“And you are going to get her back, is that it? You and your friend think you can go into the Cammarata and bring her out with you again?” He laughed, that strange, harsh laugh, head thrown back. “Stacey – Stacey. And I thought you’d grown up.”
I very carefully smashed my crystal goblet into the fire, and started for the door. His voice, when he called my name, had all the iron of hell in it. I turned, a twelve-year-old schoolboy again caught in the orange grove before harvest. “That was seventeenth-century Florentine. Does it make you feel any better?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”
There was nothing more I could say. Unexpectedly he smiled. “This Serafino Lentini – you are kin on your grandmother’s side. Third cousins.”
“You know him then?”
“I haven’t seen him for many years. A wild boy – he shot a policeman when he was eighteen and took to the
In the good old days under Mussolini it had been frequently employed by the police when extorting confessions from the more difficult prisoners. A kind of wooden box, a frame to which a man could be strapped and worked on at leisure. It was supposed to be forbidden now, but whether it was or not was anyone’s guess.
“What did they do to him?”
“The usual things – the hot iron, which left him blind in one eye and they crushed his testicles – took away his manhood.”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “And watch Hoffer. He is a hard man.”
“Millionaires usually are. That’s how they get there.” I buttoned my jacket. “It’s time I was going. A long day tomorrow.”
“You are going to the Cammarata?”
I nodded. “With Burke. Just for a drive. Tourists having a look round. I want to see the lie of the land. I thought we’d try Bellona.”
“The man who owns the wineshop is the mayor. His name is Cerda – Danielo Cerda.” He took his blue silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out. “Show him this and tell him you are from me. He will help you in any way he can. He is one of my people.”
I folded the handkerchief and put it in my pocket. “I thought Serafino didn’t like Mafia?”
“He doesn’t,” he said tranquilly, reached for my hand and pulled himself up. “Now we shall join the others. I must talk with this Colonel Burke of yours. He interests me.”
Burke and Marco were sitting together in the salon, an exquisite room which my grandfather had kept to the original Moorish design. The floor was of black and white ceramic tiles and the ceiling was blue, vivid against stark white walls. Beyond a wonderful carved screen, another relic of Saracen days, was the terrace and the gardens.
I could hear water gurgling in the old conduits, splashing from the numerous fountains. In other days it had been said that whoever held the meagre water supplies of the island held Sicily and Mafia had done just that.
They were talking behind me and I heard Burke say in his terrible Italian, “You must be very proud of your garden, Signor Barbaccia.”
“The best in Sicily,” my grandfather told him. “Come, I will show you.”
Marco stayed to finish his drink and I followed them out on to the terrace. The sky was clear again, each star a jewel and the lush, semi-tropical vegetation pressed in on the house.
I could smell the orange grove although I couldn’t see it, the almond trees. Palms swayed gently in the slight breeze, their branches dark feathers against the stars. And everywhere the gurgle of water. My grandfather pointed out the papyrus by the pool, another Arab innovation, and suggested a short walk before we left.
He moved towards the steps leading down to the garden. Burke paused to light a cigarette and then everything happened at once.
Some instinct, product perhaps of the years of hard living, sent a wave of coldness through me and I froze, ready to jump like some jungle animal sensing an unseen presence.
Below the steps five yards on the other side of the gravel path, the leaves trembled and a gun barrel poked through. My grandfather was already on his way down. I sent him sprawling with a stiff left arm, drew and fired three times. A machine pistol jumped into the air, there was a kind of choking cough and a man fell out of the bushes and rolled on to his back.
I dropped to one knee beside my grandfather. “Are you all right?”
“There will be another,” he said calmly.
“Hear that, Sean?” I called.
“I’ll cover you,” came the reply in a voice like ice-water. “Roust him out.”
Marco came through the French windows in a hurry, the Walther in his hand and a shotgun blasted from the bushes over to my right, too far away to do any damage. You have to be close with those things. Marco dropped from view and I took a running jump into the greenery.
I landed badly, rolled over twice and came up about six feet away from number two. He was clutching a sawn- off shotgun in both hands, the
I took one hell of a chance, simply because it seemed like a good idea to keep him in one piece to talk, and fired as I came up, catching him in the left arm. He screamed and dropped the
He looked about seventeen, a boy trying to make a name for himself, to gain respect – the kind Mafia often used for this kind of work. The other was a different breed, a real pro from the look of him, with hard, bitter eyes fixed in death.
My grandfather pushed the jacket aside with his stick and said to Marco. “You told me he could use a gun. Look at that.”
I’d shot him three times in the heart, the holes covering no more than the width of two fingers between them. There was very little blood. I could hear the mastiffs barking and the guards arrived as I reloaded and slipped the Smith and Wesson back into its holster.
“How did they get in?”
The old man frowned and turned to Marco. “How about that? You told me this place was impregnable.”
Marco motioned to the guards without a word and they went off in a hurry, dogs and all. I stirred the man on the ground with my foot.
“So, they’re still trying?”
“Not for much longer,” he said grimly. “I can assure you. All bills will be paid. I owe it to your mother.”
I was shaken, but I turned to Burke. “That’s Mafia for you. Just one big happy family. Will there be any trouble over these two?”
My grandfather shook his head. “I’ll have the police come and take them away.”
“As simple as that?”
“But of course. It would, however, be wiser if you were to leave before they get here.”
He called to Marco, who was rooting around out there in the garden somewhere, to send the Mercedes round, then took me by the arm and walked a little way off.
“If you could play the piano like you can shoot, Stacey…”
“A shame, isn’t it?” I said. “But my mother was right about one thing. We all have a talent for something.”
He sighed. “Go with God, boy. Come and see me when you get back from the Cammarata, eh?”
“I’ll do that.”
“I’ll expect you.” He turned and held out his hand. “Colonel, my thanks.”
Later, after we had passed through the gates, Burke lit another cigarette and when the match flared I saw sweat on his face. I wondered if he had been afraid, but that didn’t seem possible.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
