Luciano's Luck Page 11

  ‘Are you all right?’ Barbera asked. ‘This stinking weather is something I hadn't counted on.’

  ‘Why don't you worry about something important like those Communist bastards, Mori and Russo? They could bring the Germans down on us any time they liked.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don't think so. Mori is no fool. He wouldn't put his head on the block so stupidly.’

  She grabbed his arm. ‘Listen, they come.’

  In the distance, there was the rumble of engines. He said, ‘You know what to do.’

  She ran across to the far side of the field and Barbera tossed a match to the petrol soaked bonfire they had prepared an hour earlier. It roared into life and on the other side of the meadow flame blossomed also as Rosa performed her part.

  Barbera looked up into the night and waited.

  The Junkers was down to a thousand feet when Harvey Grant saw the two fires marking the north and south edges of the meadow.

  ‘Did you see that, Joe?’ he said to Collinson.

  ‘Go it, sir.’

  Grant banked to starboard, lifting over a ridge, turned and started his run.

  ‘You've got two minutes. Harry,’ he called over the intercom.

  Carter said, ‘Fine, Harvey, all we need.’

  He nodded to the rest of the group and they all stood, crouching awkwardly in the confined space and clipped their static lines which opened the parachute automatically when they jumped to the anchor cable. Carter moved down the line, checking each of them personally, first Maria, then Savage followed by Luciano, Detweiler bringing up the rear.

  He went back to the head of the line, clipped his own static line in place, then slid back the exit door. Rain and cold air rushed in and a moment later, the green light flashed above his head.

  Carter, already aware of the fire blossoming in the night below, jumped without hesitation. Maria froze for the briefest of moments only and Savage shoved her out bodily and went after her.

  What happened next was not by any design. It was a kind of reflex gesture, a reflection of hate Detweiler had come to bear Luciano. He pulled the razorsharp gravity knife from its scabbard on his right knee. Luciano, poised in the entrance clutching his supply bag, was aware of the knife slicing through the static line above his head before the sergeant shoved him out into space.

  Collinson, looking back through the open door of the cockpit, saw nothing of this action; in the halflight knew only that Detweiler was still with them for the sergeant had paused in the doorway, frozen, his mind numb, stunned by the enormity of what he had done.

  Grant, already way beyond the target, was pulling back the column to take the Junkers over the ridge ahead and Collinson clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘We've still got company.’

  And then, as the line of the ridge lifted to meet them, Grant boosted power and banked to port and Detweiler lost his balance and pitched headfirst into darkness.

  At four hundred feet, it takes twenty seconds to hit the ground. Luciano falling, past the halfway mark, remembered Carter's words in the Dakota at Ringway. He turned over once, twice, then released the supply bag he had been clutching and his fingers tore at the cover of the emergency chute, strapped across his belly, found the handle of the ripcord and pulled.

  There was a sudden jerk, the crack of the chute catching air no more than a hundred feet to go and then he was swinging beneath that dark khaki umbrella, the supply bag below on the end of a line dipped to his waist. And he was right on target, dropping fast towards the fire at the north end of the meadow, aware of Carter and Maria already down. He glanced up, but there was no sign of Detweiler's parachute. He drifted in over Savage as the captain hit the grass and then the fire seemed to be rushing towards him and he was aware of someone standing there looking up at him, a boy in an old raincoat and cloth cap.

  The supply bag hit the ground with a solid thump, warning him to get ready. He followed it a split second later, rolling into wet grass, the breath going out of him. The the boy in the raincoat and tweed cap was moving in to help, clutching the billowing waves of silk, and Luciano saw that it was a young girl.

  He stood up, unlocking the quick release on his harness and she paused, examining him in the firelight.

  ‘You are Luciano?’

  ‘That's right. And you?’

  ‘Rose Barbera Vito's niece.’

  She started to bundle up the parachute and Harry Carter arrived on the run, Savage not far behind.

  ‘Where's Detweiler? Vito says you were the last to jump, then the plane passed over into the next valley.’

  Luciano divested himself of the main chute, the one which hadn't opened, and held up the static line, the clean knife-cut evident to all. ‘I knew the bastard didn't like me. I just didn't realize how much.’

  Detweiler, drifting down into the next valley, landed in a pinewood, his parachute snagging in branches, leaving him suspended ten feet above the ground. He snapped the release buckle, fell to the turf and lay there for a moment.

  What in the hell was he going to do now? He hadn't intended it, not any of it. It had been a moment of pure madness which had left him on the wrong side of the mountain and miles off target, alone and totally vulnerable.

  One thing was certain. He had to get moving fast and try to reach Bellona on his own. He unzipped the flying suit in which he had jumped. Underneath he wore a patched tweed suit and shirt without collar. There was a cap in one pocket. He pulled it on, crouched down and opened the supply bag. He took out a Colt .45 automatic pistol and an M1, slipped the Colt in one pocket and slung the M1 over his shoulder.

  He threw the supply bag into the bushes and pulled on the parachute to bring it down. It refused to budge so he abandoned it and started to work his way cautiously down through the wood. It had stopped raining for the moment and a pale moon showed through a gap in the clouds. In its light, he saw a dirt road on the far side of a low stone wall and scrambled over. He could smell wood-smoke, saw a farmhouse down below, a light in the window.

  He paused, slipping a hand inside his jacket to make sure the wallet was there containing the false papers Carter had given him at Maison Blanche. Reassured, he carried on down the track and turned in at the farmyard, leaving the M1 still slung from his shoulder, but with a hand in his pocket on the butt of the Colt.

  A dog barked excitedly inside the house as he walked through the mud of the farmyard to the door. He knocked. There was a certain amount of movement and then the top half of the door opened.

  Smoke drifted out into the cold air and in the dim light of an oil lamp, Detweiler was aware of a man standing there, holding a shotgun. He was perhaps sixty, with hollow cheeks and unshaven face and wore incredibly patched clothes. A small, ragged boy of about twelve stood beside him. Beyond them by the open fire, an old woman, face as wizened as an Egyptian mummy's, lay back in a wooden rocking chair, swaddled in blankets.

  ‘What do you want?’ the man asked hoarsely.

  ‘I'm a shepherd,’ Detweiler said. ‘I was walking over the top of the next valley and lost my way, then it got dark. Can you put me up for the night?’

  The man nodded, ‘Sure, why not. You can sleep in the barn. Giorgio here can put you on your way in the morning.’ He patted the boy on the head, who drew a sleeve across his nose, but said nothing.

  The man eyed Detweiler speculatively. ‘Tell me the truth now. Aren't you with the boys in the mountains?’

  Detweiler was uncertain what to say, but decided to take a chance. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I knew it.’ The old man smiled suddenly, revealing blackened teeth. ‘You've come to the right place, son, believe me. We're all patriots here,’ and he opened the lower half of the door and drew Detweiler in.

  The atmosphere inside the Junkers was of tremendous excitement as they roared through the night to the Sicilian coast line. Collinson said over the intercom, ‘Cape Granitola coming up fast. We did it, sir. We did it! A perfect drop.’

  ‘Except for that stupid
sod cocking things up at the end,’ Grant replied. ‘God knows where he's ended up. We were miles off target by the time he jumped. What in the hell was he playing at?’

  And then Collinson, staring into the Lichtenstein set, said, ‘We've got company. Big trouble.’

  A Junkers emerged from the cloud to starboard. A second later another took up station to port.

  Collinson said, ‘Better check your tail. There's another bastard there. Now what?’

  ‘I suspect the clever thing to do would be to switch to their air-to-air frequency,’ Grant said and did just that.

  There was a little static and a voice said in fair English, ‘Big black bird, we've been lonely without you. Last seen over Algeria a month ago. You've taken your time coming home. Now let's all go down nice and friendly, land at Otranto base and sort things out.’

  ‘Go and fuck yourself!’ Grant said and dropped his flaps as on that memorable occasion in the Dakota on his way back back from Malta.

  The pilot of the Junkers on his tail shoved his column forward desperately and went into a steep dive, passing underneath, and Grant went after him, switching to his G2 system to boost power, holding his fire like all great pilots until he was close. His thumb pressed on the button, cannon shell and tracer ripped into the other plane, tearing great chunks out of the fuselage. There was a sudden tongue of flame in the night that mushroomed into fireball as the Junkers disintegrated.

  In the same moment, Grant's own aircraft staggered under the impact of cannon shell as one of the other planes came in on his tail. He went into a corkscrew instantly, the reflex of several years of combat flying coming to his aid, and a moment later was engulfed in cloud.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he called.

  ‘We're in a mess back here,’ Collinson told him. ‘Hole in the fuselage you could drive a Morris Ten through.’

  They lurched again under the impact of more cannon shell and Grant said, ‘I'm going to go right down to sea level. Hang on, Joe, and we'll see if these bastards know how to fly.’

  He emerged from broken cloud at a thousand feet and kept on going, levelling out at the last possible moment. It was probably the most hazardous piece of flying he had ever attempted, for the only light was the moon occasionally through a gap in the cloud and the wind was such that the sea was already lifting into fortyfoot swells.

  The two Junkers hung on grimly, even at that suicidal level, firing whenever they could get on his tail. Again and again, Grant's aircraft shuddered under the impact of cannon shell.

  Half-an-hour at four hundred miles an hour. Engines overheating and the nitrous oxide tanks which fuelled his booster system almost empty. They couldn't take much more of this, he knew that and then, as the aircraft bucked again, this time under a burst of machine gun fire, his windscreen shattered and he received a violent blow in the left arm, another in the right leg.

  His fingers came up covered in blood and the port engine started to smoke. He feathered it at once and switched to the extinguishers. The Junkers started to slow, the needle falling rapidly.

  And then that voice spoke again over the radio, ‘Good luck, whoever you are. You've earned it.’

  Collinson cried, ‘They're going, Skip. They've turned back. Why?’

  ‘We're a hundred and fifty miles from the coast, the limit of their radius for a sea chase. See if you can find a field dressing in the box. I think I've got a bullet in the leg.’

  Collinson found the first aid box and scrambled across. ‘You all right, sir?’

  Grant said. ‘A bullet in the arm, another in the leg, the port engine burned out? Who could ask for anything more.’ He grinned through the pain. ‘Now cross your fingers, say a prayer, and let's see if I can still fly this thing.’

  10

  Vito opened the oven door of the boiler in the basement at the Contessa di Bellona's villa. He had lit the fire earlier and it glowed red hot. He turned to Luciano and Carter.

  ‘Okay, everything inside.’

  They tossed in the jump suits, the bundled parachutes, the equipment bags and Barbera closed the door. ‘Harry, it's good to see you.’

  ‘And you, Vito. When do we see Luca?’

  ‘I don't know, Harry, don't even know where he is. Padre Giovanni is my only contact with him.’

  ‘Who's he?’ Luciano demanded.

  ‘Prior of the Franciscans at Crown of Thorns.’

  ‘The Mafia connection?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Barbera said. ‘We got God on our side, too.’

  ‘Actually, that's more accurate than you know, Vito,’ Carter told him. ‘Do you know where we found Luca's granddaughter?’

  ‘Not until you tell me.’

  ‘A convent in Liverpool in England. Little Sisters of Pity.’

  Barbera's mouth gaped in surprise. ‘You're kidding?’

  Luciano said. ‘The old man should be pleased. Isn't it everyone's ambition to have a priest in the family? Maria's just the female equivalent.’

  They went upstairs and Barbera led the way through the back passageway to the enormous kitchen at the rear of the house. There was a fire on the wide hearth which Savage was replenishing with logs.

  Maria stood at the table slicing bread and salami. She wore a headscarf, a woollen jacket and a black cotton dress and looked perfectly at home in her surroundings. Rosa had taken off her raincoat and cap and crouched at the fire, stirring soup in a pot.

  Savage got to his feet as the other three men entered. Like them, he wore cloth cap, patched, shabby clothes and leather leggings, the typical attire of the mountain shepherd or hunter.

  Luciano shook his head. ‘It's no good, kid. Even in that outfit you still look like a whisky advert.’

  Savage found it difficult to raise a smile, for the knowledge of what Detweiler had done weighed heavily on him.

  He said to Carter, ‘Look Colonel, about Detweiler.’

  ‘Nothing to be said,’ Carter told them. ‘Not until we hear the full facts.’

  ‘When I get back to my place in Bellona, I'll radio Maison Blanche,’ Barbera said. ‘They'll know if he returned with the plane.’ He put an arm around Luciano's shoulder. ‘And now, Don Salvatore. A drink to celebrate your safe delivery.’

  Double doors stood open to the terrace overlooking the rear garden. Savage moved out and Carter went after him.

  ‘It wasn't your fault.’

  Savage shook his head. ‘Not good enough, sir. Poor judgement on my part. I thought I knew him.’

  Carter gave him a cigarette and Savage turned and looked across the kitchen at Rosa crouched by the fire.

  ‘The girl how old is she?’

  ‘Rosa? Sixteen or seventeen. She's Barbera's niece.’

  ‘Rather young to be involved in this sort of game.’

  ‘On the contrary, she manages very well, and that's hardly surprising. She was left to fend for herself at the age of thirteen. When Vito found her, she'd been on the streets in Palermo for three years.’

  Savage, a product of the most conventional of upbringings, was shocked. ‘You mean she was a prostitute?’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  Savage went and sat by the fire, watching her. She was aware of his presence, but scratched her backside, totally unconcerned. When she reached up for a ladle he saw her dress was split under the arm so that a tuft of dark hair poked through.

  ‘You hungry?’ she said without looking at him.

  ‘I could eat a horse.’

  ‘Heh, I like the way you speak.’ She turned. ‘Rome Italian, like a real gentleman.’

  ‘I lived in Rome for a few years before the war.’

  ‘But you're American? Truly American?’ She spooned soup into a bowl and handed it to him.

  ‘I think you could say that.’

  ‘From New York?’

  ‘Boston.’

  She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. ‘That's a pity. New York's the place. Statue of Liberty, the Empire State building. Uncle Vito's told me all about it. I'
m going to live there one day.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Maybe after the war.’

  The soup was excellent, but very hot and he burned his mouth a little.

  ‘Good?’ she said.

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Have some more.’

  She emptied the ladle again into his plate, then went to the table to serve the others. She walked with a kind of total movement of the body that he found disturbing. The black cotton dress was a size too small and moulded her buttocks as she leaned across the table. He was aware of Luciano watching him sardonically and hurriedly returned to his soup. The other three men sat down and Maria brought coffee from the stove.

  Barbera said, ‘Let's get down to business. You'll be safe here for a day or two until I get word from Padre Giovanni at Crown of Thorns. As I said before, any news from Don Antonio will come through him.’

  ‘Time is of the essence, Vito,’ Carter said. ‘How long will we have to wait?’

  ‘I don't know, Harry, it all depends on Luca. I'll keep in close touch, I promise, and I'll leave Rosa to look after you.’

  ‘A couple of days,’ Carter said. ‘That's all we've got.’

  Maria bowed her head and murmured a grace before eating. When she looked up, Barbera said awkwardly, ‘Sister, Harry has been telling me about your situation. I'm sorry, I didn't know.’

  ‘It doesn't signify, Mr Barbera.’

  Rosa said, ‘Is what he said true? Are you a nun?’

  ‘Yes, Rosa,’ Maria told her. ‘A nurse in a hospital.’

  ‘Oh, that kind of nun. Like the General Infirmary in Palermo. I was in there once. The nurses were all nuns.’

  ‘You were in hospital?’

  ‘Sure, when I lost my baby,’ she said and continued round the table, serving soup.

  At Maison Blanche, the fog had lifted and it had stopped raining. Air Marshal Sloane was sitting at the desk in the Crew Room, working his way through some of the papers he had brought in his briefcase. Paperwork of the most stupefying kind, the sort one put to the bottom of the pile, hoping it would go away.