Luciano’s Luck. Jack Higgins
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areas at the right time.’
‘And they think this will help?’ Carter asked.
Eisenhower turned back to the map. ‘The theory is sound enough. The terrain Patton and his army have to pass through to reach Palermo is a soldier’s nightmare. The area around the Cammarata particularly is a warren of ravines and mountains. It could take months to hack a way through it. On the other hand, if the Mafia used its power to promote an uprising of the people and to persuade Italian units to surrender, the Germans would have no other recourse but to get the hell out of it.’
‘Yes, General,’ Carter said.
‘You don’t sound too certain. Don’t you think the Mafia can deliver?’
‘Frankly, sir, not as the people in Washington who dreamed this thing up seem to expect. One major weakness. If you take the Mafia boss, the capo, in one particular district, you may find he doesn’t have much influence elsewhere. Another thing, your Intelligence people have been recruiting American service personnel with Sicilian or Italian ethnic backgrounds.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Eisenhower demanded.
‘It’s better than nothing, of course, but being Italian doesn’t cut much ice in Sicily and as regards the language, there are at least five Sicilian dialects in Palermo alone.’
‘But surely the idea of using Luciano was to get over such difficulties by having someone whose name meant something to everyone.’
‘I don’t happen to think it’s enough.’
‘But Washington does?’
‘So it would appear.’
There was a brief silence, Eisenhower frowning down thoughtfully at the file, and then he looked up.
‘All right, Major, you’ve had one briefing. Now I’m going to give you another. I want the facts on this Mafia thing and straight from the horse’s mouth. When you return in two weeks or whatever, I want you back here Priority One with a first hand assessment of the situation in the field. You understand me?’
‘Perfectly, General.’
‘Good. You’d better get moving, then.’
Carter saluted. Eisenhower nodded and picked up his pen. As Carter reached the door and opened it, the General called softly, ‘One thing more, Major.’
Carter turned to face him. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Leave the rough stuff to other people. I’d be considerably inconvenienced if you failed to keep our next appointment.’
2
It started to rain as Carter went over the ridge, a heavy, drenching downpour, sheet lightning flickering beyond the mountain peaks. He leaned the cumbersome bicycle against a tree and took the field-glasses from his pocket. When he focused them the houses of Bellona three miles away jumped into view. He followed the valley road to where it disappeared into pine trees, but there was no sign of life. Not even a shepherd.
He replaced the field-glasses in his pack, moved back through the trees to the other side of the ridge and looked down at the villa in the hollow below, quiet in the evening light, waiting for him.
He was tired and yet filled with a sudden fierce exhilaration, faced at last with the final end of things. He started down the slope through pine trees, pushing the bicycle before him.
He entered the grounds by a gate in the rear wall and followed a path round to the front of the house. The garden was Moorish, lush, semi-tropical vegetation pressing in everywhere. Palms swayed gently above his head and in the heavy downpour water gurgled in the old conduits, splashing from numerous fountains.
He emerged into the courtyard at the front of the house, leaned the bicycle against the baroque fountain, and went up the steps to the front door. There was already a light in the hall and he pulled on the bell chain and waited. There was the sound of footsteps approaching and the door opened.
The man who stood there was perhaps forty, his heavy moustache and hair already grey. He wore a black bow tie and alpaca jacket and looked Carter over with total disapproval.
‘What do you want?’
Carter removed his cloth cap and when he spoke, his voice was rough and hoarse, pure Sicilian. ‘I have a message for the Contessa.’
The manservant held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’
Carter shook his head, assuming an expression of peasant cunning. ‘My orders were to deliver it personally. She’s expecting me. Tell her Ciccio is here.’
The manservant shrugged. ‘All right, come in. I’ll see what she has to say.’
Carter stepped inside and stood there, dripping rain on to the black and white ceramic tiles. The manservant frowned his displeasure, walked across the hall and went through a green baize door into a large kitchen. He paused just inside the door, took a Walther automatic from his pocket, checked it quickly then opened a cupboard beside the old-fashioned iron stove and took out a military field telephone. He wound the handle and waited, whistling softly to himself, tapping the Walther against his thigh.
There was the murmur of a voice at the other end and he said in German, ‘Schäfer – at the villa. Carter’s turned up at last. No problem. I’ll hold him till you get here.’
He replaced the telephone in the cupboard, turned and still whistling softly, moved back to the door.
Carter shivered, suddenly cold, aware for the first time that the rain had soaked through to his skin. Almost over now. God, but he was tired. In the gilt mirror on the other side of the hall he could see his reflection. A middle-aged Sicilian peasant, badly in need of a shave, hair too long, with sullen, brutalized features, patched tweed suit and leather leggings, a shotgun, the traditional lupara with sawn-off barrels, hanging from his left shoulder.
But not for much longer. Soon there would be Cairo, Shepherd’s Hotel, hot baths, clean sheets, seven-course meals and ice-cold champagne. Dom Perignon 35. He still had, after all, an infallible source of supply.
The green baize door opened in the mirror behind him and the manservant came through. Carter turned. ‘The Contessa will see me?’
‘She would if she could, only she isn’t here. We took her away three days ago.’ His right hand came up holding the Walther and now he was speaking in English. ‘The shotgun, Major Carter. On the floor, very gently, then turn, hands against the wall.’
Strange, but now that it had happened, this moment that he had always known would come one day, Carter was aware of a curious sensation of relief. He didn’t even attempt to play Ciccio any more, but put down the lupara as instructed and turned to face the wall.
‘German?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’ A hand searched him expertly. ‘Schäfer. Geheimefeldpolizei. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’ He stepped back and Carter turned to face him.
‘The Contessa?’
‘The Gestapo have her. They’ve been waiting for you in Bellona for three days now. I’ve just telephoned through from the kitchen. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.’
‘I see,’ Carter said. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘We wait.’ Schäfer motioned him through into the dining room.
Carter paused, looking down at the open fire, steam rising from his damp clothes, and behind him Schäfer sat at the end of the long dining table, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, then pushed the pack along the table. Carter took one gratefully and when he struck the match, his fingers trembled slightly.
Schäfer said, ‘There’s brandy on the sideboard. You look as if you could do with it.’
Carter went round the table and helped himself. The brandy was the local variety,