The Sacred Spoils

by The Sacred Spoils (retail) (epub)

  Cesco kept hurrying ahead to find their path and clear the way before coming back to help her. He put his arm around her waist to take her weight as best he could. ‘What now?’ she asked, shivering with cold and fear.

  ‘We find a place to cross the river,’ he said. ‘We follow the footpath down to the Sicilì road. We wave down a car.’

  They pressed on in this way, taking paths of least resistance – wading through shallows, scrambling over rocks, fighting through thickets, always looking for a place to cross. It wasn’t the river that was the main problem, fast-flowing though it was. It was that its far bank was rocky, steep and so thick with thorn bushes that there was no hope of climbing out. The sound of pursuit grew ever closer. At least two men. She could hear them shouting exhortations at one another, as though it were a hunt and they were having fun.

  She felt increasingly light-headed. Perhaps it was mere loss of blood, but she couldn’t get past the fact that she was slowing Cesco down and making pursuit so easy. Then it got abruptly worse, for their onward progress was blocked by a great wall of thorn bushes that ran from the foot of the gorge wall to their left all the way down the steep embankment to the river on their right, which looked every bit as hard to cross here as elsewhere – its far bank rising sharply from the water which then cascaded over a natural weir down to a craggy bed of rocks. Here the smaller of the two dinghies – completely deflated by now – had been caught, and the last Israeli was so tangled in its mooring rope that it was holding his head beneath the water. Their only option seemed to be to climb the embankment to the gorge wall, but its face was so sheer that Carmen would have hesitated to climb it even in prime condition and with the right equipment. Besides, the embankment soil was so soft that they’d leave a trail a child could follow.

  It was Cesco who spotted their possible salvation – a thread of a gap beneath two of the thorn bushes burrowed by some small mammal. ‘You first,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be right behind.’ He got down onto his front to worm and fight his way through, thorns raking long scratches on his bare back and legs. He stood up on the far side, beckoned for her to follow. But his passage had broken numerous branches and so churned up the earth that the men behind would find it easily, and they’d both be at their mercy once again. ‘Go get help,’ she urged him softly, rearranging the branches and brushing the earth to conceal his tracks. ‘It’s the best chance for us both. You know it is.’ Then, refusing to look at his aghast expression, she set off up the embankment, digging her feet into the soft soil and smearing blood over the trunks of the saplings she used to help herself climb, deliberately leaving traces that the men behind couldn’t possibly miss.

  II

  The watery footprints had long since stopped and the blood spatters were fewer and further between. Guido had started panting for breath and was constantly getting tangled in the bushes. And they dared not rush, for this terrain could have been designed for ambush. So Tomas needed all his concentration for the pursuit. Yet his mind kept wandering even so. He kept finding himself back inside the grotto, being taunted by that old man into pulling the trigger.

  That fragment of bone and hair. That bubble of bright blood.

  The nightmares would be bad tonight.

  They reached a wall of thorns. The river looked impassable too. Not that it mattered, for there was a trail of blood and footsteps up the embankment that even Guido could have read. He waited for him to catch up then they set off together, guns held out ahead of them, ready for anything. They reached the foot of the gorge wall and caught a flash of colour a little way ahead. And then they were upon her – Carmen Nero hobbling along on an ankle swollen up like a melon and the colour of dusky plums – but no sign anywhere of Rossi. Nero turned to face them, her forearms crossed in front of her chest, her face pale yet resolute. Tomas aimed his gun at her face. ‘Your friend,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘The police are on their way,’ she told him. ‘Run while you can. It’s your only hope.’ There was defiance in her eye, and vindication too. As though her own life was a price worth paying for Rossi’s escape. And that could surely only mean one thing. It could surely only mean love. And what if he loved her too? What then?

  ‘Get her,’ Tomas told Guido.

  Guido grabbed her by her wrist. He twisted it savagely up behind her back until she cried out. ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘With me,’ said Tomas. He led the way back to the wall of thorns. The embankment opened up again beneath them. ‘The knife,’ he told Guido. Guido took it from its sheath and pressed its tip beneath Nero’s chin, forcing her up onto tiptoes. Tomas cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘We have your friend,’ he called out, his words echoing off the cliffs behind. ‘Your beautiful brave friend, she who sacrificed herself that you might live.’ The nobility of it touched his heart. His eyes moistened. ‘Are you really the kind of man to leave such a woman to her fate? I beg you, come back and talk. That’s all. Just talk. We can still sort something out, I promise. A way we all can live. You have my word.’ His words died away. Their echoes too. The seconds passed and nothing happened. His heart sank. So much for honour. So much for love. He turned with genuine regret to Guido, to give him the command. But, to his surprise and gratification, he heard a rustling noise at the embankment’s foot, and a moment later Rossi crawled out into view. Then he stood up tall and spread wide his arms. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’

  Chapter Fifty

  I

  Two separate phone masts on opposite sides of the valley had now picked up signals from Carmen’s mobile, enabling them to place it in a strip of woodland either side of the local river. That still left an area several hundred metres long a good hike from the nearest road, so Baldassare ordered the helicopter to Sicilì’s piazza then set off with Sandro, Andre and Giuseppe to meet it, taking Zeno with him too for his local knowledge.

  Faustino touched down just long enough for them to board. They sprang back up into the sky and lurched violently forward. The night was in fast retreat, the terrain disaggregating into shades of grey then taking on colour too. They descended the valley to the river then flew upstream until they neared their search area. They overflew it twice but saw nothing, so Faustino found a glade to set them down.

  Baldassare led the way down to the river, shouting out for Carmen and Cesco. The woods were thick and old and tangled. It was a fight to reach the bank. He could see no sign of anyone anywhere. But then he caught a flash of colour a little way downstream. The carrying strap of a yellow inflatable bag had been snagged by an overhanging branch. He plunged straight out into the water, indifferent to the cold, alternately wading and swimming. He untangled the bag from its branch, unzipped it as he waded back across. To his astonishment, it contained two antique silver trumpets as well as a pair of jeans. He felt through the pockets and found Carmen’s mobile.

  ‘What the hell?’ asked Sandro, helping him up out of the water.

  Baldassare turned to Zeno. ‘What’s upstream of here?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing but woods and river,’ shrugged Zeno. ‘All the way to the Bussento grotto.’

  ‘The Bussento grotto?’ said Baldassare numbly. ‘Are you telling me… Is this river called the Bussento?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  He turned to Giuseppe. ‘That dam that was sabotaged last night. It’s on this river, yes? It would have stopped it flowing?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Call your men,’ he said. ‘Send them to that grotto.’ Then, despite the aching of his heart, he set off running back up through the trees for the ’copter.

  II

  Carmen’s heart plunged when Cesco appeared below, distraught that he’d give himself up like this despite her efforts to save him. Yet, perversely and impossibly, it soared at the same time, because it put beyond question that he was the man she’d wanted him to be.

  Tomas beckoned him upwards, to get him so close he couldn’t miss. Cesco began a deliberate, slow ascent,
his eyes flickering between the two men, not even looking down to check his footing. Carmen braced herself to yell at him to run, only for Guido to jab his knife up so hard that it pierced the skin under her chin, releasing a vampire trickle of blood to dribble down her throat. She tried to warn Cesco with her eyes instead, but he didn’t once look her way; and, besides, there was no fear in his gaze, only purpose. That was when she realised why Tomas’s challenge had sounded so familiar. It had sounded so familiar because it had been almost identical to the one Cesco had told her about in that other lifetime at the start of this crazy night, the one shouted out by the men holding his twin sister captive on that boat before they killed her right before his eyes.

  She noticed something else then, something she’d unaccountably missed before. Cesco was wearing one of the neoprene bodysuits. He must have stripped it from that dead Israeli. It took her aback for a moment that he’d spend time on that with so much else going on. But then she realised. He hadn’t done it to stave off the cold, as she’d first assumed.

  No. He’d done it to send her a message.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  I

  The gemstone hunt was a game of rapidly diminishing returns. Massimo hadn’t found a new one for a minute now. Then he had an epiphany. If this guy’s pouch was stuffed so full of treasures, how about all those others they’d left back in the grotto? He got to his feet and raced off – only for his very urgency to tip off Umberto and Salvatore to his plan and come chasing after.

  He had no torch. The passages were tight and dark. He had to feel them out with his hands. The bodies were as they’d left them, a grotesque tableau still lit by their own helmet lamps. He went down on his knees by the nearest, unzipped his backpack. An unimaginable wealth of rings and brooches spilled out. He laughed triumphantly as he stuffed everything back in the pack then slung it over his shoulder. He and the others went from body to body until they’d looted the lot, then they hurried back out of the grotto and to the stone staircase up to the parking area.

  His legs were tiring badly by now. But a short burst of distant siren put some juice back into them. They came across the rest of their men, labouring under the weight of the Menorah, managing only a few steps at a time before setting it down again to rest. Massimo gazed at it in awe, its size and lustre and majesty, its sturdy stem and elegant long thin arms. They went to help, hoisting it above their heads like they were parading a championship trophy through the streets, and hurried as best they could up the remaining steps to the car park.

  The Menorah wouldn’t fit even in their roomiest SUV – not until they’d put down the back seats and shifted the front ones as far forward as they’d go. Even then, its base protruded from the back, so they hid it beneath a travel blanket then tied the back down with rope. Massimo went to the head of the staircase to yell for Tomas and Guido. But his words came echoing back without reply. Fuck them. They were grown-ups. They had their own Range Rover to get away in. It was every man for himself once the sirens started.

  He took the wheel of the Menorah car himself, leading their small convoy along the single-track lane back towards Sicilì. The surface was wretched. Every time he jolted over a pothole, treasures would spill from his pockets onto his seat and the floor beneath. He glared warning at Taddeo in the passenger seat not to try to—

  A black Explorer came hurtling around the corner ahead. They were both going so fast they had no time to brake. He wrenched the steering wheel around instead, taking them up a grassy bank, yet still clipping the other car, crunching up his front left wing and triggering his airbags. A hawthorn hedge raked their bodywork like a harpy’s claw. Stones clattered into their undercarriage. They tipped so steeply that they had to lean sideways to keep themselves upright. But then they were past and thumping back down onto the tarmac.

  A glance in the mirror. Orsino in the second SUV had screeched violently to a halt, nose-to-nose with the Explorer, only for Rafaele in the third car to slam into his rear and shunt him into the Explorer. Doors flew open. Men piled out. He heard the crackle of gunfire as—

  ‘Car!’ yelled Taddeo.

  Massimo slammed on his brakes. Too late. They smashed head-on into a second black Explorer, bonnets crumpling. He was thrown forward against his seat belt and already deployed airbag, so that for the flicker of a moment he thought he was going to be okay. But then inertia from their too-sudden stop hurled the Menorah forward into the back of his seat, one of its arms spearing through the soft fabric and smashing into his spine even as he was pinned against the airbag.

  The Menorah fell back again, releasing him to flop sideways in his seat. The remaining treasures from his pockets spilled all around his feet. A golden signet ring rolled to a stop directly beneath his left hand. It had a design inscribed into it, he now saw. It was the portrait of a kingly man, the kind of man he’d always dreamed himself to be. Reach out for it, he urged himself. Reach out and take it and all can still be well. But his hand refused to obey him, and then his eyes began to fail him too, his ears, his heart, his mind.

  II

  Carmen stared at Cesco as he climbed up the embankment, his feet slipping backwards a little with each step, precipitating tiny landslides of loose earth. She wanted to let him know she understood what he was up to, but she dared not signal it in any way, lest her captors see. Not that he once looked at her. His gaze flickered back and forth exclusively between the two men, Tomas with his handgun down against his side to tease him onwards, Guido with his knife jammed up beneath Carmen’s chin.

  On Cesco climbed, ever more slowly now, bringing himself slowly into easy range. Tempting them. Tempting them. Any moment now. Any moment. Her senses heightened. The world became apparent to her in the most microscopic detail. The twitter of the morning birds, the grey geckos frozen watchful on the tree trunks all around. Guido’s almost lustful breathing, the faint rustle of leaf litter as Tomas shifted weight to raise his gun. It was her signal. She feinted left to push back Guido’s knife-hand then hurled herself sideways at Tomas, grabbing at his arm even as he brought his gun up to bear, hauling it down again so that he wasted his first two shots in the soft earth.

  Guido recovered almost instantly. He grabbed her by her hair and dragged her back. But too late. Cesco had already reached behind him for the gun he’d retrieved from the dinghy along with the neoprene suit. He fired three times at Guido, who grunted in shock, dropped his knife and staggered back against a tree. He still had Carmen by the hair, however. He dragged her down with him then clamped his free hand around her throat and began to throttle her. More shots cracked out, then the clunk of empty chambers. Carmen fumbled blindly on the ground and found a rock. She lifted it above her head and crunched it into Guido’s face, finding that place where the cheekbone meets the eye. Blood spurted. He bellowed in pain and outrage. She tore herself free and scrambled away on her backside. He lunged after her, only for Cesco’s bullets to go about their grisly work inside him. A fit of coughing overcame him, he sprayed red droplets all over her face then slumped back against the tree, staring at her in bemusement as realisation dawned that she’d be the one to see him off on this last grim journey. And now the dread arrived, waves of it at what might be waiting for him on the other side, all those souls he’d sent on ahead of him, waiting patiently for their vengeance. He looked beseechingly at her, as though it was in her power somehow to forgive. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was blood. Then his head tipped backwards and he went still.

  She rose unsteadily to her feet. A clattering noise grew loud as a helicopter thundered by, flying so low above the Bussento that its downdraught stirred ripples from the water. Baldassare himself was at its open hatch, looking every which way except up at where they were, wildly though she yelled and waved her arms. Then it was gone again. She turned to Cesco, locked with Tomas on the ground, churning up the soil as they rolled this way and that. Tomas momentarily freed his hand. He grabbed Guido’s dropped knife and slashed it at Cesco’s face. Ces
co caught him by his wrist, the tip of its blade almost touching his eye. Carmen was still holding her rock. She hobbled across and slammed it down with all her strength on the back of Tomas’s head. There was a sickening crunch. He collapsed and dropped the knife. Cesco pushed him onto his back while he was still dazed, pinned his shoulders beneath his knees. He picked up the knife himself then slapped Tomas across his cheek to bring him to his senses. The moment he saw the knife, he tried to buck Cesco off him, but Cesco was too heavy and strong and resolute. And finally he gave up. ‘I’ll kill you for this,’ he said, furious at his own impotence. ‘I’ll have you killed.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Cesco told him coldly. ‘You missed your chance at that.’

  ‘In Cosenza, yes,’ said Tomas, grabbing at the lifeline. ‘I could have killed you then, but no, I let you live. Now you owe me.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Cosenza. I’m talking about that night on the boat fifteen years ago. When you and your brother tied old engines to body bags for me and my sister.’

  ‘You?’ said Tomas, turning pale. ‘The Carbone boy?’

  ‘Me,’ said Cesco. ‘The Carbone boy. And do your remember what you did to her when I didn’t come back?’ He played the knife this way and that in front of Tomas’s eyes, catching sunrise on its blade. ‘Because I do. I see it in my dreams every fucking night, the way you cut off her head.’

  ‘That wasn’t me,’ cried Tomas, thrashing helplessly. ‘It was Guido. It was Guido. Guido did that.’