The Blue Ring (16 page)

"It's his vocation."

"True," Satta replied. "I also have a vocation, but I don't work fourteen hours a
day. What brings you to Milan? Apart, of course, from my fascinating company
and the possibility of losing a large amount of money at backgammon."

The
wine waiter appeared with the Barolo, ritually uncorked it and poured a sample
into Creasy's glass. Creasy tasted it and nodded his approval. As the waiter
left Creasy said, "I came to throw a name at you. All I have is a name and
a possible connection to a white slave ring."

"Throw
away," Satta said.

"Donati."

"Christian
name?"

"I
don't have it."

"He
lives in Milan?"

"He's
based in Milan."

The
waiter brought Creasy's spaghetti. He ate in silence, occasionally glancing up
at the Colonel. He knew that Satta's memory was legendary. Right now he was
picking through all the compartments of his mind.

Finally
he said, "I know of three Donatis living in Milan. One is a priest, one is
a junior conductor at La Scala and the third bakes the best bread in the city.
I doubt that any of them have connections with a white slave ring." He
shrugged and then smiled. "But who knows? Last month the priest bought a
new car...a BMW...not a big one, you understand, but it was new."

Creasy smiled through a mouthful of spaghetti, swallowed, and said, "Have you
ever heard of 'The Blue Ring'?"

Again Satta's mind went through its computer exercise. Creasy had finished the
spaghetti before he got an answer. He drank half a glass of wine and then heard
Satta say, "There is a faint little bell ringing in my head, but I can't
place it right now. I take it that this Donati is connected with 'The Blue
Ring' which is involved in white slavery?"

"Yes.
It's been established a very long time; probably operates in most southern
Mediterranean countries and has tentacles into North Africa and the Middle
East. I only have the name Donati, nothing else. Between Donati and the man who
gave me the name there was a complete cut-out. Very professional. I suspect
that Donati is just the next rung on the ladder, and that there will be very
complete cutouts between every rung all the way to the top of that
ladder."

"And
what is your involvement?"

Creasy
sighed and said, "This will take some time to explain. I will have to go
back to the last time I saw you...about six years ago."

It took over an hour. Creasy talked and Satta listened, occasionally interjecting to
clarify a point. Creasy finished his story as they both finished the gelato di
tutti frutti.

Satta wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin, drank the last of his wine, smiled and
said, "Is this the Creasy I used to know? I find you now with a
fully-grown son and possibly a daughter...By the way, I never wrote to you with
my condolences about Nadia and Julia."

"I
got your message via Guido," Creasy said quietly. There was a silence
while he remembered that message. It simply said, "The sun sets and in
time it always rises again." Creasy looked at his friend across the table
and said, "Good words from a good man."

Satta
shrugged and dismissed the subject. "Anyway. I can tell you that this
'Blue Ring' is not connected with the Mafia. If it was I would
certainly know about it. Therefore it must be secretive in the extreme because,
assuming that it's lucrative, the Mafia would want a part or all of it. It must
also be very powerful and I assume ruthless. I have a colleague who deals with
these matters. He is trustworthy. I will confer with him in the morning. How
long will you stay in Milan...and where?"

The
waiter appeared to clear away the table. Satta ordered two espressos and two
double Armagnacs.

Creasy
said, "I stay as long as it takes to get a lead on Donati. I checked into
a small hotel near the station." He smiled wryly. "It's called The
Excelsior and somewhat less comfortable than its namesake...but it is
discreet."

"I
would offer you my spare bedroom," Satta said, "but I know you. You
prefer to come and go like a ghost."

Over
the coffee and Armagnac they talked about old times, and especially about Guido
Arellio. Since those days, when Creasy was fighting the Mafia, Satta and Guido
had become good friends. Satta often visited Guido's pensione in Naples,
firstly for the company, secondly for the food, and thirdly in a vain attempt
to recoup his losses from the many backgammon games he had lost to Guido over
the years.

They
were the last to leave the restaurant. On the street outside they embraced
again briefly, and went their different ways.

It was
the second day. Michael was very frightened.

He had
followed Creasy's instructions to the letter. They had come ashore at Mgarr
I'Xinni an hour before dawn. Frenchu's Land-Rover had been waiting and one of
his sons had driven Michael and the girl to the house on the hill. The girl had
been sedated and asleep, and Michael wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her
in his arms.

He had
placed her on his own bed and then for the next two hours worked feverishly,
clearing all the wine out of the cave and other odds and ends which had found
their way in there. He stored everything in the spare bedroom, then fetched the
mattress and a pile of blankets.

He
rolled an empty barrel into the cave, connected a hosepipe to a garden tap and
filled it up. He had checked the single light set high above the door, then he
had gone back to his bedroom. Juliet had been awake. He had sat next to her on
the bed, taken her hand in his and talked to her quietly. During the preceding
hour he had decided to tell her the truth.

She had
listened without expression and then asked, "Will you be with me?"

"Yes."

"All
the time?"

"Yes.
Except for a few minutes once in a while, when I have to go into the house to
get food."

She had
nodded and squeezed his hand. So he had injected her with the final dose of
methadone and then taken her into the cave. She had been wearing just a pair of
jeans and a T-shirt. No shoes or socks.

She had
looked around the cave with apprehension and he had explained that it had been
used to make and store wine, and that it was better she stayed there, in case
anyone passed by. She had lain down on the mattress and he told her he would be
back in an hour.

In
fact, it had only taken him half an hour to go down to the village. The sun had
been up by then. Theresa had been surprised, but happy to see him. And then
mystified when he told her that she was not to go near the house until further
notice, and that she was not to mention that to anybody. He then went to the
small grocery and loaded several boxes with provisions, mostly tinned food,
fruit, pastas and soft drinks. He had decided not to drink any alcohol for the
duration. Back at the house he had stored the provisions and rigged up an
extension lead for the phone out to the cave. When he had opened the heavy door
into the cave he found her asleep on the mattress. He had gone back out and
fetched a folding canvas chair for himself.

The
ordeal had begun about twelve hours later. He had recognised what was happening
to her from Creasy's detailed description. A sense of uneasiness began to come
over the girl. She sat cross-legged on the mattress, her back to the rock wall.
She began to yawn frequently, and then to shiver. Her eyes moistened and then a
watery discharge began to pour down from her eyes and nose. He had told her
that he would be back in a moment, gone out and locked the door behind him.
From the kitchen, he had fetched several boxes of tissues. Back inside the cave
he had opened one and given it to her, but nothing could stop or stem the flow
from her eyes and nose. Her T-shirt and jeans became wet with sweat. For
several hours he sat with her on the mattress, holding her shivering hand. She
began to moan in her throat. The moan of a small animal in pain. Then almost
abruptly she had fallen into a deep sleep. He had known that this was what the
addicts called the 'yen sleep'. It would last for several hours,
after which she would sink deeper into hell. He had gone out and locked the
door behind him, his mind numb.

It had
become night again, and he had walked out past the swimming pool and looked out
over the lights of the villages of Gozo and of Comino and in the distance, of
Malta. His whole body was suffused with hatred for the men and women who had
done this to Juliet. He had thought of Creasy, who by now would be in Milan,
hunting them down. He offered up a kind of personal prayer that his father
would find them. He had looked into the cave a couple of hours later. She had
still been asleep, so he had gone back to the swimming pool, stripped off his
clothes and swum fifty fast lengths.

Two
hours later she had woken. It was about twenty-four hours after the last dose
of methadone, and she had entered the depths of her personal hell. He had sat
in his canvas chair and watched her torture. She began to yawn so violently that
he worried she might dislocate her jaw. Watery mucus poured from her nose and
floods of tears came from her eyes. Her pupils were widely dilated. The fine
dark hairs of her skin stood up, the skin itself cold and covered with goose
bumps. From Creasy's description, Michael knew that she was going through cold
turkey.

Then
the misery deepened. Her bowels began to act with shuddering violence. Her
jeans stained, and the stench drifted across the cave. Feverishly, she pulled
them off, and then her stained knickers and finally her sodden T-shirt, until
she was naked. It was as though he was not in the cave, but then he saw her
imploring eyes rest on him, and heard her strangled voice begging him to give
her an injection. He stood up, went over to the barrel of water, picked up a
wooden ladle and splashed the water over her. He repeated the process several
times, but there was no way to keep her clean. She started vomiting; just lying
there, vomit coming out of her mouth and excrement from her bowels. He had
noticed that there was blood in the vomit and his anguish deepened almost to
despair. He noticed too that her stomach was rippling, as though there was a
tangle of snakes under the skin. He remembered Creasy's words, and knew that it
was caused by extreme contractions of the intestines. Knowing what caused it
gave Michael no relief. He knew that from this point on the child would know no
rest nor sleep until she either pulled through her hell or died. Irrationally,
he thought that the grave he would have to dig would not be very long or very
wide.

Over
the next hour he sluiced her down from the water barrel several more times. She
was wet, the mattress was wet and the floor of the cave was wet. He looked
around him, the ladle dangling from his hand. He had no sense of time, and if
he had not been wearing a watch he could not have judged whether he had been in
that cave for hours, days, or weeks. His whole body ached and his mind was numb
with the shock and the pain of it all. He knew that she had been about
thirty-six hours without the drug. He knew that it would take another four to
five days before she passed through it or died. Then she started talking to him
in a hoarse, grating whisper. An imploring voice, begging him to give her the
injection. He went to his canvas chair and sat down and tried to avoid her
eyes. It was impossible.

His
eyes were constantly drawn to the small, white, shaking figure on the filthy
mattress. She had offered him everything she had, which was only her naked
body. She cupped her breasts and offered them to him. She opened her legs and
stroked her crotch and tried to look coquettish. He tried to fix his eyes on
the mark on the rock wall above her. Then she had begun to curse him and scream
at him. Vile words from a child of thirteen. Finally her legs had begun to
twitch and then kick out violently. It went on and on, as she thrashed about on
the mattress. He began to wonder how any human being could produce such a
sustained and violent action. He began to wonder how even a strong man could
live through it, let alone a weak and ravaged child.

Michael
was very frightened. And then the phone rang. She was oblivious to the noise
and continued thrashing around, her legs kicking convulsively. Michael picked
up the phone. He heard the click and a hum of an overseas call and then
Creasy's voice.

"Is
that you?"

"Yes."

"What's
our situation?"

Michael
took a deep breath and answered as calmly as he could. "I'm in the
cave...I think she's dying."

"Describe
it."

Michael
took another deep breath. "She's convulsing. Kicking like hell. Begging
for a shot."

Creasy's
voice was controlled. "Has she been shitting and vomiting?"

"Yes."

"Have
you seen the snakes in her belly?"

"Yes."

"Did
she have a long sleep?"

"Yes,
she woke up a few hours ago...Creasy, she's only a child...her body can't take
much more."

There
was a brief silence, and then Creasy asked, "When did you give her the
last shot?"

Michael
looked at his watch and answered, "Thirty-eight and a half hours
ago."

Another
silence. Creasy said, "If she gets through the next twenty-four hours she
might make it. Have you had any sleep?"

"No."

"Then
listen to me carefully. What she's going through now is what addicts call
'kicking the habit'. Michael, whatever happens...no matter how bad you
feel...don't give her another shot. No matter what she does or says." The
voice turned hard. "And Michael, no matter what she does or says, don't
even think about calling a doctor or anybody else. A doctor would give her a
shot and send her to a detox centre. With some addicts that might be the best
thing to do, but with Juliet my gut feeling is that her only chance is over the
next few days in that cave with you. Now I want you to lock her in and go and get
at least four hours' sleep. Set your alarm. If you fall asleep in that cave
anything could happen."