Luciano's Luck Read online

  ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Adequate, sir.’

  ‘Luciano and this man, Luca's, granddaughter. That's like aces back-to-back. Sit down.’

  Carter did as he was told. ‘The invasion's still on, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course, they know about our preparations, we know that. They're expecting us any day now. Our deception plan is that any attack on Sicily will only be a feint; that the real targets are Sardinia and Greece.’

  Carter said, ‘When, sir?’

  ‘Privileged information, Colonel, for your ears only. You don't tell the rest of your party except in circumstances of some extraordinary nature.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘The ninth.’ Eisenhower flipped the date pages of the desk calendar and smiled. ‘It says here: A good day to sit back and take stock of your life.’

  Carter was astonished. ‘But that only gives us four days.’

  ‘I know, but the weather boys have guaranteed us storms on that day. The Italians won't be expecting any attack in that kind of weather.’

  ‘Then if we go, it would have to be tomorrow night at the latest and that would only give us three days to work in.’

  ‘How much time do you need?’ Eisenhower said. ‘One meeting with this man Luca is all it takes. If he decides to join us, the rest is simply his people spreading the word, isn't that so?’

  ‘In theory, sir.’

  ‘Well, theory is all we've got.’ Eisenhower stood up, went to the map and jabbed his finegr at the Cammarata. ‘Here, overlooking the two main roads we'll be using to reach Palermo. Mainly Italian troops with artillery of every description, including 88s, and you know what they do to our tanks. They've even got a few Tigers up there as well. If they decide to fight, they could hold us for weeks. If they surrender, then the few German units in the area will have to get out fast leaving the road to Palermo dear for George Patton.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I'm well aware of the situation.’

  ‘What you don't know is that since we last talked, information's reached us from Rome that the whole house of cards is ready to fall. Mussolini's on the verge of being kicked out. One more push is all it takes and Marshal Badoglio takes over and that means a negotiated peace with Italy.’

  Carter said, ‘There is another aspect to consider. I called in at Maison Blanche before coming here to make arrangements for the drop with Wing Commander Grant. He tells me the AOC has suspended any further operations. It seems they lost the last four Halifaxes they sent to Sicily.’

  ‘Yes, I know about that,’ Eisenhower said calmly. ‘But the written authority you hold allows you to countermand that order.’

  ‘The point is that, in Grant's opinion, the odds are heavily against one of their Halifaxes being able to reach the target.’

  ‘You mean he says it's impossible?’

  Carter remembered Grant's exact words and rephrased them. ‘Let's just say that he didn't rate our chances very highly.’

  Eisenhower said, ‘Are you saying it's not on?’

  ‘No, sir, I'm simply being realistic.’

  Eisenhower stood up and walked to the window. He spoke, gazing out into the garden at the same time. ‘You know something I've discovered about command, Colonel? That even Napoleon was only as good as his worst soldier. No matter how well you plan, the success of an entire battle can come down to halfadozen brave men denying a bridge to the enemy. My personal theory is that every battle is like that. Somewhere in the middle of all the action, although we may never know it, a single incident can be the balance that decides which way victory will go.’

  ‘Yes, I think I'd go along with that, General,’ Carter said.

  Eisenhower turned. ‘Whatever happens, we go into Sicily. We take our chances. We may win with heavy casualties, but for all I know, this man Luca could be the kind of balance point I'm talking about. The difference between winning and losing.’

  ‘So we go, sir?’

  This time the smile was touched with sadness. ‘Difficult decisions have always been the privilege of rank, Colonel. I say you go and take your chances.’ He held out his hand. ‘I can only wish you luck.’

  Harvey Grant, seated at his office desk at Maison Blanche, finished reading the two letters of authorization from General Eisenhower and President Roosevelt. He passed them back to Carter.

  ‘As good a way of committing suicide as I can imagine. Like I told you, I can't even offer you a fifty-fifty chance. Another thing, we've not been grounded just because of losses. I know the invasion's coming any day now. They'll tell you that in every bazaar in Algiers plus the fact that it's just a part of a mammoth deception to fool the enemy. For Sicily, read Sardinia. What the eye doesn't see.’

  ‘I can't comment on that,’ Carter started to say, and Grant suddenly slammed a hand against the windowsill.

  ‘Christ, Harry, I think I've got it. What the eye doesn't see. Correction, what the eye expects to see, it ignores.’

  ‘I don't follow you.’

  ‘You will. Come on, I'll show you.’

  They went down the steps and walked towards the hangers. ‘How many did you say there'll be?’

  ‘Five. Four men and a woman.’

  ‘A woman?’ Grant said. ‘My God. Still, I think it should do.’

  ‘What exactly?’

  This.’

  Grant waved and led the way into the end hangar where the black-painted JU88S night fighter crouched in the gloom.

  *

  ‘You really think it would work?’ Carter said.

  ‘We'll need a quick paint job. Replace those RAF rondels with Luftwaffe markings again. The point is, this baby has an engine boosting system that takes it up to around four hundred. That means we can hit your drop zone in just under an hour from here. In and out, Harry, and to anyone around, we're just another night fighter.’

  Carter nodded slowly. ‘You could be right.’

  Grant said impatiently. ‘The krauts used the thing for the same purposes themselves, so it has the right modification, that special door they've fitted for a fast exit. More than coincidence, Harry. The Gods are smiling.’

  ‘All right,’ Carter said. ‘Let's say it works, but how about coming back? This thing will have every RAF fighter in the area on its back the moment it crosses the coast.’

  ‘No problem,’ Grant said. ‘Naturally, I'll have to tell the AOC, Air Marshall Sloane that I'm going, but there won't be any problem there, not when he sees your authorization. He'll arrange the right kind of reception for me when I get back.’

  Carter said, ‘You're grounded, Harvey, remember?’

  ‘Not on this one, old son.’ Grant patted the side of the Junkers. ‘I'm not saying I'm the only pilot in the squadron who can fly this plane, but I'm the only one who can give this operation half a chance. I'll take Joe Collinson with me, the squadron's senior navigator. He's flown as many hours as I have in her so he's familiar with the equipment.’

  Carter, no choice in the matter now, nodded. ‘All right, Harvey.’

  ‘When do we go?’

  ‘Tomorrow night, if that suits you.’

  ‘The same drop zone as you used last time outside Bellona?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you come with me now to the met. office we'll check on the weather, but all things being equal, I'd say you could send a message to your people in Bellona telling them to expect you around eleven.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Good, then let's get moving. There's work to be done.’

  In Palermo, at his temporary headquarters in the Grand Hotel General Alfred Guzzoni, commanding the Italian Sixth Army, was holding a staff conference. It was attended mainly by Italian officers although there were a handful of Germans present, among them Meyer and Koenig.

  Guzzoni, a firstrate soldier and veteran of numerous campaigns, had spent an hour explaining the strategic situation in the Mediterranean.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ he ended. ‘They come soon, we know that. A feint at
some point on the Sicilian coast and the main attack probably Sardinia. One thing seems certain. We can expect no activity for at least a week. ‘Any questions? The meteorological report indicates some very stormy weather.’

  There were a few and after a while, Meyer raised his hand. ‘General, I'd like to discuss the question of partisan activity in the mountains.’ Guzzoni said, ‘In what respect, Major?’

  ‘A question of cooperation, General,’ Meyer said. ‘I expect none from these damn peasants in the mountains, but when I experience what I can only describe as a total lack of assistance from units of the Italian Army…

  There was an angry murmur from the Italian officers present and it was Koenig who defused the situation by standing up and saying, ‘You must excuse Major Meyer, General. He is perhaps not familiar with the fact that Italian dead lie as far east as the outskirts of Moscow and in considerable number in Stalingrad. I have been lucky enough to have them on my flank on more than one occasion and have been grateful for it.’

  A number of Italian officers around him broke into spontaneous applause. Meyer glanced at him calmly, picked up his briefcase and walked out.

  Guzzoni walked through the crowd and held out his hand. ‘You've made an enemy there, I think.’

  ‘Then I'll just have to live with it, sir.’

  Guzzoni put a hand around his shoulder. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting your father in Berlin when I attended the OKW conference last month. Come and have lunch with me and I'll tell you how he was.’

  The villa Carter's party was using was five miles along the coast from Maison Blanche. It wasn't much of a place, being run down and badly in need of a coat of whitewash, but the area behind it was astonishingly beautiful. Sand dunes separated the overgrown garden from the sea. Beyond them, a white beach ran as far as the eye could see.

  Carter had assembled the whole party in the living room of the villa for a general briefing. There was a map of Sicily on the wall and several large envelopes on the table.

  Most of what he said was simply a reworking of what had already been discussed before. When he was finished, he said, ‘Any questions?’

  Detweiler asked, ‘When is the invasion to take place, Colonel?’

  ‘No need for you to know that yet,’ Carter said. ‘I believe it's a sound principle to keep knowledge of dates, facts, identities of sympathizers to a minimum when going into the field. The less you know, the less you can disclose under pressure. False papers have, of course, been prepared for each of you.’

  Savage said, ‘But if anything goes wrong with the landing? If one of us becomes separated from the others, where do we make for?’

  ‘Here, at the head of the valley. The Franciscan monastery of the Crown of Thorns. That will be our general headquarters. Any further questions?’ There was silence.

  Maria was sitting in a hollow in the dunes when Luciano found her. He flung himself down beside her and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Carter's back. He wants to see us all together in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Is it on?’ she said.

  ‘Apparently.’ She turned away, gazing out to sea, hugging her knees and he said, ‘What are you trying to see Sicily?’

  ‘It's been a long time.’

  ‘And your grandfather. That's been a long time, too.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Maybe too long for both of us. Have you considered that?’

  ‘I have, but I don't think the Professor has.’

  She shook her head. ‘The omnipotent Luciano. Is nothing impossible to you?’

  ‘Some things. Even the Devil has his off days.’ He held out a hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on, time to eat.’

  They walked away sidebyside and disappeared over the sand dunes. There was a stirring in a patch of long grass near by and Detweiler stood up. He brushed sand from his fatigues for a moment, a strange, dazed look in his eyes, and then went after them.

  9

  In the living room of his house at the back of the mortuary, Vito Barbera presided over a meeting of the district committee. There was Pietro Mori, the schoolmaster, a thin, intense man of forty-six with steel-rimmed glasses, who had fought with the International Brigade in Spain. So had Ettore Russo, the one thing they had in common, for the fact that Russo had inherited his father's sheep farm made him suspect in the minds of many of the comrades.

  The Christian Democrats were represented by Father Collura, the parish priest for the Bellona district, and the Separatists by Verga, the innkeeper. And although it was not stated, had never needed to be, Vito Barbera stood there for the Honoured Society for Mafia.

  When he finished talking, there was a long pause. It was Mori who spoke first. ‘So, what do you want us to do? Genuflect because this Mafia cutthroat comes amongst us?’

  ‘Salvatore comes as a saviour,’ Ettore Russo mocked. ‘Who from?’

  ‘The Germans,’ Barbera suggested.

  ‘Yes, but not from Mafia.’ It was Verga, the innkeeper speaking now. ‘We of the Separatist movement want a Sicily that is genuinely free, not just separated from Italy, but with the same old Mafia gang running things as before.’

  Father Collura said mildly, ‘Shouldn't our primary task be to aid the American invasion as much as possible? The question of who is going to run the country can come afterwards. A matter of free democratic election.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Mori said. ‘Free democratic election with a Mafia hand on every throat.’

  Barbera said, ‘Whatever else may be said, Mafia has always stood outside politics. I think no one here can deny that.’

  ‘And behind whoever was in power,’ Russo replied.

  Barbera sighed. ‘I may take it, then, that no one is in favour of any concerted action at the moment?’

  ‘When the Americans come, we will rise in the mountains,’ Mori said. ‘But as for Luciano. To hell with him.’

  ‘And Don Antonio Luca's granddaughter? To hell with her also?’

  There was silence at the mention of that name. Mori glanced at Russo and forced a smile. ‘Now look, Vito, old friend, we certainly meant no offence to Don Antonio.’

  ‘No, that's what I thought.’ Barbera looked at his watch and stood up. ‘My friends will be dropping in approximately three hours, so you must excuse me. I know, of course, that this information is safe with you. If anything did go wrong, one would so obviously know where to start looking.’ He shrugged, smiling. ‘But what am I saying.’

  They moved out into the darkness of the side street and went their separate ways except for Mori and Russo who walked together for a while.

  Mori said, ‘I know we don't always see eye to eye but in this present affair, I sense a considerable agreement.’

  ‘If you mean something should be done about Luciano, then I'm with you,’ Russo told him.

  Mori put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Come back to my house for supper. We can talk things over in peace there and I have an excellent bottle of Chianti.’

  At Maison Blanche, a heavy damp fog rolling in off the Mediterranean reduced visibility to no more than two hundred yards. The Junkers, once more with Luftwaffe markings, squatted on the runway, had been there for something like halfanhour. Carter and the rest of his party were crowded together into the narrow fuselage, their bodies swollen with parachutes and equipment.

  Flight Lieutenant Collinson, the navigator, was already on board, familiarizing his eyes with the Lichtenstein radar set that, in effect, enabled the Junkers to see in the dark.

  Harvey Grant stood outside the crew room with Air Marshal Sloane who had come down to see them off personally.

  ‘It's not good, Harvey,’ he said. ‘About as bad as I've seen. If you go, you might not be able to land, even if you get back.’

  A young pilot officer appeared and handed Grant a weather report. ‘Rain and thunderstorms predicted,’ Grant said cheerfully. ‘That's good enough for me, sir. See you in a couple of hours. This soup will all be washed away by then.’

  He turned and
walked towards the Junkers, pulling on his flying helmet. Sloane watched him go up the ladder and pull it up behind him. A moment later, the engines, which had already been warmed up, rumbled into life.

  As Grant boosted power, the Junkers moved forward with increasing speed, following the line of flares. The fog swallowed it from sight and Sloane and the others standing outside the crew room, waited, holding breath.

  Not that there was any need, for at precisely the right moment, Grant hauled back the column, and the Junkers lifted, climbing up out of the fog into clear air. Grant put pressure on the right rudder and turned out to sea.

  After a while he spoke to Carter over the intercom which had been specially set up. ‘How are things back there?’

  ‘Fine,’ Carter said.

  ‘Good. Estimated time of arrival in the target area, fifty minutes. The weather isn't too good there. Raining, but visibility should be okay. Thunderstorms forecast so it may get bumpy.’

  He settled the Junkers at a thousand feet exactly and sat back, barely touching the controls, thoroughly enjoying himself as they skimmed the surface of the fog.

  Twenty minutes from target and sixty miles southwest of Cape Granitola in Sicily, Collinson, leaning over the Lichtenstein set, gave a sudden cry.

  ‘I've got something, sir, probably a night fighter.’

  Grant said over the intercom, ‘Red alert, Harry, we've got company.’

  In their cramped quarters in the body of the Junkers, Carter, Luciano and the others couldn't see a thing. Carter said, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Now I am,’ Grant told him as a Junkers, twin to his own, burst out of the fog to starboard and took up station. Grant raised a hand and could see the pilot of the other plane return the gesture. It stayed with them for a while, then peeled off to starboard and vanished into the night.

  ‘Worked perfectly,’ Grant said cheerfully over the intercom to Carter. ‘He's just pissed off. We've got exactly fifteen minutes so better make sure you're ready.’

  In a meadow at the head of the valley beyond the Contessa di Bellona's villa, Vito Barbera and Rosa waited. It was raining steadily and they sheltered under the trees at the edge of the meadow. Rosa wore a tweed cap and an old belted raincoat.