Assignment - Palermo (17 page)

“It’s crazy,” said Joey Milan.

“There’s nothing else to do,” Durell told him.

“We could always go home.”

“You’ll never leave Sicily alive unless Old Uncle lets you.”

“So who will talk to us?” Milan asked.

“Maybe Uccelatti.”

Both were silent except for a small growl of disbelief from Bruno. Durell turned onto a public dock, where signs advertised boats for hire. They were near the yacht basin, and he could see the lights of Vesper, moored in splendid solitude apart from the other yachts. The wash of a passing water-skier splashed under the dock, and they were besieged by boatmen arguing the virtues of their craft.

“Do we just ride up there?” Milan asked.

“Why not? He wanted to see me earlier.”

“Well, he don’t want to see us. We left without sayin’ good night.”

“It will be all right,” Durell said. He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

They approached the schooner from the darker sea side, although floodlights on the tall masts played on the water around the white hull for the swimmers who sported there. Durell saw several mess-jacketed crewmen hustling drinks for the girls who sprawled like golden nymphs on deck, or who occasionally dived overboard for a brief swim. The girls far outnumbered the men. Someone had a movie camera aboard, and there was much shouting and directing and laughter mingled with obscene insults.

“They make a film,” said the boatman. “The sainted
barone
is a patron of the arts,
si?
He is much involved with starting a motion picture industry in Sicily to rival that of Rome. It will be a success. Whatever he does, it will be a success.”

“I don’t see the baron aboard,” Durell said.

“Oh, he is there. Probably below, talking business.” The boatman looked doubtfully at Durell. “You are sure you are invited to
Vesper
? If not, I will stand by to fish you out of the sea when they throw you off, eh?”

There was a small landing stage to port. One of the attendants hurried to the polished rail, saw Durell, and vanished. A girl scrambled up on the landing, shook her wet blonde hair and her body, which was scantily covered with a mesh suit of only about four square inches of solid material where it counted. She splashed water at Durell and laughed and ran up the ladder. He thought briefly of Lora Smith, out of her silver lame gown, on her back with her legs up on the bed. He felt a momentary regret. Then he followed her aboard.

He did not see O’Malley. The motion picture work went on forward, detached from the rest of the activity. Then the same man who had originally picked him up at the hotel walked aft, eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Signor Durell, you are welcome.” He wore a fresh white dinner jacket and a piece of Band-Aid on his handsome aquiline face. “I am Pietro. We never introduced ourselves.” He peered over the side at Bruno and Joey. “You have lost Cefalu, your impetuous friend?”

“Yes, you might say that.”

“Good. Then come with me, please.”

“One moment. Is O’Malley aboard?”

“Baron Uccelatti will explain everything.”

They picked their way across golden legs and rounded thighs and trays of drinks on the teak deck.

Pietro looked sidewise at him and licked his lips and then opened a cabin door that led down into the main salon.

“Up forward,
per favore
.”

“You first,” Durell said.

The man smiled sadly. “You forget, it was I who was taken by surprise the last time.”

There were rich and simple furnishings, mahogany paneling, a polished chart table, shining brass clocks and barometers, tangerine-colored settees and chairs, and watered silk curtains over the big portholes. Durell followed the tall man down three more steel-plated steps into a stateroom corridor. The cabin he entered was fitted out as a combination sitting room and study. The man behind the kidney-shaped desk arose graciously as he came in and walked forward with an extended hand.

“Mr. Durell, welcome. I had grave fears for your safety when Pietro came back alone and told me how you had been intercepted. I am Uccelatti.”

They shook hands. Uccelatti was an urbane Italian whose smiling confidence reflected wealth, perfect grooming, and a cultivated sensibility. His English was only faintly accented. He had thick, peppery hair, a smoothly shaven olive face, and diamond-brilliant blue eyes. His teeth were white and even. He waved his hand graciously for Durell to be seated.

“Bourbon is your drink, is it not?”

“Thank you. But I don’t intend to be your guest for long, invited or not.”

“But you are invited, my dear sir. Did I not send Pietro for you? On my honor, I have been most anxious to meet you. You have my word that we are not enemies.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Uccelatti wore a silk ascot the color of Marsala wine, with fawn-colored slacks and chalk-white sneakers. His grip was slightly callused, as a seaman’s should be. He dismissed Pietro with a nod. It was quiet in the cabin except for the muffled noises from the bikini girls on deck. “You must excuse the external impression the
Vesper
must give you. It is amusing to have these people aboard. And the young ladies are decorative, eh? You must realize I deeply regret this entire affair, and I wish with all my heart that it had not occurred. I am glad you arrived here safely. Your position in this business is quite well known to me. We have an adequate information service, of course. It is necessary, for one to survive.”

“You do very well,” Durell said.

Uccelatti smiled. “I was born to accept the responsibilities of wealth along with the honor of my name. A noble title means little today, but it is an anachronism to which I cling out of sentiment and because here in Sicily the people prefer the old ways. It gives them a comforting sense of continuity. Our worlds are not the same, Mister Durell, and I grant that mine may be only a fading dream. What I possess must be paid for, and I do so daily.” The baron waved a mild hand. “But you did not come here to listen to idle and perhaps useless conversation.”

“You know why I am here,” Durell said.

“Indeed. And you bring me risks that I could easily avoid by refusing you a single word.”

“I want the girl, Gabriella Vanini—and I want my friend O’Malley released. Is he aboard?”

“He came of his own free will, sir.”

“Is he also free to leave?”

“No,” Uccelatti said. “I am sorry.”

“And Gabriella?”

“Do nothing rash, Mister Durell, until we have exchanged views, I pray you. You are angry and suspicious. But I am, too—more than you. When you are finished in Sicily, you will go about your business elsewhere in the world. But I must go on living here, if possible, and try to survive.”

“What are you afraid of?” Durell asked.

“More accurately, I am concerned—very deeply—for what is happening. I sense contempt in your attitude. You think of me as a criminal, battening on sin and vice. It is not so. I accept nothing for myself from the Fratelli.”

“You don’t deny membership in the Brotherhood?”

“I deny nothing because I need your help. I am perplexed, and you may be the only man to solve my problems. So we meet like this. Let us not behave like two jungle animals who meet on the same trail after the same prey. But perhaps I can explain more clearly if I tell you why I named my yacht the
Vesper."

Durell moved a chair against the bulkhead and sat down. The cabin was warm, although the ports were open and a faint sea breeze stirred the silk curtains. Dimly he heard cries from the girl swimmers, a shout from the cameraman, and a little thud on the deck overhead.

“Our history has been long,” Uccelatti said, “and ancient and troubled. Of the original Siculi, none lived after the Greeks came to Syracuse. Our island has always been used by conquerors, from the Greeks to the Arabs and the Normans. Sicily has been a rich hunting ground for such predators. And the people received nothing but slavery and feudal oppression from those who came to ‘liberate’ us. We were misruled by the ancient Carthaginians and the Bourbons. We are now Italian but not of Italy. There were once giants in our land, remembered by the villagers, who carry figures of these legendary Giganti in their annual processions. We dwell among roses and almond blossoms, but their scent does not cover the stink of oppression that led Sicilians to rebel time and again against rich landlords and foreign nobles, thieves of our natural wealth. Long ago there was an insurrection against the House of Anjou, which succeeded the court of the Swabian, Frederick the Second. For six centuries, from twelve eighty-two, Sicilians were crushed between dishonest rulers from Anjou, Spanish viceroys from Aragon, and Austrian legates. That rebellion in twelve eighty-two was led by men who called themselves Vespers, Mr. Durell. I have remembered them in the name of this vessel. For six hundred years after that revolt the Sicilians hatched plots, planned executions, fought in the villages and the hills—and were always crushed. The survivors inevitably fled into a life of desperate outlawry.” Uccelatti smiled thinly. “The life of a bandit was at least free, you see. And it became the habit of our island.”

“The Mafia?”

“And others. Robin Hoods sometimes, murderers and thieves at others. I make no apologies or excuses. It was a necessity. It was war.”

“It’s not the same today,” Durell said. “The Black Hand, the Cosa Nostra—”

“We are the Fratelli della Notte.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Until recently, yes. True, we lived on crime. But it was neither violent nor vicious. And our charities—” 

“And murders—”

“These are only late developments.”

“This is the source of your distress?”

“Yes, it is.” A thin shine of sweat showed on the baron’s fine face. “I am more than distressed. I admit I am desperate.”

“Did the change come,” Durell asked quietly, “when Kronin entered your organization?”

“That filth,” Uccelatti said.

“Isn’t he your superior now?”

“He thinks so.”

“Where is he now, by the way?”

“As far as I know, he is still in Naples.”

“Dollars to doughnuts he’s close by.”

“No, I would know of it.”

“You don’t know anything.” Durell spoke angrily. “You’ve been tricked and betrayed. It was nice to hear your little historical lecture, but it only proves you do live in an unreal world of romantic nostalgia for the past. It’s suicidal. The world has changed, and if you don’t change with it, you are doomed.”

The baron bowed his head. “I know all this.”

“But what are you doing about it?”

“I do not know what to do.”

“Well, for a start, you can tell the truth about Kronin, Zio, and Gabriella. Tell me how Kronin took over the Fratelli to use them to establish a sabotage net in my

country, like cancer cells in my nation’s bloodstream.” “You are angry, Mr. Durell.”

“It might help if you were angry, too. How did Kronin get into the Fratelli della Notte?”

“Vecchio Zio ordered it. He is our chief. One gives him unquestioned obedience.”

“He may be senile, a very old man.”

“Yes he is old.”

“Is he actually alive?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen him lately with your own eyes?” There was a moment’s hesitation. “Yes.”

Durell said, “You’re a liar, Baron.”

Uccelatti flushed. His hands trembled. A motorboat went by, and the wake rocked the schooner slightly. “I saw him, but it was under peculiar circumstances. I am not sure—” He paused.

“Not sure of what?” Durell asked.

“Karl Kronin stood beside him. Almost prompting him, I thought.” Uccelatti sighed. “I grew suspicious then. But one does not lightly disobey Zio. The orders are explicit. I must obey. It is the rule. Without obedience we die.”

“Where do you fit into the hierarchy?”

“Until Kronin appeared, I was Zio’s right hand. But now—I am nothing.”

“And you don’t like it,” Durell suggested.

“They wanted to kill Gabriella.”

“They certainly tried,” Durell said grimly. “If she’s still alive, let me see her.”

“I am sorry, she is not aboard.”

“Then, where is she?”

“I could not believe Zio ordered her death. It came from Kronin. Knowing this, I sent Pietro to Naples, to O’Malley. I promised him safety for himself and Gabriella. O’Malley was angry and jealous of you, in any case. And I had to learn the truth. I do not know it all yet, but soon I shall. I must. So I took matters into my own hands.”

“What have you done?”

“I sent Gabriella,” said Uccelatti, “to Vecchio Zio.”

DURELL let out a long, slow breath. It was as if a tightly coiled spring inside him had relaxed a bit now. The baron clenched his trembling fingers. The sweat stood out in great beads on his handsome face; his blue eyes were dulled now. There was a knock on the door, and Uccelatti said, “Come in,” and Pietro entered. “What is it, Pietro?”

The man looked at Durell. “Your friends want to come aboard to see if you are safe. I told them to wait, but it is difficult to tell them anything.”

Durell stood up. “One more thing, Uccelatti. You understand that you may have sent Gabriella to her death?”

“I know this.”

“How long ago did she leave?”

“It has been over three hours. But it takes perhaps two to reach the place.”

“Where is it? And how many men went with her?” 

The baron looked desperate. “None.” He looked at Pietro. “I considered it safest to send her alone. Whom could I trust as a guard? You have described my situation very exactly, Mr. Durell. I am betrayed, lied to, and I know no man I could trust to keep her alive.” Durell looked at Pietro. “What about him?”

“Not even Pietro.”

The other man’s face was like stone.

“You’ve probably killed her,” Durell said.

“No, there is a family in the hills—peasants, or at least they live like peasants. An old man and a woman. They live near her destination. I told her to go to them before she finished her journey.”

“And can you trust them?”

“Why not? They are my father and mother.” Uccelatti shook his troubled head. “You must understand more, Mr. Durell. Although I carry a noble title and had dreams as a boy far beyond our means, I did not always live like this. The war and the Mussolini years did strange things to everyone. I was born in Sicilian poverty—a very special thing. It is hopeless, but not degrading. One survives somehow—and the Fratelli helped us. My parents were caretakers for Vecchio Zio. He took an interest in me and started me on the upward path, educated me and gave me all I needed to assume my hereditary place. I was foolish, vain, ambitious. In return I did all he asked. Eventually I was set up with the
Vesper
and became a ‘respectable’ businessman, an industrialist. And, of course, all the Fratelli funds were channeled through my organizations. They still are. It is the price I paid.”