Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (64 page)

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Try me, anyway,’ the Necroscope answered. ‘See, I have a very open mind.’ He actually smiled, and for a moment looked even more like the old Harry Darcy had known. And Darcy could see the humour of it: someone trying to tell Harry Keogh that something might be too hard to believe! And that someone just happening to be himself, Darcy Clarke, who could walk through a minefield blindfold, in snowshoes, and come through without a scratch. So that Darcy smiled, too, then chuckled, and the tension was that much more diminished.

But in the next moment it was back to business, as Darcy said: ‘Okay, then listen. These people, the Francezcis, aren’t just a couple of big-time hoods. They’ve got the weight of the Mafia behind them - the total weight! Of course they have, for they’re
advisers
to the Mafia, like Dons of dons, or Godfathers of godfathers! But that’s not nearly the end of it. For
through
the Mafia they’re also advisers to the KGB and, on occasion … to the CIA!’

The Necroscope looked blank, as if he hadn’t heard. But as it sank in, he cocked his head on one side and said,

‘They’re what?’

Darcy nodded. ‘You can’t see it. Well, that’s understandable. But remember the Lucky Luciano story, and then ask yourself why the Mob is still alive and well and living in a great many places even today, when every “straight” body in this big wide world would love to put them out of business for good.’

‘But the CIA?’ Harry still needed convincing. ‘I mean, the first is acceptable, even plausible; naturally Mother Russia would love to undermine western capitalism. And what better way than by the corruption at its root? But the CIA?

What kind of “advice” would the Central Intelligence Agency take - what kind would they even
want -
from people in bed with the Mob?’

‘Go back a step,’ Darcy told him. ‘First the KGB. I never said they were giving orders to the Francezcis. I wasn’t hinting that they were sabotaging or manipulating financial institutions, or anything of that order - though they could well be, or at least setting up the machinery for it. I said the Francezcis were “advisers.” The key word is

“intelligence!” And as I told you, the Francezci intelligence machine is awesome! Which is why the CIA uses them; their information is
that
good. But as to the
kind
of advice they offer …’ Darcy shrugged. The Branch isn’t privy to that information. But it won’t be small potatoes, you can bet on it. As to how it works: they’ll tell the KGB stuff that doesn’t conflict with CIA interests. Likewise, they’ll offer information to the CIA if it doesn’t drop the Russians in it.

And the Mob benefits both ways by knowing what’s going to go down world-wide. And everyone involved is grateful to the Francezcis. That’s power, Harry.’

Harry was silent a while, then said: ‘So, they’re “advisers” of a sort to the Mob, the KGB, even the CIA …’

‘… And through them, advisers to their governments - just as

Emilio Francezci was, when he advised that colaboration between the American invasion force and Sicily’s Mob-in-Waiting.’

‘Information of that order,’ Harry mused.

‘Yes …’

‘Inteligence is the key word,’ the Necroscope continued to mul it over. ‘Okay, so what
is
their inteligence machine? How do they organize it? What’s the source of their information? Maybe they’re simply the Mob’s
own
CIA: the nerve-centre in a spiderweb of international crime and corruption?’

Darcy shrugged again. ‘Possibly. But unlikely. For let’s face it, the Families aren’t that… wel,
familiar
with each other. There are Mob wars going on even now in the USA; probably in Italy, too. They’re not united. It isn’t in their genes. But here’s something to think about:

‘Our precogs tell us that Communism is on the wane, certainly in Russia. So maybe the Francezcis are preparing the way for the Mob, or a faction of the Mob, in the USSR? That’s a lot of turf, Harry! The point is, whatever they’re doing, you can guarantee they’re not up to any good.’

‘And you - or the Branch - want me to throw some spanners in their works?’

Darcy held up his hands in protest. ‘Hey, I told you we can’t be involved! You asked me if there was someone you could hit for funds. Which suggested to me that maybe there was a way we could both benefit from … wel, from what you do best. But if there’s any fal-out from anything you do, the Branch can’t be implicated. We aren’t part of this scene.’

‘What if I don’t need the money that badly?’

Then let it go.’

The fact is I
don’t
need the money that badly, or haven’t so far.’

‘You asked me to do something for you,’ Darcy said. ‘What can I tell you? I’ve done it. Now al I’m saying is this: that place in the photograph, Le Manse Madonie, houses money, treasures, gold, beyond your wildest dreams. Because we’re sure that quite apart from what these characters have stashed away in the world’s banks, they’re also magpies. They - their family - have been accumulating goodies for a couple of hundred years! A lot of the wealth of Europe that vanished into Nazi coffers during World War Two still hasn’t been accounted for. Hel, it never wil be while it’s tied up in that place!’

‘Oh?’ The Necroscope raised a querying eyebrow. ‘So even now I don’t know it al?’

‘I would have told you,’ Darcy said at once. That’s the whole idea of talking like this, surely? But so far we’ve just been kicking it around, right?’

‘What about plans of the place?’

‘I thought you weren’t interested?’

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Harry grinned, however tightly. ‘But we’re just kicking it around, right?’

‘No plans. And their security is second to none. The space centre at Baikonur in Kazakhstan would be easier! That’s probably an exaggeration, but I’m sure you take my point.’

The Chateau Bronnitsy was secure, too,’ Harry answered.

Darcy nodded but made no reply. He didn’t want to mention Harry’s “talent” for getting into and out of places … or the damage the Necroscope had done to some of the places he’d been into. The Chateau Bronnitsy -
once
the headquarters of Soviet ESPionage - was only one of them. And Bronnitsy was no more.

‘But that place was the very seat of evil,’ Harry went on, ‘while I’m not yet convinced that these Francezcis are anything but big-time crooks.’

‘I’m not asking you to destroy anything,’ the Head of E-Branch shook his head. ‘In fact, I’m not asking you to
do
anything. If you do, it’s your business and I don’t even want to know. I’m just pointing out the bull’s eye in case you should ever want to do a litle target practice, that’s al.’

‘And if during my “investigations” I should discover the Francezci’s oracle, the source of their intelligence …?’

‘We’d be grateful, of course. Because if we could tap into that source … it goes without saying that we’d put it to better use than they do.’

‘And maybe queer their pitch at the same time?’ Harry was on top of it. ‘But you’re not in any kind of hurry?’

‘No. Honestly, Harry, this was for you. If you use it, then you use it. And if you don’t… wel, it’s your choice. But as you say, if it’s also of benefit to us so much the better.’

The Necroscope gave it another moment’s thought, said, ‘Do we know what these brothers look like? Or their people? You’ve told me their security at Le Manse Madonie is good. So what do they have up there?’

“Their own private “staff,” ‘ Darcy answered. ‘Not massive by Mob standards - but, as I’ve said, the Francezcis aren’t Mob. They’re bigger than that. They just pul strings; others do the twitching. And an army wouldn’t be necessary anyway, not in a place as inaccessible as the Madonie. They have guards, their “servants,” a four-seater helicopter, and various types of surface transport. Localy, they like to travel in a stretch limo: which is about as close as they come to emulating their nearest and dearest!’

‘Yes,’ Harry nodded. The Mafia. And Sicily is still Mafia H.Q.?’

‘But definitely!’ Darcy said. ‘If the Francezcis ever required it, they could call up a lot of heavy-duty help. But not in short order. It takes time to get from Palermo into the Madonie - for some people, anyway.’ With his last comment he averted his face, dug in a desk drawer, and

came out with a handful of photographs which he tossed onto the desk top. ‘Pictures of our friends,’ he quickly returned to the original subject. ‘Not very good ones, I’m afraid. But the Francezcis appear to be the world’s least photographed - and least photogenic - people!’

‘Can I take these with me when I leave?’

‘Sorry,’ Darcy shook his head. ‘Memorize by al means, but that stuff stays right here. I’ll say it again: officialy, we aren’t even interested in these people. We can’t be identified as a source of information in this respect.’

Harry frowned. ‘You make it sound like the Francezcis have influence over here, too.’

Darcy said nothing.

‘What, with the British Government? Are they “advising” our inteligence agencies, too? Another reason you’re interested in them?’

‘We don’t know
what
the Francezcis are or aren’t into!’ The other threw his hands wide. ‘But with their inteligence, there has to be a real chance that they’re players on our side of the pond, too. Not big as yet, but—’

‘—Up and coming,’ the Necroscope finished it for him. And: ‘I have to admit, you’ve got me interested. I’m not keen on the idea of my country’s strings being puled by some kind of super-criminal puppet-master, not now or in the future.’

He looked at the photographs.

Three of the five pictures were of the same two men, taken from the same angle, same location. They’d been snapped in grey evening light leaving a typicaly Italian or Sicilian building, descending a wide flight of steps. Other people were folowing on behind them but out of focus. In the first picture, the two were glancing directly at the camera, their eyes unseen behind the dark lenses of sunglasses, their handsome faces twisted by shock or surprise.

In the second picture they loomed much closer, one of them pointing at the camera, his slash of a mouth barking some sort of question or order. In the third picture the pair were almost totally obscured by the five fingers of a gloved hand, reaching to cover the lense of the camera.

In al of the photographs their features - while appearing handsome in an almost stereotyped Mediterranean fashion - were very indistinct, blurred; possibly by motion, or by the nerves of the cameraman. Dark hair brushed back, large ears lying flat to their heads, long, slender faces. Also, they appeared taler than the average Italian. Harry knew he would retain these lasting impressions of the Francezcis … and one other: their lack of colour. For Italians, or Sicilians, they didn’t seem to have too much colour …

‘A couple of cold-looking customers, right?’ said Darcy, his voice reaching Harry as if from a million miles away.

The Necroscope looked up. ‘Hmm?’ he said.

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‘Crawly types.’ Darcy puled a face. “The result of misspent youths. Pale as a pair of long-time hustlers; spawn of the back aleys and the biliard hals - or in their case, of the dimly-lit, echoing rooms of Le Manse Madonie.’

‘Being a bit theatrical, aren’t you?’ Harry frowned, and his thoughtful or faraway expression disappeared. ‘And anyway, I thought you didn’t know anything about Le Manse Madonie?’

‘No, but I know something about them. They have a congenital disorder, a kind of photophobia: alergy to strong light. Which means they keep prety much to home. It’s one of the reasons why we don’t have beter pictures. No one has beter pictures. Another good reason is that they don’t like people
taking
pictures! The felow who took these … he
was
paparazzi, at the time of that nasty Aldo Moro business. It seems amazing to me that he ever got these pictures out of Sicily.

Anyway, that’s not al he got.’ ‘Oh?’

Darcy shrugged, but in no way negligently. ‘He was found hanging from a bridge in Naples a month later. Suicide - apparently.’

Harry looked at the other photographs. One of a squat man in a flying suit, and the other of a cadaverous type in a valet’s uniform. ‘And these people?’

The little stubby one is their pilot,’ Darcy said. ‘His name is Luigi Manoza. Until a couple of years ago he was working for one of the New York families. A local war took out his employer, and there were threats on Luigi’s life, too. He fled to relatives in Sicily, ended up working for the Francezcis.

The other one is their chauffeur, Mario. He doesn’t have a second name - not that he’s telling anyway. But he’s a dead ringer for a certain “Mario” who was a highly-paid hit man for the Scarlatis in Rome in the late Sixties. He was “the best” at his infamous job; just the right sort of chap to be driving for the Francezcis!’

‘Nice,’ said Harry. ‘But something seems wrong. I mean, for people who want to appear divorced from the Mob, these Francezcis seem to employ an awful lot of ex-soldiers.’

Darcy shrugged. ‘In Manoza’s case, he was on the periphery. So he’s a pilot, but he could just as easily be a gardener. The Mafia employs ordinary people, too, you know. As for Mario: he has no criminal record, was never brought to trial. It’s hardly surprising: “the best” never are.’

The Necroscope dropped the photographs back on the desk and stood up. He held out his hand and Darcy shook it. But as Harry headed for the door:

‘Harry,’ Darcy said. ‘I can stil find you some clean money if you want it.’ Harry paused. ‘I’D make out,’ he said. ‘I’m not short, not yet anyway.

It depends how long it takes to find Brenda and the baby -
if I
find them. You’re sure there’s nothing your end?’