Luciano's Luck Read online

The door opened and the duty officer looked in. ‘He made it, sir. Coming in now.’

  Sloane went out of the Crew Room on the run, crossed to the control tower and mounted the stairs. He snapped his finger and one of the sergeants passed him a pair of Zeiss night glasses. In the pale moonlight, he could see the Junkers about two miles away.

  Harvey Grant's voice sounded over the radio, totally washed out. ‘No time for procedure. I'm bringing one very tired baby straight home to bed.

  Sloane lowered the glasses. ‘Not good. Full emergency.’

  The Junkers came in over the sea at five hundred feet. The wind whistled through the shattered screen. Collinson's face was blue with cold as he crouched behind Grant, hands on his shoulders as if to support him.

  Grant sat there, hands frozen to the control column, a slight fixed smile on his face. According to the gauge, their fuel had run out fifteen minutes earlier.

  As the airfield came into view, the runway clearly marked by twin lines of glittering flares, the starboard engine spluttered and started to die, the prop feathering.

  ‘That's it,’ Grant said. ‘Hang on and pray, Joe.’ He brushed across the line of palms at the north end of the runway, aware of the trail of vehicles moving from the control building on his right. The Junkers almost stalled. He gave a final burst of power to straighten her and miraculously, the engine roared into life briefly.

  The worst landing of his career, bouncing back up again twice, before they slewed to a halt, sand spraying in a great cloud as the tail spun round and they turned full circle. But they were down.

  That engine had very definitely stopped now. Grant was aware of the screech of brakes as the emergency people arrived and of Collinson shaking his shoulder anxiously. There were voices, lots of them, a confused shouting, and then he opened his eyes again and found Sloane leaning over him.

  Grant smiled. ‘Don't scold me, sir, not this time. Just for once, I'm rather proud of myself.’

  Luciano moved out on the terrace, followed by Barbera. He could hear water gurgling in the conduits, splashing from numerous fountains. In the old days it was said that whoever held the meagre water supplies of the island held Sicily, and Mafia had done just that.

  In the light from the rear windows, he was aware of the lush, semitropical vegetation pressing in on the house. Although he couldn't see it, he could smell an orange grove, almond trees. Palms swayed in a slight breeze and rain dripped from the eaves of the verandah.

  He took a deep breath. ‘I'd forgotten how it could be.’

  ‘The real Sicily?’ Barbera said.

  ‘That depends on your point of view.’

  Below the verandah and five yards on the other side of the path, leaves trembled and a gun barrel poked through. Luciano sent Barbera sprawling with a stiff left arm and reached under his jacket for the revolver he carried there, pushed into his belt against the small of his back. He drew and fired twice in the same fluid motion. A machine pistol jumped into the air, there was a choking cough and a man fell out of the bushes and rolled on his back.

  Luciano crouched. ‘There will be another,’ Barbera whispered.

  Savage came out through the open door in a hurry holding an M1. A shotgun blasted from the bushes over to the right, too far away to do any damage.

  Luciano took a running jump into the greenery, landed badly, rolled over and came up about six feet away from the other gunman. He was clutching a sawnoff shotgun in both hands.

  Luciano fired, catching him in the left arm. The man screamed, dropping the lupara, and Savage emptied his M1 into the man, driving him back into the bushes.

  *

  Luciano said, The idea was to keep him alive so he could tell us what this is all about.’

  Savage stared at him, a dazed look in his eyes, and Barbera and Carter hurried past him to Luciano who was looking down at the body of a boy of about seventeen.

  Barbera picked up the shotgun. The lupara, traditional weapon used in a Mafia ritual killing. He turned to Luciano. ‘It was you they were after.’

  ‘Me?’ Luciano was astounded. ‘Mafia? It doesn't make sense.’

  ‘Not Mafia. See, over here.’ He crossed to the other gunman who lay on his face. Barbera turned him over with his foot.

  Carter said, ‘I know him. That's Ettore Russo.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Luciano demanded.

  ‘A Communist,’ Barbera said, ‘and no friend to Mafia. A member of the district committee which coordinates the work of the various factions which go to make up the resistance movement. I met them earlier tonight to discuss your arrival and what we hoped to achieve. He was less than pleased.’

  ‘So decided to knock me off?’

  ‘Not really,’ Barbera said. ‘I think he was used by someone much cleverer than himself. Look at it this way. If he and his boy kill you, it looks as if it's done by the Mafia. You're out of the way and everyone's confused.’

  ‘And with this result?’ Carter said.

  ‘Lucky Luciano and his friends have butchered one of the most important Communists in the district, which won't go down well with his friends, so we'd better bury these two as soon as possible.’

  Maria moved past them, dropped to her knees beside Russo and started to pray. Barbera looked down at her, embarrassed. Luciano inclined his head and they all moved back up on the verandah.

  ‘You think you know who's behind this?’

  ‘Sure I do. Don't worry. He'll be taken care of,’ Barbera said.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Luciano asked.

  Barbera turned to Carter. ‘I think you and I had better go down to Bellona and see what the situation is.’

  ‘While the rest of us stay here?’

  ‘No.’ Barbera shook his head. ‘I can't be sure someone else won't try the same thing, not until I've fixed that bastard, Mori. I think maybe Rosa better take you up to the Franciscans. Padre Giovanni will look after you. No one dare touch you up there.’ He turned to Carter. ‘Okay, Harry?’

  Carter looked at the others, then nodded. ‘It doesn't seem as if we've got much choice.’

  ‘Good,’ Barbera said. ‘Then let's dispose of those bodies and get moving.’

  Luciano sat at the table reloading the revolver. It was the shortbarrelled Smith and Wesson .32 he had used at the firing range at the Abbey.

  Carter moved up behind him. ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Did a deal with that armourer.’ Luciano took the silencer from his pocket. ‘He was very accommodating.’ He slipped the Smith and Wesson back in its place in his waistband at the small of his back.

  Savage slid his arms through the straps of his rucksack and picked up his M1. Rosa came in from the bedroom, once more dressed in her old raincoat and cloth cap. Maria wore a waterproof poncho and was tying a scarf around her head.

  Barbera said, ‘Good, we go now. You'll be at the monastery in three hours. No problems. We'll see you up there some time tomorrow.’

  He turned out the light and they all moved out on the verandah. He and Carter stood there and waited until the others had disappeared into the darkness, Rosa leading the way. When they were out of sight, Barbem turned to Carter.

  ‘Okay, Harry, now for Mori,’ he said and went down the steps.

  11

  Pietro Mori had sent his wife to bed early and waited for Russo's return, sitting in the old easy chair by the fire with a bottle of brandy. Not that he was particularly worried. Russo, after all, was taking the risks and it couldn't go wrong, whatever happened. That was the essential cleverness of the whole scheme.

  He dozed off and was awakened by a tapping at the window. He got up and opened the casement an inch or two.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It's me, Vito,’ Barbera said. ‘I must speak with you.’

  ‘Just a minute. I'll open the door,’ Mori said.

  He pulled back the bolt and Barbera slipped inside.

  ‘What is it?’ Mori demanded.

  ‘I've just come from Russo, you ba
stard,’ Barbera told him. ‘He says he's waiting for you in hell.’

  His left hand went around Mori's neck, pulling him close and he kissed him full on the lips, the Mafia kiss of death. At the same time he drove the needle point of the stiletto he held in his other hand up under the ribs, probing for the heart.

  Pietro Mori groaned once and died and Barbera eased him back into the chair and left him there by the fire, head back, eyes staring into eternity.

  At the same moment, the others were moving down a sloping meadow in the side of the valley towards trees below, Rosa leading the way. Luciano, like Savage, carried a rucksack on his back and a M1 slung over one shoulder.

  It was raining again. As they reached the trees he said to Maria, ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Rosa motioned them to halt and they crouched down: Luciano could just make out a low wall and a road on the other side, more trees beyond.

  ‘We cross over here,’ the girl said, ‘then climb the mountain on the far side. The monastery is on the ridge at the other end of the valley from here, beyond Bellona.’

  ‘Okay,’ Luciano said. ‘Let's get moving.’

  Rosa scrambled over the wall, followed by Savage who turned to assist Maria. They started across the road when suddenly a spotlight was turned on and vehicle headlamps.

  A voice called harshly in bad Italian, ‘Stay where you are.’

  Rosa was already running, scrambling over the wall, dropping out of sight followed by Savage. Luciano pulled his Smith and Wesson, fired twice in the direction of the lights, shattering one of them, then followed Maria who was running for the wall.

  As he went over after her, a burst of machine gun fire chipped the stonework. He grabbed her hand and they ran together, through the darkness, towards the trees.

  Even when they were into their shelter, a machine gun chattered again, slicing branches above their heads.

  They could hear voices calling as their pursuers came over the wall and started to follow, firing their weapons blindly.

  Luciano ducked as a bullet plucked at his cap and pulled Maria down. He could hear Rosa and Savage still moving ahead somewhere, then the voices of the soldiers seemed very close and he dragged Maria to her feet.

  This way!’ he said and ran to one side, moving fast through a plantation of young pine trees, an arm raised to protect his face.

  After a while, the sounds of the pursuers faded and he paused.

  Maria said, ‘What about Rosa and Captain Savage?’

  They'll have to make out the best way they can.’

  ‘And what about us?’

  ‘We climb. She said the monastery was on the ridge at the far end of the valley, didn't she?’

  He took her hand. As they waded across a small stream and up the other side, it started to rain heavily.

  Detweiler had dined well on boiled mutton and goats’ cheese, washed down with a bottle of red wine and the wine particularly helped him to see things in a much more hopeful light. Now, he was desperately tired. The old man gave him a couple of blankets and took him out to the barn. Detweiler lay down, rifle close to hand, and was almost instantly asleep.

  Five minutes later, as he lay snoring gently, the barn door creaked open and the old man appeared with the boy. He held up a lantern, peering down at Detweiler, then withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  He gave the boy a push. ‘Go now. You know what to do.’

  The boy turned and walked across the farmyard and out of the gate. When he reached the track, he started to run. The old man watched him go for a while, then turned and went back to the house.

  In the second cubby hole on the other side of the coffin room above the mortuary, Vito Barbera sat at the radio. Carter walked up and down impatiently, smoking a cigarette.

  Finally Barbera took off the headphones and turned. ‘He got back in one piece.’

  ‘And Detweiler?’

  ‘You aren't going to like this. Apparently he did jump, but far too late. Probably came down in the next valley.’

  Carter exploded. ‘That's all we need. Detweiler wandering around the countryside totally at sea. The man must have blown his top. I mean, what if he's picked up?’

  ‘It'll be all right, Harry, you'll see,’ Barbera said. ‘I'll put the word out. We'll pull him in soon enough.’ He grinned and put a hand on Carter's shoulder. ‘I've told you before, all you have to do is live right.’

  The previous year, operating as an OSS courier in occupied France, Jack Savage had called at a cafe in Tours, a staging post on the route to Spain. He had promptly been arrested and hauled off to SD headquarters where he had been interrogated with considerable brutality for three days before being put on a train for Paris under guard, his final destination, Gestapo Headquarters on the Rue des Saussaies. He had killed a guard stupid enough to turn his back on him and managed to jump from the train just outside Orleans, the start of five active days that ended with him crossing the Pyrenees into Spain on foot.

  It was a strange sensation to be hunted again, nothing quite like it, and he was conscious of the familiar nervous excitement, sharpening all the senses, as he paused on the rim of a small plateau and looked back.

  There was nothing to be seen, but he could hear the soldiers calling to each other, faint and far away now. Rosa said, ‘They can't catch us, not in these hills.’

  ‘What about Maria?’ he asked. ‘And Luciano?’

  There's nothing we can do,’ she said flatly. ‘They must take their chances. Now we must go.’

  The rain had slackened again, but a strong wind began to lift through the pine trees and the clouds above them were stormtossed, the moon showing through occasionally.

  Instead of working her way across the steep hillside she went straight up. The slope lifted until it was almost perpendicular, with rough tussocks of grass sticking out of the bare rock. They came to the foot of an apron of loose stones and shale and she started to climb and Savage went after her.

  Once he heaved strongly on a boulder and it tore itself free and bounced and crashed its way down the mountainside. The sound of it echoed away into the night.

  She looked down at him. ‘All right?’

  ‘Sure. Just keep going.’

  A moment later, the ground sloped away and he found himself standing on the edge of a broad plateau. He turned to peer down into the darkness of the valley, but could see nothing, was aware only of space and the increasingly strong wind cold on his face.

  Rosa moved beside him. He said, ‘Now what?’

  She pointed across the plateau and in the dim light he saw that a great rock wall faced them. He said softly. ‘Are you sure it can be done?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You will see.’

  She led the way across the plateau, picking her way between boulders. When they reached the base of the rock, Savage saw that it wasn't perpendicular at all, but lifted in great slabs, most of which were split and fissured.

  She said. ‘Boys herd goats up here.’

  Savage ran a hand over his mouth, his throat dry, fear churning his guts. His one secret was a fear of heights. He was a brave man who had placed himself in maximum danger on several occasions, had killed men in hand-to-hand combat, and yet he had never jumped from a plane with his eyes open, had gone through a private hell abseiling down the rock faces on the commando course at Achnacarry in Scotland.

  Rosa started to climb. He swallowed hard and forced himself to follow her. The wind cut through his old tweed jacket. Lightning flickered on the mountain tops and it started to rain again.

  At least when he looked down he could see nothing. He paused, breathed deeply to steady himself, eyes closed. When he opened them, the girl was crouched beside him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He nodded. ‘Fine.’

  But she knew, he could sense it, reaching out to touch his face briefly with the fingers of one hand. She turned, starting to climb again and Savage took another deep, shuddering breath and went after her.
/>   Suslov, the Ukrainian Einsatzgruppen lieutenant, crossed the farmyard cautiously followed by a corporal and two men carrying machine pistols. The old man and Giorgio, the boy who had brought the message, waited at the barn door.

  The old man opened the door. From inside came the sound of Detweiler's heavy breathing. Suslov nodded to the corporal who moved in with the two SS.

  There was a sudden muffled cry, the sounds of blows and they reappeared dragging Detweiler between them. They dropped him in the mud and he lay there groaning.

  Suslov knelt down and searched him, finding the Colt automatic and the false identity papers Carter had given Detweiler at Maison Blanche. He examined them briefly then took a silver whistle from his pocket and blew a single long blast. There was the sound of engines starting up and a few moments later, five kubelwagens drove into the farmyard. The first two had drivers only, but the other three had heavy machine guns mounted and carried three-man crews.

  The corporal came out of the barn with Detweiler's rucksack and the M1 rifle. Suslov examined it with interest, then stirred Detweiler with his toe.

  ‘American rifle, brand-new.’ He held up the Colt. ‘American handgun. You must have some interesting friends. Major Meyer's going to enjoy meeting you.’ He nodded to the corporal. ‘Get him in the car.’

  ‘Zu befehl, Untersturmbannführer,’ the corporal replied, for it was a strict regulation of Meyer's that all members of his Einsatzgruppe spoke German, however badly.

  They handcuffed Detweiler's wrists behind his back and bundled him into the rear of one of the front kubelwagens. The corporal and two guards got in with him. Suslov moved over to the three rear vehicles and addressed the crews.

  ‘From the looks of things we've got ourselves a nice one here. A partisan armed with brand-new American weapons. That means they've had a supply drop in this district recently. Patrol the villages on the heights. Anyone in the slightest bit suspicious, haul them in.’

  He stood back and they drove away in echelon. As he returned to the front car, the old man pulled off his cap.

  ‘We did well, Lieutenant, Giorgio and me, eh?’

  Suslov lit a cigarette and looked him over contemptuously. ‘You really are a disgusting old bastard, aren't you, but then I suppose every dog must have its bone.’