Luciano's Luck (3 page)

practised eye: the highly irregular SS uniform, the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords. 'A pleasure, Major,' he said. Koenig turned to Kesselring. 'There is a difficulty here, I think, Herr Field Marshal. Who is to be in charge? Meyer and I would appear to carry the same rank.' 'No difficulty there, I hope?' Kesselring said, smoothly. 'I see you as performing separate functions; you being responsible for the purely military side of the operation and Major Meyer for the, how shall I put it? The more political aspects.' There will be no problem from my point of view, I can assure the Herr Field Marshal of that,' Meyer said. 'Excellent.' Kesselring managed a wintry smile. 'And now, if you would leave us, Meyer. There are still matters I wish to discuss with Major Koenig.' Meyer clicked his heels, delivered an impressive Heil Hitler and departed. When he'd gone, Kesselring said, T ow wnat you're going to say, Koenig, and you're quite 37 right. It places you in a most difficult situation.' 'Almost impossible, Herr Field Marshal. I will have n authority of rank, which means the wretched man can interfere as much as he likes.' He was angry and it showed. Kesselring said, 'Rank has little to do with the matter. As a member of the Reichs. fuhrer's personal staff, he will always have considerable influence in certain situations, even were I myself concerned. However, I have done the best I can for you in the circumstances.' He nodded to Walther who handed Koenig a buff envelope. Koenig started to open it and Kesselring said, 'No, keep it for later.' He held out his hand in another of those unexpected gestures. 'I wish you luck. You're going to need it.' 'Herr Field Marshal � General.' Koenig saluted, turned and went out. Franz Meyer stood in the hall, pretending to read the noticeboard as he waited for Koenig. His dislike for the Major had been immediate and it went beyond any personal jealousy of Koenig's military distinction. The truth was far deeper. Koenig was a gentleman, son of a Major General of the Luftwaffe. Meyer, on the other hand, was the third son of a Hamburg shoemaker who had served the last two years of the First World War in the trenches, who had starved like thousands of � others in Germany during the twenties, thanks to the British and the French and the Jews until the Fiihrer had come along, a man of the people, giving hope to the people. And Meyer had served him since those first days, one of the earliest party members in Hamburg. The Fiihrer himself had pinned the Blood Order on him. The Koenigs of the world, who thought themselves so far above him, had a lesson to learn. He turned as Koenig approached. 'Ah, there you are, 38 - ;or. I would very much appreciate an opportunity to . _* my duties at the earliest possible moment. This ^ter affair, for example.' 'Gestapo business, not mine,' Koenig said, pulling on bis gloves. 'I merely provided ground support.' Meyer said, 'A valuable field officer murdered, Carter allowed to get clean away, yet you took no hostages in Bellona. Exacted no reprisals.' 'I'm a soldier, not a butcher,' Koenig said. 'If the distinction doesn't appeal to you, take it up with the Field Marshal.' 'There are perhaps others I could take it up with,' Meyer replied calmly. 'Reichsfiihrer Himmler might well be interested in an officer of SS who expresses such sentiments.' 'Then you must discuss it with him,' Koenig said, 'as I'm sure you will,' and he went out of the entrance, down the steps and crossed to where Brandt waited for him behind the wheel of a kubelwagen. Koenig smoked a cigarette as they drove down towards Palermo. Finally, he said, 'Pull over, Rudi. I must walk for a while.' Brandt turned in at the entrance of the Pellegrino cemetery and Koenig got out and walked through the gates between even lines of Cyprus trees. He stood looking up at a white marble tomb with a life-size statue of Santa Rosalia of Pellegrino on top. Brandt moved in behind him. Koenig said, 'The most vulgar thing I've ever seen in my life.' Brandt asked, "What happened back there?' 'Oh, nothing much. They've hung a Major called Meyer from Himmler's personal staff on my back, that's *"� The Field Marshal was very sorry, but there wasn't much he could do about it.' 39 He reached into his pocket for matches and th envelope Kesselring had given him fell out. Brandt picked it up as Koenig lit a cigarette. 'Major,' he said, holding the envelope out. 'Kesselring's parting gift,' Koenig told him. 'Open it and let's see what it was he didn't have the courage to tell me personally.' He turned, looking out towards the sea, aware of Brandt ripping open the envelope and then the sergeant major's incredulous explosion of delight. Koenig swung round and Brandt held out the letter, smiling. 'It's your promotion, Lieutenant-Colonel.' Koenig stared at him for a long moment, then snatched the letter from him. The formality of the language meant nothing to him. The important thing was that Brandt was right. Kesselring had promoted him. When he looked at the envelope, he saw now that it was addressed to Ober-sturmbannfiihrer Max Koenig. What was it Kesselring had said? / have done the best I can for you in the circumstances. He clapped Brandt on the shoulder. 'A celebration, Rudi, is very definitely in order.' As they started to walk back towards the kubelwagen he laughed. 'My God, but I'd like to see Meyer's face when he hears about this.' It was four weeks later when the jeep carrying Harry Carter deposited him at the ornate entrance of the villa at dar el Ouad. He went up the steps slowly, taking his time and passed into the cool darkness. Cusak looked up from his desk and got to his feet instantly. 'Major Carter. Good to see you, sir.' 'I believe I'm expected.' 'That's right, sir. I'll tell General Eisenhower you're here.' He moved away and Carter went out on the terrace. Was it only six weeks since he'd stood here? He had that pain in his chest again and in spite of the fact, or because of it, he took the old silver case from his breast pocket, selected a cigarette and lit it, inhaling with great deliberation. There was a quick step behind him and as he turned, Cusak said, 'The General will see you now, Major.' Standing in front of the desk, Carter was filled with a strange sense of deja vu. Eisenhower, looking up at him, frowned. 'You don't look too good, Major.' 'I'll be all right, sir. I was just wondering whether it was then or now.' Eisenhower smiled. 'Oh, yes, you've been here before, I can assure you. I get days like that myself. Sit down.' He pulled a file forward and opened it. 'I read your report with considerable interest.' Carter pulled forward a chair. 'Thank you, sir.' He hesitated. 'Is the Sicilian invasion on. General?' Eisenhower looked up and said calmly, 'During t}, next few weeks the British under General Montgonie will invade at the Eastern end of the island, while Gener i Patton and the Seventh Army will land in the South anri strike for Palermo. Are you surprised?' 'Not really, sir, although there's been a strong opini0n in Sicily for months now, which I might say the Germans seem to hold also, that Sardinia would be the target.' 'Which is exactly what we want them to think. But let's get back to the original question I put to you when you were last here. According to your report, you seem certain that Washington is hoping for too much with the Mafia connection.' 'I'm afraid so, General.' There was a brief silence, while Eisenhower stared down at the file, 'All right, what's your solution?' 'Well, there is a man, General, named Luca. Don Antonio Luca. He's what's known in Sicily as Capo di Tutti Capi. Boss of all the bosses. The fascists imprisoned him in 1940. Sent him to prison on the mainland -Naples. He escaped later that year and returned to Sicily where he's been in hiding ever since. He's the one man they'll all listen to. I don't wish to blaspheme, but in Sicily he could pull a larger audience than the Pope.' 'Then find him,' Eisenhower said. 'He doesn't want to be found, sir.' 'Could you find him?' 'I've tried. Total silence so far. I've got a better chance than most people, though. He doesn't care for Americans. It seems he had a young brother called Cesare, who was a rum-runner on the Great Lakes during Prohibition. One night in 1929 Cesare was ambushed by a rival gang outside Chicago and personally shot three men dead. He died himself in the electric chair the following year.' Eisenhower stood up. He paced up and down a couple of times, then turned to the map and stood looking up at 4* �Still one thing's for sure. If George Patton and his '' have to fight their way through those mountains to 0' they'll die by the thousands.' aleim' y He repeated the phrase in a whisper as if to himself. rter knew that in his mind's eye, Eisenhower was seeing ain the American dead on the battlefield of Kasserine, hat terrible debacle in which untried boys had found themselves faced with the cream of the Afrika Corps. Carter cleared his throat. 'With respect, General, I do have a suggestion.' Eisenhower turned, suddenly alert. 'And what might that be?' 'After all is said and done, Luciano still seems to me the key figure in the whole affair. His influence with the Sicilian Mafia is unquestioned. He might provide the right link with Luca. Enough to make Luca come out of hiding and declare himself for us. If he does that, General, then we have Mafia on our side one hundred and ten percent.' Eisenhower stood there for a long moment, staring at him, then nodded slowly. 'Damn me, Major, but I have a sneaking suspicion you might be right.' 'Then you'll put Intelligence in Washington on to it right away, sir?' Carter said. 'They could approach Luciano again during the next couple of days.' 'I'll think about it.' Eisenhower glanced at his watch. 'And now you must excuse me. This is the time of day when the telephone lines start hotting up to Washington. I talk to the President most days. He likes to be kept informed.' 'I'll go then, sir.' Carter got up, put on his cap and saluted. Eisenhower acknowledged the salute perfunctorily, already busy with Papers again, and Carter walked to the door. As he got it open, Eisenhower called, 'I'd like you back here at eleven.' Carter turned in surprise. 'You mean eleven tonight, General?' 43 "That's it, Major,' Eisenhower replied without lookin up. g Carter closed the door, paused, then crossed the hall t the entrance and went down the steps to his jeep, jj climbed in beside the driver and glanced at his watch, h was just after six. Almost five hours to kill. 'Where to now, sir?' asked the driver, a private first class who looked at most sixteen year of age. 'Do you know the RAF base at Maison Blanche?' 'Sure do, Major. About an hour and a half from here.* 'Fine,' Carter said. 'Take me there.' The Douglas DC3, the famous Dakota, was probably the most successful general transport plane ever built, but the one which Wing Commander Harvey Grant was bringing back from Malta to his base at Maison Blanche just before dark had definitely seen better days. Not that it was in any sense his regular plane. The old Dakota did a milk run to Malta and back three times a week with medical supplies. The duty pilot had been taken ill that morning, and as there was no replacement readily available, Grant had seized the opportunity to vacate the Squadron Commander's desk and do the flight himself. Which was very much contrary to regulations, for Grant had been forbidden any further operational flying by the Air Officer Commanding Middle East Theatre himself only six weeks previously. He sat at the controls now, alone and happy, whistling tunelessly between his teeth, the two supply sergeants forming his crew asleep in the rear. Harvey Grant was twenty-six, a small man whose dark eyes seemed perpetually full of life. Son of a wheat farmer in Parker, Iowa, the greatest influence on his life had been his father's younger brother, Templeton Grant, who had flown with the Royal Flying Corps in France. At an early age, Grant learnt that you always watched 44 sun and never crossed the line alone under 10,000 feet. H soloed at sixteen, thanks to his uncle's tuition, then ved on to Harvard to study law, more to please his Tther than anything else. He was at the Sorbonne in Paris when war broke out, and promptly joined the RAF. He was shot down twice piloting Hurricanes and had leven German fighters to his credit before the Battle of Britain was over. He'd then transferred to Bomber Command, completing a tour in Wellingtons, a second in Lancasters, by which time he was a Squadron Leader with a DSO and two DFC's to his name. After that had come his posting to 138 (Special Duties) Squadron at Tempsford, the famous Moon Squadron that specialized in dropping agents into ocupied Europe or picking them up again, as the occasion required. Grant had flown over thirty such missions from Temps-ford before being promoted and posted to Maison Blanche to handle the same kind of work, flying black-painted Halifaxes from the Algerian mainland to Sardinia, Sicily and Italy. But all that was behind him. Now he was officially grounded. Too valuable to risk losing, that's what the AOC had said, although in Grant's opinion, it was simply another manoeuvre on the part of the American Army Air Corps to force him to transfer,.a fate he was determined to avoid. He was south-west of Pantellaria just before dusk, a quarter-moon touching the clouds with a pale luminosity, when a roaring filled the night. The Dakota bucked wildly so that it took everything Grant had to hold her as a dark shadow banked away to port. He recognized it at once, a Junkers 88, one of those apparently clumsy, black, twin-engined planes festooned with strange radar aerials that had proved so devastating ln their attacks on RAF bombers engaged on night raids Over Europe. And he didn't have a thing to fight with 45

except skill, for the Dakota carried no kind of armamen< The cabin door swung open behind him and the tw supply sergeants peered in. 'Hang on!' Grant said. 'I'm going to see if I can maj. him do something stupid.' He went down fast and was aware of the Junkers, turn ing and coming in fast, firing his cannon too soon, his speed so excessive that he had to bank to port to avoid collision. Which was exactly what Grant was counting on. He kept on going down, was at six hundred feet when the Junkers came in on his tail. This time the Dakota stag-gered under the impact of cannon shell. The Junkets curved away to starboard again and appeared to take up station. 'Come on, you bastard! Come on!' Grant said softly. Behind him one of the sergeants appeared, blood on his face where a splinter had caught him. 'Johnson's bought it.' 'Okay,' Grant said.. 'He's coming in again so get down on your face and hang on.' He was no more than five hundred feet above the waves as the Junkers came in for the kill, judging his speed perfectly now, sliding in on the Dakota's tail, opening up with more cannon shell. As the aircraft started to shudder under their impact, Grant dropped his flaps. The Dakota seemed to stop in mid-air. The pilot of the Junkers banked steeply to starboard to avoid a collision and, with no space left to work in at such a speed, kept right on going, ploughing straight into the sea. Grant, depressed, walked towards the officers' mess at Maison Blanche, his flying boots drubbing on the tarmac. He kept thinking of the way that Junkers had gone in, imagining the men inside. That was no good at all. He 46 ted up the steps to the mess and found Harry Carter standing at the top. 'Harry!' Grant said in delight. 'I heard you were in hospital in Cairo.' 'Not any more,' Carter told him. 'I had business with he man himself at dar el Ouad and as I have an hour or two to spare, I thought I'd see how you were getting on.' On the two occasions that Carter had dropped by parachute into Sicily, Grant had flown the plane, which was something of a bond. 'Feel like a drink?' he asked. 'Not really. Let's take a walk.' They moved towards the hangars. Carter said, 'I hear you got another one this evening.' 'In a manner of speaking.' 'And you're suposed to be grounded.* 'Damn nonsense. I had to see Air Marshal Sloane a few weeks ago on squadron business and he said I had a muscle twitching in my right cheek. Insisted I had a medical and the bastards stood me down.' He was angry and it showed. Carter said, 'We can win the war without you, Harvey, but only just.' He put a hand on the American's shoulder for a moment. 'What's wrong? What's really wrong?' 'I keep thinking about the men in that Junkers this evening,' Grant said. 'I don't know how to explain this, Harry, but for the first time it was as if it was me. Does that make any kind of sense?' 'Perfectly,' Carter told him. 'It means that the doctor who stood you down knew what he was talking about.' Grant said, 'And what about you? Are you going back over there again?' 'I shouldn't think it's likely.' And a good think, too.' They were passing a hangar in which ground crew worked under floodlights repairing a 47 badly damaged Halifax. Half the tail plane was miss and the rear gunner's compartment shattered. 'Rear gj ner and navigator both killed on a supply drop to Sicil two nights ago. The Luftwaffe really do have things their own way over there, Harry. We've lost four planes in ten days, all shot down, and in each case the agents they were to drop were still inside. If you asked me to fly you in again, I'd give us no better than an even chance of reaching the target and dropping you.' 'Oh, well,' Carter said. 'Someone else can worry about that one.' They had reached the end of the main hangar and he saw, to his surprise, a Junkers 88 night fighter standing there in the gloom, RAF rondels painted on the fuselage and wings. 'What's this, for God's sake?' 'Forced down up the coast a few weeks ago after dropping a couple of Arab agents by parachute. See where they cut a special door in the fuselage. This is a Ju88S, one of their best night fighters, capable of around four hundred miles an hour. We've been doing evaluation flights.' 'You have, you mean.' 'Well, an hour here and there.' Grant shrugged. 'Who's to notice?' He clapped Carter on the shoulder. 'So, what are you up to now? Something so secret the whole future of the war depends on it?' Carter smiled. 'There's no such animal, Harvey. Wan aren't won by men any more. They're run by large corporations, just like big business.' 'Maybe you're right,' Grant tossed his cigarette away. 'You want to know something, Harry? I feel tired -1 mean really tired. So I don't care any more.' 'It's the war, Harvey. It's gone on too long.' 'Good," Grant said. T mean, that really does make me feel a whole lot better. Now let's get back to the mess and I'll buy you a drink.' the ieep dropped Carter in the courtyard outside 'lla there was a big Packard staff car outside. Carter t up the steps past the sentries and found Cusak still sitting at the desk. �Doesn't anyone work around here except you?' Carter enquired. Cusak smiled. 'I must admit it feels that way some days. He won't be long, sir. He has General Patton with him.' Carter moved out on the terrace, wondering what it was Eisenhower wanted to see him about. A further discussion of the Sicilian situation perhaps and, yet, what more was there to say? It was all decided. Within the next few weeks, the big battalions would roll, the invasion would take place and, an unknown quantity of dead men later, Sicily would be in Allied hands. The Germans had lost the war, so much was obvious, so why didn't everyone simply get off at thcnext stop? The door to Eisenhower's office opened and General George Patton walked across the hall. He wore field cap fcad heavy military greatcoat, his hands pushed deep into llts pockets as if cold. As Carter moved out of the shadows, Patton paused. 'Are you Carter?' 'That's right, sir.' Patton stood there loking him over, a slight frown on his face. For a moment, it was as if he was about to speak; then he thought better of it, turned, and walked out without another word. The telephone buzzed, Cusak picked it up. 'Yes, General?' He smiled briefly at Carter. 'He'll see you now. Major.' The room was dark, the only light the table lamp on the �sk where Eisenhower sat working on a file in a haze of agarette smoke. He glanced up as Carter entered and put d�wn his pen. 49 'You know, one thing they omitted to tell us when I ^ a cadet at West Point was the amount of paperwork th went into being Commander-in-Chief.' 'If they did, maybe nobody would want the iov General.' 'Exactly,' Eisenhower grinned briefly and was then all business. 'There's a Flying Fortress leaving Bone Airfield two hours from now, destination Prestwick in Scotland From there, you'll fly straight on to Washington by the first available plane, Priority One. You should be there with any luck, by early evening tomorrow. Captain Cusak will give you your documentation on the way out.' 'I'm afraid I don't understand, sir.' 'Of course you don't,' Eisenhower replied. 'You don't know what the hell I'm talking about so I'll tell you. I liked what you said about the Sicilian situation. It made sense, particularly the bit about this man Antonia Luca and the effect he could have on the campaign if he was found and brought in on our side.' 'I see, sir.' 'I've spoken on the matter to the President during our phone call earlier this evening. He agrees that anything that can help save the lives of our boys is worth trying. To that end, I want you to proceed to this penitentiary at Great Meadow to discuss further with Luciano the whole question of Mafia involvement in the invasion.' He passed a buff envelope across. 'There's your authority, in my name, to act in any way you see fit in this matter. It makes you answerable only to me and requires all personnel, military or civil, without distinction of rank, to assist you in any way you see fit. There will be a similar document waiting for you in Washington countersigned by the President.' Carter stared down at the envelope, bewildered. 'To do what, General?' 'How in the hell do I know?' Eisenhower said. 'Talk to man. See what he has to say. Yank him right out of that H mn prison if you have to. You've got the power. Now, re you going to use it or aren't you?' Tarter, filled with an excitement he had not known in rs slipped the envelope into one of his tunic pockets and buttoned it carefully. 'Oh, yes, sir.' 'Good.' Eisenhower nodded. 'Another thing. I've arranged a promotion to full colonel for you. Only tem-orary, of course, but it should give you some extra muscle along the way.' He turned before Carter could reply and switched on a lamp that illuminated the map of Sicily. He stood looking at it for a while and spoke without turning round. 'Are you surprised that I'm willing to have dealings with people like Luciano?' 'Frankly, sir, I think I've got well past being surprised at anything.' 'The Nazis have plundered and raped Europe, murdered millions of people. The stories that are beginning to emerge about their treatment of the Jews are past belief and I'm of German stock myself. Have you any idea how that feels?' 'I think so, sir,' Carter said. 'Oh, no, you haven't,' Eisenhower shook his head. 'To beat these people, Major, finish them once and for all, root and branch, I'd shake hands with the Devil himself if it were necessary.' On his twentieth lap of the exercise yard at Great Meadow, Luciano increased his speed, running fast and free, the best moment of the day when there was an in-finite possibility to things. Then, as usual, the north wall got in the way and he had to slow down. He walked back through a scattering of other prisoners, acknowledging a greeting here and there, to his usual spot in a corner by the landing where Franco waited with a towel. 'You're getting better each day, Mr Luciano,' Franco He had the look of a professional wrestler and the build to go with it, a New York Sicilian who had killed many times on behalf of the Mafia and was serving a double life sentence for murder. Luciano caught the towel as Franco threw it. 'You reach my age, you got to keep in shape. Did you get that book from the library?' 'I sure did, Mr Luciano.' He passed it across, an English translation of The City of God by St Augustine. Luciano sat on the step and examined it with a conscious pleasure. He was forty-six, a dark, handsome, saturnine man of medium height. The lid drooped slightly over the left eye, relic of an old wound. In spite of the drab prison uniform he was a man to be looked at twice, and not just because of the authority and self-sufficiency that were plainly indicated in the face. There was also that perpetual slight 5* iIe of contempt directed at the world in general. 5 Franco said, 'Excuse me, Mr Luciano, but there's a kid re called Walton from D block. He needs a favour.' Luciano looked up. Walton was a tall, gangling young of twenty-one or two with flat brown hair and arms that were too long for his shirt. �What's he in for?' Luciano asked softly. 'One to three. Liquor store hold-up. No previous.' 'Okay, let's see what he wants.' Franco nodded to the boy, gave Ludano a cigarette and lit it for him. 'Okay, speak your piece.' Walton stood there, twisting his cap in his hand nervously. 'Mr Luciano, they say you can do anything.' 'Except sprout wings and fly out of this place.' Luciano smiled softly. 'What's to do, boy?' 'It's like this, Mr Luciano. I've only been here two, months and my wife, Carrie ... well, she's on her own now and she's only a kid. Eighteen is all.' 'So?' 'There's a detective from the eighth precinct called O'Hara. He was one of the guys who pulled me in. He knows she's on her own and he's been pressuring her. You know what I mean?' Luciano looked him over calmly for a long moment then nodded. 'Okay. Detective O'Hara, eighth precinct. It's taken care of.' He returned to his book. The boy said, 'Maybe I can do you a favour some time, Mr Luciano.' Franco said, 'You will, kid. Now get out of here.' As the boy turned away, Luciano looked up. 'Is it true that liquor store heist was your first job?' Walton nodded. 'That's right, Mr Luciano.' And one to three was the best your lawyer could do? He should have got you probation.' I didn't really have no lawyer, not a real one,' Walton 'Just a man the court appointed. He only spoke to me 53 the once. Said the thing to do was plead guilty and throw myself on the court's mercy. I didn't see ..." 'All right!' Luciano put up a hand defensively. 'I'ji speak to my lawyer when he comes up Wednesday. Maybe he can do something.' The boy walked away and Franco said, 'Keep that up and you'll have them standing in line at the bottom of the stairs every morning.' One of the guards approached, an ageing Irishman named O'Toole, with the weary, bitter look of one who had long since faced up to defeat. For Luciano, he managed a smile. 'The warder would like to see you in his office, Mr Luciano.' 'Now?' Luciano said. 'That's what he told me.' Luciano got up, still holding his book, and nodded to Franco. 'See you later, Johnny.' They moved across the yard, O'Toole in the lead. He said, 'They're waxing the entrance hall so we can't use the main door. We'll go through the showers and up the back stairs.' His forehead was damp with sweat and his hand shook a little as he unlocked the door to the shower block. Luciano smiled easily, every sense sharpened. 'Something bothering you, O'Toole?' O'Toole gave him a sudden quick push inside and slammed the door and Franco, halfway across the yard, started to run, already too late as O'Toole turned, back to the door, the dub ready in his hand. Walton moved out of the first shower stall. He stood there, no expression on his face at all, no light in the dark eyes. Luciano said easily, 'I thought that story of yours was strictly from the corn belt. They send you up here specially?' \ 'That's right.' Walton's right hand came up holding an 54 � ry Madonna. When he pressed her feet, six inches of hlue steel appeared, sharp as a razor on both edges. 'Noth-� z personal, Mr Luciano. With me, this is strictly business.' 'Who sent you?' 'Fiorelli. He sent you his regards and gave me strict in-tructions to leave you with your prick in your mouth. He said being Sicilian, you'd know what that meant.' 'Oh, I do,' Luciano said and kicked Walton under the left kneecap. Walton shouted in agony as bone splintered, and slashed out wildly. Luciano seized the right wrist with both hands, twisting it so cruelly that the knife dropped to the floor. 'You're going to cut someone up, kid, do it, don't talk about it.* He twisted round and up, locking the arm as in a vice. Walton screamed as muscle started to tear and Luciano ran him face-first into the wall of the nearest stall. The boy slid down
the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the tiles. Luciano picked up the knife and closed the blade. The Madonna was about eight inches long and obviously extremely old, carved by some master of ivory and chased with silver. He slipped it into his belt against the small of his back and picked up his book. Walton crouched at the base of the stall, moaning. Luciano turned on the shower and the boy clutched at the wall. 'So long, kid,' Luciano said softly and he opened the door and went out. O'Toole swung to face him, instant dismay on his face. Franco dodged past him. 'You all right, Mr Luciano?' Oh, sure,' Luciano said, 'But that Walton kid looks as 1 he's slipped in the shower in there. I'd say he needs a doctor bad.' Franco moved inside without a word and Luciano turned to O'Toole. I'd better get moving or the warder will wonder what's happened to me. You did say he wanted to see me, didn't you?' O'Toole licked dry lips. 'Oh, sure, Mr Luciano,' he said feebly. 'Right away.' Luciano smiled and moved off across the yard and Franco came out of the showers and leaned against the door, lighting a cigarette. 'Heh, O'Toole,' he said softly, a terrible smile on his face. 'I don't know what they paid you, but I think maybe you just made the biggest mistake of your life.' Harry Carter, wearing a dark blue suit in place of his uniform, stood at the window of the Warden's office and looked down into the yard. The Warden said, 'He doesn't like to be called Lucky. He's supposed to have got the name because of an incident in 19*9 when rival mobsters kidnapped him, took him to a deserted wood in Staten Island, hung him up by his thumbs and tortured him. Left him for dead.' 'I wonder how he paid them off?' Carter said. 'I can imagine.' The Warden went round his desk and opened a file. 'Charles Luciano, born Salvatore Lucania in the village of Lercara Friddi near Palermo, 24 November 1897. Arrived in New York in 1907 with his family, who, I might add, are all honest people. You know how Mafia works, Colonel Carter?' 'Only the Sicilian variety.' 'It's pretty much the same in New York. They start them young. First there are the boys, the picciotti, gaining advancement, what they call respect, by acting as executioners when required. Some of them graduate pretty quickly to the next rank. Sicario, the professional assassin who's a specialist in that line of work.' *1 know,' Carter said. 'In Sicily they prefer the lupara, 56 . sawn-off shotgun, for that kind of thing. You have to et close, but then, that's really the point.' 'They say Luciano's killed at least twenty men himself d that isn't those he's put a contract out on.' 'Just how powerful a figure is he?' Carter asked. 'I mean, . js jn here, isn't he? You close a cell door on him every night.' 'Inside or out, it doesn't really matter. He's still the single most important influence in Mafia. Rose to power in the liquor business during Prohibition. What made him different from the others was his brain. He's a hugely intelligent man with a genius for organization. When Prohibition ended, he diversified into every possible racket that would make a dollar. Even invented a few. In 1936 Governor Dewey, who was then Special Prosecutor, brought him to trial for offences concerned with organized prostitution and succeeded in obtaining a conviction. 'Strange,' Carter said. 'It's the one thing that doesn't seem to fit.' The Warden smiled. 'That's what a lot of people say, but don't expect any comment from me. This is a state appointment. I know one thing. He can always be relied upon to do the unexpected thing. He was at Dannemora in 1941 just after Pearl Harbor. That was a bad time with Christmas coming up. People's minds were on other things, so there were no packages for the cons until Luciano put the word out. Christmas Day, three truck-loads of gifts turned up from New York.' There was a knock on the door. He called, 'Come in I' and Luciano entered. He glanced at Carter casually, then turned to the Warden. 'You sent for me.' The Warden stood up. 'This is Colonel Carter. He's ^m the Government and he has full authority to speak ith you on a matter o� nationai importance, so I'm going to leave you to it.' 57 case. He went out and Carter took out his silver 'Cigarette, Mr Luciano?' 'Heh, you're English.' 'So are the cigarettes.' Carter gave him a light and Luciano sat down by the window. 'What the hell are you doing here?' 'I believe you've had some visitors in recent months' Carter said. 'From Naval Intelligence. To discuss the Sicilian invasion.' Luciano said, 'Not again, for Christ's sake. Look, I gave them all the information I could. All the right names.' 'I know,' Carter said. 'I hear they're going to drop flags with an L for Luciano on every village in the Cammarata. Was that your idea?' Luciano moved to the window and looked down into the Yard. 'You got an ace in your hand, you play it.' 'I don't think that's going to be enough.' 'You don't think!' Luciano laughed. 'What the hell hai it got to do with a limey like you, anyway?' Carter replied in good Sicilian, 'Sure, in the Cammarata they still talk about the great Luciano. Salvatore the saviour. But turning out to fight Nazi tanks with shotguns, just because someone drops his flag on their village ... I don't think so.' Luciano frowned, immediately wary. 'How come you speak such good Sicilian?' 'Before the war I was a university professor, ancient history, archaeology. That kind of thing. I used to spend a lot of time in Sicily excavating.' 'Excavating?' 'Digging up old ruins.' 'You mean you're only a part-time soldier? Just for th� duration? A professor, eh? Now that I can respect.' He passed across his copy of The City of God. 'Have you ever read this?' Carter examined it. 'St Augustine. Oh, yes. You read a lot, do you?' Luciano nodded. 'He knew what he was talking about. rod and the Devil, they both exist, only these days God's outnumbered.' 'I see,' Carter said. 'So you've settled for reigning in bell?' 'It's a point of view. Milton knew what he was talking about.' Luciano smiled softly. 'I've read him, too.' 'You know, Mr Luciano, you interest me - both of you.' 'Both of me?' 'But of course. There's Luciano number one, a streetwise hoodlum, who leaves out verbs when he speaks and manages to sound as if he's had the same script writer as James Cagney.' 'I'm complimented.' Luciano was smiling. 'A great little guy.' 'And then there's Luciano number two, who reads Augustine and Milton, speaks discreetly, sounds remarkably upper-class . ..' 'So a good actor changes his perfomance according to his audience.' Luciano shrugged. 'I mean, who are you playing today, Professoref Carter smiled. 'Point taken. You're a remarkable man, Mr Luciano.' 'And you, Professor, are a remarkable judge of character. Tell me, does Tom Dewey know you're here? When he was special prosecutor he pulled enough strings to get me put away. Look at him now. Governor of New York State. The White House next stop.' 'You think Dewey was unfair to you?' 'What's fair? What's unfair? There's only life. Some tid's born with twisted legs or half a brain. Is that fair?' He got up and walked to the window. 'Look, Professor, I don't give a damn what you think, but this is the way it 59 was. I was boss of the rackets. I had an interest in things, but never girls. Tom Dewey tried every damn av he could to get me and failed. Finally, they brought me to trial with nine other guys and some of them were in th prostitution business. At the end of the day, the \utv couldn't tell the difference between us. It's called guilt by association.' 'A nice turn of phrase,' Carter said. Luciano turned to face him. 'If I needed girls, I rang up Polly Adler. She kept the best house in New York.' Carter held out his silver case. 'Have another cigarette.' 'Okay.' Luciano took one. 'Now, what do you want with me?' Carter sat down in the Warden's chair. 'When the invasion starts, General Patton's Seventh Army is going to have the task of hacking its way through some of the worst mountains in Sicily to reach Palermo. If Mafia can be persuaded to organize a popular uprising and make the Italian Army in the Cammarata surrender without firing a shot, then thousands of American lives could be saved. If not...' 'Look, I've done everything they asked me to do,' Luciano said. 'I know, but as I said, I don't think it's enough. I was in Sicily myself only a matter of weeks ago and I can tell you this. There's only one man with the muscle to achieve what we're asking and that's Antonio Luca. And he isn't coming out of hiding for anyone.' Luciano had stopped smiling. 'Don Antonio? You know him?' 'Not personally. Do you?' 'Sure I do.' Luciano shook his head. 'I still get the word in here. I know about him getting out of that prison in Naples and going back to Sicily. But you're wasting your time. Even if you could find him, he hates Americans. His brother went to the chair during Prohibition.' 60 �T know about that but wasn't there something special about his daughter?' 'That's right, Sophia. During the First World War hile she was supposed to be at school in Rome, she � ined the Red Cross as a nurse. Met an Englishman called Vaughan, an infantry lieutenant serving on the Italian front and married him. He was killed in the last month of the war and she went back home to live with her father in Palermo. Had a daughter called Maria the following year. She was the light of Don Antonio's life.' 'What happened?' Carter said. 'July 1936- The kid must have been about seventeen. Her mother borrowed her father's Ferrari one day so they could go shopping. When she put her finger on the starter, the car blew up. I guess whoever was responsible was after Don Antonio.' 'So the mother was killed?' 'That's right. Maria was in hospital for a while then one day she just walked out. I think maybe she'd had time to think, lying there on her back for so long.' 'That if her grandfather hadn't been the kind of man he was, the whole thing would never have happened ...' Carter said 'Did she ever turn up again?' 'She wrote to him once from London to say she was well, but never wanted to see him again. She'd British nationality because of her old man. Don Antonio put people on to it, but they never managed to find her. After that, he grew more and more into himself.' 'Would he see you?' 'See me?' Luciano frowned. 'I don't get you.' 'If you were in Sicily,' Carter said. 'If he knew you were there. If the word was out, would he see you?' Luciano was genuinely astonished and it showed. 'You're crazy. You've got to be.' 'You're right,' Carter said. 'After all, look what you'd be giving up. Another twenty laps round the exercise yard 61 tomorrow and the day after that. Thirty to fifty years, isn't that your sentence? I should say you'll be able to apply for parole around 1956 but I wouldn't count on it.' 'Fuck you!' Luciano said. 'I shouldn't even be in here in the first place.' 'All right,' Carter said. 'So maybe this could be a way out.' 'Go to hell!" Carter sat there staring at him for a moment, then he got up and went into the outer office where the Warden was sitting talking to a secretary. Carter took a card from his wallet and passed it across. 'Would you mind getting that number for me? It's priority one. The code word is Scorpion. That gets you through right away.' The Warden's eyes widened as he read the card and he whistled softly. T certainly will.' Carter stood at the window, coughing over a cigarette. In spite of Luciano's attitude, every instinct told him he was on the edge of something hugely important. When the Warden finally called him, he came to the phone at once. 'Is that you, Carter?' the voice at the other end of the line said. 'How goes it?' 'Problems, Mr President/ Carter said and started to explain. Luciano was standing at the window looking down into the exercise yard when the door opened and Carter and the Warden entered. Luciano said, 'Can I go now?' The Warden moved round the desk and sat down. 'I'm afraid not, Mr Luciano. Colonel Carter's got a car waiting. You're being transferred to Washington under his care.' 'Transferred?' Luciano cried. 'To Washington? What for?' 'Let's just say for the good of your health,' the Warden said. 'They've got one of the best chest clinics in the country in Washington and we've been worried about that cough of yours for some time now.' Luciano turned to Carter. 'You'll have to do better than this, Professor.' Carter smiled. 'Oh, I intend to, Mr Luciano. You can count on it.' It was late evening as the Packard turned along Constitution Avenue and moved towards the White House. Carter and Luciano were seated together in the rear and Luciano wound down the windows and looked out at the lights of Washington. 'I hear it's impossible to get a hotel bed in this town these days, is that true?' 'Not if you know the right people.' The Packard turned in at the White House and delivered them to the West Basement entrance where Carter presented his pass to the Secret Service agents on duty. Luciano wore a dark felt slouch hat and a trenchcoat over a grey tweed suit, clothes he had selected for himself from the prisoners' stock at Great Meadow. He stood there, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, obviously amused by the proceedings. 'Is this for real, Professor? I mean, you wouldn't kid a guy,' he asked as they waited. 'No, Mr Luciano,' Carter told him. 'It's real enough.' An aide appeared, a young Marine lieutenant in razor-sharp uniform. 'Colonel Carter? If you'd come this way the President will see you now.' When they entered the Oval Office, the room was in half-darkness, the only light the table lamp on the massive desk, an array of service flags behind it. President Roosevelt was seated in his wheelchair at the desk working on some 63 papers, the inevitable long cigarette-holder jutting from his mouth. He looked up at Carter and smiled. 'Colonel Carter, how are you?' 'Fine, Mr President.' The President nodded to the young Marine. 'If I need you, I'll call." The door closed quietly. There was silence for a moment while the President fitted a fresh cigarette into the holder. He lit it carefully, then finally acknowledged Luciano's existence. 'So you're Luciano?' 'That's what they tell me.* T hear from Colonel Carter you've been giving him trouble.' 'Now that, Mr President, depends entirely on your point of view,' Luciano said. 'I'm sitting in my cell last year when your people come and ask to see me about doing something about Nazi saboteurs on the docks after they burned the Normandie, so I arrange things with the unions. Then they come again the other month asking for help in Sicily. Again, I do what I can. And for what? I mean, what in the hell is there in it for me except another thirty years in the Pen? And then this guy turns up with some crazy idea I'm going to Sicily with him and put my head on the block, and you think I'm giving him trouble?' The