The Blue Ring (32 page)

The party that night had been an unqualified success. The cook had prepared a cold
buffet that would have done justice to the finest restaurant. The champagne was
vintage and the drugs of designer status. The woman, Gina Forelli, had
naturally arrived late. Michael had never met her, but had been induced to do
so by one of his newfound friends, Giorgio Cosselli, who lived life very much
in the fast track. He had dined with Giorgio two nights earlier at Sans Souci.

They had been alone, and over coffee and liqueurs Michael had agreed to lend Giorgio
fifty million lire as seed money for a new night-club venture he had in mind.
He knew he would never see the money again, but he also knew that Giorgio knew
more about the dark side of Roman society than anyone. During dinner Michael
had let slip that he had heard Rome was an interesting place for those who were
curious in the occult. Giorgio was a man in his mid-forties who lived the life
of a bloodsucker. He was the black sheep of a black family, and his greatest
pleasure in life was flirting with danger and the unknown. He had been drawn to
Michael like a leaf to a whirlpool, and as he swirled around in ever decreasing
circles, mesmerised by the undoubted scope of the young man's wealth and
naivety, he gushed forth information.

After dinner they had walked the few blocks to Jackie O's disco and stood at the bar
drinking negronis. Giorgio had pointed her out on the dance-floor. She was tall
and almost too thin Long shimmering black dress, long shimmering black hair,
black eyes, red mouth and white face.

"Gina Forelli," Giorgio had whispered. "She is the one to lead you where
you want to go. But be careful, my friend. If there is a witch in Rome, it is
she." He gave Michael a thumbnail sketch. Gina Forelli was approximately
thirty years old, the granddaughter of a Fascist general who had been close to
Mussolini. Her mother had been a semi-famous actress in the fifties who had
died of a drug overdose.

As far as he knew, Gina had never worked. Her first husband had been the third son of
a wealthy industrialist who had died in an alcoholic car crash. Some said it
was deliberate after catching his wife in bed with three men. Her second
husband had been a wealthy businessman twenty years her senior. He had died in
bed. The police had found half a dozen broken phials of amyl nitrite on the
bedroom floor. Apparently his heart had not been able to stand up to the
combination of Gina and the drug. By rights she should have been a wealthy
woman but, apart from her other passions, she had a fatal attraction to
gambling, and after the death of each husband had blown away her money in Monte
Carlo.

"Her
nickname is 'Zero'," Giorgio had explained with a smile.

"Why is that?"

"Because too many zeros come up in her life. Especially on the roulette table."

"What does she do now?" Michael had asked.

Giorgio had smiled again. "She opens the door to what you are looking for."

"Introduce me," Michael had said.

Giorgio
had shaken his head. "It would not be a good idea in this place."

"How
do I meet her?"

"Let's
go," Giorgio had answered. "I'll tell you outside."

The
entrance to Jackie O's is a long, canopied walkway. They had strolled to the
end, near to the street. It was dark there. Giorgio stopped and Michael turned
to look at him.

The
Italian said, "Michael, this deal we talked about at dinner...Can't
fail...Of course you will be a fifty per cent partner. You are young but you
must know that such deals have to be closed quickly. How fast can you transfer
the fifty mill, to my account?"

Michael
had looked at him and even in the gloom could see the anticipation and anxiety
in his eyes. Very quietly he asked, "Would US dollars be all right?"

"Of
course...even better!"

Michael
reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a wad of notes held
together by a thick elastic band. Very quickly and expertly he counted off
forty-eight of the notes and pulled them from the band. He held them out and
Giorgio stared at Michael, his mouth slightly open.

"They're
thousand-dollar bills," Michael said lightly. "I haven't checked the
exchange rate but it should be about right."

Very
slowly Giorgio reached out and took the notes. He did not count them. As he
tucked them into his back pocket he muttered, "Of course I'll send you a
receipt...and a contract. My lawyer is to be trusted."

Michael
had shaken his head. "Send me nothing, Giorgio. It is better that nothing
is written down."

Giorgio
had seen the white of Michael's teeth as he smiled. He had smiled back and
said, "I will make sure that Zero attends your party."

She had entered the apartment late and alone. Rene had been briefed.

He took her name and led her through the room to Michael. She was wearing only a tight
black leotard under a short wool ivory-coloured skirt. Her black hair was piled
high on her head. She wore plain gold rings on all her fingers and a plain gold
necklace. No earrings. Michael had noticed that the colour of her skin exactly
matched the colour of her skirt. He had felt his heart beating; not out of fear
but from anticipation.

Rene had presented her and then asked, "Champagne?"

She had shaken her head. "Do you know what a bullshot is?"

Rene had inclined his head. "Of course, Signora. Do you want it half and half?"

She had studied Rene's face for a moment. "No. Make it one-third bull and two-thirds shot."

Michael had been puzzled. "What have you just ordered?" he asked.

She smiled. Her teeth were also ivory and quite small. She flicked a pink tongue
across them. Her voice was very low and he had to lean forward to hear her above the noise.

"A bullshot is half beef consomme and half vodka; usually in equal amounts. I
asked your butler to go heavy on the vodka." She inclined her head
slightly to one side and studied him, and in her husky voice said, "It's
true what they say."

"What do they say?"

"They say that Adonis is in town...Why did Adonis invite me to his party?"

For the first time since getting off the plane in Rome Michael felt lost. The realisation
washed over him that he was only nineteen years old. In reality the sum total
of his knowledge boiled down to weapons and martial skills. The reality was
that he had killed people who had tried to kill him and had rarely felt fear.
Suddenly he felt fear. It only lasted a moment and then it was washed away by a
sense of exhilaration. He had hoped he had kept the fear concealed.

"I'm told they call you Zero."

She
smiled again. "Giorgio talks too much. What else did he tell you?"

"That you are dangerous."

Her smile widened. "Is that why you invited me?"

"Absolutely."

She lifted her head and laughed. Like her voice, it was husky. Rene moved through
the crowd with her drink on a silver tray. She took the glass and drank and
nodded her approval. Rene gestured at the laden buffet table. She shook her
head and raised the glass. "This and those that follow will be my
dinner." Still looking at Rene, she asked, "When will the other guests be leaving?"

Slightly startled, Rene had glanced at Michael who merely smiled, glanced at his Patek
Philippe, nodded to Rene and said, "Usher them out in about an hour."

In the
bathroom Michael stood up, stretched and grimaced slightly in pain. Rene also
stood up, still smiling.

"What's
the next step?" he asked.

Michael
turned and said, "The next step is tomorrow night. I'm having dinner with
her, alone. Afterwards she's taking me out to a place in the country."

"Just
another orgy?" Rene asked.

Michael
shook his head. "That's what I asked her...she said, 'No, it will be
more than that'." Michael noticed the flicker of concern on Rene's
face. "I'll be fine. And there's no other way, except to take a few risks."

"Any idea where the party's going to be?" Rene asked.

Michael shook his head. "No, but she told me it's only half an hour's drive from here, so I guess
it's on the outskirts of the city. Don't worry, Rene. So far I'm above
suspicion. The real danger will come later."

Creasy
eased his left leg and winced slightly in the darkness.

Definitely
the first twinges of arthritis. He cursed silently. He had never bothered about
the years creeping along, but lately he had begun to feel his bones, especially
when he had to sit totally still in the open for hours on end. He had been sitting
on this knoll for the last four hours, watching the villa about a kilometre
below him.

Guido
had obtained high grade aerial photographs of the location, and when he had
arrived, Creasy knew that there was a high steel-mesh fence surrounding the villa
at a radius of about eight hundred metres. He had pulled a Trilux night-sight
from one of the voluminous pockets of his black leather jacket, and quickly
picked out the high steel poles of the fence. He assumed that it was connected
to a sophisticated alarm system and would probably be electrified.

He
decided that Anwar Hussein had skimped on the cost of that fence. He should
have run it up and behind the knoll. From where he sat, Creasy had a good view
of the entrance to the villa. At his position, any half-decent sniper could
pick off anyone going in or coming out.

By the
time he had arrived there were two cars parked near the entrance. Four more
arrived during the next half hour. In all, they disgorged six men and four
women. As they passed under the light above the entrance, Creasy noted that
they were all dressed formally. It must be a dinner party; Italian society
preferred to dine late.

The
villa itself was a white two-storeyed building with a red tiled roof. The only
lights showing were on the ground floor. He faintly heard the sound of
classical music. They were probably dining on the open terrace on the far side
of the villa. There was no way he could get around the other side to catch a
decent view. The night was cool and he felt the twinge in his left leg again.

He
wondered what Michael was doing. The last message had been a phone call from
Rene that morning. He had simply said that Michael was progressing and to
expect results within a few days. Creasy felt his impatience mounting. He did
not like taking a subsidiary part while Michael was in the forefront. He
clamped down on his impatience. There had been no other way. Michael was the
logical choice to infiltrate 'The Blue Ring'. Creasy tried to picture what he
was doing at that moment, and a twinge of envy pushed away all shreds of
impatience. He guessed that at this time of night Michael was probably with
some beautiful young Roman socialite, either in bed with her or heading that
way. Ruefully Creasy tried to remember how long it was since he had been with a
woman. He decided that it had been too long.

In Milan Maxie MacDonald and Frank Miller were engaged in the same kind of work.
They were sitting near the window of an apartment on a corner of a side-street
off the Corso Buenos Aires, watching Donati's apartment on the fourth floor of
a building two hundred metres away. They sat behind two tripods; Maxie's held a
pair of powerful binoculars and Frank's a Nikon camera with a telephoto lens.

The
building they watched was small and old, containing only six luxury apartments.
For the past two hours Frank had been photographing everybody who went in and
came out. So far there had been only four. The work was boring but they were
used to it, both having served their time as bodyguards and in military
intelligence.

Frank
burped and glanced apologetically at Maxie, who grinned. That evening Maxie had
made a huge pot of spaghetti al vongole. They both reeked of garlic.

A long
black limousine pulled up at the entrance of the apartment building. A
uniformed chauffeur emerged and opened the rear door. Maxie refocused the
binoculars and watched the tall, grey-haired man in a dark overcoat move
towards the door. He heard the hum and the clicks of the Nikon's motor-drive.

Frank
burped again and said, "It must have been the Chianti."

Creasy watched the first of the guests emerge from the villa. The distance was too
great and the light not strong enough to distinguish their features, but he saw
that they all shook hands with the tall, bald-headed black man, who must be the
host, Hussein. After the second car had left, Creasy decided to follow the
third. He slipped back down the knoll through the underbrush to the rented
black Fiat which was tucked away in the trees off a side-road.

Ten minutes later he saw the lights of the car sweep by. It was a pale blue Lancia.
He waited a few seconds, pulled out after it and followed it the fifteen
kilometres into Naples. The Lancia pulled up outside a mansion on the Via San
Marco. The gates of the mansion rolled open and the car drove in. Creasy drove
slowly past the mansion and made a mental note of the registration number and the address.

It was after three o'clock in the morning when he got back to the Pensione Splendide.
They were all still up playing poker. No one looked up as he approached. They
were engrossed in their cards and there was a big pile of notes in the pot.
Slowly Creasy walked around the table, looking at the hands. Jens had a pair of
queens and a pair of tens; Pietro held a full house, jacks on eights; The Owl
had a hearts flush; Guido held a running flush in spades.

First
Jens folded with an incomprehensible curse in Danish. Pietro held on for two
more rounds and then tossed in his cards. The Owl and Guido looked at each
other. In an irreverent moment Creasy thought that Guido looked like a
pussy-cat. Finally The Owl called him and with an apologetic smile Guido laid
his cards on the table.

The Owl
swore in French as Guido raked in the pot.