Luciano's Luck (12 page)

Luciano looked up at the gunner in the midupper turret above his head, then glanced across at Maria who was sitting opposite him, apparently asleep. Her eyes flickered open and he leaned across.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine,’ she smiled.

Which was a lie, of course, for she was afraid again. Not only of the danger that lay ahead, but desperately afraid of the prospect of meeting her grandfather. At the thought of what that might unleash inside her, her stomach cramped in panic.

Luciano leaned back and burrowed into the sleeping bag, aware of the vibrations of the fuselage, the roar of the engine, the fierce cold.
What in the name of God am I doing here?
he asked himself, and closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

From further along the plane, Detweiler watched him, eyes filled with hate.

The Franciscan monastery of the Crown of Thorns lay five miles outside Bellona. Centuries earlier it had been a Saracen castle sited on a ridge a thousand feet above the valley with views across the surrounding countryside for twenty miles in every direction. And a castle was what it still most resembled, with smooth stone walls over a hundred feet high.

It took Vito Barbera an hour and a half to get there by mule from Bellona, following the dirt road which zigzagged up the side of the mountain. The defensive ditch from the old days was still there at the base of the walls, choked with weeds and rubbish now. He crossed the wooden bridge that gave access to the only entrance and reined in at the oaken gates.

There was a bell-chain to one side and he leaned over and pulled it, staying in the saddle. The sound was remote, unreal in the heat of the afternoon, and he waited, tired, gazing out across the valley.

After a while, a small shutter opened and a young bearded monk peered out. He said nothing, simply closed the shutter. A moment later, the great gates creaked open and Barbera rode inside.

*

Padre Giovanni, the prior of the monastery, was a tall, frail old man of seventy, fullbearded as indeed were all Franciscans at Crown of Thorns, although in his case it was almost pure white except for the nicotine staining around his mouth.

He wore a brown beretta on his head, a plain brown habit with knotted cord at his waist from which hung a large crucifix. His face was full of strength, firm, aesthetic, and yet shrewd good humour was never far from his eyes.

The redpantiled roofs of the monastery extended like a series of giant uneven steps to the highest point on the ramparts where he kept his pigeons, the great love of his life. He was working on them now when young Brother Lucio brought Vito Barbera to him.

‘Ah, Vito,’ the old prior said. ‘How good to see you.’

Barbera pulled off his cap and kissed the extended hand; not for religious reasons only for Padre Giovanni's connections with Mafia were a matter of public knowledge. Mori, Mussolini's notorious Chief of Police, had expended considerable time in attempting to prove the fact. He had even succeeded in bringing Giovanni to court, a trial which had descended to low farce and had ended with the jury finding Padre Giovanni and other members of his order not guilty of even feeding pigeons in the park.

He helped himself to a cigarette from the tin on the parapet. ‘How are things in the village?’

‘Bad,’ Barbera told him. ‘The man from the Gestapo, Meyer, and those Russians of his …’ He shook his head.

‘And the other, this Colonel Koenig?’

‘A good man in the wrong uniform.’ Barbera shrugged. ‘A holy fool, Padre. He thinks you can still fight wars acording to rules, like a game of cards.’

‘So.’ The old man nodded. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I have a message for Don Antonio.’

The old man smiled. ‘My dear Vito, who knows where Don Antonio is?’

Barbera moved to the pigeon loft and scratched the wire, cooing at the birds inside. ‘I'm sure he has a friend or two in here who could find him, and not too far away.’

Padre Giovanni sat down in the old wicker chair by the low parapet. ‘Vito, if you have heard from your friends in Algeria again, if this is to do with Mafia and the American invasion, I tell you now you are wasting your time. Don Antonio's dislike of the Germans is followed closely by his hatred of all things American. No, in this case he stays in the mountains. He does not wish to be involved.’

‘But it's all different now, Padre,’ Barbera told him. ‘Don Antonio's granddaughter is coming, Maria.’

The old man looked up, astonishment on his face. ‘You mean to the Cammarata? But how can this be?’

‘I've had word on the radio. Carter returns, very soon now.’

Padre Giovanni stubbed out his cigarette angrily. ‘The fool. I told him when he was last here that enough was enough. He seeks death, that one. But tell me more about the girl? Carter brings her with him, does he? They hope she will influence Don Antonio in a way no one else has been able to.’ He shrugged. ‘I'm not too sure that they are right.’

Barbera said, ‘There's more, Padre, a great deal more. Luciano comes with them.’

The old man stared at him. ‘Lucania?’ he whispered, using Luciano's Sicilian name. ‘Salvatore Lucania comes here? But he is in prison.’ Then comprehension dawned. ‘Ah, I see now the whole strategy. Lucky Luciano and the old Don's granddaughter. Harry Carter must think the game is his.’

‘And you, padre? What is your opinion?’

‘How could that be of the slightest importance? I will see that one of my little friends here,’ he touched the pigeon loft, ‘takes news of this to Don Antonio. He will act as he sees fit. When do they come?’

‘Within the next few days. I'll be getting a further radio communication.’

‘When you have the exact date, let me know. Have you spoken of this to the district committee?’

‘No,’ Barbera said.

District committees had been set up during the previous summer to coordinate the activities of the various groups which made up the resistance movement

Padre Giovanni put a hand on Barbera's shoulder. ‘And now, my friend, you will join me at the table. Something to sustain you on the journey back to Bellona.’

Harry Carter was waiting on the terrace of the villa at dar el Ouad when Eisenhower rode into the courtyard. The General dismounted, gave his reins to a groom and went up the steps to the entrance, acknowledging the salute of the sentries. As he moved into the hall, Cusak stood up at his desk.

‘Colonel Carter's waiting, General.’

Eisenhower turned as Carter came in from the terrace. He looked at him fixedly for a moment, then said, ‘Come in, Colonel,’ and led the way into his office.

He dropped his riding crop on the table. ‘I've read your report, Colonel. You've been busy.’

‘A fair description, General.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘A small villa near the airfield at Maison Blanche, sir.’

‘Comfortable?’

‘Adequate, sir.’

‘Luciano and this man, Luca's, granddaughter. That's like aces back-to-back. Sit down.’

Carter did as he was told. ‘The invasion's still on, sir?’

‘Oh, yes. Of course, they know about our preparations, we know that. They're expecting us any day now. Our deception plan is that any attack on Sicily will only be a feint; that the real targets are Sardinia and Greece.’

Carter said, ‘When, sir?’

‘Privileged information, Colonel, for your ears only. You don't tell the rest of your party except in circumstances of some extraordinary nature.’

‘Very well, sir.’

‘The ninth.’ Eisenhower flipped the date pages of the desk calendar and smiled. ‘It says here: A good day to sit back and take stock of your life.’

Carter was astonished. ‘But that only gives us four days.’

‘I know, but the weather boys have guaranteed us storms on that day. The Italians won't be expecting any attack in that kind of weather.’

‘Then if we go, it would have to be tomorrow night at the latest and that would only give us three days to work in.’

‘How much time do you need?’ Eisenhower said. ‘One meeting with this man Luca is all it takes. If he decides to join us, the rest is simply his people spreading the word, isn't that so?’

‘In theory, sir.’

‘Well, theory is all we've got.’ Eisenhower stood up, went to the map and jabbed his finegr at the Cammarata. ‘Here, overlooking the two main roads we'll be using to reach Palermo. Mainly Italian troops with artillery of every description, including 88s, and you know what they do to our tanks. They've even got a few Tigers up there as well. If they decide to fight, they could hold us for weeks. If they surrender, then the few German units in the area will have to get out fast leaving the road to Palermo dear for George Patton.’

‘Yes, sir, I'm well aware of the situation.’

‘What you don't know is that since we last talked, information's reached us from Rome that the whole house of cards is ready to fall. Mussolini's on the verge of being kicked out. One more push is all it takes and Marshal Badoglio takes over and that means a negotiated peace with Italy.’

Carter said, ‘There is another aspect to consider. I called in at Maison Blanche before coming here to make arrangements for the drop with Wing Commander Grant. He tells me the AOC has suspended any further operations. It seems they lost the last four Halifaxes they sent to Sicily.’

‘Yes, I know about that,’ Eisenhower said calmly. ‘But the written authority you hold allows you to countermand that order.’

‘The point is that, in Grant's opinion, the odds are heavily against one of their Halifaxes being able to reach the target.’

‘You mean he says it's impossible?’

Carter remembered Grant's exact words and rephrased them. ‘Let's just say that he didn't rate our chances very highly.’

Eisenhower said, ‘Are you saying it's not on?’

‘No, sir, I'm simply being realistic.’

Eisenhower stood up and walked to the window. He spoke, gazing out into the garden at the same time. ‘You know something I've discovered about command, Colonel? That even Napoleon was only as good as his worst soldier. No matter how well you plan, the success of an entire battle can come down to halfadozen brave men denying a bridge to the enemy. My personal theory is that every battle is like that. Somewhere in the middle of all the action, although we may never know it, a single incident can be the balance that decides which way victory will go.’

‘Yes, I think I'd go along with that, General,’ Carter said.

Eisenhower turned. ‘Whatever happens, we go into Sicily. We take our chances. We may win with heavy casualties, but for all I know, this man Luca could be the kind of balance point I'm talking about. The difference between winning and losing.’

‘So we go, sir?’

This time the smile was touched with sadness. ‘Difficult decisions have always been the privilege of rank, Colonel. I say you go and take your chances.’ He held out his hand. ‘I can only wish you luck.’

Harvey Grant, seated at his office desk at Maison Blanche, finished reading the two letters of authorization from General Eisenhower and President Roosevelt. He passed them back to Carter.

‘As good a way of committing suicide as I can imagine. Like I told you, I can't even offer you a fifty-fifty chance. Another thing, we've not been grounded just because of losses. I know the invasion's coming any day now. They'll tell you that in every bazaar in Algiers plus the fact that it's just a part of a mammoth deception to fool the enemy. For Sicily, read Sardinia. What the eye doesn't see.’

‘I can't comment on that,’ Carter started to say, and Grant suddenly slammed a hand against the windowsill.

‘Christ, Harry, I think I've got it. What the eye doesn't see. Correction, what the eye expects to see, it ignores.’

‘I don't follow you.’

‘You will. Come on, I'll show you.’

They went down the steps and walked towards the hangers. ‘How many did you say there'll be?’

‘Five. Four men and a woman.’

‘A woman?’ Grant said. ‘My God. Still, I think it should do.’

‘What exactly?’

This.’

Grant waved and led the way into the end hangar where the black-painted JU88S night fighter crouched in the gloom.

*

‘You really think it would work?’ Carter said.

‘We'll need a quick paint job. Replace those RAF rondels with Luftwaffe markings again. The point is, this baby has an engine boosting system that takes it up to around four hundred. That means we can hit your drop zone in just under an hour from here. In and out, Harry, and to anyone around, we're just another night fighter.’

Carter nodded slowly. ‘You could be right.’

Grant said impatiently. ‘The krauts used the thing for the same purposes themselves, so it has the right modification, that special door they've fitted for a fast exit. More than coincidence, Harry. The Gods are smiling.’

‘All right,’ Carter said. ‘Let's say it works, but how about coming back? This thing will have every RAF fighter in the area on its back the moment it crosses the coast.’

‘No problem,’ Grant said. ‘Naturally, I'll have to tell the AOC, Air Marshall Sloane that I'm going, but there won't be any problem there, not when he sees your authorization. He'll arrange the right kind of reception for me when I get back.’

Carter said, ‘You're grounded, Harvey, remember?’

‘Not on this one, old son.’ Grant patted the side of the Junkers. ‘I'm not saying I'm the only pilot in the squadron who can fly this plane, but I'm the only one who can give this operation half a chance. I'll take Joe Collinson with me, the squadron's senior navigator. He's flown as many hours as I have in her so he's familiar with the equipment.’

Carter, no choice in the matter now, nodded. ‘All right, Harvey.’

‘When do we go?’

‘Tomorrow night, if that suits you.’

‘The same drop zone as you used last time outside Bellona?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you come with me now to the met. office we'll check on the weather, but all things being equal, I'd say you could send a message to your people in Bellona telling them to expect you around eleven.’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Good, then let's get moving. There's work to be done.’

In Palermo, at his temporary headquarters in the Grand Hotel General Alfred Guzzoni, commanding the Italian Sixth Army, was holding a staff conference. It was attended mainly by Italian officers although there were a handful of Germans present, among them Meyer and Koenig.