Moustafa knew the island well; it had been a haven for pirates and smugglers for the last five thousand years and there wasn’t much difference between smuggling wine into Pompeii to avoid customs duty two thousand years ago and smuggling small arms and cigarettes into Anzio and Naples now. There were a thousand caves and hidden beaches where goods could be dropped or transshipped, and there were so many small pleasure boats at anchor in the pretty island’s bays and coves to make the job of the maritime Carabinieri and the Guardia Costiera a nightmarish, next to impossible task. According to Moustafa there was as much Lebanese hashish and Marseille heroin in the luggage of people on the return ferry from Porto Ponza as there was dirty laundry.
As easy as it was to smuggle in and out of the volcanic resort island, it also didn’t do to flaunt it in the face of officialdom. The Guardia Costiera patrolled the jagged coastline of the little island in half a dozen Defender-class inflatables, so it wouldn’t do to have a seventy-two-foot dazzle-camouflaged speedboat rumble into the crowded harbor at Porto Ponza. Instead, Moustafa sold them his own bicycle-patched twelve-foot inflatable, then pointed them in the right direction and dropped them off at extreme radar range in the first gray light of dawn.
The timing was perfect. Using Moustafa’s ancient British Anzani 18-horsepower outboard they made it to the clear amethyst waters of Luna Beach on the west side of the island just as the sun began to rise above the crags and cliffs that divided the beach from the town.
They drew the inflatable up onto the dark sand beside a row of rental paddle boats chained in a row, then walked through the quarter-mile-long tunnel dug five hundred years before Christ beneath the cliffs. They came out on the town side of the gloomy walkway just as the first blunt-nosed hydrofoil ferry arrived from Naples.
“Now what?” Rafi asked as they came out through the tunnel’s seawall exit.
“Moustafa told us to find a taxi driver named Al,” said Tidyman, blinking in the sudden sun.
“Al?” Holliday said.
“He’s from Brooklyn,” answered the Egyptian.
They found Al at an open-air café farther down the promenade. He was drinking coffee from a huge foaming mug, eating a cannoli and smoking a Marlboro. As he ate, smoked and drank he complained about his breakfast.
“You know how difficult it is to find sausages and eggs on an island without chickens or pigs?” He shook his head. “Almost impossible, that’s how hard. An egg is worth its weight in gold in this town. The only meat they eat here other than fish is rabbits they raise to make their cacciatore.”
Al’s full name was Alphonso Fonzaretti but he preferred Al to Alphonso and Fonz to Fonzaretti. He was thirty-two years old and favored I Love New York T-shirts in red and yellow. Al’s people were originally from Ponza and immigrated to Dover Plains, New York, with half the population of the town just after the war. Al came over to drive a cab during the summers while his cousin Mario switched places and visited relatives in Dover Plains. It seemed to be an equitable arrangement for both of them. Mario made hard currency in the States working in the Fonzaretti garbage business and Al got an Italian vacation and a chance to pick up nice girls and practice the mother tongue. After all, what was family for, capisce?
“So what can I do for Moustafa’s friends today?” Al asked when the preliminaries were over.
“Girls,” said Holliday bluntly as Al popped the last piece of gooey pastry into his mouth.
“You don’t seem the type of guys who’d be looking for girls,” said Al, speculatively. “You don’t have that collegiate look, capisce? None of that Brotherhood of the Traveling Panty Hound look you sometimes get here, know what I mean?”
“We’re looking for the people who might deal in girls as a commodity,” said Holliday.
“Business,” said Al, nodding, getting the idea.
“Business,” agreed Holliday.
“Not my thing,” Al said with a shrug. “I’m strictly small-time. Bit of booze, bit of weed, maybe even some blow if you get really hard-core, but that’s as far as I go. Like to keep a low profile, right? Flying under the radar, yeah? The Fonz has a good thing going here.” Al gave them a hard look. “Got the family reputation to protect as well, right?”
“But you know what I’m talking about,” said Holliday.
“Sure.”
“And you are connected,” added Holliday.
“But you’re not,” answered Al flatly.
“No,” agreed Holliday. “But believe me, Al, my friends and I can be dangerous.”
“That some kind of threat?” asked the young man, bristling slightly. He stubbed out his Marlboro and lit another.
“More like a warning,” said Holliday. “We’re going to find out what we need to know one way or the other; you can either help us or hinder. It’s up to you. These people kidnapped my cousin, my family, Al. We’re going to get her back even if other people get hurt in the process. Capisce?”
Al took a long drag on his cigarette and stared at Holliday.
“How’d you lose the eye?”
“Afghanistan,” said Holliday curtly.
“Army?”
“Rangers.”
“You saying it’s Axis or Allies?”
“Something like that.”
“Italians could have saved themselves a lot of trouble, they’d gotten rid of Mussolini in the first place.”
“Agreed.”
“Guy you’re looking for has a place in Le Forna, up the road. Runs a dive shop. Good-looking, forty, forty-five. Gray hair, expensive sunglasses.”
“What’s his name?”
“Conti. Massimo Conti.”
Le Forna was a sleepy little village on the upper horn of the island’s crescent, and like Ponza Town it clung to a series of stone terraces carved out of the tuffa cliffs millennia before. Al drove them in his Fiat Idea Minivan, following the twisting narrow road along the spine of the island, heading north.
“Conti’s not a local,” said Al, from behind the wheel. “I think he’s from Naples. There was a hotel for sale in Le Forna and he bought it. Just appeared one day and started spending money in the town. Hotel one summer, then the dive shop, then an air charter service. Turbo Otters from Rome for the glitterati. Seems to be paying off.”
“Naples,” said Holliday. “Camorra?”
“Who knows from Camorra?” Al shrugged. “Mario Puzo time. Everyone wants to be a Soprano.” The young man made an unpronounceable sound like a badger clearing its throat. “It’s all bull.” The young man paused. “He does have some kind of juice though, that’s for sure. Two years and half the town is his.”
“How does he handle the women?”
“It’s a way station. Any talent that actually works here are imports from Rome. Classy stuff, not the raw meat you’re talking about. Word is he parks the goods in the old abandoned prison on Santo Stefano, then brings them to the mainland when he’s ready. Doesn’t crap in his own nest so to speak. Uses his dive boats as cover and transportation.”
“Where’s Santo Stefano, and what is it?”
“An island twenty-five miles east, closer to the coast. It’s a rock, maybe half a mile across. The prison’s about four hundred years old. They used it right up to the sixties.”
“What else is there?”
“Nothing. There’s another island, Ventotene, about a mile and a half away with a few hundred people on it, but that’s it.”
They arrived in Le Forna. Al found them another café high on the cliffs above the harbor. He ordered coffee and rolls for everyone, then pointed out Conti’s dive shop far below them. It was no more than a shack on an old seawall that looked as though it was part of a Roman ruin. As they watched, a big cabin-decked inflatable was being hauled down a long stone ramp into the clear, sparkling water. The aluminum boat’s inflatable collar was bright orange and the upper deck and cabin were red and white.
“Two hundred grand a pop with a pair of Honda 225s,” commented Al. “And he’s got six of them.” T
he young man snorted. “Like I said, juice from somewhere.”
“Color scheme’s interesting,” commented Holliday. “I saw one just like it back in the harbor at Ponza.”
“Noticed, did you?” Al laughed. “Same as the Guardia Costiera. You can bet he’s got some sticky signs around that say just that.”
“I take it he’s bringing in more than women,” said Holliday, watching as the inflatable was rolled into the water. There were half a dozen tourist types watching from the pier as scuba tanks were loaded on board.
“There’s places on the island you could unload a small freighter, no problem,” Al said and nodded. “I’ve seen it for myself. Bales of dope, crates of weapons. He’s got a whole black market going. Anything people buy, Massimo Conti and his people sell.” The Brooklyn taxi driver nodded toward the shack on the ancient pier below them. “Speak of the devil,” he said quietly.
A middle-aged very fit-looking man in Gucci sunglasses and an eighty-dollar haircut appeared. He stood by the small group of tourists on the pier, chatting as their dive boat was prepared. He clapped one of them on the back and they headed down the old stone ramp. He watched for a second, then stepped back into the shack.
“That was him?” Holliday asked.
“Yup.” Al nodded.
“You know anything about his schedule?”
“Wednesdays he goes out on his boat. Big Dalla Pieta 48 he keeps in Ponza. Comes back Fridays. Says he’s diving on an old destroyer that was sunk off Anzio, the HMS Inglefield.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Not his kind of thing. Look at him. George Hamilton with pecs. Mr. Adventure. He’d go for a Roman wreck maybe, something with class, but not a rusty old piece of tin from the Second World War.” Al lit another Marlboro. “Besides, friends of mine have seen him in Ventotene on Thursdays, partying.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Rafi asked.
“Nowhere near Anzio,” said Al. “Opposite direction.”
“Think he’s supervising a pickup or a drop?” Holliday asked.
“Could be,” said Al.
“Tomorrow’s Wednesday,” said Rafi.
“So it is,” said Al.
“Can you get us to this Santo Stefano by tomorrow night?” Holliday said.
“Sure,” said Al. “Hookers is one thing, white slavery’s something else.” The young man grinned. “Kinda thing gives organized crime a bad name, capisce?”
22
Al’s uncle Paolo, Mario the cousin’s father, had a twenty-four-foot Toyo trawler named Sofia that he used for fishing when he wasn’t busy raising rabbits for the hotels. Uncle Paolo was perfectly happy to rent Holliday Sofia for a price as long as he promised faithfully to bring the boat and his American nephew back to him in one piece—emphasis on Sofia rather than the nephew, Uncle Paolo being a practical man, after all.
Peggy would have called Sofia “cute.” To Al she was “smart.” To Holliday she seemed just a little silly, almost a toy. The plywood semidisplacement hull looked like a lifeboat with a telephone booth perched on the back and was painted white with a nice sky blue stripe down the gunwales.
The forward hold, lined with zinc, was big enough to carry a hundred and forty cubic feet or a little more than a ton of shrimp, caught using what Al referred to as a single Dutch seine rig towed behind the boat at a depth of about eighty to a hundred feet along the muddy and sandy bottom of the offshore area between the islands.
A ton of shrimp with its inevitable by-catch of hake and juvenile bluefin tuna during the high season was just about enough to keep the Ponza hotels going for a single day of the lunchtime trade, so the local pescatori switched their favorite fishing grounds and times to share the wealth. It took Al a few hours to negotiate the grounds between Ventotene and the prison island, but by midafternoon, properly attired in jeans, fresh T-shirts and sneakers, they chugged out of Ponza Harbor in Sofia and headed east at a steady eight knots, the old 35-horsepower Perkins diesel coughing and belching happily as they chugged their way onto the open sea.
Three hours later, with the falling sun turning the slightly ruffled ocean to a flashing bronze, they raised Ventotene on the horizon. As they closed on the island Santo Stefano appeared just behind it, the high-walled citadel of the old Bourbon prison rising like a fortress on the craggy summit.
They puttered into the tiny rock-hewn harbor at Ventotene just as the sun was going down. It was a smaller version of the waterfront at Ponza: eighteenth-century buildings in pastel colors clinging to cliff terraces, crisscrossing alley stairways zigzagging back and forth.
There was a place for ferries to dock, disgorging tourists coming for alcoholic getaways and baking sun for a few days, a week, or maybe two. There were more pleasure craft in the harbor here than at Ponza; day cruisers, motor sailers and full-out glistening yachts outnumbered fishing boats like the Sofia by two to one at least.
Al found an old iron mooring ring in the seawall that ran around the harbor, hitched Sofia to it, then went in search of the harbor master to announce his arrival and show his credentials. Rafi sat moodily in the bows staring down at the oily water that slopped between the boats at anchor while Holliday and Tidyman made a show of moving around the pile of seine net in the stern, readying the boat for a day’s fishing the following morning.
“Your young friend looks unhappy,” said the Egyptian, glancing at Rafi as he worked.
“He’s worrying about Peggy,” answered Holliday. “So am I.”
“I hope he realizes that this cannot be a rescue mission,” said Tidyman. “This man Conti is sure to outnumber us. We can only do a reconnaissance, nothing more.”
“He’s frustrated,” said Holliday. “He feels as though he’s not doing enough to help. I know what’s going through his head, believe me.”
“That kind of frustration leads to foolish behavior,” cautioned Tidyman. “It could get us all killed.”
“What are you suggesting?” Holliday asked.
“Perhaps you should talk to him,” suggested Tidyman.
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I’m Egyptian and he’s Israeli, among other things. There’s too much history between our people, I’m afraid. A wall of mistrust.”
“Maybe it’s time to tear it down,” replied Holliday.
Tidyman gave a brief, hollow laugh.
“Another day perhaps,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t strike me as being in the mood for reconciliation right now.”
Massimo Conti’s cruise appeared later that evening, all 1,300 horsepower burbling powerfully as she shouldered her way into a preferred berth the harbor master gave her closest to the promenade stairway.
“Cute,” said Holliday, seated on deck with Al as the big boat docked.
“What’s that?” Al said, smoking another Marlboro in the fading light.
“The name,” said Holliday. “Disco Volante.”
“Means Flying Saucer,” translated Al.
“Largo’s boat in Thunderball,” said Holliday. “Our boy has a sense of humor.”
As the evening spun into night Holliday watched as Conti and his friends from shore partied long and loud, the music swelling across the miniature harbor, intruding on the privacy of anyone within earshot, which likely meant the entire town. It seemed unlikely that anyone aboard would be in any shape for an early breakfast.
They left for the shrimping grounds at dawn, heading out of the narrow harbor along with half a dozen other boats, leaving the sleeping pleasure craft behind them along with the tightly shuttered sleeping town on the terraced heights above.
In the morning, with the sun no more than a hot pink slash on the eastern horizon, Al ran the little trawler back and forth in the narrow strait between Santo Stefano and Ventotene, using his fish-finding gear to troll for likely shoals of shrimp big enough to grace the tables of the hotels and restaurants back in Ponza. Crammed into the tiny little day cabin- galley belowdecks Holliday, Rafi and Tidyman pored over the charts of
Santo Stefano Al had found for them the day before in the Ventotene harbor master’s office.
The island was a fortress in and of itself, a volcanic plug of dark basalt half a mile in diameter. Jagged cliffs rose five hundred feet to a broad plateau covered in an oddly sinister sea of wild-flowers that broke on the yellow stone walls of the crumbling old prison like bright blue perfumed waves.
The prison was circular, four bleak tiers rising out of the volcanic rock, pierced with windows and doors, everything facing in to a central courtyard with a single guard tower in the middle, an elevated platform overseeing the inmates as they went about their business. There were no toilets, nor was there any running water. The only food was what the prisoners’ families sent to them. There was no work or any kind of labor. Time was a wheel that eventually broke a man. Madness was a way of life.
The cells, each holding at least twenty men, were perpetually dark and the courtyard was in perpetual sun. If an inmate was stupid enough to try to escape there was nothing between him and the jagged cliff edge except the giant field of flowers and their sweet cloying scent. He could die in the darkness or die in the sun; the guards didn’t care which. A life term on Santo Stefano was just a death sentence that took varying amounts of time to execute depending on how stubborn a man was.
Like the Château d’If in The Count of Monte Cristo there was only one way off the island for a prisoner: in a weighted shroud. There were two ways into the prison, however: a narrow switchback road that made its way up the slightly sloping western approaches to the plateau on which the prison loomed, or by following an almost impossibly steep goat track up the northern cliffs from a tiny gravel beach that all but vanished at high tide. The switchback road was visible from the prison if a guard was posted, and the goat track was virtually suicidal.
“There’s no other way up,” said Holliday, peering at the chart as they bobbed along in the lightly running morning sea. A seagull swooped and called, sensing the possibility of a meal. “It’s the cliff path or nothing. Even at dusk they’d see us going up the road.”
The Templar Cross Page 17