Maria, “what happens then?”

  “What happens is I make the call in your presence, which would cramp my style. Which would probably mean I wouldn’t learn what you need to know.”

  “Please make your call.”

  Her thoughts racing, Maria watched Albright leave the study. His explained need for privacy made sense, of course, but if it had been a ploy enabling him to call up
CIA body-snatchers then she had to decide what she could do about that. She wasn’t carrying her knives but even if her other skills could get her clear of the house, what might she be forced to leave in her wake? And what of trusty Tony, freshened up and gastronomically sated but too far away from his taxi to be of any use? She paced the room, studying angles, choreographing moves in her head, and then positioned her seat beside the door and sat down to wait with her thoughts. Thirty minutes passed before Albright reappeared, and her readiness stance must have startled him.

  “Sorry,” he blurted, “but I couldn’t rush one of the calls. Had to let a former colleague set the pace. Please bring your chair back and sit down, young lady, we’ve a lot still to talk about.”

  Maria was busy reading Albright’s body language. Which told her he was exhibiting all the signs of someone who hadn’t just been arranging her untimely demise. She picked up the chair, carried it back to the desk, positioned it where she wanted it and sat down. She knew that even if they came for her now, they wouldn’t be fast enough to prevent her reaching the other side of the desk and Albright’s neck. She would use him as a shield and walk out of here, and play it by ear from there.

  “I don’t really expect you to believe this,” began Albright, “but I’m glad Doyle called me, and I’m also glad to be able to speak with you today. But bear with me a moment, because here comes a short homily: The CIA I joined as a young man and faithfully served for most of my adult life, mutated into many forms over the years. Old timers like myself, and the one I just spoke to, weren’t always comfortable with some of those mutations. One such new body part is responsible for the protection of the man you seek. End of short homily. Tell me, young lady, are you aware of the importance my country’s government attaches to that man?”

  Maria was gradually relaxing; Albright’s body language and words telling her she was in no immediate danger, but Tanaka’s voice was back in her head telling her to remain alert.