‘Buono, Jah-nee,’ Francesco said and he took a dagger from a sheath in his boot. Corrigon’s smile vanished and he stiffened. ‘Easy,’ Francesco said, ‘I must cut the shirt. There is much blood.’
Corrigon lay back and listened to the blade slicing through the cotton shirt. He felt a finger probe his side and it exploded with pain. He decided to think of something, of Major Halford calling him in, giving him the pep talk, telling him Harry Younger thought he was ready for a mission. ‘It’s really fairly simple,’ Halford had said, ‘just drop in, make the connection, supervise the drop and get out.’ Sure, nothing to it, Major. Like falling into a bear trap. And Younger, all full of piss and vinegar, dreaming about all the broads lining up to rub his Silver Star. Only now it would be a Purple Heart. Posthumously.
And where was the big shot La Volte when all the shooting started?
‘Hey, Jah-nee,’ Francesco said. ‘You are lucky. It just went in one side and out the other.’ He whistled softly through his teeth. ‘Just like that, eh, paisan? Lots of blood, but it could be worse.’
He reached into a first-aid kit on his belt and took out a small cylinder and a bandage roll. ‘You have, how you call it, uh, a nose cloth, capisce?’
‘Handkerchief?’ Corrigon asked.
‘Si, Si.’
‘Back pocket, left side.’
Francesco took it out, tore it into two strips, and made patches of them. He sprinkled grey powder on the entry and exit wounds. ‘Penicillin,’ he explained. Then he and Dominic bound up the wound.
‘Our town is Malcesine. About three kilometres. Can you walk?’
‘How far’s that?’
‘Two miles maybe.’
‘I’ll do an Irish jig for two miles to get outa here,’ Corrigon said.
The two Italians helped him to his feet. The pain swelled back through him, but he clenched his teeth and tried to ignore it.
‘Tough guy, eh, amico? Francesco said.
‘Yeah, sure, tough guy, that’s me,’ he groaned. I’ll tell you what I am, he thought, I’m a simple, dumb, dogface, eighty-two-dollars-a-month-plus-combat-pay-corporal from Clarefield, Pennsylvania, and I used to drive a delivery truck for my brother-in-law’s brewery and it makes about as much sense me being here as it would to put army shoes on a fucking French poodle but I ain’t so dumb that I buy that skit about you two being farmers when you have knives in your boots and penicillin on your belts but I’m not gonna argue with anybody right now so let’s stuff all the Dick Tracy bullshit and get the lovin’ hell outa here fast and maybe, later on, when we can put our feet on the table over a little pasta and vino somebody will tell me what happened back there and why everything Went to hell so fast.
But Corrigon hurt too badly and was too tired to think much more about it. All he knew for sure was that Captain Harry Younger and Sergeant Joe Pulaski and the other noncom, Devlin. were dead and Major Halford’s operation had bought the farm. And right now four million dollars in gold was lying on the bottom of Lake Garda.
Chapter Two
HONG KONG, 1959
The morning sun blazed off the wings of the plane from Tokyo as it banked sharply over the edge of the bay and began the long descent to the runway that jutted out over Victoria Harbour. In the back of the crowded DC-6 tourist section the stewardess, a beautiful Oriental woman who spoke flawless English, picked up the interphone and began her final announcements:
‘Welcome to Hong Kong. In a few minutes we will be landing at Kai Tak Airport terminating PanAm flight twelve. Hong Kong means “Fragrant Harbour”. The city is divided into several districts. At the front of the plane on your left is Kowloon Peninsula. Kowloon means “Nine Dragons” and was named eight hundred years ago by the boy-emperor Ping, who believed that dragons lived in the eight mountain peaks surrounding the harbour. His prime minister reminded him that there were really nine dragons, since the ancient Chinese believed that all emperors were dragons. The modern section at the tip of the peninsula is Tsimshatsui, the modern -shopping centre of Hong Kong harbour.
‘Hong Kong Island is at your immediate left and beyond it is the South China Sea. On the far side of the island is the harbour of Aberdeen...’
The man in the dark grey suit in seat 19B tuned her out. He took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had been flying for almost twenty-one hours with only three stops and his eyes and neck ached. Although he felt cramped in the tourist section, it was safer, less conspicuous than flying in front, where the passengers somehow seemed noisier and quicker to strike up conversations. Tourist section provided anonymity.
He took out the passport and checked it one more time. It identified him as Howard Burns of Bridgeport, Connecticut. It was a good alias, one he had used sparingly. Only Casserro knew about it. The passport was over a year old and well-used. He had told Casserro, ‘Get me something with a little mileage on it, nothing new,’ and as usual old Chico had come through.
The man who called himself Bums was of medium height and slender with a few grey streaks in his close- cropped black hair. He was dressed inconspicuously in a business suit and wore dark glasses, and he had slept most of the way from Tokyo, awakening once to eat a warm snack. His food had been cold when he got it, but he ate it without complaint to avoid attracting attention to himself.
He shook off the effects of the arduous trip and, reaching into his suit jacket pocket, took out a small pill which he casually swallowed without water. The amphetamine was mild, just strong enough to get his juices running again. Then he settled back and began ticking off details in his mind, hitting only key words: Peninsula Hotel on Kowloon Causeway. George Wan, Oriental Rug Company, phone 5-220697. Star Ferry to the island. Causeway Typhoon Shelter, Wharf Three. Twelve noon. Brown and tan Rolls- Royce.
Simple. No wrinkles. He settled back, feeling secure as the plane bumped down and taxied to the terminal. He
