The Blue Ring (30 page)

"How?"
Guido asked.

Creasy
smiled. "We have to infiltrate 'The Blue Ring'. Someone has to study
Satanism in all its aspects and then...join them."

There
was a pregnant silence around the table.

Miller
broke it by asking, "Who the hell is going to infiltrate that bag of
snakes?"

Creasy
was looking at his son.

For
Michael it was a totally different world.

Satta
took him first to his tailor. An elderly, elegant man who surveyed Michael with
an air of slight distaste. He circled him twice, examining him from head to
toe. Then he spoke rapidly in Italian to Satta, who smiled and said,
"Signor Casseli tells me that he has handled worse cases. You will need at
least six suits, a dozen shirts, two dozen silk ties, ten pairs of shoes and,
of course, elegant underwear for any eventuality!"

Michael
smiled as Signor Casseli took his measurements. He had arrived in Rome the
night before, and been met at the airport by Colonel Satta, who had explained
the situation on the way to his apartment.

He only
had two weeks in which to be introduced to that level of Roman society in which
he might find the kind of people who would be associated with 'The Blue Ring';
those people would be on the fringe of Roman society. Michael's cover was that
he was the illegitimate son of a fabulously wealthy Arab potentate, and could
not be part of the normal family circle. He had been sent to a top school in
England and was now spending six months in Italy to improve his cultural and
social background before going on to Harvard University.

This
cover had been arranged on the telephone between Creasy and Satta. Afterwards,
Creasy had phoned Senator Jim Grainger in Denver to arrange the necessary
details to protect the cover. Grainger had chuckled at the request and told
Creasey to have no fears. If anyone checked Michael's background they would
discover that the name of Adnan bin Assad was indeed enrolled to start the
spring semester, studying political science at Harvard University. From his own
funds Jim Grainger would deposit ten million US dollars in an account for
Adrian bin Assad with the Banco di Roma. The money would be transferred from a
bank in the United Emirates. The manager of that bank would call the manager of
the Banco di Roma and impress upon him the importance of Adnan bin Assad, and
indicate that further funds would always be available for the young man.

"It's
a fortune," Michael had muttered when Satta told him the amount.

The
Colonel had smiled and said, "Not in this day and age, but impressive
enough to attract the sharks. Rome is like a small village when it comes to
financial matters. As you move into social circles it will quickly become known
that you are an heir to a vast fortune. I will rent you a Ferrari and install
you in a luxury apartment close to the Spanish Steps, complete with a cook and
a butler." Satta had smiled. "The butler will be well-known to
you."

"I
don't know any butlers," Michael had remarked.

"You
do now...It's Rene Callard."

"Rene?"

Satta
grinned. "Yes. It works very well, and is not unusual here in Rome. Rene
will be more than just a butler...a sort of general factotum...butler,
chauffeur and bodyguard."

"Bodyguard?"

"Yes,"
Satta replied emphatically. "As I said, it's quite normal here in Rome
with its history of kidnappings. An extremely wealthy young man studying here
would be provided with such a man. He might have the title of butler or driver,
but in reality his main job is bodyguard. Rene fits the picture perfectly.
First of all, he is a genuine bodyguard, who happens to be registered with an
agency in Italy which supplies such people. He is a linguist with very passable
Italian. He is elegant, yet discreet and, because of his background, knows how
to move in social circles, mix cocktails, serve canapes and be trusted not to
pinch a hostess's bottom." The Colonel had sighed. "I could use such
a man myself...However, there is another very important factor: because Rene is
registered in Italy with an agency, he is also registered with the police.
Therefore he can be licensed to carry a gun."

"That
could be useful," Michael had said thoughtfully.

"Definitely,"
Satta had agreed. "Now, listen carefully. You will be invited to a party
and that will lead to invitations to other parties. You will meet beautiful
women and invite them for dinner at the best restaurants. You will buy them
expensive presents. You will indicate that you are interested in investing some
of your vast wealth in the entertainments business, particularly films."
He had glanced at Michael and smiled. "You will have to obviously be
susceptible to feminine charms...which of course you are. Enjoy yourself,
Michael, but never drop your guard. Always remember that you speak English with
an English accent because you were schooled there. Your Arabic carries a slight
Lebanese accent because your tutor in early life was from there. You must
appear to drink to excess but, of course, not do so. Some of the people you
meet will try to borrow money from you. Lend it to them in moderate amounts.
Never ask them for an IOU. The word will quickly get around that you are a
chicken ready to be plucked."

Michael
had smiled at the thought and wondered about the women he would meet.

At
first the interview was tense. Anwar Hussein had arrived in Tunis during the
early afternoon. He took a taxi to the Hilton Hotel and had several short
business meetings. At seven in the evening he was picked up by a black Mercedes
and driven ten miles to a secluded villa.

He had
been kept waiting half an hour which was not a good sign. Finally, he had been
ushered into the presence of the supreme puppeteer and high priest of 'The Blue
Ring'.

At
first glance, Gamel Houdris looked precisely like a successful and fastidious
businessman. He was seated behind a wide mahogany desk inlaid with intricate
patterns of ebony and mother of pearl. He was bone-thin and his dark suit hung
from him as though he was a wire coat hanger Black eyes were sunk into deep
hollows above prominent cheekbones. His skin was smooth and sallow and his thin
hair jet-black.

He did
not rise when Hussein entered the room, nor even look up. He simply waved a
hand at a chair in front of the desk and carried on reading from the slim file
in front of him. Hussein sat down and waited. His face was the colour of the
ebony on the desk but it was sheened with a slight sweat.

At
last, Gamel Houdris took a gold Cross pen from his inside jacket pocket, made
several notes on the report and then looked up and studied his visitor.

"I
don't like it," he said. His voice was thin and high-pitched, and carried
the menace of a high velocity bullet. "It has been so many years since
anyone enquired about our activities and suddenly from two different
directions, within a space of days, we hear talk out of the Mafia and of
enquiries emanating from the carabinieri."

"It
may just have been coincidence," Hussein said. "The old man Trento
knew nothing. He died under torture without saying a word, but we know he went
to see the capo Grazzini two days earlier. He would not disclose the
conversation. As a precaution we eliminated Grazzini, to make it look like a
gang killing. If he was interested in us then that interest died with him...And
he was the senior capo in central and north Italy."

"That
was your first mistake," Houdris said flatly. "You should have
kidnapped Grazzini and made him talk."

Hussein
shrugged nervously.

"We
considered it. But kidnapping a capo of such seniority is not easy. We
concluded that to kill him was sufficient."

Houdris
leaned forward. "On such a matter I should have been informed."

"Of
course," Hussein agreed, "and as you know we tried; but you had gone
incognito for forty-eight hours. We felt we had to make a decision
quickly."

For the
first time Houdris' voice softened slightly.

"In
fact, I was in Albania," he said. "I was conducting a mass, the first
for 'The Blue Ring' in that country...but not the last." He smiled
slightly at the memory and said, "Great poverty and a sudden loss of total
power is a potent mixture."

Hussein
ventured a question. "May I ask how the orphanage is coming on?"

Houdris
waved a hand and said airily, "Rapidly. But we must move with caution. The
staff are above suspicion but the paperwork must be clear as well." He
smiled. "The first inmates will start arriving within a few days. I
estimate there will eventually be between forty and fifty, with a turnover of
up to twenty a month. We can start milking that at the rate of two a month very
shortly...But let us come back to the matter in hand. We need to find out who
is behind the enquiries emanating from the carabinieri." He tapped his pen
against the file. "The active officer was a Major Massimo Bellu. His
superior was a Colonel Mario Satta."

Hussein
nodded. "That's as high as it goes, according to our informant, who you
know is very senior indeed...so senior that he was able to cut off the
enquiries immediately."

"That's
not the point," Houdris said sharply. "I doubt that this Colonel
Satta was acting on his own. Maybe he was being used by Italian
intelligence."

Hussein
shook his head. "I doubt it, Gamel. We also have our sources in that
direction."

Houdris
said, "You are probably right, but who can be sure within such a corrupt
organisation as Italian intelligence? It may have been from someone outside. We
must find out who." He thought for almost a minute, studied the file again
and then asked, "Do you think the death of this man, Boutin, in Marseille
had anything to do with it?"

Again
Hussein shook his head.

"Very
doubtful. Donati had a solid cut-out. Donati is very experienced."

Thoughtfully,
Houdris said, "It was a pity. That girl was perfect for our
purposes...completely untraceable. Do we have any idea what happened to
her?"

"We
do not," Hussein said sorrowfully. "She simply vanished."

Houdris
leant forward and pressed a button on his desk. Immediately, a door opened and
a white-robed servant appeared, carrying a copper tray. He served them coffee
and sweetmeats. They did not stop talking in his presence; simply because he
was deaf and dumb, as were all the servants in the villa. When Houdris summoned
them he pressed a button which illuminated a different coloured light,
depending on the servant required.

"We
need a replacement quickly," Hussein remarked. "Our initiate is
ready, and we cannot delay too long. At the moment he is fervent, but that
diminishes with time."

Houdris
nodded in agreement.

"It
must be within three weeks. I will try to get one from the orphanage. But she
must be young and beautiful, and I have not yet seen any of the first
intake...If that fails we have to risk kidnapping one from the streets of
Naples or further south...That would mean dyeing her hair blonde." His
eyes narrowed in pleasure at the thought.

He
looked at the huge ebony man in front of him and murmured, "But a fair
skin and real blonde hair is always the best." He took a sip of coffee and
changed the subject. "The first priority is to find out who instigated
these enquiries. I doubt if it was simply a result of Colonel Mario Satta's
personal curiosity. Perhaps we should find a way to have a little talk with the
Colonel or, easier still, his assistant Major Bellu?"

They
were both young with elegant dresses and beautiful faces, but a close look into
their eyes showed the same depth of experience, ambition and calculation. One
of them was blonde and blue-eyed, the other was a brunette with green eyes.
Apart from their colouring, their faces and bodies were more or less
interchangeable. They watched Michael from across the wide room in the manner
of carnivores inspecting their dinner.

"Sensational!"
the blonde murmured.

"Near
perfect," the brunette agreed. "And he's the real thing, not like the
hangers-on that sneak their way into these parties. The watch is genuine Patek
Philippe, the opal ring's genuine too, and the suit is definitely from Casseli.
You're looking at a minimum of a hundred thousand dollars on the hoof."
Although speaking Italian, such women always related wealth to dollars.

An
elderly man who had been eavesdropping on their conversation moved up behind
them with a smile. He was dressed in a new silk dinner jacket but his ravaged
face would never match its elegance, even with the help of a dozen plastic
surgeons. His thin mouth curled into a smile as he said, "That's quite a
catch, signorine. Giorgio tells me that he opened an account two days ago with
the Banco di Roma. His initial deposit was ten million dollars."

They
turned to face him, their eyes suddenly hungry.

"He's
a friend of Giorgio's?" the blonde asked.

The old
man shook his head. "No, just a recent acquaintance."

"Then
how does he know?"

The old
man smiled again; he was enjoying himself. "In this town Giorgio knows
everything."

"What
else does he know?" the brunette asked.

The old
man's information came out like a well-rehearsed litany.

"His
name is Adnan bin Assad. He is twenty-two years old, reputedly the illegitimate
son of a very wealthy Arab. Apparently, his mother was from England, which is
where he was educated. He is spending six months in Rome on cultural matters
and to improve his Italian and perhaps make some investments. He has rented a
luxury apartment near the Spanish Steps, complete with butler and cook...He
drives a Ferrari Dino."

Silently
the two young women turned and gazed across the room. Michael was in earnest
conversation with an elderly woman dripping in diamonds. She was a well-known
Roman hostess who liked to sprinkle her parties of elderly roues with beautiful
young people. It had been very easy for Satta to arrange an invitation through
one of his mother's legendary connections. It had also been very simple to
plant the details and authenticity of Michael's new persona. He had chosen the
party well. Of some fifty guests, there was a smattering of film and television
personalities, other media people, fringe aristocrats, a dress designer, a
slightly suspect banker and several of the young and beautiful people.