The Blue Ring (33 page)

He
looked up at Creasy, smiled and said, "You guys can stay as long as you
like. I'm making more money than looking after a bunch of tourists...and the
work's easier."

Creasy
grinned and dropped a slip of paper in front of him.

"That's
the registration number of a blue Lancia and the number of a large house in the
Via San Marco. Can you check them out in the morning?"

Guido
picked up the paper, looked at it and nodded, then gestured at the table and
said, "Do you want to sit in?"

Creasy
grinned and shook his head. "I'd rather jump into a furnace."

Juliet
was subdued over dinner. Laura noticed that she did not eat with her usual,
single-minded concentration. Since she had first arrived, the child had eaten
as though it was a duty and a mission, and indeed she had filled out and grown
remarkably quickly.

It was
a Saturday night and Joey and Maria had come for dinner.

At
first Juliet had been light-hearted and relaxed, but during the early evening
they had talked a lot about Guido and the many times he had visited Gozo both
before and after Julia's death. Every year he had sent money, explaining that
it was just a device to reduce his taxes in Italy. But they had known
differently. They were by no means poor people, but they lived simple lives.
They had used the money to build a guest wing onto the farmhouse and Guido used
to stay there on his yearly holidays. Creasy had also stayed there on the two
occasions he had come to Gozo to recover from his wounds. It was where Juliet
now stayed. They had also talked about the Pensione Splendide in Naples which
Guido had run with Julia and which he now ran with Pietro. Juliet knew that the
pensione was now Creasy and Michael's base. Because of the girl's mood, Laura
soon changed the subject.

After
dinner the girl helped her wash up, and then said that she had a headache and
asked to be excused. She kissed them all goodnight, went up to the guest suite
and sat on the wide bed. It was a beautiful room, made from ancient stones and
constructed in the old manner with high arches. She thought of Creasy in that
room, and suddenly she could see his face vividly. The clipped, grey hair, the
mahogany cheeks and the scars. Quietly she started to cry. She stopped as soon
as she heard the soft tap on the door and Laura's voice calling her name.
Wiping an arm across her face, she called, "Come in."

Laura
opened the door and looked at her. Then she crossed the room and sat down
beside her, putting an arm around her.

"I
know you miss them," she said. "We should have thought about that and
not talked so much."

Juliet
shook her head. "No...it's all right. It's not so much that I miss them.
Well of course I do...but I know what they're doing, and I worry. It's not so
bad at school because I have to concentrate; but later I think about
it...perhaps too much."

"It's
natural," Laura said in a matter of fact voice. "Of course you miss
them. But you must not worry too much, Juliet. They are survivors, those
two...believe me. Is there anything we can do? Maybe we should be more active.
Tomorrow's Sunday, and Joey's going fishing with some friends for Lampuki.
Would you like to go with them?"

Juliet
shook her head and then smiled.

"No...I
know they would take me, but I also know they don't like to take girls fishing.
They think it brings bad luck."

Laura
nodded. "Yes, it's true. We are blessed with a bunch of very superstitious
men on this island. Is there something else you'd like to do?"

"Yes. Do you think I could go up to the house for the day? I could swim in the pool,
and perhaps take a picnic."

"You
want to be there alone?"

"Yes.
Do you mind?"

Laura
smiled. "Of course not. I understand. Paul will drive you up after mass,
and I'll pick you up in the evening."

It was
just after ten in the morning when Juliet turned the large key in the huge
garden gate. She waved to Paul who waved back and drove away.

She
walked across the patio to the pool and stood looking down at it for a moment.
Then she raised her eyes and looked out across the vista of rolling hills,
villages and the sea and islands beyond. She felt immediately at peace.

She
went to the kitchen and put her cold lunch into the fridge and changed into her
swimsuit. It was a warm autumn day. She swam twenty lengths of the pool, then
dried herself, pulled a book from her bag and lay on a lounger in the sun. For
the next hour she studied the book which contained lessons in Maltese.
Afterwards she remembered something and went into Michael's bedroom. Next to
his bed was a portable Sony cassette player and a selection of tapes. She
flicked through them and picked out some disco music.

Ten
minutes later the music was echoing around the pool area, and she was dancing
under the trellis. Michael had promised that when he came back he would take
her down to the disco and dance with her. She was determined not to let him
down. She danced for about an hour, changing the music and trying out new
steps. Then she went into the kitchen and brought out her lunch and unpacked it
on the table. Laura had prepared it and there was enough for three strong,
grown men. Slabs of smoked ham, a portion of Lampuki pie, boiled eggs, local
sausage, a cold potato salad, tomatoes, cucumber and, of course, a loaf of
crusty bread.

On an
impulse she jumped up and went into the cave. After her ordeal there, Michael
had restocked it with Creasy's large collection of wine. He had explained the
different types to her, pointing out the labels of the particularly good ones.
She searched down the rows until she found it: a bottle of Margaux. Before she
closed the door to the cave she stood there, looking and remembering. A great
welling of love for Michael went through her. She found a corkscrew in the
kitchen and a long-stemmed glass, and carried them out to the table under the
trellis. An hour later she was very full of food and slightly dizzy. She
noticed that the bottle was half-empty and giggled to herself.

She
spent the next hour prowling around the old house. First she went up the stairs
to Creasy's study. She marvelled at the rows and rows of books, and pulled a
few down to look at them, some old, some new, novels, reference books and many
biographies and autobiographies. She wondered if he had read them all. There
were cupboards full of magazines and drawers full of highly-detailed maps.

In a
small annex there was an IBM computer and a fax machine and several padlocked
metal filing cabinets. Then she wandered through the lounge with its great
stone fireplace, comfortable chairs and old mahogany bar in the corner. She
went back into Michael's bedroom and smiled at all the posters on the walls,
mostly of rock groups and a few semi-erotic women. Finally she ended up in
Creasy's bedroom.

There
were two large windows; one looked out along the ridge towards Zebbug, and the
other had a small balcony outside and a view of the rest of Gozo. She was
feeling very light-headed. She turned and looked at the bed again and the wall
behind it. Her eyes rose to the top right-hand corner of one of the great slabs
of stone that made up the thick wall. She remembered.

She
walked around the bed to the stone and pushed the heel of her hand against the
top right-hand corner. Silently it swung open to reveal the gun-metal grey of
the door of the safe. She closed her eyes in thought and remembered again. She
reached up and dialled the numbers: 83...02...91. From the middle shelf she
pulled down several files. She knew that they contained details of many people,
some friends, some enemies. For the next two hours she sat on the bed, reading
through them; then she replaced them. She sat thinking and then made her
decision. Beneath the bottom shelf was a metal drawer. She pulled it out and
looked inside and saw the tightly wrapped bundles of notes. She counted out
five million Italian lire and two thousand US dollars. She then located the
envelope which contained her new passport and extracted it. She closed the
safe, repositioned the stone, went to the kitchen and found the telephone
directory.

Laura
arrived just after six o'clock. She opened the gate and found the girl asleep
on the lounger by the pool. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her bag
beside her. For a long while she stood, looking down at the girl. Her face was
completely at rest. Laura called out her name and saw her eyes open and the
sudden panic in them; but as soon as the girl recognised her she smiled.

"Did
you have a good day?" Laura asked.

"Wonderful,"
Juliet answered with a smile. "Can I do it again?"

"Of
course."

Colonel
Satta shuffled through the 8 x 10 photographs. He was sitting with Maxie
MacDonald and Frank Miller in a discreet banquette of an elegant restaurant in
Milan. He came to the last photograph, stiffened and then swore quietly. He
swore for about half a minute while he looked at the photograph.

"Who
is he?" Maxie asked.

Bitterly
Satta answered, "General Emilio Gandolfo...May he roast in hell."
Maxie and Frank waited patiently while the Italian distastefully perused the
photograph again. Then he explained. "Gandolfo is one of my superiors in
the carabinieri. Like others of his rank, he has Fascist antecedents. He was
the man who ordered me to stop the investigation into Jean Lucca Donati and
Anwar Hussein."

Frank
leaned forward and said, "It's not definite that he went to Donati's
apartment. There are five others in that building."

Satta
shrugged and smiled wryly.

"If
I were a betting man, and I am, I would lay a thousand to one that he went to
Donati's apartment."

"Does
he have much power?" Maxie asked.

Satta's
face turned grim.

"Unfortunately,
yes. He is powerfully connected, politically, socially, and within the military
and intelligence."

Frank
had been making notes on a pad. He ripped off the page, stood up and said,
"I'll go to a phone box and pass this on to Jens."

"What
do you want to eat?" Maxie asked. "I'll order for you."

"Ah,
just a plate of spaghetti," the Australian answered. "Just bung
a little brown sauce on top."

Satta
rolled his eyes and Maxie chuckled.

Guido
got back to the pensione just after six in the evening. He found Creasy, Jens
and The Owl in the small bar, drinking negronis. Pietro was behind the bar.
Guido nodded and received his usual glass of Chivas Regal and soda. He pulled a
slip of paper from his pocket and slid it in front of Creasy saying,
"That's the owner of the light blue Lancia and the house on Via San
Marco."

Creasy
looked down and read the name "Franco Delors."

"What
do you know about him?" Creasy asked.

"Personally,
nothing," Guido answered. "But as you know I have friends in the
police here, and connections into the Mafia. Franco Delors is an interesting
character. Born of an Italian mother and a French father. He settled in Naples
about twelve years ago. Shortly afterwards he was indicted for his part in a
paedophile ring. Somehow he got off with a suspended sentence. Thereafter,
according to my sources, he turned to God and took up good works. His record
had been squeaky clean ever since, and he is considered a paragon of virtue. He
sits on the board of several charities and is much involved in helping to
settle the influx of refugees coming into Italy from the turmoil in Eastern
Europe...particularly Albania."

"Anything
else?" Creasy asked.

Guido
shook his head. "I'm still digging, and something may come in later."

Jens
reached forward, picked up the slip of paper and moved to the door, saying,
"I'll put this onto the computer, together with the information we got
from Frank on General Gandolfo." As he reached the door Guido's voice
stopped him.

"Oh,
there was one other thing. Apparently one of the charitable organisations that
Delors heads up has recently opened an office in Bari to help find homes for
Albanian orphans."

"Bari?"
Jens asked.

"Yes,"
Guido answered. "It's the closest Italian port to Albania...Apparently he
spends much time there."

Some
people live inside and enjoy their own minds. They are content within a
structured mental environment, and uncomfortable outside of that structure.
Such people usually have physical or mental drawbacks; sometimes real and
sometimes imagined.

Massimo
Bellu was such a man. He considered himself unattractive to the opposite sex.
He was short and somewhat plump, no matter how much he dieted. His hair was
lank and not quite black enough to be interesting, no matter what expensive
shampoos and conditioners he used. He would always recall the comment of a
hairdresser who had contemplated his hair when he was nine years old. His
mother had taken him there and waited expectantly. The hairdresser had been an
attractive young woman. She had circled him three times and then stated,
"We either shave it all off and try to make him look like Kojak, or we do
the best with it."

His
mother had become angry. Massimo had become sad. He had retreated into his
intellect, which, even at that age, had been considerable. At school he had
been the butt of scorn from his contemporaries. Unco-ordinated at sports,
unskilled in social mores, unsuccessful with girls. His only anchor had been
his mind, and he withdrew into it.

It had
taken him through school and by a scholarship into the University of Rome to
study Social Science. From there he had gone into the most cerebral department
of the carabinieri to specialise in social trends, including the analysis of
the criminal mind. Within a few years he had found himself working with Colonel
Mario Satta as a backroom boy, supplying analysis relating to the phenomenon of
the Mafia. As he looked back on his life only two people had profoundly
affected it: one was Colonel Satta and the other was Creasy. Within the
distortions of Italian society and social structure, they were the only two
people who held any value for him.