Luciano's Luck (10 page)

Meyer showed no emotion whatsoever, but stood there looking at him and Brandt came across and saluted. ‘Ready to leave, Colonel.’

‘Good,’ Koenig said. ‘We move out now.’

He walked across to his fieldcar and got in. He nodded to the driver and, as they drove away, the troop carriers formed up in line to follow them. The convoy disappeared over the hill and the sounds of the engine faded into the distance.

Meyer, standing beside the Mercedes, became conscious of the silence. He was suddenly aware that everyone in the square had stopped what they were doing. The old men, the women, the children working on the bodies, all stood perfectly still, looking at him.

There was infinite menace there. As someone bent down to pick up a stone, he realized that, except for the corporal driving the Mercedes, he was entirely alone.

Meyer ignored him. He walked a few paces towards the villagers, hands behind his back, stopped and stood there, waiting. There was a long moment and then the youth who had picked up the stone dropped it. Meyer took out his case, selected a cigarette and lit it, taking his time, then he turned and went back to the car.

Braun was only eighteen and there was terror in his eyes now, his skin damp with sweat. Meyer took out his handkerchief, keeping his back to the villagers.

‘Wipe your face. Did you know I used to be a police inspector in Hamburg?’

‘No,
Sturmbannführer.’

‘Well, I did. St Pauli was my beat. The red light district. The worst bars in town. Pimps, cut-throats, murderers. I dealt with them all and you know what I learned, boy? You never turn back and you never show fear.’

‘Yes,
Sturmbannführer.’

‘Remember that. Now let's get out of here.’

He settled back against the seat as they drove away and considered the problem of Koenig and with no particular rancour. There was no need, for Koenig was so vulnerable both in his actions and the things he said, that it was really only a matter of time before he did something totally unforgiveable. And when he did…

7

The old Dakota lifted off the main runway at Ringway and climbed quickly to two thousand feet. Carter slid back the door and saw Manchester in the distance, shrouded in rain.

Besides the RAF sergeant-instructor, there were only the three of them, Carter, Luciano and Maria, all wearing British paratroopers’ camouflaged smocks and helmets and X-type parachutes.

Maria seemed smaller than ever under all the equipment. As he clipped her static line to the anchor line, Carter felt that she was totally vulnerable, a child playing at some grownup game that was beyond her.

‘If passible on the real target, we'll jump from four hundred feet,’ he told her, ‘because that way you'll hit the ground in twenty seconds which has its points; but today, we'll do it from a thousand. All right.’

She nodded. ‘Fine.’

The Dakota was banking back towards the airport now. Carter said to Luciano, ‘You first, Maria second and I'll bring up the rear.’

Luciano grinned as he moved towards the door. ‘I hope you're getting a picture of this for my parole board.’

The sergeant-instructor moved into position as the red light blinked above the door. Luciano turned and called, ‘With my luck, I'll probably break that leg. Then what happens?’

The green light flared and the Sergeant yelled, ‘Go!’ and slapped him on the back.

Luciano went head first into space and Maria, terrified, heart pounding, throat dry, went after him without hesitation. Carter clipped on to the anchor line and followed.

There wasn't much time to think. Luciano was aware of himself turning over a couple of times, the sudden slap of the parachute opening, a jerk and then he was swinging beneath a khaki umbrella.

The airport was laid out like a child's plaything beneath him, the hangars, the aircraft standing outside in neat rows and there were faces, lots of them, turned up to watch. He looked up and saw Maria above and to one side, Carter perhaps sixty or seventy yards further away. Then suddenly, the airport was much larger and he seemed to be going in very fast.

He hit the tarmac hard, rolled and miraculously found himself on his feet, the parachute itself giving him no problem because of the almost total lack of wind. As he turned and undipped the harness, he saw that Maria was down forty or fifty yards away.

Carter was just hitting the ground on the far side of her. He rolled expertly, for this was his fifteenth drop, and came to his feet. As he disengaged from his harness, he saw Luciano running towards Maria who was still on the ground, crouched over her chute.

Carter hurried towards them anxiously, but before he reached them, Luciano had turned and was coming to meet him, a smile on his face.

‘Is she all right?’ Carter called.

‘Oh, sure.’ Luciano fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one.

‘What's wrong then?’

‘Nothing. Two Hail Marys and three Our Father's for a safe deliverence or something like that.’ He offered Carter a cigarette. ‘That was great. We must do it again some time.’

‘You will, Mr Luciano,’ Carter said. ‘Soon.’

*

Bransby Abbey was close to Alderley Edge, one of the most beautiful parts of Cheshire and about ten miles from Ringway Airport. Parts of it dated from the fourteenth century, but it had been heavily restored in the eighteen-fifties. It was constructed in mellow grey stone surrounded by a high wall. Bransby was one of a number of safe houses operated by SOE; a place where agents could be prepared for specific missions or receive last minute training.

On the afternoon of the following day, Luciano and Carter went for a run through the grounds. There was a trail through the woods, an assault course with commando nets, ropes stretched between trees and similar hazards. Luciano was enjoying himself in spite of the rain. He wore a commando stocking cap, and army fatigues and was soon soaked with rain and mud.

He crawled through a line of barbed wire, aware that he had lost Carter somewhere back there in the woods. As he got up, a voice called, ‘Heh, you down there.’

Luciano glanced up and saw a United States Army Officer standing on the hill, wearing a fieldcap, captain's bars on his military trenchcoat.

‘I want a word with you.’

It wasn't so much a request as an order and delivered in fine Bostonian tones of the kind you usually got in New England and nowhere else in America. Luciano didn't like that kind of voice, never had, so he didn't bother to reply.

‘I'm talking to you, soldier.’

‘Great,’ Luciano said. ‘I'm very happy for you.’

Then a hand had him by the shoulder and a voice that was straight out of New York's Eastside said, ‘When the Captain speaks, you answer, you bum, hear me?’

Luciano glanced over his shoulder and found himself in the grip of an army sergeant who was considerably larger than he was, with a raw, bony face swollen by the scar tissue of a professional prizefighter.

‘Heh, you got real medals,’ Luciano said. He dipped one shoulder in under the big man's arm and twisted and the sergeant went headfirst down into the hollow.

Luciano looked up at the other officer. ‘He made a mistake. Don't let him make another.’

The Captain was tall with very fair hair and a handsome, arrogant face. Something moved in the blue eyes, and then the sergeant was up out of the hollow, arms reaching to destroy. When he was about six feet away, Luciano's hand came out of his hip pocket holding the ivory madonna. There was a nasty click and the blade jumped into view. The sergeant stopped dead, then crouched to move close.

He frowned suddenly and stood very still, his jaw slack with amazement. ‘Heh, I know you.’

The Captain called, ‘Detweiler, stay where you are! That's an order.’

And then Carter joined in, appearing from the trees on the run. ‘What's going on here?’

‘Colonel Carter?’

‘That's right.’

The Captain saluted and produced a buff envelope from inside his trenchcoat. ‘Jack Savage, Captain, Ranger Division and this is Sergeant Detweiler. My orders were to report to you here as soon as possible.’ He glanced at Luciano. ‘I'm sorry for any apparent misunderstanding, but this soldier…’

‘Captain Orsini, OSS,’ Carter said.

As Luciano started to grin, Detweiler said angrily, ‘Orsini my ass, sir. I was raised in New York, lived most of my life on Tenth Street and I've seen this guy a hundred times or more. He's a gangster named Lucky Luciano.’

Jack Savage was twenty-four, the younger son of a career diplomat who had spent his time in places like Paris and Rome. As a result, the boy had been raised to be fluent in both languages. The Savage family was one of the wealthiest in Boston with huge interests in oil and steel, none of which interested Savage in the slightest.

The fact was that, from an early age, he had shown quite an extraordinary talent for drawing. Out of deference to his parents, he had gone to Yale to study Economics, but enough was enough, and after his first degree he had moved on to London to study painting at the Slade.

He was in Paris living in the artists’ colony in Montmartre when the Germans took the city, had stayed for another six months before moving on to Madrid. He had finally returned home to join the army just before America entered the war.

The Americans had no equivalent to the British SOE until June 1942, when Wild Bill Donovan, who had firsthand knowledge of British methods, set up the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS. Jack Savage, by then a very bored Intelligence lieutenant at the Pentagon, had been one of the first recruits.

He made a brave show standing in front of Carter's desk in the library at the Abbey, a tall, handsome young man in olive drab battle-dress, his pants tucked into jump boots. On his right sleeve he carried a double set of parachutist's wings, a rare distinction for that handful of members of American Special Forces who had completed jump training with the British.

Detweiler was still letting his views be known forcibly. ‘Orsini nothing, Captain. That guy is Luciano!’

Harry Carter held up the orders Savage had given him. ‘You have read these, Captain. You do appreciate that they place you and the sergeant entirely under my command?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Good, I thought there might be some misunderstanding.’ He turned on Detweiler coldly. ‘Which means that in future, when I want your opinion, I ask for it.’

Detweiler was badly shocked and it showed. He turned in a kind of appeal to Savage, ‘For Christ's sake, Captain…’

Carter cut in fast. ‘Get your feet together and stay that way until I tell you different. Come on, man! Move!’

Detweiler, red in the face, did as he was told.

Carter took the envelope from the inside pocket of his battledress tunic, extracted the letter of authorization General Eisenhower had given him in Algeria and the similar one he had obtained from President Roosevelt.

‘Read those.’

Savage did as he was told and looked up in astonishment. ‘Good God!’ he whispered.

‘Exactly,’ Carter said. ‘I'm not going to mince matters. I don't like your sergeant's attitude. If there was time to dump him, I would, but there isn't.’

‘Colonel, Detweiler's a good soldier. We've been through a lot together. I know.’

‘Good, then show him those letters and see if you can talk some sense into him. I'll be back in five minutes to explain exactly what's going on here.’

Luciano was sitting against one of the stone lions on the terrace. He had changed into black sweater and pants, but still needed a shave.

He looked up at Carter, shaking his head. ‘Where the hell did you find them?’

‘His uncle's a three star general.’

‘And I used to know Al Capone very well indeed. What in the hell does that have to do with the price of tomatoes? Listen, Professor, I know the type. Boston, the first four hundred. The kind of people who fell over each other in their scramble to be first off the Mayflower. Who needs him?’

‘We do.’

‘Would you mind telling me why?’

‘Because, strictly speaking, the whole thing is an American operation, so it seemed like a good idea to the powers that be to have somebody like Savage and Detweiler along.’

‘Oh, I see. You mean I didn't count?’

‘Something like that.’

Carter smiled, aware that there was no strain with Luciano at all. That for some reason it was like old friends talking. No need to pretend or pull punches.

‘Great,’ Luciano said. ‘That really makes me feel wanted.’

‘He's a good man. Two DSCs, a Silver Star. Even the French have decorated him. When he operated in France as an OSS agent, the Gestapo had him and he got away. Since then he's raided across the Channel into France with Special Forces on a number of occasions.’

‘France isn't Sicily. What's he doing here?’

‘His father was a diplomat at the American Embassy in Rome before the war for four years. Savage went to school there. Speaks good Italian.’

Luciano said. ‘Rome Italian. Professor, there are villages in the Cammarata where that will sound like Greek. Anyway what's Detweiler's story?’

‘He was born and raised in New York, but his mother is Italian. I've already given them a brief rundown on the whole affair. I've arranged to meet in the library for a full briefing. Do you know where Sister Maria is?’

There was a rumble of thunder overhead as if rain threatened. Luciano said, ‘I think she went for a walk in the grounds. I'll find her.’

‘Good. The library in half an hour then,’ Carter said and went inside.

Maria sat on a stone bench by the fountain in the rose garden. She wore slacks, an olive green army sweater that was at least two sizes too large for her and a scarf twisted around her head like a turban.

It was very calm, peaceful, the only sounds rooks calling to each other in the beech trees at the end of the rose garden. The fact that she was here and in the open instead of inside the house was in itself significant.

She was trying to come to terms with freedom for the first time in years. It was nothing as simple as being away from the convent on her own. That happened every day of her life because of her hospital work. This was different. Now she was once again responsible for herself in a way that she had not been since her entry into the Order. She had not only pledged herself to God, but to a community and a way of life which had sustained her totally during that dark night of the soul she had gone through for so long. Now, she was responsible once again for her own destiny.