The Blue Ring (23 page)

She
took a sip and smiled up at him. "Very good wine. I think I know how you
feel."

He
nodded. "Maybe you do...Even though you're a child you have been through
much trouble. In all our history, over thousands of years, we have also gone
through much trouble. Always being invaded, sold into slavery and used by outsiders.
I can remember the last war...all the shops were shut then. I was just a
child." He gestured at his small fields. "But I worked on the farm
with my father and my uncle, and our family did not go hungry. What food we had
left over we sent to Malta, where the people were hungry."

"So
you are a happy man?" she asked.

He took
back the beaker of wine and drank a little more while he thought over his
answer.

"In
some ways I am happy. I have a wonderful and strong wife, a son to be proud of,
a daughter-in-law whom I love and who will give me grandchildren. I have
Creasy, who for me and Laura is a combination of son, brother and father. I
also have Michael who now is another son." He put a gnarled brown hand on
her head, patted it lightly and said, "And now it seems I have another
daughter. That is good, but for you it is difficult, because you have to
replace the two daughters I lost...and they were wonderful daughters."

She was
looking up at the farmhouse above her. She saw Laura and Maria sitting on the
patio. Very quietly she said, "I know all about Nadia and Julia...Michael
told me. I can never replace them. I can never take away that pain..." She
turned to look at him. "But I can love you and Laura and Joey and Maria. I
can promise nothing except that."

He
stood up, brushing the dust of the wall from his backside. He moved to the
rotovator. "Let's do one more field, and then I have to go over to a
friend who has some problems with his wine press."

"Can
I go with you?"

"Why
not?"

The car
pulled up in front of the church at two minutes to nine.

Michael
watched from his wheelchair a hundred metres away across the square. He held a
book on his blanketed knees. Jens stood behind him, garbed in the black of a
priest. Both of them wore hearing aids.

It was
a black car, an old but perfectly maintained Lancia. The driver got out and
opened the rear door. An old woman emerged. The driver tried to help her but,
imperiously, she waved him away.

With
the help of a white stick she hobbled up the shallow steps to the entrance. An
old priest was waiting for her. He took her by the arm and guided her through
the door. The driver climbed back into the car, drove it across the square and
parked it beside a small cafe.

Within
a minute he was drinking a cappuccino and biting into a brioche.

Michael
glanced around the square, then lifted the book and spoke quietly at it.

"Just
one," he said. "The usual one. Do you see him?"

Miller's
voice came into the hearing aid. "We see him."

"About
thirty minutes," Michael said. "My priest will take me for a
walk." He looked up at Jens and nodded. The Dane reverently pushed the
wheelchair across the cobbled square to the cafe.

Creasy tossed the three words across the table, watching the Italian's face closely
for any reaction.

"'The Blue Ring'."

At first there was no reaction. Grazzini's dark eyes simply looked puzzled. Slowly
he repeated the words as a question."'The Blue Ring'?"

Creasy said nothing, just watched him. Grazzini repeated the words.

"'The Blue Ring'?" Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. "I have heard
something...vague rumours...over many years...I doubt that it exists."

Creasy's voice was flat and direct. "'The Blue Ring' does exist. It is my reason
for being in Italy."

It had
immediately become a poker game. Each of the two players trying to fathom out
the cards that the other one held. Creasy remained silent.

Finally
Grazzini spoke. "If they do exist, they have nothing to do with the Cosa
Nostra."

Both of
Creasy's hands and feet were now numb. He tried to move his fingers and felt
nothing. He stretched his shoulders and said, "I know that. If I thought
they had anything to do with the Cosa Nostra I would not be tied up here. I
would be in Rome, talking to you and you are the one who would be tied
down."

Grazzini
shrugged dismissively.

"What
do you know about 'The Blue Ring'?"

"I
will tell you," Creasy answered. "But first I will tell you what I
know about Paolo Grazzini."

The Italian
smiled sardonically and waved a hand in invitation. Creasy leaned forward as
far as he could and spoke in a matter of fact voice. "Paolo Grazzini was a
small time 'soldier' in Rome until he married the sister of Conti, the chief
capo of Rome and northern Italy. That marriage fuelled his career, and he
became an important lieutenant although Conti never treated him with the
respect he thought he was due."

Grazzini
shrugged, the sardonic smile still on his lips. Creasy went on.

"About
six years ago, Gino Fossella, the head capo in Milan, and nominally under the
control of Conti, kidnapped a child very close to me and in doing so wounded
me, almost to my death. Later the girl died. I killed Fossella and his
lieutenants. I was angry. Angry enough to go to the very top. So I blew away
Conti and all his lieutenants except you."

"I
know all this," Grazzini said impatiently.

"You
know it but there are things you don't understand. I'm explaining to you now. I
went on to kill Cantarella in Palermo and all of his top lieutenants. After
that I faked my death."

Grazzini
nodded. "With the help of your good friend, Colonel Satta."

"That's
immaterial. With the death of Cantarella my vengeance was settled. I have
nothing against you personally, or the Cosa Nostra in general."

The
Italian smiled coldly again.

"It
takes two to stop a vendetta. You disturbed us. You will pay for it. This time
your death will not be fake...believe me."

Creasy
smiled. An open smile. He said, "You are not talking to somebody who is
ignorant of this matter. In the past six years things have changed. You rose to
the top in Rome and in the north, but you can never control Naples, Calabria or
Sicily. There are now two Cosa Nostre in Italy. One to the south of Rome and
one to the north. In the north you are trying to become civilised, trying to
become at least partly respectable. In time, maybe you'll succeed...but not
with the likes of Abrata. He represents the last generation."

Grazzini was feigning indifference, but Creasy could see the interest in his eyes. He
went on. "Paolo Grazzini is a different breed. Yes, he deals in drugs, or lets his minions do
so, and then takes his cut. You deal in coercion and protection, but mostly you
deal in corruption in collusion with Politicians and big businessmen." His
voice went quiet, almost reflective.

"But you do not deal in women; you have no hand in prostitution. When you order
killings it is only among yourselves...unlike the animals in the south and in
Sicily. You do not wage war on civilians. You do not kill women or use them."

There was a silence and then Grazzini spoke one word. "So?"

Creasy shrugged. "So you tell me what you know about 'The Blue Ring' which is a
stain on the honour of Cosa Nostra."

There was another silence, and Creasy waited, knowing that the Italian's reaction was
going to be crucial. The reaction came.

"Why is it a stain?"

Creasy
knew that he had crossed the first bridge.

"It
is a stain on Cosa Nostra, and you personally, because you let such filth
operate in your territory."

The
Italian became angry, and Creasy knew that he had crossed the second bridge.

"What
the hell do you mean?" Grazzini snarled. "They are only a rumour,
just a name in the dark. There are always rumours. I doubt they exist."

Very
emphatically Creasy said, "They do exist. They exist in your territory and
in others. I am going to find them and wipe them out."

"Why?"

"I
hate them."

"Why?"

"I
have seen their work."

"What
is their work?"

"They
buy and sell young women. They abuse them even beyond an imagination like
yours. They abuse their bodies and their minds."

Grazzini
was nodding. "I have heard this...But is that your business?"

"There
is a reason why I have made it my business."

"What
is that reason?"

Creasy
enunciated each word very carefully. "Because when they abuse these
girls...even children...they take pleasure from it. The pleasure is more
important than the profit."

For
several seconds Grazzini looked at the top of the table, then abruptly he stood
up and turned away and moved across the room.

There
was a picture on the wall. A still-life of a bowl of fruit. He stood looking at
it. Creasy knew that he had crossed the next bridge.

She hit Michael hard across the face with the white stick screaming,
"Vaffancuhr" at him.

He reeled away from her, almost dropping his pistol, then came back quickly as she
took another swipe. He grabbed the stick and pulled her towards him and got an
arm around her waist. She bit his shoulder and her false teeth came out. He
turned and ran down the steps clutching her under his arm. He saw the old
Mercedes pulling up beneath him, with The Owl at the wheel. His wheelchair was
bouncing across the cobbles. Jens was running towards the car, his robes
flapping. Halfway across the square Michael saw the bodyguard crumpled up, with
Miller standing over him. He saw the Australian pistol-whip the bodyguard once
more and then run for the corner. Jens had pulled open the back door of the
Mercedes. Michael bundled her in and dived after her. The Dane leapt into the
front seat and The Owl hit the accelerator. There were screams and shouts above
the squealing of the tyres and then they were gone. It had taken no more than
twenty seconds.

"But we have a vendetta." Grazzini was still looking at the painting. "You
killed members of my family."

Creasy's voice was harsh. "I killed your brother-in-law, whom I think you hated. I
killed your cousin who was a 'soldier' and who died in a battle. I did not kill
your sister...she remarried four years ago and gave birth to a daughter to whom
you are a godfather. Conti treated your sister like shit...and you know it."

Grazzini turned, moved back to his seat and sat down. For the first time his face showed
a trace of emotion. "There is a vendetta," he stated flatly.
"Only your death can end that."

Creasy looked at the Italian steadily for a few seconds and then spoke. "Let me
tell you of a terrible shame. A stain on any society. About eight years ago, in
a village in the mountains of Calabria, a vendetta ended. That vendetta had
lasted for thirty years, during which more than twenty men of two families had
been murdered. That vendetta lasted so long that nobody could remember why it
started. At the end there was only one male member of one of the families left
alive. In the wonderful code of such vendettas a boy becomes a man when he is
sixteen years old, and then becomes eligible to kill or be killed. That boy was
fifteen years old when his mother and sisters informed him that on his
sixteenth birthday he must take his father's gun and avenge the death of his
father, brothers, uncles and cousins. He decided that he wanted no part of a
vendetta. His mother and sisters were ashamed of his attitude. The local priest
knew of the story and informed the press. The story became known throughout
Italy and the world."

Grazzini
was nodding, his face sombre.

Creasy
went on, "Many families in Italy offered to take the boy in. Of course the
police offered protection. The boy refused all offers. On the night before his
sixteenth birthday his mother and sisters left the house, after spitting on
him. They left the doors open. One minute after midnight men from the other
family came with their guns and shot him at the table where he sat. His mother
and his sisters refused to attend his funeral...Was that vengeance? Is that
what you seek with me?"

Grazzini
looked at the pistol in front of him. He picked it up and then slowly replaced
it. Quietly he said, "You know our system. I have to maintain my
authority."

Creasy laughed softly.

"If you have to show how strong you are by putting a bullet into the brains of a
bound man, your authority is already lost."

Grazzini was silent and then the door burst open and Abrata was calling urgently.
Grazzini hurried from the room. A minute later he was back, his face suffused
with rage. He grabbed at the gun and pointed it at Creasy's head. His chest was
heaving and his words came out as a snarl.

"Vendetta! You talk of vendetta! You snatched my mother! My mother, you bastard!"

Creasy shouted back at him. "I've been tied to this chair for the last
twenty-four hours!"

"Your people, then!" He reached forward and put the muzzle of the gun between
Creasy's eyes.

Creasy drew a breath and then said quietly, "If it was my people and you pull
that trigger then your mother is dead."

The Italian was breathing deeply. From behind him Abrata said, "Kill
the bastard."

"It's not your mother," Creasy said loudly, and then in a quieter voice he said
to Grazzini, "When and where?"

Grazzini withdrew the gun a few inches. "Outside the church of her home town.
Fifteen minutes ago."

Creasy
closed his eyes in thought, then he motioned with his head to the chair.
"Sit down and wait. If it was my people they will phone here within
fifteen or twenty minutes. Have a phone on the table."

Tension
filled the room like an unseen presence. Abrata spoke again. "They will
try to trade her for him."