Marco had just learned a lesson he’d never forget.
“You must find our man. He escaped while under your guard. It’s your responsibility,” said the ageless man, the person who was old yet young at the same time.
The Grand Master of the Brethren of the True Believers—a.k.a. Soran’s current avatar when he materialized in earthly form—allowed for no margin of error or had any tolerance for incompetence. Excuses were not an option. And Don Giovanni had lost his man. His assassin.
Tariq.
To the Don, the Grand Master was the spiritual leader of the Brethren of the True Believers, a veiled clandestine society that could trace its roots back to the Knights of Damascus from the Third Crusade, and before. He was lucky enough to be a valued brother, and Soran wanted action.
“Jump,” Soran could well ask, and the Don would no doubt ask, “How high?”
Soran and Don Giovanni were sitting in the shade of an oversize white umbrella at a large oblong marble table on the Don’s expansive terrace, overlooking the sparkling waters of the Bay of Palermo, enjoying the gentle afternoon sea breeze kissing their skin. Well, the Don was at least. The heavily forested hillsides of Monte Pellegrino made a stunning backdrop through the misty heat haze to Sicily’s capital, Palermo.
“More wine?” asked the Don, topping us his guest’s glass with chilled Bianco d’Alcamo before he had a chance to answer, then refilled his own glass.
“Don Giovanni, the brothers are concerned that this situation is getting out of hand,” said Soran. He was lying. The brothers had no say in Soran’s concerns. Rather, he was manipulating the Don to do his bidding.
To cross over from the fourth dimension and take on a human appearance, Soran had to relinquish most of his powers that he wielded in his evil, dark world. He was no longer the Gatekeeper of Lost Souls, but rather a visitor from the other side. His energy in this world as most knew it was finite, like a battery that only had a fixed charge available before it faded. So time—a concept that had no sense, no meaning in his dark underworld of lost souls—became of paramount importance when he was present in the world of the mortals. His visits had to be like a smash and grab. In and out before his powers diminished.
But regardless, they were worth it.
When Soran—a force, an energy who was as old as time itself—crossed over, it provided him with an opportunity to snare the raw life force of a real living person, instead of just capturing the human souls that had already died and passed over for eternity into his underworld domain. Soran relied on this endless supply of souls to feed his aging body—they were his lifeblood, his daily staple—and he drew on them for their energy . . . but capturing the soul of a real living person on earth, well, that was an entirely different matter.
And the fresher and younger, the better. Their ritual sacrifice kept him ageless.
Soran’s craving for sucking in the power of a still-living person was an addiction he constantly sought to satiate. A fresh kill giving him access to his victim’s pure energy turbocharged his very being and had ensured that he endured, ageless, throughout the millennia. And the very zenith of his quest was the claiming—the sacrificing—of a human victim who was at their peak before they became adulterated with mortal clutter.
A still-beating adolescent heart cut from the chest of his victim, a young person who was on the transitional cusp from childhood to adulthood, was Soran’s pinnacle. Male or female, it made no difference, just as long as the sacrifice occurred. This addiction had seen Soran return again and again to the corporeal world since time began.
The Brethren of the True Believers were Soran’s disciples on earth who would blindly follow his every command. They had no idea that their master was really the Devil incarnate. To them, he was simply an all-powerful, almost mythical leader known as Soran, the Grand Master, who had them under his spell and who would give them his orders to fulfill. He ensured they were bound to him by their avarice. Then all Soran had to do was disguise his own evil deeds and cravings by pandering to their addictions—greed, lust, power, money, pride, wrath.
Being indoctrinated as a Brethren brother enabled each of them to fulfill their every mortal desire and more, all cloaked in a veil of secrecy and exclusivity. In return for giving them the opportunity to indulge in their failings, Soran had willing soldiers who would acquiesce to his every desire on earth. And this included supplying a constant stream of adolescent souls for him to sacrifice and devour. Like a general commanding an army, Soran ruled the Brethren with an iron fist. They were all under his spell and at his beck and call to command and direct . . . and provide him with what he in turn craved.
However, due to his diminished powers in his earthly coil, Soran was unable to read his disciples’ minds. Control their actions, yes, but look inside their heads, no. Don Giovanni was hiding something from the Grand Master: his nephew Marco had conveniently located the terrorist yesterday afternoon, and at this very moment the Don had sent four of his best men to capture and relocate him. But Soran had no inkling of the Don’s plans.
Then once Tariq was safely under his wing, the Don would inform Soran that he had secured his charge.
“Yes, we’re locating him as we speak,” replied the Don, an almost reverential intonation dominating his voice.
“Just don’t let me have to find him myself. This isn’t my role. It’s yours,” replied Soran curtly, using his powers of persuasion to have the Don willingly carry out his bidding.
If the Don only knew Soran’s powers in this world were limited to strictly short intrusions into the lives of his mortal targets. He was ageless when he was back on the other side, but he aged significantly, just like humans, in this corporeal world.
So Soran’s threats about him having to find his assassin were really baseless, as he was not able to remain in the mortal world that long.
“I’ll be back. I expect Tariq to be available for more assignments when I return.”
With that, the Grand Master pushed out his chair from the table, took in the view one more time, spun on his heels and marched toward the door. He could feel his energy fading and it was time to leave.
FEATURES
Corruption, Refugees and the Money Trail
The International Chronicle, Thursday July 21
Sandi Duncan
The European Union’s antifraud regulator, OLEF, is investigating unsubstantiated reports of widespread misuse of funds earmarked to provide food, accommodation and emergency assistance for refugees arriving in Sicily. The majority of these desperate people are from war-torn countries in North Africa, arriving in the thousands on boats from Libya.
Humanitarian aid organisation Care the World CEO, Paul Jones, has been investigating unconfirmed reports that highly organised criminal groups and a chain of corrupt government officials and law enforcement agencies have been rorting the system.
“Significant funds are unaccounted for. Improper granting of tenders to businesses to provide services at highly inflated prices to the refugee camps, such as Cara di Mineo outside Catania, is rampant.”
Mr Jones went on to point out that he suspected millions of euros had ended up lining the pockets of those who had no right to be the recipient of these funds.
“Criminal groups such as the Cosa Nostra in Sicily are progressively infiltrating and controlling the management of the refugee camps, skimming money and granting bogus contracts to members of their own organizations.”
“Cazzo! This stronzo Jones—I’ll get rid of him,” said Santino aggressively, a deadly whiplash smile crossing his lips as he stormed around the room like a hurricane.
“That bastardo should have been killed in the explosion. Leave him to me. I’ll garrote him with my bare hands.”
“Easy, Santino. Stop being such a hothead,” said the Don, patting the air in a downward motion with both hands: it’s time to chill out. The Don was trying to initiate his playboy son into the Family business.
“But il padre, he needs to be iced. T
his cafone is disrespecting the Family. And now he’s talking about us in the newspapers!” Santino stopped pacing the room and threw his copy of the International Chronicle down on his father’s desk with a resounding thwack.
“Here! Look what he said about us.”
“Santino, what do you think will happen if we ice him now?” The Don paused, letting his words hang in midair while his son calmed down.
“They’ll point their fingers straight back at us and we’ll get even more prying eyes looking where they shouldn’t. We’ve got enough heat on us as it is. People high up are getting nervous. So think again. What should we do?”
The Don was purposefully pushing his son into a corner where there was only one logical way out. The alternative was to smash the walls down, which is what his hothead son wanted to do, without any consideration of the consequences of his actions.
“Well . . .” Santino was flummoxed. He wasn’t used to playing the game of cat and mouse. To him, brute force was king. After all, they were the Cosa Nostra, and they ran Sicily.
“Come on boy, think about it.” The Don was becoming exasperated, slamming his fist down hard on his desk for effect.
Will this boy ever learn?
“Well . . . maybe, yeah . . . that’s it!” Santino face became alive with emotion, looking like he had just had a eureka moment.
“A fall guy! We need to frame someone to take the rap. Take the heat off us so we can continue on with business.”
“Ah, at last you’re talking sense. Rule one of defending yourself in a fight like this is to create a diversion. Shift the blame to destabilize your opponent. Force him to look somewhere else.”
“Yes, Don. And rule two?” asked Santino, his interest stirred.
“Rule two? Use the diversion to strengthen your defenses, then attack with force when it’s least expected. If you have to, of course. Otherwise work out a way forward behind the scenes to continue business as it was before.”
Santino was soaking up the Don’s words of wisdom like a sponge. As far as his mushy brain would allow, anyway.
“And is there a rule three?”
“Sure is, my son. Never forgive, never forget,” replied the Don, pleased that his son was taking notes for a change. “And get payback later on down the line. You need a long memory to stay on top and not get whacked.”
A short, menacing laugh let loose from the Don’s lips.
He was worried that his son didn’t have the balls or the brains to eventually head the family, so he needed to force him—educate him—in the ways of the world in the hope that one day he would become the leader he had to be to survive and head the Family.
Santino had to learn that being the Don wasn’t a God-given right. You had to earn the privilege and the respect of those under you—and of your enemies—otherwise you’d end up dead meat.
The Don brushed his hand through his ample mane of wavy silver hair, then looked his son directly in the eyes before continuing.
“Remember, fear of reprisal is always the best weapon. If you follow through with this, your opponents will think twice next time about disrespecting the Family. And then there’s no need for violence because they all know if you cross them that you’ll hit them back hard.”
“Paul, I don’t know how you came across this, but fantastic work. It could well be Tariq’s address where he’s hiding out.”
O’Donnell was starting to feel that all too familiar tingle again as he played with the note Paul had just passed over to him. The one he had ripped off the top of Marco’s pad.
Yes! Things were falling into place.
“Yeah, thought you might like that,” said Paul, feeling good about himself.
Ice laid Marco’s note out on the table in front of them. Removing a lead pencil from his pocket, he gently started shaving the graphite core with his pocketknife, allowing a dusting to cover the paper. Once there was an even coating of the fine powder, O’Donnell carefully picked up the note and held it to his lips, softly blowing across the top of it to get rid of the excess graphite . . . and there it was, staring at him, as plain as if the words had been written in ballpoint pen.
An address: Strada Provinciale, 2 kms east of the town. Small farmhouse on the right.
“Hey Tony, I’ve seen that in the movies, but I never thought that trick was for real,” said Paul, amazed at the clarity of the writing on the note.
“Yep, real secret agent stuff, Paul . . . but don’t tell anyone,” Tony chided.
Paul laughed.
Thanks to Dec’s vision, O’Donnell already had a heads-up on the possible name of the town in the county that the address could well relate to, so all he had to do now was link it all together.
With an anticipation that belied his coolness, Ice put the address he had gleaned from the note into Google maps on his iPhone, listing the town as “Sutera” and whammo, he got an immediate hit.
“That’s it!” exclaimed O’Donnell. “That’s where he is. I’d bet my nuts on it,” he said, a steely look crossing Ice’s face. He was already planning the mission. Ice switched Google maps to topography and checked out the lay of the land, mentally earmarking three possible houses and searching for potential observation points and escape routes.
He was back in SAS mode, and this was the next mission. O’Donnell was now so close to finally nailing Tariq that he could smell his fear, his sweat, his very existence. He’d been following Tariq for so long now that he knew his every move, his reactions and responses, his thoughts even.
I’m gonna nail you, you prick. You don’t deserve to run free. O’Donnell allowed himself a quiet moment of introspection before continuing.
“Paul, for your own sake, I can’t tell you what I just found or where. It’s a need to know thing. But it’s vitally important that you go about your business as if nothing has happened or transpired. And don’t talk to anyone about this. You’re probably being watched, and we can’t afford for Marco or Tariq to get wind of the fact that we’re onto him. Leave it to me, okay? I’ll let you know when it’s all put to bed and we have Tariq.”
“Yeah, fine,” replied Paul, pleased that he had been able to contribute some vital evidence.
“What about Cait? I know she’s been working with you a bit on this. Will she be safe?”
“Paul, leave Cait to me. She’ll be fine.”
What O’Donnell left out was that Cait was now his temporary partner in this. While he had reservations about taking an untrained person like Cait along, there was no way she would let him leave her behind, so he just had to manage it.
She was too headstrong to remain in Catania while he did the bust.
Besides, his mind was still reeling from Cait’s last encounter with that Mafia thug who crossed her, so she certainly could handle herself in a scrap if it came to that. But O’Donnell made a mental note to do all the heavy lifting.
Cait would be his backup once again.
“I reckon Tariq could be in either the first or second farmhouse we drove past. The third place looks way too upscale for a refugee house,” said Ice.
Cait and O’Donnell had just driven along Strada Provinciale as they headed west into the town of Sutera. According to the address that Ice had pulled from Marco’s note and the Google maps topographical inspection he had checked out beforehand, if Tariq was there he had to be holed up in one of three places, and one he had already ruled out.
“Remember Dec’s vision, Tony,” said Cait. “A house with low trees around it, surrounded by dusty fields and the large hill in the background.”
“Yeah, but the two places we’ve narrowed Tariq’s location down to both look like that,” said O’Donnell, thinking out aloud more than actually replying.
“Tony, Dec specifically mentioned something about a whole bunch of black shadows moving around. We only saw shadows—I can only presume Dec was envisioning black Africans—at one of the two houses,” Cait pointed out.
“There were what appeared to be young African kids
playing out the front of one of those houses. And if you remember, the front of that place was really tidy and well kept. Like whoever lived there cared about the place.
“The other house appeared more . . . how can I say it? . . . Italian. There was shit everywhere.”
“You’ve got a point, Cait. Could be right.”
Ice paused to work out the best way forward.
“What we need to do now is another drive-by. Have to make sure we’re not too obvious though. We’re just tourists, remember? Unfortunately there’s nowhere to set up a lookout post, so keep your eyes open for anything that looks out of place.”
“No luck, Cait. We need a new approach,” said O’Donnell.
“When we were on patrol it was always standing orders that if you wanted to find out anything about what was happening in the local area, there was only one place to go.”
“Which was?” Cait replied quizzically.
“The local mullah. Or imam, whoever. They always know who’s up who and who’s not paying.”
“Eh?”
“They always know what’s happening. They’re the go-to person.”
Cait smiled, bowing to O’Donnell’s experience on the front line. The more he allowed snippets of his disturbed past to surface, the more Cait began to realize her partner had a hidden violent history that to him had been a way of life. He obviously had been an operative in war zones around the world and was a killer, a committed soldier who had known death and destruction as a way of life. And now here was this slightly fractured individual, talking to her about how he—no, they—were going to take out Tariq.
“Well, you’re the super-secret agent-cum-whatever, so let’s find him. Lead the way, lord and master.”
Cait liked baiting him. In her mind it was her way of integrating O’Donnell back into a normal life. Her training as a psychologist told her that her partner needed to see the lighter side of life, even if it was at his own expense. His head had obviously been messed up well and truly by his military past, but he was now trying to live in society again, even if it was on the periphery.
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 70