Edge of Tomorrow (41 page)

“That means the king can’t sneak in and
‘dally’ the queen?” laughed Syd.

“Not secretly,” smiled Teresa. “I think kings
had to make an appointment to dally the queen!”

“Where is the secret door?” asked Syd.

“Over here. This bookcase slides easily to
the left. See? Here’s the door. It only locks on the other side.
There is no way for the occupant of this room to keep the king out.
If he wants to dally, he dallies,” she laughed.

“Well, my goodness!” chortled Syd. “Thank
you, Teresa, you’ve been quite informative!”

“Ciao
, Syd.
I’ll see you at lunch. I’ll be your serving wench. Happy dallying,”
Teresa said with a coquettish smile on her lips and a suggestive
swish of her hips.

• • •

They assembled in the “small” dining room at
two o’clock. It was 30 feet wide and 50 feet long, with 10 foot
ceilings. The massive table, hand-hewn of oak, was 20 feet long and
the massive wooden chairs had leather seats. Syd imagined herself
dining on huge platters of beef, turkeys, and chickens and throwing
bones over her shoulder for lackeys or dogs to clean up.

Instead, however, one end of the table was
loaded with an assortment of bowls of pasta, a huge bowl of Caesar
salad, and baskets of freshly-baked, crusty Italian breads. Small
bowls of freshly-ground Parmesan cheese were placed next to each
bowl of pasta. Hatch, Sara, Syd, Carmelo, and Alberto Piovesan sat
down at the table. The latter was the Triple Eye agent who was
involved in the shooting incident—the one who had survived, that
is.

Syd helped herself to some large, plump,
homemade ravioli with meat sauce, some salad, and a chunk of warm
bread. Teresa appeared at Hatch’s elbow and showed him the label on
a bottle of red wine. It was a bottle of Biondi Santi Schidione
1996, which cost 128,000 Lire ($58.18). He nodded, smiling at her,
and she opened it deftly with a corkscrew, putting the cork in
front of him. She poured a quarter inch of wine into his glass and
he went through the ritual of approving it. Teresa poured wine for
the others and arrived at Syd’s chair.

“Vino,
signorina
?” she asked, winking.

“Grazie
,
wench. I would love some,” smiled Syd.

Teresa poured the dark red liquid into Syd’s
glass.

“Drink it in good health,
signorina
,” added Teresa
playfully.

Her grandmother, Gina, hovered in the
background, whispering orders in Italian to two waiters as bowls or
bread baskets needed refilling. Syd’s vision of eating with her
fingers medieval style faded and was replaced by one of Mafia
gangsters meeting to decide on their next hit.

The three men were speaking Italian because
Hatch was practicing his rusty Italian on them. Syd looked across
at Sara and shrugged, getting a wink and a smile in response.

Sara said in a loud voice, “Hey, Syd, this
new bra of mine isn’t worth crap! My tits are hurting like hell!
How’s yours?”

The men stopped talking and looked at her.
Syd tried to suppress a smile.

“Sorry, gals! I don’t get much chance to
speak Italian anymore. Back to English, guys, or Sara will get
worse. Al, why don’t you give us a quick rundown on what went down
last week,” laughed Hatch.

“Maybe I should start first so everyone gets
the big picture,” said Carmelo with only a slight accent. “There is
an archeological excavation going on at an old castle about 60
kilometers east of Rome. The dig is under the auspices of the
American Archeological Association of Rome, and the two
archeologists in charge are …”

He stopped and pulled a small spiral-bound
notebook out of his shirt pocket, put in front of him on the table,
and opened it.

“…
Dr Harold Holcomb, age 48, and his
assistant, Dr. Helen Brooks, age 38,” he continued. “Evidently, Dr.
Brooks discovered an old chest with some documents in it last
Tuesday. One of the documents was of particular interest to them.
As an aside for you,
signorina
,”—he nodded at Syd—“Triple Eye buys
intelligence information on a routine basis if it has any potential
value to us; for example, information which might affect our
economic analysis or political situation reports for an area. Our
clients pay well for our reports. I have bought information from
Dr. Holcomb before for small amounts of money.”

He paused and took a sip of his red wine. As
if that were a signal, the others followed suit.

“This time, however,” he continued, “he
called me personally and said he had a copy of a document that they
had just unearthed, and it could have great political and economic
impact in this country. He wanted $5,000 for the information. I
told him that was very high, but that I would look at the info and
tell him what I thought it was worth to us. I promised not to use
the info if I didn’t buy it. He would not bring it to the office.
He set a time and place to meet on Wednesday.

“I sent Alberto and Gino Capoletti to meet
him and evaluate the situation. The entire process was out of
normal procedures. You can take over now, Al.”

Alberto Piovesan was swarthy with dark, wavy
hair combed straight back. He was 5 feet 11 inches, 195 pounds,
with the thick shoulders of a halfback.

He said, “Fortunately, because of the area of
town he chose to meet in, I decided to take my Beretta. I had Gino
meet the guy while I laid back to watch things. Holcomb took out a
piece of paper and showed it to Gino, talking excitedly, making his
pitch for more money than usual. His Italian was pretty good, since
he’s been here for some time. Then all of a sudden, two guys came
around the corner of the building with drawn pistols, with
silencers attached. Holcomb stuffed the paper back in his pocket
and started to run. One of the thugs shot him in the back. I drew
my Beretta and started toward the conflict, yelling at Gino to get
down. They shot Gino and I started firing, hitting them both, but
one ran around the corner. I checked Gino and he was dead. So was
the one I shot who didn’t get away. I knew the police would be
there soon, so I used my small digital camera and took a picture of
the document: I guessed it was important if people were willing to
kill for it. I also took a picture of the man who had killed Gino.
I thought it might help lead us to his partner later if we could
identify him.”

He paused at that point and looked at Carmelo
and Hatch. Carmelo nodded for him to continue.

“I waited for the police to arrive and told
them what happened. I have a permit to carry, so my gun was no
problem. They did take it for ballistics checks, however, just to
sort out if I was telling the truth, I guess, and who shot who.
They also took the paper.”

“It’s good you got a picture of it, or we
would have no clue as to why they wanted it,” said Hatch.

Carmelo said, “I’m not sure we do know, yet.
I have translated it from Italian to English for you. Maybe someone
here can make some sense out of it. It is a letter written in 1863
by a man named Gardo Carfagno. I have two translations, one using
the language style of that period, the second using modern English,
which is easier to understand.”

He took a folded piece of paper out of his
shirt pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Hatch. Hatch read it
quickly, then sipped his wine.

“Syd, I know you’re supposed to be on
vacation, but you’re the history specialist here. Would you look at
this and see what you can make of it?” asked Hatch.

“Sure. You know me, I love a mystery!”

She took it and read it through twice, then
passed it to Sara.

“In a nutshell, this guy Carfagno says that
in 1863 that his wife had a son. He, Carfagno, was some sort of
lackey, or servant, for the Prince of Monterra, Alfonso di Conti.
On the same day, the Prince’s wife had a daughter. For reasons not
stated in the letter, Carfagno is approached by the Prince, who
made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: swap kids, keep his mouth
shut, and get a large sum of money; or be executed. The purpose of
the letter—it’s not addressed to anyone in particular—is evidently
to document the fact that the Prince’s son is a Carfagno, not a di
Conti, and that his daughter, who will be raised as a Carfagno, is
really a di Conti, possible heir to the throne. My question is ‘So
what?’ Why would anyone kill for this information?” answered
Syd.

“Where in the fuck is Monterra?” asked Sara,
putting the letter down.

“It’s an island nation off the coast of
Italy, northwest of Sardinia,” replied Carmelo, grinning at
Sara.

“Any ideas on how to proceed, Syd?” asked
Hatch.

“First, it sounds like a police matter. What
have the police said, Carmelo?” asked Syd.

“That is also a very strange situation, which
really confuses me. I went to the police to make arrangements to
have Gino’s body released for burial. They told me that the case
had been taken over by SISDE,” replied Carmelo.

Hatch interrupted, “Maybe a little
background is necessary here, Carmelo. SISDE is
Servizio Informazione e Sicurezza Democratica
,
the civilian arm of the Italian intelligence services. Carmelo was
a high-ranking member of that organization until 1997. He left them
to take over things here in Rome for Triple Eye. The entire
intelligence community here was undergoing a big shakeup and
Carmelo was caught in the crossfire and chose us as a better career
path. We’re still thankful for that. The strange thing here—SISDE
taking over the investigation of what appears to be a common
mugging—is that SISDE areas of interest are anti-crime, anti-mafia,
and anti-terrorism; not ordinary street crimes.”

Syd absorbed this information, then said,
“So, you’re saying that this is something larger than just two
thugs trying to rob Gino and the archeologist?”

“I’m beginning to think so,” replied Alberto.
“As I think back, those thugs were definitely interested in the
document. There is a strange thing about the pictures I took of the
one I killed.”

He took a picture out of his pocket and laid
it on the table.

“This is not gory. It’s a blowup of his right
hand. You can see a tattoo in the fleshy part between the thumb and
index finger, a common place used by some gangs. As you can see, it
is a star inside a circle,” said Alberto Piovesan.

Syd reached for her wine glass and drained
it. Teresa materialized and refilled it.

“Thanks, Teresa,” Syd whispered to her.

“Signorina
,”
replied Teresa.

“What did SISDE tell you?” asked Sara of
Carmelo.

“They released Gino’s body to his relatives,
but they would tell me nothing. They just said the investigation
was ongoing. However, they have not interviewed Alberto yet, so I
do not know what kind of investigation they could be doing,” he
answered.

“Does that tattoo tell us anything?” asked
Syd.

Carmelo laughed and answered, “Trying to make
me look bad in front of the boss? Triple Eye is the largest
intelligence organization in the world, so we should be able to
identify a group using a tattoo, if in fact it is a group.
Especially if it is an organized crime group.”

“All right! You’re toying with me—emphasizing
my ignorance!” laughed Syd. “Tell me about the crime group.”

Carmelo was still smiling, crow’s feet
radiating from the corners of his eyes. He motioned for Teresa to
refill his wine glass.

“As a member of SISDE for many years, and as
Triple Eye’s Man in Rome, so to speak, I am an expert on Italian
crime families,” he chortled.

“You mean like the Mafia?” asked Sara.

“Yes.”

“Are you saying that thug was
Mafia
?” Syd asked, her eyes
widening.

“Not exactly. Organized crime, yes. Let me
explain about Italian organized crime groups,” Carmelo said,
sipping his wine.

He continued, “Thanks, in part, to
American gangster movies, people tend to paint all Italian mobsters
with the Mafia brush. To be precise, the word
Mafia
refers to the
Sicilian Mafia
, which began as far back as 1282
when the French invaded Sicily. One version of the origin of the
name was the battle cry
Morte Alla Francia
Italia Anela
—‘Death to the French is Italy’s Cry.’ The
Mafia is like a religion—a lifelong commitment from which the only
way out is death. The American branch of the Mafia, which is often
called La Cosa Nostra, was started by Don Vito Cascio Ferro in 1893
when he fled Sicily after murdering a respected banker. This group
was fueled by
mafiosi
fleeing
Mussolini in the 1920s when he declared war on the Mafia, trying to
rid the country of them.”

He paused again to wet his throat with wine,
looking at Sara, then Syd.

“I am slightly embarrassed to continue this
story—about how many crime organizations originated or are based in
my country. Not all Italians are obsessed with criminal
activities,” he said, not laughing now.

“My father’s ancestors were German,” said
Syd, “and I’m not thrilled about how some of them acted in the past
either. We can’t be blamed for what others do, Carmelo.”

“Thank you,
signorina
,” Carmelo replied.

“Please call me Syd, Carmelo.
This
signorina
stuff doesn’t
sit well with me.”

“As you wish, Syd. To continue, I will
skim over the main groups other than the
Sicilian Mafia
. In no particular order, there
are the
Camorra
, the
Sacra Corona Unita
, the
‘Ndrangheta
, the
Stidda
, and the
Catena
di Morte
. There are also an assortment of street
gangs, but I will skip those for now. In fact, unless anyone wants
a run down on all of these groups now, I will talk about the
Stidda
first.
Stidda
means ‘star’ and members of this group
are referred to as
stiddari
.
This is one of the newer Italian crime groups, and less is known
about it than the more established groups. Also,
Stidda
differs from the Mafia
because it is not based on an ‘honor’ system, but is only
interested in criminal activities and the resulting profit. In this
sense, they are a competition to the other groups, not in consort
with them. Members use the tattoo of a star, usually between the
thumb and index finger, but sometimes elsewhere on the body, to
indicate their membership in the group.”