Luciano's Luck Read online

  The machine guns above the gate started to fire when they had still a hundred yards to go. The armoured plating of the troop carrier took most of the brunt and their own machine gun was returning the fire now, raking the battlements above the gate.

  One of the Ukrainians was hit and came over the parapet, dragging a machine gun with him, falling on to the bridge as Brandt roared on, bouncing over the body, the machine gun hitting the gates at close to sixty miles an hour, tearing them from their hinges.

  The troop carrier kept on going, smashing into one of the kubelwagens, drifting broadside past another. One of the paratroopers tossed a stick grenade, there was a tremendous explosion as the kubelwagen's petrol tank exploded.

  The Ukrainians up on the wall were firing down into the yard, working their Schmeissers furiously and two of them tried to turn the heavy machine gun round. Rudi Brandt ran forward, hurling another stick grenade. It curled lazily through the air exploding above the gate. Two of the Ukrainians fell into the yard and the machine gun followed them.

  The second kubelwagen exploded, showering burning fuel over a wide area. A dense pall of black smoke drifted across the courtyard.

  Luciano, crouched at the side of the troop carrier, snatched up a Schmeisser from a fallen paratrooper. Bullets bounced from the armour plating and he turned and fired instinctively at the battlements on the other side of the courtyard, at the figure crouched up there beside the wall.

  Meyer. He emptied the Schmeisser in another long burst, pulled out his Smith and Wesson and ran for the steps leading to the east rampart. He paused at the bottom, peering up through the smoke, fired three times very fast at what might have been a shadow and went up the steps on the run.

  Below in the courtyard, Barbera and his friends had arrived in strength and there was a confused mêlée of hand to hand fighting in the smoke and rain.

  Up there on the ramparts, it was quiet. Smoke drifted eerily and the noise of the battle in the courtyard seemed far away, as if it were happening in another time, another place.

  Luciano removed his shoes and went forward cautiously on silent feet, the Smith and Wesson ready. He was at the highest point in the monastery, he knew that, smoke billowing around him. He was aware of the pigeons in their loft, fluttering in alarm, and paused. Then, quite suddenly, a gust of wind lifted across the battlements, dissolving the pall of smoke.

  Meyer was standing only a few feet away, covering him with the Schmeisser. ‘Drop it!’ he said. ‘Now!’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ Luciano put the Smith and Wesson down carefully on the battlements.

  Meyer was surprisingly calm. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Salvatore Lucania but most people call me Luciano.’

  Meyer was shocked, it showed in his eyes and his finger slackened on the trigger. The ivory Madonna was ready in Luciano's left hand. As he swung, the blade jumped, catching Meyer under the chin, shearing through the roof of the mouth into the brain.

  It took all Luciano's strength to pull the knife free. Meyer staggered back, still alive, a look of astonishment on his face, then fell backwards over the low parapet.

  The pigeons in the loft threshed around in panic. Luciano lifted the latch and opened the screen door and they flocked out, launching into space, climbing above the smoke into the clear rain.

  He watched them go, then realized that he was still holding the ivory Madonna. For a moment, he was tempted to throw it out into space, but that would not have been Salvatore Lucania's way, nor Lucky Luciano's.

  He kissed the blade, still wet with Meyer's blood, the ritual completion of the oath he had taken in the square, then wiped it dean, closed it and slipped the Madonna into his pocket.

  Life for life, blood for blood and no satisfaction in it at all, but then Maria could have told him that, and he turned and went down the steps to the courtyard.

  Maria Vaughan lay in a coffin before the altar of the little church at Bellona, her features relaxed and at peace in death, her wounds covered by a shroud.

  Candles flared around her, placed there by the villagers, but now, the place was empty, except for Katerina sitting in the front pew and Don Antonio Luca beside the coffin.

  Luciano and Mario Sciara standing in the shadows at the back of the church watched as Luca leaned down to kiss the pale face. Katerina stood up and put an arm around him. They started up the aisle. Sciara opened the door and he and Luciano waited. When he readied them, Luca paused.

  ‘You know what to do, Mario,’ he said to Sciara.

  ‘Yes, Capo.’

  ‘Good.’

  He turned and looked at Luciano, eyes dark.

  Luciano waited, but there was, after all, nothing to say. Katerina tightened her arm around him and they went out and Sciara followed them.

  It was very quiet in the church and his footsteps echoed between the walls as Luciano walked down the aisle to the coffin. He stood there looking down at her, suddenly tired. He touched her hand gently. It was cold, hard, no life there at all.

  Maybe people come to God when the Devil has no further use for them.

  His words to her echoed in his mind and her reply: No, Mr Luciano. I could never accept that. Never.

  He turned and walked away quickly.

  Harry Carter lay in Vito Barbera's bed at the mortuary, propped up against pillows, still very weak as he sipped the brandy Barbera held for him.

  ‘So, in the end, we got exactly what we wanted.’

  Luciano, standing at the window looking down into the square, nodded. ‘All over the Cammarata, in every village, every town in Western Sicily, all the way to Palermo, the word is already passing. That Don Antonio Luca is for the Americans.’

  ‘Because a German killed his granddaughter?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Luciano said. ‘Blood for blood, an old Sicilian custom. I'd have thought you'd have realized that by now.’

  Carter nodded. ‘And the paratroopers?’

  ‘We let them clear off in the troop carrier, what's left of them, to take their chances. They took Koenig with them.’

  Carter frowned, ‘I don't understand.’

  ‘It turned out he was still alive. Badly wounded, but in there with a chance if they can get him to a decent surgeon in time. I should imagine that sergeant major of his will ride over the Devil himself to get him to Palermo.’

  Barbera said to Carter, ‘You need to eat now. I'll get you some soup.’

  He went out. There was a small silence. Carter said to Luciano, ‘You could take to the mountains. We could say you were killed in the fighting.’

  Luciano grinned. ‘Heh, don't tell me I've succeeded in corrupting you completely?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I'll go back.’

  ‘Why, because the President said that was the way it had to be? He made no promises, remember. You could be back inside for years.’

  ‘Well, you take a chance every day of your life.’

  Luciano walked to the window, opened it and leaned out into the rain, breathing in its freshness.

  Across the valley from Crown of Thorns high up on its crag, the bells started to peal.

  19

  And so, the Mafia card was played and played to the full. In a single night, two-thirds of the Italian soldiers defending the vital positions overlooking the main road through the Cammarata to Palermo, deserted. Even their commander was detained by Mafia trickery and handed over to Allied forces.

  German units in the area, left in a hopelessly vulnerable position, had no other choice but to pull out. American forces raced north, reached Palermo in only seven days from the initial landing in what General George Patton was to describe as the fastest blitzkreig in history.

  Mussolini was toppled from power by a warweary nation on July 24, and in spite of spirited resistance by German forces, the whole of Sicily was in Allied hands by August 17.

  Charles Lucky Luciano returned to Great Meadow Penitentiary and appeared before a State Parole Board in 1946. The circumstances of the proceedings are still shrouded in c
ontroversy, but in February of that year, Governor Dewey commuted his sentence and Luciano was sent to Ellis Island and deported.

  Nearly sixteen years later, on January 25, 1962, he died of a heart attack at Capodichino airport near Naples. The body was held at the chapel of the English Cemetery until arrangements could be made to have it transported to America.

  For a while, there was considerable interest and many visitors. By the third day it had slackened off a little and the young reporter and photographer from Associated Press were beginning to think about packing it in when a small tour bus appeared. Fourteen or fifteen people got out, and went to the entrance of the chapel, mainly American women chattering amongst themselves.

  ‘More tourists,’ the young reporter said sourly. ‘Five hundred lira a time to gaze at a corpse. I reckon that's about it. Put your gear in the car and let's get out of here.’

  He went to the porch where the door stood open and looked inside. The women were gathered at the rail peering over at the coffin and the reporter noticed a grey-haired man in his sixties wearing a black overcoat, standing at the back of them.

  They turned and came down the aisle. The grey-haired man paused, raising his collar against the cold, suddenly breaking into a paroxysm of coughing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the reporter asked, concerned.

  ‘Smoker's cough, that's all. Been trying to stop for years.’

  ‘You didn't know him?’

  ‘Who, Luciano?’ Professor Harry Carter smiled. ‘Did anybody?’ and he turned and went down the path to where the rest of the tourists were boarding the coach.

  A Biography of Jack Higgins

  Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including The Eagle Has Landed and The Wolf at the Door. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.

  Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.

  Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster The Eagle Has Landed, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures—such as John Dillinger—and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  Patterson lives in Jersey, in the Channel Islands.

  Patterson as an infant with his mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. He moved to Northern Ireland with his family as a child, staying there until he was twelve years old.

  Patterson with his parents. He left school at age fifteen, finding his place instead in the British military.

  A candid photo of Patterson during his military years. While enlisted in the army, he was known for his higher-than-average military IQ. Many of Patterson’s books would later incorporate elements of the military experience.

  Patterson’s first payment as an author, a check for £67. Though he wanted to frame the check rather than cash it, he was persuaded otherwise by his wife. The bank returned the check after payment, writing that, “It will make a prettier picture, bearing the rubber stampings.”

  Patterson in La Capannina, his favorite restaurant in Jersey, where he often went to write. His passion for writing started at a young age, and he spent much time in libraries as a child.

  Patterson visiting a rehearsal for Walking Wounded, a play he wrote that was performed by local actors in Jersey.

  Patterson with his children.

  Patterson in a graveyard in Jersey. Patterson has often looked to graveyards for inspiration and ideas for his books.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1981 by Jack Higgins

  ISBN: 978-1-4532-0056-8

  This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media

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  Cover design by Liz Connor