by Bill Cariad
Maria rushed to the child and held her, whispering words to calm her fears. But she didn’t untie the blindfold before leading her towards where Luigi was cutting away Tommaso’s bonds, knowing the sight of six bloodied corpses would only add to the girl’s trauma. Luigi motioned that he was going to get the van and drifted away as she reached the bruised and shaken looking Englishman. Deliberately keeping her tone business-like and devoid of personal inflection, making sure the child couldn’t hear her, she spoke quickly and quietly to Tommaso before he himself could initiate any conversation which would be filled with questions she didn’t have time to answer, “Tommaso, the child must not see any of this so her blindfold stays on until we’re clear of here. So don’t untie her, she’ll only remove the blindfold herself if you do. You must take her to the front door over there and keep her calm while you wait for Luigi or myself to come for you. Keep facing the door, it’s best if you don’t see what we have to do here. If what you and Stanhope brought here is still here, I will find it. Go now, please, Tommaso.”
Maria saw the green eyes regard her for a silent second before he nodded and bent to say something quietly to Angelina Baletto. He then swept the child up into his arms and carried her towards the front door. Even as he was still walking away from her, Maria was removing her knife from Marco Galeoto’s throat. The Sicilian blood in her veins remained cool when she wiped the knife on a Galeoto shirt before returning it to its sheath. She used the so-called undertaker’s black suit to clean the knife she took from Umberto Galeoto’s heart. A pocket-search produced the keys for the Mercedes-Benz and the group photograph depicting a smiling Claudio Canizzaro. She switched the photographs, leaving the substitute partially visible in an inside jacket pocket.
Inside Umberto’s office she found the briefcases containing the pouches of uncut diamonds and neatly stacked Bearer Bonds. She deposited the cases beside the door she had used to enter this arena only five minutes ago. She then walked softly to where Gennaro the bull lay, only feet away from where Tommaso now stood with his back to her and his arms around the child she could hear him comforting. She extracted her knife from the Galeoto neck and turned at the sound of movement coming from the door where she had just left a briefcase’d fortune. The figure of Luigi reappeared with another load over his shoulder and she went to meet him.
“I parked in the alley,” said Costello, “so we can unload without being seen.”
“Good idea,” acknowledged Maria, “but you’re on your own. While you’re spreading them around, I’m going to check if we can take advantage of faster transport.”
To avoid going past Tommaso and the child, Maria used the alley route back to the street and the parked Mercedes-Benz. Inside the 4-door saloon car she keyed the ignition and the D-class engine purred into life. Maria smiled as her fingers brushed the 4-gear automatic transmission lever whilst the fuel gauge told her the car had a full tank of fuel; they would be going back to Pietro’s gate in style. She would take the wheel herself, she decided, and put the Sergio-gifted Carabiniere advanced driving lessons to the test.
Back in the alley she wiped her prints from the crowbar, and inside the warehouse she told Luigi why he should do likewise for both of them in the van. Luigi left without demur to carry out her instruction and she picked up the briefcases on her way to the front door and the waiting duo. Anxious moments then ensued as Tommaso was given the briefcases in exchange for a child who needed to use the toilet. Receiving Angelina Baletto’s solemnly given promise ‘from one woman to another’ that she would not to remove her blindfold, Maria untied the girl and led her to the Gabinetto. As Angelina attended to her needs inside, Maria stood by wondering what she could do if Salvatore Lucchese suddenly arrived earlier than scheduled.
The toilet visit passed without incident and moments later Angelina Baletto was rubbing her eyes as she sat in the back seat of the Mercedes-Benz beside Tommaso. Costello was seated beside Maria, who amusedly thought that Luigi wasn’t being entirely upfront with her when he said he was happy to be driven by her. The dashboard clock in the Mercedes-Benz was reading 9-55 when Maria began her motorised sprint to Pietro’s gate at L’aerporto Ciampino.
Thirty minutes into 1985’s first day of September; as a still-stunned Donald Stanhope was reuniting Mario Baletto with his diamonds and adopted daughter; as Tommaso Kennedy was being driven by Maria Orsinni to the Roma villa of Claudio Canizzaro to recover from his ordeal; Salvatore Lucchese was entering a warehouse in Eastern Palermo with his fifteen very wary bodyguards and surveying the scene which had been left for his examination.
Nine corpses being unable to offer any help, Salvatore’s men conducted their own unaided search and confirmed to him what he had already expected to hear: There was nothing of value to him here. The photograph; assumed to be the one Umberto had said would be of benefit to him, was found, presented to him, and dismissed as useless.
Salvatore Lucchese’s conclusive thoughts and feelings were those of relief: Tiring of Galeoto interference, the other clan leaders had decided to make their move. Salvatore was at peace with this decision. His own Umberto problem could not have been dealt with without also tackling the dangerous brothers, so he would have lost good personnel here had they gone up against Gennaro and Marco as planned.
The three bodies identified as non-members of the Galeoto clan, presented Salvatore with a puzzle he knew was destined to remain unsolved. These had been men whom he knew had been branded pedofilos, men who could never have been expected to be part of a group which had obviously been large enough, and good enough, to have put down six men whose number had included the likes of Gennaro and Marco Galeoto.
Chapter Forty-Five
Aftermath
The Roma weather forecast for the month of September was perversely predicted to be ‘unpredictable’, but the atmospherical barometer in the suburban villa of Claudio Canizzaro was definitely registering gloomy... outcome uncertain... relations strained between Italy and England.
Over the course of the first September week, Tommaso Kennedy, house-guest of the grateful Canizzaro, had been cooked for, nursed, and generally spoiled by Graziella. But whilst each bruise-healing day revealed recovery from the physical trauma of his Sicilian experience, coming to terms with what he had seen in a Palermo warehouse wasn’t being achieved at the same pace.
Sensing Tommaso’s need for time and space to evaluate his feelings towards all things Orsinni after the Palermo business, Maria’s self-imposed daily schedule comprised dojo sessions with Wan Lai-Tang ; lessons with language tutors; and catching up with her neglected business course studies. A suitably demanding variety of activity, she told herself, to justify her minimal contact with the Englishman. She never saw him at breakfast and was always busy elsewhere at lunchtime; so close contact with the man who still made her skin tingle had been mainly confined to the dinner table also shared with her uncle and Graziella. At which times the conversational ball had been politely fielded by Tommaso only when it couldn’t be avoided.
When they assembled on the evening of the sixth day, Kennedy made eye contact with her and she saw the worrying mix of resolve and indecision. What was it about this man, she thought, that had kept him at the forefront of her mind throughout these past days? Why should she care what he thought of her? She looked into the green eyes and only knew that she did care. He quietly informed the gathering that he was leaving in the morning and that Stanhope would be collecting him. His male host graciously waved away the words of thanks;
the women were silent. When Kennedy finally rose to leave the table that evening, one woman was still hiding her disappointment at not having been spoken to privately beforehand. The older woman was deciding the youngster needed a firm shove.
Maria could not have known it at the time, of course, but she would later come to remember and relate 1985’s month of September to seven pivotal conversations she had during its four weeks. Thus; whe
n Kennedy left the room and a stern-faced Graziella told her she should speak to what was described as the ‘Inquieto uomo’, Maria had the first of those seven particular conversations in the grounds of her uncle’s villa.
She went looking for the so-entitled ‘troubled man’ and found him seated in the garden. But as she sat beside him, his opening look speared her heart while his words struck like blows.
“It must have amused you in that New York restaurant, when I spoke of not wishing to allow Stanhope to encourage you to do something which could place you in danger.”
“I heard the words,” she responded, carefully selecting her own, “of an English gentleman, Tommaso. Words which touched me, not amused.”
“The situation in that Palermo warehouse required more than an English gentleman. I know that now, of course. My presence there only compounded the problem.”
“Your presence there was as a result of your wish to protect my uncle, and myself. It was a very brave thing you did, Tommaso.”
“It was a very foolish thing. You certainly didn’t need someone like me in that warehouse, as you so amply demonstrated.”
Maria was still wondering how best to respond to that, but Kennedy abruptly rose to his feet before she found the words.
“Sorry, Maria, I’m going to need more time to think about all this before I dare say anything else. Emasculation isn’t something I’ve had to contend with before. So you’ll have to excuse me right now. I’m going inside before I hear myself saying something that will make me feel any more foolish than I already do.”
Maria’s second memorable September conversation was conducted within the private study of Don Antonio Bartalucci:
“Costello has been singing your praises,” said the Don.
“Not about my driving, I would imagine,” responded Maria, smiling with the recall of Luigi’s white-knuckled ride to Pietro’s gate. But even as she spoke she was reading body language and saw the Don looking at her with newly opened eyes; reported by Luigi, her warehouse exploits had seemingly not only impressed but had obviously confounded.
“You went to great lengths,” resumed the unsmiling Don, “to spare the blushes of a simple Vatican cleric and Claudio Canizzaro.”
Maria eyed the Don without flinching; realizing he was fishing and using sarcasm for bait. Whilst sensing that this was to be yet another encounter which would define their future relationship, she also knew that she must resist intimidation. “Canizzaro has taken me into his home,” she responded, selecting her words with care and injecting them with steel, “and has made it my home. I look upon him as an uncle to be respected, and protected. I wasn’t prepared to allow the Galeoto brothers to be a threat to him because of a service he had performed years ago for the Vatican. And the simple Vatican cleric, I am reliably informed, is held in high regard by and is considered important to, His Holiness himself.”
A moment’s silence prefaced the response from across the desk.
“No one else,” said the now frowning Don, “ever speaks to me in such a manner.”
“If friends cannot speak plainly to one another,” responded Maria, refusing to yield, “then what value would you place on that friendship?” The response this time came with a smile, but she concealed her relief.
“My son says that you are steel wrapped in a velvet glove,” said the Don, “and Costello tells me that you are without fear. I am in your debt for the Palermo business.”
“We were of service to one another,” said Maria, “I couldn’t have got there quickly enough without your support, and the Galeoto problem was resolved to the satisfaction of us both.”
“My son was right about you,” said the Don, abruptly adding, “What happened to the briefcases Costello was supposed to bring to me?”
Maria had been waiting for the question, so answered without hesitation. “As I recall, Don Antonio,” she replied, “the child couldn’t be separated from her father’s briefcase. So Mario Baletto got his diamonds back along with his daughter. The other case belonged to the handsome Englishman, so I let him keep it.”
Maria watched as the face that her mother had likened to the film star, Cesar Romero, stared at her from across the desk.
“Costello was also right about you,” said the Don, “you have no fear.”
Maria could hear the voice of her English tutor in her head: ‘No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning, as fear.’ “When I was in New York,” she said sustaining eye contact with her now puzzled looking audience, “I read something attributed to one of America’s past Presidents, a Franklin D. Roosevelt. To paraphrase him, Roosevelt said that the only thing one has to fear, is fear itself. I can of course respect the power of Don Antonio Bartalucci, but should I have reason to fear the man?”
Maria saw the body language across the desk signalling its unease; its host clearly unused to this kind of exchange with a female member of its species. A heavy sounding sigh travelled across the desk to accompany the imperious wave of a Bartalucci hand.
“The benefits to me from your actions in Palermo,” he responded, “outweigh the contents of a couple of briefcases. You have no reason to fear me, Maria, I value our friendship.”
‘You value it, thought Maria, because you will seek to use me again now that you know what I’m capable of.’ In her head now was the voice of her English tutor declaring his opinion of friendship as: ‘God’s apology for relations’
“As do I, Don Antonio,” said a poker-faced Maria.
Immediately following the second one, Maria’s third memorable September conversation was briefer, and took place outside the Don’s study.
“So you survived the inquisition, ” opened a grinning and smartly suited Lucca Bartalucci.
Maria paused to consider the remark made by the good looking and seemingly aware Bartalucci heir-apparent; six Mafioso years and as many reported mistresses away from the boy who had once hung on to her every word.
“Well, I’m still standing here looking at your ugly face,” she parried with a smile.
“Don’t knock it,” he replied, “while this face breathes, my father will never harm you.”
Sergio Sabbatini had suggested his apartment but had acquiesced to the counter-proposal, so Maria’s fourth unforgettable September conversation began at a table for two in a cosy back room of the Antico Caffe Greco on the Via Condotti. Her English tutor often came here, knew Maria, to sample the atmosphere of a place where romantic writers such as Keats and Byron had once breakfasted. Joining the suave looking and charismatic Sergio at a table of the venue she had chosen, she didn’t object to her hand being kissed and remembered that Casanova had also frequented this establishment.
“My brother-in-law,” began a serious-faced Sergio, “has asked me to convey to you his heartfelt thanks for lifting the two and a half year old shadow which had prevented him seeing the way forward in his personal life.”
“That’s quite a mouthful, Sergio,” said Maria, grinning, “Are those the words he actually used?”
“Of course not, he is an Englishman,” replied Sergio, shaking his head, “An Englishman would rather choke on his feelings instead of expressing them. No, Maria, the words are mine, but the sentiment is his.”
Maria found herself thinking about Tommaso : Was he just choking on his feelings? Then she realized that Sergio was expecting some form of response. “You missed your vocation, Sergio,” she said, smiling, “you could have been a speech-writer.”
The Sabbatini shoulders were shrugged and her smile was returned, but the words were seriously expressed. “David never stopped hunting the Shrivenham monster who took his wife and daughter from him,” said Sergio, “but regardless of my pledge to him at that time, he always really imagined that the end of the hunt would result in the usual arrest and trial ritual.”
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��Which would only have re-opened old wounds,” said Maria, “and brought back the pain of those early days for both of you, and your mother.”
Sergio nodded his agreement, “He knows that. Now that you’ve mentioned her, my mother asked me what had finally made it possible for her daughter’s soul to rest in peace.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her that the Shrivenham Pedofilo no longer lived.”
“What did she say to that?”
“She is a Sicilian. She said she hoped that his last breath had been drawn in agony.”
Maria saw no reason to say anything which, if repeated, might weaken that image in the old woman’s mind.
“She asked me,” resumed Sergio, “who had ended her one thousand, seven hundred and fifty-four days of suffering.”
“What did you tell her?” she asked, unsurprised that the Sicilian woman had counted the days.
“I told her she should bake Maria Orsinni a bigger cake for her next birthday.”
Maria smiled, unconcerned, her connection to the dead Pedofilo would go to the grave with the Sicilian mother and grandmother she had avenged.
“Are you free for dinner this evening?” asked Sergio, feigning a casual air with his question.
“I’m going to be tied up for a while, Sergio,” responded Maria, pretending not to see the disappointment in his eyes, feeling guilty because she was comparing them to Tommaso’s green ones, “Some other time, Sergio,” she offered, smiling as she added, “assuming you ask me again, of course. But if you do, be prepared to spend a lot of money. New York has spoiled me.”
Maria’s fifth memorable September conversation came about as a result of her responding to Tommaso’s telephoned request that she meet him in the lounge of his hotel. He gave no reason for the request, but asked if she could be with him within the hour. She hadn’t asked what would happen if she couldn’t make it within the hour; something in the tone of his voice had told her not to. It was late afternoon; she’d just got back from the dojo and was still in her tracksuit. Her hair was a mess. She left immediately.