Luciano's Luck (8 page)

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 forty-foot 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. 125 Half-an-hour at four hundred miles an hour. Engines W 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.' 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 grand-daughter?' '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. 127 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 128

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 129 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. The door opened and the duty officer looked in. 'He made it, six. 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. Collin-son'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, semi-tropical 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 Mi. 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 sawn-off 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. � ilb 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 co-ordinates 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 short-barrelled 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 Mi. 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 134 hers had disappeared into the darkness, Rosa leading he way. When they were out of sight, Barbera turned to Carter. 'Okav, Harry, now for Mori,' he said and went down the steps.

II 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 bastard,' 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, 136 Rosa leading the way. Luciano, like Savage, carried a ruck- ck on his back and a Mi 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 wayl' he said and ran to one side, moving fast 137 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.' 138 �And Detweiler?' 'You aren't going to like this. Apparently he did jump, far too late. Probably came down in the next valley.' Carter exploded. 'That's all we need. Detweiler wander-� a 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 out 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 storm-tossed, the moon showing through occasionally. 139

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 Ach-nacarry in Scotland. Rosa started to climb. He swallowed hard and forced himself to follow her. The wind cut through his old 140 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 Mi 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, Untersturmbannfiihrer,' 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 kubel-wagens. 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.' He took a roll of banknotes from his pocket and threw them in the mud at the old man's feet, then got into the kubelwagen and nodded to the driver who drove away at once. The old man picked up the money and stood there, an arm around Giorgio's shoulders, listening until their sound had faded into the distance. Then he patted the boy on the head and they turned and went inside. Savage was soaked to the skin and bitterly cold as he hauled himself up over the last slab. The girl reached out and took his hand. 'Over here,' she said. 'Not far/ He followed her, head down in the howling gale which >4* at that height threatened to blow them off their feet. They scrambled over rough grass and he was aware of another rock face looming out of the night. Then the wind seemed to drop away. 'Head down,' Rosa said. He put out a hand in pitch darkness and felt rough stone. A match flared and he saw Rosa standing a few feet away. She held the match above her head and looked around her, searching. They were in a low roofed cave with every evidence of habitation. There was wood laid ready to burn on a crude stone hearth, a wooden table, sheepskins, blankets and an assortment of cooking pots. The match went out and she struck another and lit an old oil lamp which stood on the table. 'What is this place?' Savage asked. 'The shepherds use it during the lambing season. They stay up here for weeks.' He put down his Mi and took off his rucksack. He was shaking with cold and folded his arms as if to hold himself together. She turned and put a hand to his cheek and there was the concern on her face that a mother might show for a child. 'Too cold, Savage. This is not your country, not your way.' She picked up one of the blankets and unfolded it. 'Undress and dry yourself with this. I'll light a fire.' She crouched at the hearth, striking another match, and the dry twigs flared. She took off her raincoat and knelt there, putting logs on the fire. The rain had soaked through to the cotton dress so that it moulded her like a second skin. Savage struggled to get his wet jacket off. 'What about you?' 'I'm used to it.' She filled a pan with water from a rivulet that trickled down one of the stone walls and set it on the fire. 'I thought you came from Palermo?' She paused, turning from the fire. 'Who told you that?' 'Colonel Carter. He said ...' Savage hesitated. 'He said your Uncle Vito brought you last year from Palermo to live with him.' There was a calculating look in her eyes as if she was trying to assess how much he knew about her. Savage was confused and embarrassed. She was instantly aware of it, smiled slightly and turned back to feed more logs on the fire. 'I've lived in Bellona with Uncle Vito for nine months now.' He peeled off his shirt with difficulty. "You like it better?' 'Than Palermo? Oh, sure. I help Vito with the funeral business. And when he needs a runner, I handle that too.' 'A runner?' She picked up a blanket and started to dry his back and shoulders vigorously. 'Runners carry messages between the various resistance groups. They usually use boys, but Vito prefers me.' 'Why?' 'I'm smarter, for one thing. Anyway, it's my choice. I like the mountains. I like the air up here and I like being alone.' She started to unbuckle his belt. 'Better get your pants off.' Her breasts were strong and firm, thrusting against the damp linen of her dress, perfectly outlined and he could see her nipples. He panicked slightly, acutely embarrassed like some gangling boy. His hands went to the belt, pushing her away. 'That's okay, I'll do it.' She smiled, went across to a rock shelf and rummaged amongst various utensils and other items there. She held up a tin. 'Coffee. Old, but it will do.' She crouched down at the fire again, spooning coffee into the pan of simmering water. Savage, divested of his boots, 144 managed the wet trousers with difficulty and quickly wrapped the blanket around him. Rosa piled a sheepskin beside the fire. 'You come over here and get warm,' she ordered. He hesitated, then did as he was told. She covered him with a blanket, piled another couple of sheepskins on top. They were old, certainly dirty and very possibly flea-ridden, but Savage suddenly realized that he didn't give a damn. They were soft and warm and smelled of wood smoke. She took a cigarette from an old tobacco tin, lit it with a splinter from the fire and passed it to him without a word. He held it with shaking fingers, grateful for the comfort from the cheap, strong tobacco as he inhaled deeply. For some reason, he remembered the dinner party his mother had given for him during his last leave in Boston. Dinner jackets, handsome men in uniform, pretty women, the Savage silver gleaming in the candlelight, discreet servants. And there was Joanna, of course, Joanna Van der Boegart who had been somewhere around since his earliest memories. Joanna whom he would marry one day, much to everyone's satisfaction. He remembered her that last time in his arms on the terrace, up from Vassar for the weekend specially for the party. Cool, elegant, her lips firm and full, but never opening for him, not even on an occasion with the possibility of such finality to it. Not like this - not anything like this. He watched Rosa, leaning over the fire pouring coffee carefully into an old tin cup. The damp cotton dress was so tight that he could see the shape of her pants underneath. There was an immediate sexual stirring of a kind he had not known for some considerable time and he moved uncomfortably. Whatever a soldier monk might be, Jack Savage was a strong contender for the title. He had been L.L.-F 145 celibate for over a year now. The kind of life he had led, the lengthy periods of training interspersed with brief forays into Europe, left little time for any kind of relationship with a woman. He had long since decided to cut that side of things out of his life altogether, at least for the duration. In any case, he had never thought of himself as being any great shakes with women. The kind of upper-class girl he had been raised with, girls like Joanna, used their virginity as a bargaining factor. Episodes with the other type of girl at college had been unsatisfactory to say the least. Even Montmartre had failed to work its magic on him during his painting days. There were girls in plenty interested in the handsome American painter with money, but whatever it took to keep them happy, he didn't have. He had long since come to that regrettable conclusion. Rosa passed him coffee in the old tin mug, hot and black, and Savage swallowed it greedily, burning his mouth, his hand shaking. She stood looking down at him, a hand on her hips, the steam rising from her damp dress. God, but he was cold, shaking so badly that coffee slipped down his chin and she took the cup from him. 'I think you have a fever,' she said. 'And for that, you must sweat.' She piled more sheepskins on him, then started to unbutton the dress. As she peeled it down, firm breasts gleamed in the firelight. He closed his eyes, aware of the pants sliding down, the dark hair between her thighs and then she was coming in under the sheepskin beside him. There was an incredible unreality to it all, like one of those fantasies born in the mind when half-asleep. Her lips nibbled at his ear and then her tongue was probing his mouth. Her hand slid down the blanket across the flat muscular belly and touched him. She laughed and breathed in his ear. 'You take me to 146 New York, eh? You take me to New York, Savage, and I make you a little bit crazy.' And then she moved, rolling on top of him, spreading ber thighs, guiding him into her. Later, lying there, half asleep, still in a fever, his arm around her, he was aware of her whispering. 'Savage, are you awake?' He made no reply but lay there, thinking about what had happened. He had never known anything like it or like her. The warmth, the primitiveness, the total lack of shame. Her head went down and he was aware of her tongue tracing a course across his belly. Then she had him in her mouth. He groaned and started to move. She pulled away and looked up at him. 'So, you are awake?' 'Yes,' he said, pushing her over on her back. 'I'm awake, damn you!' She laughed and kissed him as he thrust into her, still half in a delirium, mounting to a climax that seemed to be without end. One thing he was aware of. The way her body moved, the sudden gasp, the hands tightening into his flesh, her smothered cries. Then afterwards, he stayed on top of her and finally, drifted into sleep as she gently stroked his face. 12 Luciano and Maria followed the same rough track for almost two hours. For most of the time its path lay through pine forest and they avoided the worst of the weather. When it emerged from the trees to climb a steep and rocky hillside, the wind drove rain into their faces so that they could only walk head down and she had to hold on to him for support. They stopped in the shelter of an outcrop of rock and Luciano shouted. 'This is no good.' She put a hand to his face. 'Just a moment. I think I smell wood smoke.' She was right. He moved out of the shelter into the full force of the wind, aware instantly of the strong, pungent aroma, and they struggled on. They came over a rise and saw a light in a hollow amongst trees. Dogs started to bark and they came to a fence and beyond, on the other side of a mud yard, was a cottage. Luciano unslung his Mi and cocked it and they went across the yard. The top half of the door opened, light flooding through, and a man appeared holding a shotgun. 'Who goes?'he called. 'Travellers, caught by the night,' Luciano replied. 'We need shelter.' 'None for you here. We have trouble enough.' He was perhaps thirty, a typical mountain man with a heavy black moustache and long unkempt hair under the cap. 148 He started to close the door and Luciano said, 'I got a fflan with me. What kind of man are you, anyway?' He took a step towards the door and the man raised the shotgun to his shoulder. 'I said no. Another step and I blow your head off.' 'And answer to Mafia,' Luciano said. 'To Luca himself.' The man froze, lowered the shotgun slowly. 'What has Don Antonio to do with this?' Luciano pulled Maria forward. 'His grand-daughter. We're on our way to the Franciscans at Crown of Thorns.' The shotgun came all the way down. The man hesitated; then a woman cried