The Blue Ring (17 page)

Brusquely
Michael said, "I can't just leave her!"

"You
have to! Get out of that place for four hours and take away anything she might
damage herself with."

Michael
looked at the thrashing girl and then at the door. Exhaustion swept over him.
His eyes felt as though they were filled with sand. His whole body ached.
Juliet was pulling at the pile of blankets, shaking them loose and covering
herself with them. Michael relayed this to Creasy.

"It's
the next stage," Creasy told him. "She's being wracked by chills. It
will go on for many hours. She will not sleep. Cramps in her stomach will keep
her awake. They may kill her, but there is nothing you can do. If she lives she
will need you later. Go and get that sleep!"

Michael
made his decision. "I will. What's your situation?"

"I've
got a lead on the name I was given in Marseille. I'm tracking it down. I'll
call you again in two or three days...Be strong, Michael."

The
phone went dead.

Creasy
threw a double four. Satta rolled his eyes to the ceiling and muttered
something about luck and the devil. Creasy took his last two counters off the
board, glanced at the doubling dice, made a quick calculation and said,
"It adds up to four hundred and twenty thousand lire."

Satta
swore under his breath, stood up, stretched his limbs and walked over to the
drinks cabinet.

They
were in his elegant apartment. It was Saturday afternoon, and they were both
dressed casually in slacks and open-necked shirts. For two hours they had been
waiting for a phone call, and had passed the time playing backgammon. Creasy
also walked to the cabinet, which was high enough to double as an elbows-on
bar. He glanced at his watch.

Satta
handed him a vodka soda in a tall, frosted glass and said, "He'll phone
soon. He's reliable, and if anyone can get a line on this man Donati, he
can."

Creasy
smiled. "I'm not impatient, Mario. On the contrary, I don't mind sitting
here playing backgammon all day."

The
Italian grimaced and said, "I don't know who is the most gloating winner,
you or Guido...By the way, who usually wins when you play each other?"

"It's
about even," Creasy answered, "but we never play for money."

"Why
not?"

"We
just play for practice, so we can fatten our wallets from overpaid carabinieri
colonels."

Satta
was about to retort when the phone rang beside him. He listened for about two
minutes, then he said, "Thank you", hung up and turned to Creasy.
"Maybe...it's just a maybe. There is in this city a man called Jean Lucca
Donati. He is a respected businessman, age sixty-one. He is a native of Naples
but has been living and working in Milan for the past thirty years. He has no
criminal record. In fact he is well-respected in the business and banking
community. Over the past fifteen years he has been quite successful. He owns a
large trading company which deals in the Middle and Far East, both importing
and exporting textiles and garments of a high quality. He travels extensively.
He is a widower with three grown sons who are all in the business. He has a
penthouse apartment here in Milan and also keeps a small villa on Lake
Como."

Creasy
had been listening intently. Now he took a sip of his drink and asked,
"So?"

Satta
shrugged. "My colleague is suspicious of him."

"Why?"

Satta
gave a slight smile. "He pays his taxes."

"So
that makes him a crook?"

"This
is Italy," Satta said seriously. "Very often the only way we can get
to a criminal is on a tax evasion charge. The Americans finally got Al Capone
for that reason. The last few years I've been specialising in corruption
between industry and our beloved politicians. In those years I have not come
across a single businessman or industrialist who honestly pays his taxes. So
why does Jean Lucca Donati make like an angel when it comes to paying taxes?
There are so many ways to evade it. It throws up the possibility that he is
keeping a clean image in a relatively small business to cover the profits of a
much larger and perhaps illegal business."

Creasy
was not impressed. "So all you have is suspicion."

They
had been talking in Italian. Creasy had learned the language during the years
he had spent with Guido, both in the Legion and later as mercenaries. In turn,
he had taught Guido English. The result was that Guido spoke English with a
slight southern American accent and Creasy spoke Italian with a definite
Neapolitan accent. He spoke it so well that an Italian would only guess he was
not native-born because he did not use his hands to emphasise his words. By
contrast, Satta was so eloquent with his hands that if they were tied behind
his back he would be struck dumb.

"Call
it more intuition than suspicion," he said. "Also bear in mind that
we have not been able to locate any other Donati who could possibly be involved
in the white slave trade...not on the international scale you are
suggesting."

He
picked up the phone and within a few seconds was talking to his assistant,
Bellu. Creasy listened as he gave precise instructions, which included an
in-depth check of Donati's finances, his recent movements and his business
associates overseas.

He
cradled the phone, turned to Creasy and said, "If nothing turns up during the
next forty-eight hours, I'll tap all his phones and put a twenty-four hour
watch on him."

"Why?"

"Why
what?"

"Why
are you doing this? You have a million other things to do. This is just a
tangent. You're busy from dawn till dusk. Why?"

Satta
had no immediate answer. He had to think, but then his thoughts crystallised
into eloquence.

"Creasy.
You are such a stupid asshole. Don't you know you have friends? Don't you
understand that you don't live in isolation? Don't you know that Guido would
die for you? That there are other people scattered around the world who would
do the same? You have a brain that is stuck in mud. You look at everybody in
the same light as you see yourself." The Italian became agitated, even
angry. He saw that the glasses were empty and poured more drinks. He was a man
who rarely showed his emotions. On this night he let himself go.

"I
have known you for six or seven years, and I know the loyalties that you
create. But you do not understand them yourself. This 'Blue Ring' you talk
about maybe it exists and maybe it doesn't. If it does you will destroy it. But
as an old friend I have to tell you that you are no longer in your youth. All
your life you have acted independently and turned yourself into your own guts
and needed no one. But now you need those that you have created...Of course I
am always in touch with Guido. I know him as a brother...and my brother knows
him as a brother. Occasionally, after a long night, good food and good wine, he
talks about you. No secrets, just memories of the days in the Legion, the days
in Africa, the days in the Far East and the days in Vietnam. You came into my
life, intent on destroying the Mafia family who had abused a child that you
loved. I should have arrested you but I let you go. You put those Mafia
bastards back ten years. I do not know about this 'Blue Ring' you talk about,
but I will find out about it. You can call so many people to your cause. Do not
go alone. Use your history. These people you look for are more dangerous than
you understand. I think that, because of what you tell me, they have existed
for very many years; and we know nothing about them, and so they must be
organised and clever in the extreme." His voice was now filled with
emotion.

He took
another gulp of his drink, nodded firmly and said, "It is as though we go
back six years. I see you as a smoking bomb. I have no doubt that in the weeks
ahead I will come under pressure to find you and arrest you. I will avoid that
pressure. My life now is involved in catching corruption. What is the result? I catch them
and they pull the strings of politics and get off with a slap on the wrist.
Creasy, indulge me...Lately, life has been boring. I think the Donati we have
identified is your first major link...OK ...intuition, but go for him. You know
my assistant...I have to correct myself, my associate...Bellu...you know him
well. He has the kind of mind to help you. He needs a long holiday. I will
suggest that he helps you. I will give you the umbrella of legal sanction. But
I urge you to call on those people you know and trust to help you break these
animals. There is no legally constituted body in this country or in any country
in Europe that could attempt it."

A long
silence. Then Creasy half smiled.

"At
the end of it, will the carabinieri give me a pension?"

Satta
also smiled, a smile of emotion.

"I
talk tonight in a way that you will never hear me talk again. The evil that you
look for will never be tried in a court of law. The only retribution will be
death. I will cover you for that...In the meantime, Creasy, you must be careful
when you're in this city or in any other city in Italy. Don't forget, your face
is well-known and, for sure, any Mafia family would love to get their hands on
you."

Creasy
shrugged. "That is why I stay in a lousy little hotel and keep to
myself."

The
Italian nodded thoughtfully, then pointed at the telephone.

"Make
your dispositions."

Creasy
looked at him. "Is this phone secure?"

"Believe
it."

Creasy
dialled a number. It was Blondie in Brussels. He spoke in euphemisms but she
understood every word.

"A
base," he said.

"You
have it."

He told
her about the people with whom she could be frank and open. "Michael, of
course, and in time maybe a child called Juliet. A policeman in Copenhagen whom
you once met. A Frenchman from Marseille who will identify himself only as The
Owl. His boss is another Frenchman whom you knew in Algiers. He was a
legionnaire. Now he lives in Marseille."

He
heard her rich chuckle and she said, "Yes, I know him...not entirely
ugly."

"Yes,
of course," he said. "You knew every good-looking legionnaire in
North Africa."

She
laughed again and then said, "A good man, and he respects you. Who
else?"

"Maxie,
of course. Also contact the Australian and the Frenchman who helped me on the
last job in the States and put them on standby...The usual rates...plus job
satisfaction. I'll be with you in a couple of days." He cradled the phone
and looked at Satta, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"So
the war starts," Satta said with satisfaction.

"It
starts as soon as you give me a definite lead," Creasy answered, then
picked up the phone and dialled another number. The phone rang and, on a sudden
impulse, Creasy hung up.

Satta's
face showed surprise.

"What
is it?"

Thoughtfully
Creasy said, "Is there any chance that Guido's phone might be
bugged?"

Satta
smiled and shook his head. "I stay at his pensione quite often, and I have
his phone and the pensione swept regularly. His phone is not bugged."

Creasy
punched the number and in a few seconds was talking to Pietro, the semi-adopted
son of Guido, who did most of the work at the pensione. He had been dispatched
to Gozo during those traumatic weeks when Creasy had been destroying the
Cantarella Mafia family all those years ago. The conversation was brief but
affectionate.

"How
are you, you miserable little prick?"

"I
recognise your asshole voice. What do you need?"

"Is
the man around?"

"No
he's with his mother...she has a headache."

Creasy
laughed softly and said, "Listen carefully and pass it on. There may be
calls from the following: myself, Michael, Satta, Bellu, Corkscrew Two,
Blondie, a girl called Juliet, Pavlova, The Owl, Laura, Maxie, Nicole, Miller,
Callard...only those. Tell the man and, understand yourself, take messages.
Listen to nobody else."

There was a pause as Pietro took notes. Then he said, "Will we see you?"

"In a few days." Creasy put down the phone, looked at Satta and said,
"Two or three more phone calls and I'll be ready."

Satta nodded and refilled the glasses. Creasy dialled Leclerc in Marseille.
They chatted about inconsequential things and people such as a cousin in Milan
and an old aunt in Naples. Creasy dropped a few nicknames which would be
incomprehensible to any covert listener.

They were certainly incomprehensible to Satta, who was listening with interest. But
he knew who Leclerc was, and he surmised that Creasy was ordering weapons to be
delivered to both Milan and Naples.

Finally Creasy said into the phone, "I hear that The Owl did a good job. Perhaps I
could use him on this one too?" He listened for a moment, nodded in
satisfaction, said, "Good." and hung up the phone.

He then phoned Michael in Gozo, heard the anguish in his voice and gave his advice. He
put the phone down and Satta noted the pain on his face.

"What is it?" the Italian asked.

Creasy explained about Juliet. Satta was one of the very few men that understood
Creasy, understood the thick shell that surrounded him, and the small centre
that held emotion.

He put a hand on his friend's shoulder and said quietly, "You tilt at windmills.
You slay the dragon. If that evil exists, you will obliterate it...and then
where will you go...back to your island?"

Creasy drained his glass, nodded and said, "Back to my island...and to my
son..." He paused and thought, and his voice became sombre. "And in
the next forty-eight hours it's possible that I will go back to a
daughter." He lifted his head, stretched his tired body and then said in a
soft voice, "Mario, can you imagine me of all people, after what has
happened, with a son and a daughter? I had a wife and a child, and life ended,
and now just maybe I have a son and a daughter." Seconds ticked by within
a silence, then Creasy added something else. Very softly he said,
"Mario...I know you have religion. When you can find time tonight...please
find time to pray for my daughter."