The Blue Ring (38 page)

She had
gone to her room refusing food, locked the door and thrown herself onto the
bed, her heart close to breaking. Sleep eluded her, but after midnight she got
up and started pacing the narrow room and formed a determination to be the
first up in the morning and, come what may, to make herself useful.

General
Emilio Gandolfo was a hunter. The stalking of a bird or a stag or a wild boar
was his greatest passion. He had hunted in Scotland, Rumania and Botswana; but
he never changed his ritual of spending the last two weeks of September hunting
for partridge in the hills with his close friend Julio Bareste, a right-wing
lawyer with connections as impeccable as his own.

Every
year on the fifteenth of September they would pack Gandolfo's Range Rover with
a selection of food, wine, guns, and the most stylish hunting clothes available
that season. They would kiss their wives goodbye and drive off to the isolated
cabin in the mountains that they rented each year. Apart from the odd
fellow-hunter they would see nobody. They would cook their own pasta, mix their
own sauces and enjoy the supply of hams and cheeses and fine wines.

They
would rise at dawn and return at sunset. The evenings would be spent eating and
drinking and fixing the world; which meant moving it sharply to the right. The
rare interruptions came only via the mobile phone which Bareste brought with
him and left at the cabin.

Colonel
Satta was well aware of Gandolfo's annual habit. He discussed it at length with
Maxie and Frank.

Creasy
had begun to feel akin to a general who sits in a command bunker while everyone
in the field is preparing for battle. He had daily telephone reports from Rene
or Michael. He spoke frequently to Laura in Gozo and to Tom Sawyer, and was
quietly confident that no matter what 'The Blue Ring' was doing, the situation
in Gozo was under control.

Juliet
had surprised everybody by throwing herself into physical work at the pensione.
She was up every morning at dawn, first cleaning the kitchen and then going on
to the small dining room and, one by one, the guest rooms. She scrubbed the
floors and washed the windows and polished the woodwork. At first the men had
looked on with amusement, but as they had seen her determination they had
viewed her with respect.

Slowly
she had crept into their circle. They began to talk freely in front of her,
discussing plans and dispositions. She watched and listened as Creasy used the
phone to receive and give information, and to issue orders. To an outsider all
would seem relaxed, but she could sense the tension building up, particularly
in Guido and Pietro. She had mentioned this to Creasy when they were alone.

He had
nodded and explained, "Pietro has never been involved in such an
operation. Not even on the edge. Guido on the other hand is very experienced,
but has been retired for many years. He feels excitement rather than
tension."

The
call from Satta came just before dinner. Creasy took it alone in his room.

Satta
said, "I decided not to resign." He waited for Creasy's reaction but
got nothing so he went on, "To paraphrase Lyndon Johnson, I can be more
effective inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in...After
Gandolfo is out of the way I'll go after others of his type. I'm compiling a
list in my mind."

"It
will be endless," Creasy commented.

"Maybe,
but chipping away at it will give me more satisfaction than sitting around
looking at my feet."

Creasy asked,
"How are you going to get the information out of Gandolfo without
compromising yourself?"

The
Italian explained about the General's hunting habits and the plan he had worked
out with Maxie and Frank.

Creasy
went through it in his mind, then asked, "You're sure you can get those
drugs?"

"Yes.
I have the right contact, whom you know, and a cutout between."

"Is
he sure they will work?"

"Yes,
given Gandolfo's age and medical history."

Creasy
said, "It sounds good, unless the General decides to return to Rome with
his friend."

"It's
unlikely. If he does we have a back-up plan. We snatch them both on the road
and then arrange a fatal accident later...That's a dangerous road, especially
at night."

Creasy's
mind was working through all the possibilities. He had much admiration for the
subtleties of Satta's brain; and in Maxie and Frank he had total confidence. He
asked, "Who's going to toss that small bomb?"

"We
had an argument about that," Satta said. "I was going to hire a
small-time operator to do it, but Maxie and Frank objected. They considered it
unwise to bring in anyone from outside."

"They
were right."

"Yes,
anyway. I suggested Rene but again was overruled. They said you wouldn't want
the cover pulled off Michael at this late stage."

"Again
they're right," Creasy said. "Not because he's my son, but because
he's now pivotal to the operation...So who's going to do it?"

"I offered to do it, but the bastards just laughed...So Frank's going to do it.
He's going to use a small frag grenade. It will cause quite a bang but do little damage."

Creasy
chuckled. "OK. I guess Frank has a mite more experience than you. But how
does it affect the time-scale?"

"No
problem. Maxie and I will drive up to the mountains in the late afternoon. It
takes about two hours. We'll keep the cabin under surveillance. Frank will toss
his grenade at eight o'clock and drive on to us. I'll have a mobile phone, so
will he. If Gandolfo decides to return to Rome with Bareste, then Maxie will
set up a road-block at a predetermined spot. He will be wearing the uniform of
a carabinieri captain. We'll be following the Range Rover down. Don't worry,
Creasy. Maxie and Frank have it all worked out...they seem to be enjoying
themselves."

"I'll
bet they are," Creasy said with a trace of frustration. "It beats
sitting here looking at a phone...OK, Mario, keep in touch. Good luck."

Tulio Bareste thought that his friend looked ridiculous wearing the deerstalker
hat, but he did not say so. General Gandolfo was extremely sensitive about his
taste in most things in life, and his choice of clothes, in particular. Both
men wore tweeds, the plus-four trousers being tucked into calf-length tartan socks.

They felt themselves socially a cut above the hundreds of thousands of other Italian
hunters, and this was reflected in their guns. Gandolfo carried a
double-barrelled Holland and Holland twelve-bore shotgun, which had been a
twenty-first birthday present from his father. For many years he had bragged about
its increasing rarity and value, until ten years ago on a visit to London,
Bareste had slipped into the discreet showroom of Purdey, the gunsmith's, and
paid a massive deposit on their finest model. He had had to wait five years for
it and would proudly tell anyone who would listen that he had to travel to
London for two 'fittings' while it was being made.

The day
had provided poor sport and they headed back to the cabin in the twilight. They
only had four partridge in their leather shoulder-bags. But no matter. It was
their first full day and the weather report for the next day was good. They had
tossed a coin to decide who would prepare dinner, and Gandolfo had lost, which
pleased him, because he prided himself on his cooking.

They
reached the cabin just before darkness. It was small but comfortable: two
bedrooms, a well-equipped kitchen, a compact dining room/lounge with a large,
stone, open fireplace, and a spacious south-facing patio.

They
changed out of their hunting clothes, took hot showers and put on warm,
designer tracksuits. Gandolfo lit the fire while Bareste mixed negronis. There
was no electricity in the cabin. Lighting, heating, the stove and fridge all
ran on bottled gas. Bareste settled down in front of the crackling fire while Gandolfo
bustled around in the kitchen.

The
General had just placed a pot of pasta on the table when the mobile phone rang
on the mantelpiece.

With a
muttered curse, Bareste picked it up, pressed a button and barked,
"Pronto!" His expression changed from irritation to alarm as he
listened.

Gandolfo
hurried to his side asking, "What is it, Julio?"

Bareste
held up a hand and asked into the phone, "Are you all right?
Yes...Good...Of course I have no idea...Calm yourself...Wait a moment."

He
turned to Gandolfo. "About fifteen minutes ago a bomb was thrown at the
front of my house."

"God!
Was anybody hurt?"

"No,
only Carla was at home. Apparently, the front door was damaged, and a window
blown in. Carla ran immediately to our son's house nearby. She is there now
with our daughter-in-law, and the children. Paolo of course phoned the police
and went straight to the house."

The
General assumed command. He took the phone and told Carla to phone back as soon
as Paolo returned. Then he called carabinieri headquarters and issued a series
of instructions. He then took Bareste by the arm and led him to the
dining-table, saying, "Of course we have to return, but eat first. The
best people are now on the job. The Colonel who heads our bomb squad is handling
it personally. He will call us from the site. Fortunately, no one is
hurt."

Bareste
allowed himself to be seated. Gandolfo piled the pasta onto the plates and
poured the wine. "Any idea who might be behind it?" he asked.

Bareste
shook his head. "You know how it is with men like us we make enemies. It's
inevitable."

"Anyway,"
Gandolfo said firmly, "whoever's behind it is going to be very sorry.
Obviously they are unaware of our friendship. They will suffer for their
ignorance."

The two
men ate in silence until the phone rang again. It was Bareste's son calling
from the house. He told his father that it had been a small bomb or grenade.
Very little damage. The place was swarming with police and carabinieri. There
was a colonel next to him who wanted to speak to General Gandolfo.

Bareste
handed over the phone and went back to his pasta while the General first
listened, then asked questions, and then gave further orders. Bareste found
himself feeling slightly sorry for the colonel. It was, after all, a fairly
minor incident in a country where bombing and shooting were commonplace.

He said
as much after he had spoken to his son again and told him he would be back in
Rome within three hours. Gandolfo waved a fork dismissively.

"Of
course it's getting special attention. That's what friends are for." He
glanced at his watch. "We'll be on the road in half an hour."

Bareste
held up a hand. "Now, listen. I'll go alone. There's no need for you to
break your holiday...God knows, you take so little time off! This is a small
matter and you've done enough. Of course I have to go back...Carla would get
mad if I didn't. But I don't have to go for long...one or two days at the
most." He gestured at the mobile phone. "I'll leave that with you so
you can keep in touch, but I refuse to let you spoil your holiday."

Gandolfo
pretended to insist for a couple of minutes, but his friend was firm.

"Anyway,"
Bareste said, "Carla was planning to visit her sister in Florence in a
couple of days, so it's no problem. I'll be back on Wednesday at the
latest...Just leave a little sport for me."

So it
was agreed. Half an hour later they embraced beside the Range Rover and Bareste
climbed in and drove off into the darkness.

Gandolfo
went back inside, washed the plates and pots and stacked them neatly. He
decided to have Cognac beside the fire, but had only taken a couple of sips
when he started yawning. The unaccustomed exercise and the mountain air had
made him sleepy. He took the mobile phone from the mantelpiece, put it on the
bedside table, changed into his silk pyjamas, and three minutes later was
snoring contentedly.

Michael
rang just after ten o'clock.

At the
Pensione Splendide they had finished dinner and were sitting at the small bar,
drinking espressi and Stregas. Juliet had just gone to bed. Creasy took the
call. It was brief. The black mass would take place on the coming Sunday night.
Michael had no idea of the location, except it would be within an hour's drive
of Rome. She was to pick him up. He would be alone and would be body-searched
for any weapons or transmitters. He had agreed to give the woman half the money
before and half the next day.

Creasy
told him that they were formulating plans with several options, but they were
still waiting to find out what Satta could get out of Gandolfo during the next
few hours. He would call Michael in the morning.

Creasy
hung up and said, "It's vital we get some clue as to the venue. Otherwise
we will have to follow Michael and the woman. They will be very cautious and so
it will be difficult."

Jens
was sitting beside him. The Owl was at the table with his earphones on; he was
not much interested in strategy. Guido was on the other side of the bar,
polishing a glass.

He
said, "I wouldn't like to go into that situation without a gun or at least
somebody good watching my back."

Creasy
shrugged and said, "You wouldn't like it...But you'd do it. I've seen you
do enough crazy things in the past to get you certified."

Guido
smiled, winked at Jens, and said, "Sure, we should have ended up in the
funny house...both of us."

The
Dane said seriously, "I think you did. It's called the Pensione Splendide.
What troubles me...I'm also an inmate." He smiled and gestured for another
drink.

Half an
hour and two Stregas later the phone rang again. It was Satta.

He knew
better than to talk details on a mobile phone, he simply said, "So far so
good. His friend left. Lights are out. The boys are going in now. I'll phone
you when it's over and we're on the road."