Man on Fire (34 page)

All inquiries were in the hands of Colonel Satta, who had left Milan that morning, destination unknown. Politics was obviously involved. Black deeds were being hatched!

After this conversation, Conti was even more thoughtful, for in Cantarella's voice he had detected a shred of fear. Instead of being forceful and deliberate with his instructions, the "arbitrator" had sounded uncertain, even asking for suggestions. Conti had reassured him. Even without the police, Creasy would soon be eliminated. Now that his identity was known, he would be found within hours. Instructions had already gone out through every tier of the organization.

But Conti wondered about Cantarella's reaction. Certainly the killer, with his background and motivation, was a dangerous threat, but so far he had operated with the benefit of secrecy and anonymity. Now he had lost that advantage. He would pay for his temerity.

But why Cantarella's unease? Conti concluded that it was the reaction of a politician. He himself had reached his present position due to the ruthless application of violence. He had seen death often.

Cantarella, on the other hand, had progressed through diplomacy. He had frequently ordered violence, but never taken part himself; never had to. Conti had been a soldier and a general. Cantarella always had been the statesman. Conversely, thinking back over the years, Conti decided that the "arbitrator" had never been directly threatened. At least, not physically. Perhaps that lack of experience now created the concern.

It interested Conti. It was something to think about. Finally, before going to bed, he issued instructions for his personal safety. He owned the ten-story apartment building that housed the penthouse in which he lived.

From its basement garage upward, security was to be tightened to such an extent that a mouse couldn't get in or out. The same applied to the building that housed his office, which he also owned.

He was not concerned about his movements between the two buildings. Some years earlier he had done a favor for a compatriot in New York. In return he had received, as a gift, a Cadillac. A very special Cadillac, with three-inch armor-plating and bulletproof windows.

Conti was very proud of the car. Twice over the years it had been fired on, once with heavy-caliber pistols and once with submachine guns. On both occasions he had come through unscathed and unruffled. Even so, he ordered that until further notice a carload of bodyguards would follow the Cadillac at all times. He also decided that in the interim he would take all his meals at home. He was well aware that more bosses had died in restaurants than anywhere else, and not from food poisoning.

Cantarella was indeed frightened. It was a new sensation. The thought of a highly qualified killer making him a target sickened him. He went through stages of anger and indignation, but fear was the constant emotion. Conti had been confident on the phone-only a matter of hours. But as Cantarella sat behind his desk in his paneled study, he had a very cold feeling. He crossed himself and pulled forward a pad of paper and turned his mind to the security of the Villa Colacci. It could and would be made impregnable.

Before he finished his notes, the phone rang. It was the boss in Naples to inform him that it was impossible to question the owner of the Pensione Splendide. It appeared that he and the forever-damned Colonel Satta of the Carabinieri were as thick as thieves. Cantarella's unease deepened.

Guido rolled a double four, took off his last three counters, and glanced at the doubling dice. Then he picked up a pen, made a quick calculation, and announced, "Eighty-five thousand lire."

Satta smiled. It was an effort.

"I should have taken your advice and stayed in a hotel."

It was the third day and he had eaten several excellent meals, even helping out in the kitchen on occasion, the regular customers having no idea that the salad had been tossed by a full colonel.

Apart from having lost over three hundred thousand lire at backgammon, he had enjoyed his stay. Even that loss had its compensations, for if a man could play with such skill and panache, he earned Satta's grudging respect.

But it was more than just respect. A positive friendship had developed. It may have been partly the attraction of opposites, for no two men could have been more different, at least on the outside: Guido, taciturn, stocky and broken-nosed; Satta, tall, elegant, talkative, and urbane. But Satta found much to admire in the Neapolitan. Once he began to relax and talk, he showed a deep vein of knowledge of his own society and the world. He also had a dry and perceptive sense of humor, which Satta much appreciated. Of course Satta knew a great deal about Guido's past. During one conversation he had asked whether Guido did not sometimes get bored with his present occupation. Wasn't it slightly mundane?

Guido had smiled and shaken his head and remarked that if he wanted excitement he could go back through the paths of his memory. No, he found the small, prosaic things in life made up a satisfying mosaic. He enjoyed running the pensione, the various quirks and foibles of the regulars who came to eat in the restaurant. He liked watching football on television on Sunday nights, and occasionally going out on the town, and perhaps finding a girl. He was content, especially when he had overeducated policemen to beat at backgammon.

On his part, Satta provided Guido with a puzzle. At first he had viewed the colonel as a misplaced social butterfly who had progressed through family connections.

It was not long, however, before he saw through the sardonic exterior and recognized the dedicated and honest man beneath. On the second night, Satta's elder brother came for dinner and afterward the three of them sat late into the night on the terrace, talking and drinking.

There was a very deep affection between the two brothers, and they included Guido in their family conversation so naturally and easily that he felt a warmth of companionship, a warmth that before had come only in the presence of Creasy.

And they talked of Creasy at great length. Although Satta was convinced that Guido must have contact with him, he never pressed the matter. Several times a day he spoke to Bellu in Rome, and each time was told that there was nothing to report on the telephone or in mail intercepts.

"Only conversations between you and me," Bellu commented once. "And they are fascinating!"

But Satta was content to wait. Although the newspapers were, by now, very close to unraveling the full story, no mention had yet been made of Creasy. They were full of the scandal of the industrialist who had been charged with engineering his own daughter's kidnap, and of the prominent lawyer who had been blown to pieces, and the connection between the two; and with the Mafia killings of the past days. It wouldn't be long before they pieced it all together, and Satta tried to imagine the reaction of the public when the whole story came out-the ongoing story.

He often thought about Creasy. He was able to build a picture in his mind as Guido talked of his friend. He understood clearly the motivation and felt a tangible sympathy and a bond for this man who moved alone to satiate a craving for revenge.

Guido would talk of the past, but never the present. He was emphatic. The last time he had seen Creasy was when he left the hospital. Satta didn't press, just shrugged and waited. He held all the aces. Let Conti and Cantarella worry.

But he wasn't playing cards, but backgammon and he was losing.

"Enough," he said, as Guido laid out the counters again. "I'm a public servant and can't go on losing a week's salary every day."

They sat out on the terrace as the late afternoon sun edged toward the horizon. Soon Guido would start preparing dinner; but now was the quiet time, and they fell silent as they watched the changing colors around the bay. It was dusk when the phone rang. Milan calling Colonel Satta.

Guido had gone to the kitchen and was chopping vegetables when Satta came in after the long conversation.

"Balletto," he said. "He committed suicide."

"You're sure it was suicide?" Guido asked.

Satta nodded. "No question. He sat on the window ledge of his eighth-floor office for half an hour before he made up his mind."

His hands moved in an expressive gesture.

"He was always a vacillating man."

Guido went back to the vegetables and Satta started to help around the kitchen. Then he stopped and asked, "You met his wife?"

"Once," answered Guido. "It was not a pleasant meeting."

He explained the circumstances and Satta nodded sympathetically.

"You picked a bad time. No doubt her opinion has changed. No doubt she herself has changed."

They worked in silence and then Satta said, "While Balletto was trying to make up his mind, the police phoned and asked her to come down and try to talk him out of it. You know what she said?"

"What?"

Satta shook his head.

"Nothing, nothing at all-she just laughed."

They worked on again, and then Satta said musingly, "A strange woman-and very beautiful."

Guido looked up at him quizzically, started to say something, but then shrugged and went back to work.

Chapter 19

In each of the capitals of Europe, there is an Australian Embassy, and on a side street close to each embassy, house trailers and mobile homes can be found, parked, during the daylight hours of summer. They are for sale, although why near the Australian Embassy, no one knows.

Rome was no exception, but because it was late summer, there was only one vehicle-a Mobex on a Bedford chassis.

"Wally" Wightman and his girlfriend, "Paddy" Collins, sat on the high curb, waiting unexpectantly for a customer.

He was in his late twenties and short, his appearance made notable by hair. Hair flowed from his head to his shoulders and from his face and chin to his chest. Intelligent eyes peered through it all. He was dressed in denim overalls that could have qualified for a certificate of antiquity. She was in her early thirties and large all over. Not fat, simply oversized, from her toes to her nose. She was not unattractive, but her size contradicted femininity. She wore a peasant dress that looked incongruous.

They were Australians, and their story was at once typical and different. Typical in that they had both traveled to Europe to broaden their minds, and different in that they had met each other. Wally was a perennial student who had long ago found a temporary job teaching English to Italians in a night school in Turin.

There he had met Paddy, who for twelve years had been-an executive secretary in Brisbane. One day she had thrown it all up and taken off to "do" Europe. She also ended up teaching English in Turin. The result was that a whole generation of Italians spoke English with a strong Australian accent; and instead of "doing" Europe, she "did" Wally. In fact, she loved him. A love brought on by his total indifference to accepted standards of female beauty. Her size did not bother him. He loved her mind and her sense of humor, which was rough, and her ability to be dominating by day and totally submissive and quiescent by night. In bed he was the boss; outside it, she organized everything, including his creature comforts. It was an un-Australian arrangement, but it worked.

They'd had a good winter and early summer and had pooled their resources to buy the Mobex, the idea being to drive it as far east as possible, at least to Bombay, and then ship it down to Perth and drive across to Northern Queensland. There the government was giving land and grants to people who would develop remote areas and grow trees. The government needed trees, and Wally reasoned that they took a long time to grow, and they could live in the Mobex, and maybe grow children as well, and contribute to Australia's balance-of-payments problem and get paid for it. But things had not worked out. The changes in Iran meant that driving very far east was a nonstarter, and then Paddy had got sick with jaundice and the hospital bills had piled up and at the end they had no choice but to sell the Mobex and travel home the cheapest way. So they sat on the curb and waited.

But they had been there three days, and the only inquiry had been from a Turk who had no money but an ingenious scheme for smuggling Pakistani immigrants into Britain. So they were not hopeful, and they hardly looked up when the big, scar-faced man approached and did a circuit of the Mobex.

"It's for sale?" he asked, speaking in Italian.

Wally shook his head and answered in the same language.

"No, we just park here for the view."

The man didn't smile but went back to inspecting the vehicle. Paddy stood up, brushing dust from her ample backside.

"Are you really interested?"

The man turned and looked at her appraisingly and then nodded. Wally was ignored.

"Can I look at the motor?"

Wally followed them as she pointed out the advantages and then suggested that they go inside for a cool beer.

The Mobex was only two years old, with less than ten thousand miles on the clock, and Paddy argued fiercely over the price. Wally kept quiet, sipping his beer, admiring her determination.

They finally settled at ten million lire, and the man asked: "You have the transfer papers?"

Paddy nodded. "They have to be registered and stamped by the police."

They filled out the papers, the buyer's section reading: Patrice Duvalier. Nationality: French.