Luciano's Luck Read online

  ‘So you're Luciano?’

  ‘That's what they tell me.’

  ‘I hear from Colonel Carter you've been giving him trouble.’

  ‘Now that, Mr President, depends entirely on your point of view,’ Luciano said. ‘I'm sitting in my cell last year when your people come and ask to see me about doing something about Nazi saboteurs on the docks after they burned the Normandie, so I arrange things with the unions. Then they come again the other month asking for help in Sicily. Again, I do what I can. And for what? I mean, what in the hell is there in it for me except another thirty years in the Pen? And then this guy turns up with some crazy idea I'm going to Sicily with him and put my head on the block, and you think I'm giving him trouble?’

  The President leaned back and said softly, ‘I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Luciano. I'm going to give you a chance to be an American again.’

  ‘By going to Sicily with the Professor here?’ Luciano said. ‘Why should I? What's in it for me?’

  The President said, ‘A bullet in the head if the Nazis catch you.’

  ‘And if they don't? I mean, if his whole crazy idea works, what happens then?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose you could take to those Sicilian mountains and be a fugitive for the rest of your life. On the other hand, you could go back to that cell of yours and take your chances. I'm sure the parole board would be suitably impressed.’

  ‘You wouldn't care to guarantee that?’

  Roosevelt said, ‘You can go now, I've got work to do.’

  Luciano stood there, staring at him, glanced at Carter, then spread his hands wide in a very Italian gesture, turned and walked out.

  The President said, ‘Anything more I can do, Colonel?’

  Carter took a folded piece of paper from his wallet and passed it across. ‘If you could ask Intelligence to trace that person for me, Mr President, preferably before I leave, it would be helpful.’

  ‘I'll see to it,’ the President said.

  ‘Mr President.’

  Carter turned and followed Luciano, who was already on his way out. The Marine lieutenant said, ‘I'll only be a moment, Colonel,’ and went into the Oval Office.

  Luciano was smiling again. Carter said, ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’ Luciano said. ‘He didn't exactly leave me any choice, did he?’ He grinned. ‘I'll say one thing for that old man. He's got balls.’

  ‘It's been said before.’

  ‘But he didn't promise me a thing.’

  ‘Not on paper. On the other hand, if you can't trust Franklyn Delano Roosevelt, who can you trust?’

  ‘All right. You've made your point. So what happens now?’

  ‘We're flying out just after midnight. Scotland first stop. A place called Prestwick. Direct flight to Algeria from there.’

  ‘That gives us five hours to kill.’

  ‘No problem,’ Carter said. ‘I've booked a hotel room.’

  The Marine lieutenant returned and led the way back along the corridor to the West Basement entrance.

  Luciano said, ‘Yes, I can believe that, Professor. With your kind of influence I can believe anything.’

  As the Flying Fortress gained height, climbing out over the Atlantic, the New England coastline falling away, Carter made himself as comfortable as possible in the sleeping bag the Quartermaster had given him. Beside him, Luciano was having the same problem.

  ‘One thing's for sure, they didn't intend these things to carry passengers.’

  Carter took an envelope from his pocket and passed it across. ‘Your name is now Frank Orsini. You're a field operative in the Office of Strategic Services with the rank of captain. Everything you need to back that up is in the envelope.’

  ‘Christmas in June,’ Luciano said.

  He took the Madonna from one of his pockets, jumped the blade and sliced open the envelope.

  Carter said, ‘Where on earth did that come from?’

  ‘With the clothes, from good old Great Meadow.’ Luciano smiled. ‘You can get most things in there, Professor. Let's just say it was a parting gift from a friend.’

  A sergeant radio-operator appeared and crouched down beside Carter, holding a signal. ‘Colonel Carter, this came through for you just as we were leaving. Plain language. I hope it makes sense, sir.’

  Carter glanced at it and smiled. ‘Perfect sense, sergeant.’

  The boy moved away and Luciano said, ‘You seem pleased.’

  ‘You could say that. An interesting fact about this war, Mr Luciano, is that the British are actually more thoroughly documented than the Germans. Every man, woman and child has to have a National Identity Card. Remember the piece of paper I gave the President? It was a request for our Intelligence people in London to see if they could run down Maria Vaughan. It didn't take them long.’

  He passed the signal and Luciano's eyes widened. ‘Sister Maria Vaughan. Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity, Liverpool. Holy Mother of God.’

  ‘Careful,’ Carter told him as he took the signal back. ‘You almost crossed yourself.’

  ‘Little Sisters of Pity. That's a new one on me.’

  ‘It's a nursing order.’

  ‘Liverpool. Isn't that a port?’

  ‘On the north west coast of England. Lancashire.’

  ‘You intend to go see her?’

  ‘Yes, I would say that's a distinct possibility.’

  ‘Everything's click-click with you,’ Luciano said. ‘I bet you're one hell of a chess player. But no emotion. You ever love anybody, Professor? I mean really love?’

  Carter nodded. ‘Oh, yes, very definitely.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About a thousand years ago when I was sixteen. Farmer's daughter in Norfolk where we used to go for family holidays. I can see her now, running over the sand dunes in a cotton frock.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She died during the influenza epidemic just after the war. Now me, I ran away from school and joined an infantry battalion just before my seventeenth birthday. I thought it was a romantic thing to do.’

  ‘That figures,’ Luciano said, but he was no longer smiling.

  ‘We started the big push in 1918 with a battalion of 752 men. Within three months, we were down to seventy-three. I couldn't get killed and she had to die of bloody influenza.’

  Luciano said calmly, ‘So you never married?’

  ‘Yes, my second cousin, Olive, in 1923.’

  ‘You loved her?’

  ‘She was a childhood friend and she loved me.’

  ‘You got children?’

  ‘No, she had the worst kind of miscarriage very early on.’

  ‘You going to see her when we get in?’

  Carter shook his head. ‘Not possible. She died of cancer in ’thirty-eight.’

  Luciano nodded. ‘So, the war came just in time for you.’

  Carter gazed at him blankly. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Don't you?’ Luciano tipped the slouch hat over his eyes, folded his arms and slept.

  6

  It was raining hard in Liverpool the following night when JU88 pathfinders made their first strike on the Liverpool Docks. At the General Infirmary, Sister Maria Vaughan had been due to go off duty at seven, but there was a severe shortage of experienced theatre nurses and at the last moment, she had been asked to assist Professor Tankerley with a postmortem in the mortuary. It was not a duty she cared for, but it had to be done.

  In the preparation room, she quickly pulled a fresh white gown over her habit and adjusted her cowl, checking herself in the mirror. She was twenty-three and slightly built with a grave, steady face. One of those plain faces that, for some reason, most people found themselves looking at twice. Only the eyes betrayed her, full of a kind of restless searching that showed that any visible repose had to be fought for.

  When she went into surgery, Tankerley was already there, a small intense man in a white gown that, from its condition, had already seen considerable service. There was no on
e else there except for the corpse under a sheet.

  Tankerley pulled on rubber gloves impatiently. ‘Do get a move on, Sister. I've got a ward round in an hour.’

  He was three years past the retirement age, had only stayed on because of the war; a fine surgeon and convinced atheist who had little time for nuns at the best of times and certainly not in hospital.

  An assortment of surgical instruments was laid out on a trolley beside the operating table. Sister Maria pulled the sheet away and folded it neatly. The body was that of a middleaged man who had obviously been in remarkably good condition, with powerful shoulders and strong, muscular arms. The eyes were closed, the face peaceful.

  ‘The general staff shortage being as bad as ever and no shorthand writer available, I'm going to have to do the report from memory later,’ Tankerley told her. ‘He was found on the pavement near a bus stop in Lime Street at five-thirty. Age around fifty, good physical condition, no evidence of external bruising, so obviously not the victim of an assault. What would your diagnosis be, Sister?’

  ‘Coronary?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I'd go along with that. Everything fits, including the age, so in the circumstances, we'll dispense with the whole works and go straight for the heart.’

  He held out his hand. She passed him a large scalpel and he opened the body from throat to belly with one practised stroke. A living patient was different but this was something she had always found difficult to take. She swallowed hard as Tankerley started to break the ribs with a pair of large cutters.

  ‘Raw meat, Sister.’ He was, as usual, unable to resist taunting her. ‘That's all there is to a man at the end of the day. Where's your God now?’

  She passed him a small scalpel. ‘A superior piece of engineering. Totally functional. There seems to be no task a human being is not capable of, wouldn't you agree?’

  ‘Except learning how to live for ever.’

  ‘No, but it is people at their most extraordinary I am interested in,’ she said. ‘Is that all that's left, a body on a mortuary slab? I don't think so. Christ, Professor, was once only a man dying on a cross. Two thousand years later he is a visible presence to millions.’

  He glanced up and halfsmiled in grudging admiration. ‘Oh, you have a way with the words, I'll say that for you.’

  And then, as the first stock of bombs fell across the docks, there was an explosion close at hand. The whole building shook, there was the crash of breaking glass. The lights dimmed for a moment and, somewhere, a woman screamed in fear.

  ‘They certainly pick their time,’ Tankerley said. ‘On your way, Sister. They'll be needing you in Casualty. I'll finish up here on my own.’

  As she reached the door, another stick of bombs dropped across the docks. The steel instruments rattled on the tray as the building shook again. Tankerley reached for another scalpel and continued with his task while Sister Maria wrenched open the door and hurried out.

  There was a tremendous hubbub in Casualty, people running up and down the corridor and a smell of burning. The bombing had stopped and Maria could hear fire engines in the distance.

  The hospital was working at full stretch now and she was on her own, patiently inserting twenty-five stitches into the left leg of a young seaman who had been brought in from the docks half an hour previously.

  He watched her carefully, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘You're doing a good job there, Sister. How about giving me a little kiss for being a brave boy?’

  ‘Not part of the service, I'm afraid.’

  ‘What a waste,’ he said. ‘I mean, a good-looking girl like you. It must be hell.’

  Behind her, Tankerley moved into the room. He produced a cigarette lighter and flicked it on. ‘Here, light your cigarette and shut up.’ He leaned down to examine the leg. ‘Very nice, Sister. You can go now. I'll finish here.’

  She moved out through the curtain and started awkwardly to unfasten the ties at the back of her gown. Tankerley appeared behind her. ‘Let me.’ He pulled the bows one by one and she was aware that he was angry. ‘Young swine,’ he muttered.

  She turned, shaking her head. ‘He doesn't understand, that's all. So many people want everyone else to be as they are. And he's right. It can be hell. St Chrysostom called celibacy the little crucifixion.’

  ‘And is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really, Professor. A very fair exchange in return for what is gained.’

  He scowled and gave her a push. ‘Go on, get out of here before you seduce me entirely. Go home.’

  For once, she did as she was told, too tired, too spent to argue.

  The Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity was in Huby Road, a large red-brick building behind high walls which had once been a college for the training of elementary school teachers. The teachers had long since moved out and a large mortgage had taken over. For twenty years this and the Little Sisters, with a considerable amount of faith had been the base for all their work in the city.

  The chapel was cold and smelled of damp, which was hardly surprising as no heating of any kind was possible because of fuel rationing. It was a place of shadows, candlelight and darkness alternating.

  Maria Vaughan genuflected at the altar rail and lit a candle to the Virgin. She knelt in prayer for a moment, then rose, picked up her mop and bucket, moved to the central aisle and started to clean the floor. In spite of the tiredness she did not mind, for it was a simple enough task and gave her time to think.

  High up in the gallery, Sister Katherine Markham, the Mother Superior of the convent, stood with Harry Carter and Luciano watching her.

  ‘I thought you said she'd been working all day at the hospital?’ Carter said.

  ‘That's so. She's a theatre sister there.’

  ‘Then why this?’

  ‘However hard the day has gone, each member of the Order has an allotted task to perform each evening. However menial, Colonel, it is a symbol of the love that binds us all together. We”ll go down now and I'll introduce you.’

  She started along the gallery to the stairs. Luciano grinned and said softly, ‘Ask a stupid question, Professor, and see what you get.’

  Maria looked up as they approached and paused in her work. ‘Sister?’ she said.

  Sister Katherine smiled. ‘You have visitors, Maria. This is Colonel Carter and this is Mr Orsini.’

  Maria stood there, transfixed, staring at Luciano. He smiled easily and said in Sicilian, ‘Hello, pretty one. It's been a long time.’

  Sister Katherine gently took the mop from Maria. ‘I'll finish here. You can take these gentlemen to my office.’

  Maria looked again at Luciano, turned and walked away. As Carter and Luciano started after her, Sister Katherine said, ‘We use the lodge as a guest house, Colonel. You're welcome to spend the night with us.’

  She dipped the mop in the bucket and started to work on the floor as they went out.

  The office was small and cluttered, barely room for the desk and filing cabinets. Luciano leaned against the door, smoking, while Carter and Maria faced each other across the desk.

  ‘So there you are,’ Carter said. ‘It's really very simple. All it requires is a yes or a no. Mr Orsini and I…’

  ‘The subterfuge is not necessary, Colonel,’ she said calmly. ‘I am familiar with Mr Luciano. He is a part of a past which I no longer wish to acknowledge. Which no longer forms a part of my life.’

  ‘Can you cut off a leg, an arm and be the same person?’ Luciano asked in Sicilian.

  She answered in the same language. ‘Good husbandry, Mr Luciano, to lop off the rotten branch to save the tree.’

  Carter said patiently, ‘Sister, to save thousands of lives it's necessary to persuade your grandfather to come over to our side publicly. You could just be the one to do it.’

  ‘You're wasting your time, Colonel. I have had no dealings with my grandfather for years. This entire affair is preposterous and nothing to do with me. And now you must excuse me. I have work
to do.’

  She brushed past Luciano and went out. Garter picked up the telephone and gave the long distance operator the number of SOE's headquarters in Baker Street in London

  Luciano said, ‘So, what happens now?’

  ‘She'll go,’ Carter assured him.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Oh, the thought of all those dead men should do it. She's a good woman, after all. Can't you tell?’

  The phone rang and he picked it up. ‘Give me Control Two. Carter here. The code word is Scorpion.’

  He reached for a cigarette and Luciano lit it for him as a voice echoed faintly in Carter's ear.

  He said, ‘Hello, Jack, Harry here. Yes, all systems go. This is what I'm going to need. A safe house for a few days near Manchester. Is Bransby Abbey still on the list?’

  Luciano said, ‘Heh, wait a minute.’

  Carter ignored him. ‘Two heavies as part of the back-up team. Good Italian essential plus all the usual skills, but I must have them within forty-eight hours. And signals to 138 Squadron at Maison Blanche and our friends in Bellona to make ready for a drop seven to ten days from now.’

  He listened for a while then smiled. ‘No, no problem.’

  He replaced the receiver. Luciano said, ‘Like I said; no emotion. Everything click, click, click. Only you're wrong about one thing, Professor.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Harry Carter said.

  ‘If Maria goes, it won't be because of the thought of all those lives she might save.’

  ‘So what's your theory?’

  ‘Simple. She's so eaten up with guilt that it's impossible for her to say no.’

  Sister Angela's one vice was cigarettes. Maria knew where they were kept. Behind the flour bin in the kitchen pantry. She lit one with trembling fingers and stood there in the dark, smoking furiously, like a defiant child.

  The Sicilian half came to the surface rather easily on occasion, something to be fought against but not now. The sight of Luciano's face, the old sardonic smile, had opened wounds and things walked out of dark corners to confront her again.

  She could smell the burning, see again the blood on her mother's face as she crawled towards her. And afterwards, the pain. The long weeks in hospital, the skin grafts for the burns and her grandfather, sitting there day by day beside the bed, in spite of the fact that she would not speak to him.