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Luciano’s Luck
Jack Higgins


The brilliant suspense thriller from the author of THE EAGLE HAS LANDED, set in the wartime battlegrounds of the Mediterranean.A brilliant suspense thriller from the wartime battlegrounds of the Mediterranean.In the historic summer offensive of 1943, the Allies stand ready to invade Sicily. The cost will be high in lives and time, unless the Sicilians themselves can be persuaded to rise against their Nazi oppressors.Only the Mafia can command an uprising – and the Godfather refuses to fight…Desperate action is needed to dent Hitler's evil pride. Someone who understands Mafia ways, and knows how to earn the loyalty the Allies crave. Someone who isn't afraid of killing his own…









Jack Higgins

Luciano’s Luck










Dedication


for Sacha and George




Contents


Cover (#u75381fad-ea39-59c6-8bb4-dfd47bf6c896)

Title Page

Dedication

Publisher’s Note

Foreword

Sicily—1943

1

It was just before evening, when the jeep carrying Harry . . .

2

It started to rain as Carter went over the ridge, . . .

3

The JU52 which flew in from Rome with Field Marshal . . .

4

It was four weeks later when the jeep carrying Harry . . .

5

On his twentieth lap of the exercise yard at Great . . .

6

It was raining hard in Liverpool the following night when . . .

7

The old Dakota lifted off the main runway at Ringway . . .

8

The Avro Lancaster was the most successful Allied bomber of . . .

9

In the living room of his house at the back . . .

10

Vito opened the oven door of the boiler in the . . .

11

Pietro Mori had sent his wife to bed early and . . .

12

Luciano and Maria followed the same rough track for almost . . .

13

Koenig was standing at the window of his office at . . .

14

Padre Giovanni led the way down the winding stone stair . . .

15

They left just after nine the following morning in Barbera’s . . .

16

Detweiler’s body was racked by convulsions as he bucked and . . .

17

Flying at one thousand feet the view was spectacular in . . .

18

Luciano and Vito Barbera came out of the mortuary and . . .

19

And so, the Mafia card was played and played to . . .

About the Author

Other Books by Jack Higgins

Copyright

About the Publisher




PUBLISHER’S NOTE


LUCIANO’S LUCK was first published in the UK by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd in 1981 and later by Signet Books. This incredible novel has been out of print for some years, and in 2011, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back LUCIANO’S LUCK for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.




FOREWORD


The Mafia, the Honoured Society, has always fascinated me. I first wrote about it in an earlier book, In the Hour before Midnight, and during the research came across the career of Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano, the famous American gangster. The legend that he was taken out of prison by American Intelligence and dropped into Sicily to prepare the way for the Allied invasion had been around for years, but was not taken seriously by most people. However, when I visited Sicily to do essential research for In the Hour Before Midnight, I actually met people who insisted that they had seen Luciano on the island before and during the invasion. It was enough for me. I stored the information until a more suitable time and so Luciano’s Luck was born.



SICILY—1943


In July 1943, American forces landed on the southern coast of Sicily and in an advance of incredible rapidity, reached Palermo in only seven days. That their success was due in no small measure to the co-operation of the Sicilian Mafia acting under the direct orders of Charles Lucky Luciano, then serving a sentence of thirty to fifty years in Great Meadow Penitentiary in New York State, is a matter of historical fact. What is particularly fascinating about this strange episode is that in Sicily to this day, there are those who insist that they saw Luciano in person with the American units during the early part of the invasion …




1


It was just before evening, when the jeep carrying Harry Carter turned in through the gates of the great Moorish villa called dar el Ouad outside Algiers, and braked to a halt at the ornate, arched entrance.

‘Wait for me,’ Carter told the driver and went up the steps past the sentries.

In the cool, dark hall inside, a young captain in summer uniform sat at a desk working on some papers. The plaque in front of him said, Captain George Cusak. He glanced up at Carter, noted the uniform, the crowns on his shoulder, the purple and white ribbon of the Military Cross with a silver rosette for a second award, and stood up.

‘What can I do for you, Major?’

Carter produced his pass. ‘I think you’ll find General Eisenhower is expecting me.’

The captain examined the pass briefly and nodded. ‘Ten minutes to go, Major. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll tell him you’re here.’

Harry Carter walked out on to the terrace through the open french windows and sat down in one of the wickerwork chairs. After a moment’s hesitation he took out an old silver case from his breast pocket and selected a cigarette.

He was forty-two, of medium height, a handsome man with a calm, pleasant face which always seemed about to break into a smile, but never quite made it. And he suited the uniform to perfection which was surprising for he was the second son of a prosperous Yorkshire mill-owner, a scholar by nature, educated at Leeds Grammar School until thirteen and then Winchester. From there he had absconded in 1917, joining the Army under a false age, serving the last eighteen months of the First World War as an infantry private on the Western Front.

Afterwards came Cambridge and a brilliant academic career which had included spells at Harvard as visiting Professor of Greek Archaeology, the University of Florence and then a return to Cambridge as a Fellow of Trinity and Claverhouse Professor of Ancient History at thirty-five.

Just after Munich, he had been approached by British Intelligence and had worked with Master-man at MI5, helping to destroy the German spy network in England. He then moved to Special Operations Executive, eventually transferring to Cairo to take responsibility for the Italian section. Sicily had come later, had never really been on the cards at all.

And it was beginning to show; in the weariness in the grey eyes, the flecks of silver in the dark hair. He flicked what remained of his cigarette out into the garden.

‘Careful, Harry,’ he said softly. ‘Next thing, you’ll be starting to feel sorry for yourself.’

There was a movement behind him and he glanced up as Captain Cusak appeared.

‘Major Carter, General Eisenhower will see you now, sir.’



The room was as ornate and Moorish in its furnishing as was the rest of the villa. The only signs that it was the nerve centre of the headquarters of the Supreme Allied Commander for the North African Theatre were to be found in the maps of the Mediterranean pinned to one wall and the three trestle tables covered with more maps, which had been placed by the terrace windows to serve as a desk.

Eisenhower was standing outside on the terrace as they went in, smoking a cigarette, wearing boots and riding breeches for he rode most afternoons. He turned and walked in briskly, his face illuminated by that famous and inimitable smile.

‘Coffee, George,’ he said to Cusak. ‘Or maybe Major Carter would prefer tea?’

‘No, coffee would be fine, sir.’

Cusak went out and Eisenhower indicated a chair and opened a file on his desk.

‘And just how does a man with your background get by as a Sicilian peasant?’

‘Oh, you can thank the University Dramatic Society for that, General. There was a wild moment there when I was tempted to turn professional.’

‘You were that good.’

‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, sir,’ Carter said calmly.

‘When SOE sent you out to Cairo to take charge of the Italian section I don’t think they envisaged your personal invasion of Sicily on…’ here he glanced again at the file, ‘…three separate occasions?’

‘I know, sir,’ Carter said. ‘But we didn’t really have any choice. When it came to Sicily, there wasn’t anyone else who knew the language or the people as well. I did a lot of work on archaeological digs there during the thirties.’

‘And now you’re going in again. Don’t you think you’re getting a little old for this sort of thing?’

Eisenhower pushed a document across the desk and Carter picked it up. It was a typical SOE operation order in sparse, no-nonsense Civil Service English.



OPERATION INSTRUCTION NO. 592

For Major Harry Carter

Operation: Swordarm

Field Name: FORTUNATO

Name on Papers: Giovanni Ciccio

1 INFORMATION

We have discussed with you the possibility of your returning to Sicily to finalize the mission you were originally given when you left for that island in February of this year; namely, to co-ordinate the organization of resistance groups in the general area of the Cammarata so that the maximum co-operation is available to Allied troops in the event of invasion. You have made it quite clear that in your view, nothing prevents you from returning to the same area to carry out this task.

2 METHOD

From Maison Blanche you will proceed to Sicily in a Halifax of 138 (Special Duties) Squadron and will land by parachute at a point 10 kilometres west of Bellona where you will be received by elements of the local resistance movement. You have been given a cover story and papers in the name of Giovanni Ciccio which will enable you to live a normal life in the field.

INTERCOMMUNICATIONS

Your channel of communication with the resistance movement in the Palermo area will be through the Contessa di Bellona who is at the present time in residence at her villa outside that town.



Your channel of communication with HQ will be by W/T radio transmission handled by Vito Barbera, coordinator, Bellona area.

WEAPONS

At your discretion, but only those you consider essential for hand-to-hand combat.

CONCLUSION

You are aware of the importance of this mission and nothing must take precedence over it. We anticipate completion in two weeks. Your return will be by submarine pick-up and details of this will be transmitted by radio in field-code at the appropriate time.



NOW DESTROY . . . NOW DESTROY . . . NOW DESTROY . . .



Carter took a cigarette lighter from his pocket, flicked it with his thumb and touched the flame to the corner of the document. When it was well alight, he crossed to the empty fireplace and dropped it into the grate.

‘Even you shouldn’t have that, General.’

The door opened and Cusak returned with coffee on a brass Arabic tray. ‘Thanks, George, I’ll take care of it,’ Eisenhower said.

He poured the coffee himself and lit another cigarette. ‘I’d say it’s a reasonable assumption that you know more about what’s happening over there at the moment than anyone else in North Africa. So let’s talk.’

What would you like to know, General?’

‘I’d like you to explain the Mafia to me.’

‘You have a file on the Mafia connection, presumably?’

‘Yes.’

Carter lit a cigarette himself without thinking. ‘Mafia began as a kind of secret society during a period of real oppression. In those days it was the only weapon the peasant had, his only means of justice.’

‘Go on.’

‘You have to understand the landscape, sir. It’s another world. Sterile, barren, where the struggle is not so much for a living as for survival. A world where the key word is omerta which means manliness, honour, and never, never seek official help. If you have a problem, you go to the capo.’

‘The capo?’ Eisenhower frowned.

‘Capo means boss, chief, put it how you like. Wherever you go in Sicily there will be a capo mafia who rules the roost.’

‘And still does?’

‘Mussolini tried to crush the movement but it simply went under the surface. You can talk of Separatists, Communists and other political factions as much as you like, but in Sicily, it’s still the Mafia which has the real influence.’

Eisenhower sat staring into space, brooding.

Finally, as if coming to a decision, he tapped the brown manila folder in front of him.

‘This is the file you referred to as the Mafia connection. Are you familiar with an individual mentioned in it known as Lucky Luciano?’

Carter nodded. ‘A New York Sicilian gangster and probably the most important capo in American Mafia. He’s serving a thirty-to-fifty year sentence in Dannemora Penitentiary at the moment. I believe the charge was organized prostitution.’

‘Not now, he isn’t,’ Eisenhower said. ‘According to the file, he’s been moved to Great Meadow at Comstock. It seems that after the liner Normandie was burned out on the Hudson last year, Naval Intelligence became worried about increasing sabotage on the New York waterfront.’

‘I know, General, and when they approached the dockers’ unions, they discovered that the man to see was Luciano, inside prison or out.’

Eisenhower said, ‘Quite incredible. In the middle of the greatest war in history they have to go to a crook for help. As if that wasn’t enough, I now find that our people have been putting agents into Sicily for some time now, usually Americans with an ethnic Sicilian background. Were you aware of this?’

‘It’s a specifically American project, General, but yes, I did know about it. The aim is, I believe, to ensure Mafia cooperation in the event of an invasion.’

Eisenhower exploded angrily. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be fighting the same war, for God’s sake?’ He took another cigarette and struck the match so forcibly that it snapped. ‘They approached Luciano in the penitentiary again about giving his assistance. They seem to think he has some influence in Sicily also.’

‘Considerable, General. If he appeared in some of those mountain villages it would be like the second coming.’

‘Our Intelligence people certainly seem to think so. Apparently a yellow scarf with the initial L in black, which is Luciano’s calling card, will be dropped extensively in apropriate areas at the right time.’

‘And they think this will help?’ Carter asked.

Eisenhower turned back to the map. ‘The theory is sound enough. The terrain Patton and his army have to pass through to reach Palermo is a soldier’s nightmare. The area around the Cammarata particularly is a warren of ravines and mountains. It could take months to hack a way through it. On the other hand, if the Mafia used its power to promote an uprising of the people and to persuade Italian units to surrender, the Germans would have no other recourse but to get the hell out of it.’

‘Yes, General,’ Carter said.

‘You don’t sound too certain. Don’t you think the Mafia can deliver?’

‘Frankly, sir, not as the people in Washington who dreamed this thing up seem to expect. One major weakness. If you take the Mafia boss, the capo, in one particular district, you may find he doesn’t have much influence elsewhere. Another thing, your Intelligence people have been recruiting American service personnel with Sicilian or Italian ethnic backgrounds.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Eisenhower demanded.

‘It’s better than nothing, of course, but being Italian doesn’t cut much ice in Sicily and as regards the language, there are at least five Sicilian dialects in Palermo alone.’

‘But surely the idea of using Luciano was to get over such difficulties by having someone whose name meant something to everyone.’

‘I don’t happen to think it’s enough.’

‘But Washington does?’

‘So it would appear.’

There was a brief silence, Eisenhower frowning down thoughtfully at the file, and then he looked up.

‘All right, Major, you’ve had one briefing. Now I’m going to give you another. I want the facts on this Mafia thing and straight from the horse’s mouth. When you return in two weeks or whatever, I want you back here Priority One with a first hand assessment of the situation in the field. You understand me?’

‘Perfectly, General.’

‘Good. You’d better get moving, then.’

Carter saluted. Eisenhower nodded and picked up his pen. As Carter reached the door and opened it, the General called softly, ‘One thing more, Major.’

Carter turned to face him. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Leave the rough stuff to other people. I’d be considerably inconvenienced if you failed to keep our next appointment.’




2


It started to rain as Carter went over the ridge, a heavy, drenching downpour, sheet lightning flickering beyond the mountain peaks. He leaned the cumbersome bicycle against a tree and took the field-glasses from his pocket. When he focused them the houses of Bellona three miles away jumped into view. He followed the valley road to where it disappeared into pine trees, but there was no sign of life. Not even a shepherd.

He replaced the field-glasses in his pack, moved back through the trees to the other side of the ridge and looked down at the villa in the hollow below, quiet in the evening light, waiting for him.

He was tired and yet filled with a sudden fierce exhilaration, faced at last with the final end of things. He started down the slope through pine trees, pushing the bicycle before him.

He entered the grounds by a gate in the rear wall and followed a path round to the front of the house. The garden was Moorish, lush, semi-tropical vegetation pressing in everywhere. Palms swayed gently above his head and in the heavy downpour water gurgled in the old conduits, splashing from numerous fountains.

He emerged into the courtyard at the front of the house, leaned the bicycle against the baroque fountain, and went up the steps to the front door. There was already a light in the hall and he pulled on the bell chain and waited. There was the sound of footsteps approaching and the door opened.

The man who stood there was perhaps forty, his heavy moustache and hair already grey. He wore a black bow tie and alpaca jacket and looked Carter over with total disapproval.

‘What do you want?’

Carter removed his cloth cap and when he spoke, his voice was rough and hoarse, pure Sicilian. ‘I have a message for the Contessa.’

The manservant held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’

Carter shook his head, assuming an expression of peasant cunning. ‘My orders were to deliver it personally. She’s expecting me. Tell her Ciccio is here.’

The manservant shrugged. ‘All right, come in. I’ll see what she has to say.’

Carter stepped inside and stood there, dripping rain on to the black and white ceramic tiles. The manservant frowned his displeasure, walked across the hall and went through a green baize door into a large kitchen. He paused just inside the door, took a Walther automatic from his pocket, checked it quickly then opened a cupboard beside the old-fashioned iron stove and took out a military field telephone. He wound the handle and waited, whistling softly to himself, tapping the Walther against his thigh.

There was the murmur of a voice at the other end and he said in German, ‘Schäfer – at the villa. Carter’s turned up at last. No problem. I’ll hold him till you get here.’

He replaced the telephone in the cupboard, turned and still whistling softly, moved back to the door.



Carter shivered, suddenly cold, aware for the first time that the rain had soaked through to his skin. Almost over now. God, but he was tired. In the gilt mirror on the other side of the hall he could see his reflection. A middle-aged Sicilian peasant, badly in need of a shave, hair too long, with sullen, brutalized features, patched tweed suit and leather leggings, a shotgun, the traditional lupara with sawn-off barrels, hanging from his left shoulder.

But not for much longer. Soon there would be Cairo, Shepherd’s Hotel, hot baths, clean sheets, seven-course meals and ice-cold champagne. Dom Perignon 35. He still had, after all, an infallible source of supply.

The green baize door opened in the mirror behind him and the manservant came through. Carter turned. ‘The Contessa will see me?’

‘She would if she could, only she isn’t here. We took her away three days ago.’ His right hand came up holding the Walther and now he was speaking in English. ‘The shotgun, Major Carter. On the floor, very gently, then turn, hands against the wall.’

Strange, but now that it had happened, this moment that he had always known would come one day, Carter was aware of a curious sensation of relief. He didn’t even attempt to play Ciccio any more, but put down the lupara as instructed and turned to face the wall.

‘German?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid so.’ A hand searched him expertly. ‘Schäfer. Geheimefeldpolizei. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’ He stepped back and Carter turned to face him.

‘The Contessa?’

‘The Gestapo have her. They’ve been waiting for you in Bellona for three days now. I’ve just telephoned through from the kitchen. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.’

‘I see,’ Carter said. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘We wait.’ Schäfer motioned him through into the dining room.

Carter paused, looking down at the open fire, steam rising from his damp clothes, and behind him Schäfer sat at the end of the long dining table, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, then pushed the pack along the table. Carter took one gratefully and when he struck the match, his fingers trembled slightly.

Schäfer said, ‘There’s brandy on the sideboard. You look as if you could do with it.’

Carter went round the table and helped himself. The brandy was the local variety, raw and pungent, it burned as it went down and he coughed, struggling for breath. He poured himself another and turned to Schäfer.

‘What about you?’

‘Why not?’

Carter found another glass and moved to the table. ‘Say when,’ he said and started to pour.

Schäfer still covered him with the Walther. Raising the glass to his lips he said, ‘I’m sorry about this, Major. I don’t like those Gestapo bastards any more than you do, but I’ve got a job to do.’

‘Haven’t we all,’ Carter said.

He swung the decanter in an arc against the German’s skull, at the same time grabbing for the wrist of the hand that held the Walther, desperately trying to deflect it.

He swung the decanter again so that it splintered into dozens of pieces, brandy spurting across Schäfer’s head and face, mingling with the blood. Incredibly, Schäfer’s left fist managed a punch of considerable force high on Carter’s right cheek, splitting the flesh to the bone, before clutching him by the throat.

They fell across the table and rolled over the edge to the floor and Carter was aware of one blow after another to the body and the pistol exploding between them. Somehow, he found himself up on one knee, twisting the other’s wrist up and around until the bone cracked and the Walther jumped into the air, landing in the hearth.

The German screamed, his head going back, and Carter punched him in the open throat with knuckles extended. Schäfer rolled over on to his face and lay still and Carter turned and ran into the hall. He grabbed for the shotgun, slinging it over his shoulder as he made for the front door.

There was a dreamlike quality to everything. It was as if he was moving in slow motion, no strength to him, so that even opening the front door was an effort. He leaned against the balustrade of the porch, aware now that the front of his jacket was soaked with blood, not Schäfer’s but his own. When he slipped a hand inside his shirt he could feel the lips of the wound like raw meat where a bullet had ripped through his left side.

No time for that, not now for he was aware of the sound of vehicles approaching on the road, very fast. He went lurching down the steps, picked up the bicycle and hurriedly retraced his steps through the garden to the rear gate.

He reached the shelter of the pine trees below the villa, turned in time to see a truck and two kubelwagens appear on the main road above him. Carter didn’t wait to see what would happen, simply pushed on through the trees until he came to the woodcutter’s track that ran all the way down through the forest to Bellona. Just enough light to see by if he was lucky. He flung a leg over the broken leather saddle of the old bicycle and rode away.



There wasn’t a great deal to remember of that ride. The trees crowding in on either side, deepening the evening gloom, the rush of the heavy rain. It was rather like being on the kind of monumental drunk where, afterwards, only occasional images surface.

He opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back, the rain falling on his upturned face, in a ditch on the edge of the village, the bicycle beside him.

The pain of the gunshot wound was intense now, worse than he would have believed possible. There was no sign of the shotgun and he forced himself to his feet and stumbled along the track through the swiftly falling darkness.

The smell of wood smoke hung on the damp air and a dog barked hollowly in the distance, but otherwise there was no sign of life except for the occasional light in a window. And yet there were people up there, watching from behind the shutters, waiting.

He made it across the main square, pausing at the fountain in the centre to put his head under the jet of cold water that gushed from the mouth and nostrils of a bronze dryad, continued past the church and turned into a narrow side street. There was an entrance to a courtyard a few houses along, barred by an oaken gate, a blue lamp above it. The sign painted on the wall in ornate black letters read Vito Barbera – Mortician.

A small judas gate stood next to the main door. Carter leaned against it and pulled the bell chain. There was silence for a while and he held on to the grille with one hand, staring up at the rain falling in a silver spray through the lamplight. A footstep sounded inside and the grille opened.

Barbera said, ‘What is it?’

‘Me, Vito.’

‘Harry, is that you?’ Barbera said, this time in the kind of English that came straight from the Bronx. ‘Thank God. I thought they must have lifted you.’

He opened the judas gate and Carter stepped inside. ‘A damn near-run thing, Vito, just like Waterloo,’ he said and fainted.



Carter surfaced slowly and found himself looking up at a cracked plaster ceiling. It was very cold and there was a heavy, medicinal smell to everything that he soon recognized as formaldehyde. He was lying on one of the tables in the mortuary preparation room, his neck pillowed on a wooden block, his stomach and chest expertly bandaged.

He turned his head and found Barbera, wearing a long rubber apron, working on the corpse of an old man at the next table. Carter pushed himself up.

Barbera said cheerfully, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. He shot you twice. The one in the side went straight through, but the second is somewhere in the left lung. You’ll need a top surgeon.’

‘Thanks a million,’ Carter said. ‘That really does make me feel a whole lot better.’

On the trolley beside Barbera were the tools of the embalmer’s trade laid out neatly on a white cloth: forceps, scalpels, surgical needles, artery tubes and a glass jar containing a couple of gallons of embalming fluid.

There was a look of faint surprise on the corpse’s face that many people show in death, jaw dropped, mouth gaping as if in astonishment that this could be happening. Barbera took a long curved needle and passed it from behind the lower lip, up through the nasal septum and down again so that when he tightened the thread and tied it off, the jaw was lifted.

‘So you raise people from the dead, too?’ Carter eased himself off the table. ‘I always knew you were a man of parts.’

Barbera smiled, a small, intense-looking man of fifty whose tangled iron-grey beard appeared strangely at odds with the Bronx accent.

‘You fucking English, Harry! I mean, when are you going to learn? The days of Empire are over. What were you trying to do up there, win the war on your own?’

‘Something like that.’

The door opened and a young girl entered. Sixteen or seventeen, no more. Small, dark-haired with a ripe, full body that strained at the seams of the old cotton dress. She had a wide mouth, dark brown eyes in a face of considerable character and yet there was the impression of one who had seen too much of life at its worst too early.

She carried a tray containing an old brass coffee pot, brown sugar and glasses. There was also a bottle of cognac – Courvoisier.

Barbera carried on working. ‘Rosa, this is Major Carter. My niece, arrived from Palermo since you were last here.’

‘Rosa,’ Carter said.

She poured coffee and handed it to him without a word.

Barbera said, ‘Good girl. Now go back to the gate and watch the square. Anything – anything at all, you let me know.’

She went out and Carter poured himself a brandy, sipping it slowly for the pain in his lung was so intense that he could hardly breathe. ‘I never knew you had a niece. How old is she?’

‘Oh, a hundred and fifty, or sixteen. Take your pick. Her father was my youngest brother. Killed in an auto accident in ’thirty-seven in Naples. I lost sight of his wife. She died of consumption in Palermo three years ago.’

‘And Rosa?’

‘I only heard about her two months ago through Mafia friends in Palermo. She’s been a street whore since she was thirteen. I figured it was time she came home.’

‘You still think of this place as home after Tenth Avenue?’

‘Oh, sure, no regrets. Something Rosa can’t understand. New York is still the promised land to her, whereas to me, it was somewhere to leave.’

He was working cream into the old man’s face now, touching the cheeks with rouge.

Carter said, ‘What about the Contessa?’

‘The Gestapo took her to Palermo.’

‘Bad for you if they break her.’

‘Not possible.’ Barbera shook his head. ‘A friend passed her a cyanide capsule in the women’s prison yesterday afternoon.’

Carter took a long, shuddering breath to steady his nerves. ‘I was hoping she’d have news for me of Luca.’

Barbera paused and glanced at him in some surprise. ‘You waste your time. No one has news of Luca because that is the way he wants it.’

‘Mafia again?’

‘Yes, my friend, Mafia again and you would do well to remember that. What are your plans?’

‘I was supposed to go to Agrigento tonight. I’m due to put to sea with a tuna boat out of Porto Stefano at midnight.’

‘Submarine pick-up?’

‘That’s it.’

Barbera frowned thoughtfully. ‘I don’t see how, Harry, not tonight. The roads will be crawling with Krauts. Maybe tomorrow.’ He gestured to the corpse. ‘I’ve got to take the old boy here down to Agrigento anyway.’

Before Carter could reply, the door burst open and Rosa looked in. They are here in the square. Many Germans.’ Barbera moved to the window and parted the curtain slightly. Carter struggled up with difficulty and limped to join him. Several vehicles had pulled up in the square, kubelwagens and troop carriers and two armoured cars. Soldiers had gathered in a semi-circle and were being addressed from the back of a field car by an officer.

Carter said, ‘SS paratroopers. Where in the hell did they come from?’

‘The mainland last month. Specially selected by Kesselring to clear the mountains of partisans. The one doing the talking is their commanding officer, Major Koenig. He’s good. They call him the Hunter in the Cammarata.’

As they watched, the SS broke away to commence searching the village. Koenig sat down and his kubelwagen started across the square, followed by another.

Barbera closed the curtain. ‘Looks as if he’s coming this way.’ He turned to Carter. ‘Did you leave anybody dead up there at the villa, by any chance?’

‘Probably.’ Carter caught him by the sleeve. ‘He’ll take it out on the village if I don’t turn up.’

Barbera smiled sadly. ‘Not his style. Very definitely a man of honour. Makes it difficult to stick a knife in his back. Now you stay here with Rosa and keep quiet.’

He took the lamp and went out, leaving them in darkness.



They were already knocking at the outer gate as he crossed the courtyard. He eased back the massive bolt and the gate swung open to reveal the first kubelwagen, Koenig seated beside the driver. He got out and moved forward.

‘Ah, there you are, Signor Barbera. I’ve brought some custom for you, I’m afraid,’ he said in fair Italian.

The two kubelwagens drove into the courtyard. Barbera saw that there was a body strapped to a stretcher on one of them and covered with a blanket.

Two SS ran round to lift it down and Barbera said, ‘If you’d follow me, Major.’

He crossed the courtyard and led the way in through a short passage. When he opened the door at the end, there was the taint of death on the air.

The room which he entered was quiet, a single oil lamp on a table in the centre the only light. It was a waiting mortuary of a type common in Sicily. There were at least a dozen coffins, each one open and containing a corpse, fingers entwined in a pulley arrangement that stretched overhead to an old brass bell by the door.

Koenig entered behind him. His NCO’s field cap was an affectation of some of the old timers, silver death’s head badge glinting in the lamplight. The scarlet and black ribbon of the Knight’s Cross made a brave show at his throat. He wore a leather greatcoat which had seen long service and paratroopers’ jumpboots. He lit a cigarette, pausing just inside the door, and flicked a finger against the bell which echoed eerily.

‘Has it ever rung?’

‘Frequently,’ Barbera said. ‘Limbs behave strangely as they stiffen in death. If what the Major means is has anyone returned to life, that, too. A girl of twelve and on another occasion, a man of forty. Both revived after death had been pronounced. That, after all, is the purpose of these places.’

‘You Sicilians seem to me to have an excessive preoccupation with death,’ Koenig said.

‘Not to the extent that we are excited by the idea of being buried alive.’

From the preparation room, peering through the crack in the door, Carter leaned against Rosa, fighting the pain, and watched them place the stretcher on a table and uncover Schäfer, the feldpolizei sergeant. The face was streaked with blood, the eyes staring. Barbera closed them with a practised movement.

‘Sergeant Schäfer was a good man,’ Koenig said. ‘I need hardly point out that it would be most unfortunate for anyone found harbouring the man who did this.’

Barbera said, ‘What would you like me to do with him, Major?’

‘Clean him up and deliver him to Geheimefeldpolizei headquarters in Agrigento.’

Barbera covered Schäfer with the blanket again. ‘I have a previous engagement tomorrow. The family of the Contessa di Bellona wish me to fetch her body from the women’s prison in Palermo. A matter of some delicacy.’

‘Understandably,’ Koenig said.

‘In the circumstances, I had intended taking another corpse down to Agrigento tonight. See, in here.’

He moved to the door of the preparation room, opened it and led the way in, holding the lamp high so that Koenig could see the corpse of the old man. In the darkness of the rear cupboard, Carter slumped against Rosa and her arms tightened about him.

‘I could take Sergeant Schäfer at the same time,’ Barbera said. ‘Of course, I would need a pass. Major. I presume your men will be active on all roads tonight.’

He followed Koenig out and Carter waited there in the dark, the pain in his lung like a living thing. God, he thought, perhaps I’m dying. He clutched desperately at the girl as if she was life itself, conscious of the softness of her flesh, her breasts tight against him.

He groaned, struggling to control the pain, and she fastened her mouth over his as if to hold the sound in, her tongue working furiously. In spite of the agony, his flesh reacted to her practised hands.

After a while she opened the door cautiously and led him out. Carter propped himself against one of the tables, aware of the sound of vehicles driving away down there in the courtyard.

‘What were you trying to do, kill me or cure me?’ he croaked.

She wiped sweat from his face with one of Barbera’s towels. ‘We have a saying, Colonel. There is the big death and then there is the small death which may be repeated many times. Which would you prefer?’

He stared down into that old-young face, but before he could reply Barbera came back, holding a piece of paper.

‘Signed by Major Koenig himself. Good for any road block between here and Agrigento. With luck, you should make that submarine after all.’

‘How?’ Carter said.

‘I wouldn’t dream of having a hearse without a hidden compartment. Comes in handy. Of course, you’ll be lying flat on your back with two corpses in coffins just inches above your nose, but I can guarantee you won’t smell a thing.’ He grinned. ‘Stick with me, old buddy and you’ll live for ever.’




3


The JU52 which flew in from Rome with Field Marshal Albert Kesselring landed at the Luftwaffe base at Punta Raisi outside Palermo just after nine in the morning. An hour later, he was at German Army headquarters in the old Benedictine Monastery near Monte Pellegrino, drinking coffee in the office of Major General Karl Walther who was temporarily in command.

‘Beautiful,’ Kesselring said, indicating the view. ‘Quite remarkable, and so is the coffee.’

‘Yemeni mocha.’ Walther poured him another cup. ‘We still manage some of the finer things in life here.’

‘We had some difficulty driving through the town. There seemed to be religious processions everywhere.’

‘Some sort of holy week. They hold them all the time. Everything grinds to a halt. They’re a very religious people.’

‘So it would appear,’ Kesselring said. ‘When one of the processions passed us I noticed a rather unusual feature. The Image of the Virgin they were carrying had a knife through its heart.’

‘Typically Sicilian,’ Walther replied. ‘The cult of death everywhere.’

Kesselring put down his cup. ‘All right, what have I got?’

‘There are eight this morning. All Iron Crosses. First Class, except for the two in whom the Field Marshal has a special interest.’

‘Let’s take a look.’

Walther opened the door and ushered him out onto a stone-flagged terrace, an ironwork grille between the pillars. Below in the courtyard eight men were drawn up.

‘Koenig on the far end,’ Herr Field Marshal Walther said. ‘The man next to him is Sturmscharführer Brandt.’

‘Who receives the Knight’s Cross?’

‘The third occasion that Koenig has put him forward.’

‘So,’ Kesselring nodded. ‘Then let’s get on with it.’



Major Max Koenig was twenty-six and looked ten years older. He had seen action in Poland, France and Holland and had transferred to the newly formed 21st SS Paratroop Battalion in time for the drop over Maleme airfield in Crete in 1941 where he was seriously wounded. Then came the Winter War in Russia. Two years of it and it showed: in the gold wound badge that said he’d been a casualty on five separate occasions; in the general air of weariness, the empty look in the dark eyes.

Except for the silver death’s head badge in his service cap and the SS runes and rank badges on his collar, he was all fallschirmjäger: flying blouse, jump trousers tucked into paratroop boots. On his left sleeve was the Kreta cuff title, proud badge of those who had spearheaded the invasion of Crete. The gold and silver eagle of the paratroopers’ qualification badge was pinned to his left breast beside the Iron Cross. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves hung at his throat.

Standing at ease at the end of the line waiting to receive the Swords, he felt strangely indifferent and yet strove to find the right thing to say to Sergeant-Major Brandt for whom this was a moment of supreme importance.

‘So, Rudi,’ he whispered. ‘The great occasion at last.’

‘Thanks to you, Major,’ Brandt replied. He was an innkeeper’s son from the Austrian Tyrol, a small, wiry man who could climb all day with no need of rest. He and Koenig had been together for more than two years now.

There was a clatter of boots on the stone stairs as Kesselring and General Walther appeared and someone called the parade to attention.

It was a pleasant enough affair, for Kesselring was in good humour, full of his usual charm. He had a word for each man as he pinned on the ribbon. They responded well, as was only to be expected, for he was, after all, Commander-in-chief South and arguably one of the best half-dozen generals on either side during the Second World War.

They had reached Brandt now and Kesselring did a marvellous thing, throwing all distinctions of rank to one side, clapping Brandt on the shoulders and shaking him warmly by the hand before hanging the coveted cross around his neck.

‘My dear Brandt, a real pleasure, I assure you as one soldier to another, and long overdue.’

Brandt was overcome and Koenig was unable to keep a fleeting smile from his lips. A master stroke, but Kesselring knew how to handle men. Then the Field Marshal was standing in front of him, a slightly wry smile on his face as if he had noticed Koenig’s reaction and was asking him to bear with him.

‘What on earth can I say, Major? You are only the thirtieth recipient of the Swords since the award was created. Normally, our Führer himself would wish to decorate you personally, but these are extraordinary times. I can only say how delighted I am that the honour falls to me.’

He held Koenig by the shoulders for a moment and then, as if in a sudden excess of emotion, embraced him.



Later, back in Walther’s office having a cognac before lunch, Kesselring said, ‘A very impressive young man.’

‘He’s certainly that,’ Walther agreed.

‘Decent, honourable, chivalrous. A superb soldier. What every member of the Waffen SS would like to imagine himself to be. Let’s have him in and get it over with.’

Walther pressed a buzzer on his desk and a moment later an aide looked in.

‘Major Koenig,’ Walther said.

The aide withdrew and Koenig entered. He paused at the desk, clicked his heels, and his hand went to the peak of his fieldcap in a military salute.

The Field Marshal said, ‘Pull up a chair, Major, and sit down.’

Koenig did as he was told. Kesselring turned to the large-scale military map of Sicily on the wall. ‘I see you’ve applied for a transfer already.’

‘Yes, Herr Field Marshal.’

‘Well, it’s denied.’

‘May I be permitted to ask why?’

‘I could say because that silver plate they had to put in your skull after your last exploit in Russia makes you unsuitable for jumping out of aeroplanes any more. But I don’t need to. Your task here in Sicily is of vital importance.’

General Walther said, ‘There is still too much partisan activity here in the central mountains, particularly in the region of the Cammarata. It would be fatal to our interests in the event of an invasion.’

‘I thought the Allies intend to try Sardinia first, General?’ queried Koenig.

Walther and Kesselring glanced at each other and Kesselring laughed. ‘Go on, tell him. I don’t see why not.’

Walther said, ‘Actually, you’re not far wrong, Major. The high command in Berlin, the Führer himself, feel that Sardinia will be the invasion point.’

‘A few weeks ago, the body of a British courier was washed up on a Spanish beach,’ Kesselring went on. ‘A Royal Marine Major. He was carrying letters to General Alexander in Tunisia. There was another from Lord Louis Mountbatten to Sir Andrew Cunningham, Commander-in-Chief of the British Mediterranean Fleet. The gist of these letters indicates firmly that the target for the Allied invasion will be Sardinia and Greece. Any attack on Sicily will be diversionary.’

There was a heavy silence. General Walther said, ‘We’d be interested in your opinion. Feel free to speak.’

‘What can I say, Herr General.’ Koenig shrugged. ‘Miracles do occur on occasions, even in this day and age. Presumably this British Major’s being so conveniently washed up on a Spanish beach where our agents could have a sight of the letters he was carrying, was one of them.’

‘But on the whole,’ Kesselring said, ‘you don’t believe in miracles.’

‘Not since I stopped reading the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm, Herr Field Marshal.’

‘Good.’ Kesselring was all business now. ‘Give me your personal assessment of the situation here.’

Koenig stood up and moved round to the map. ‘As regards partisan activity, two important groups. The Separatists, who want an independent Sicily, and the Communists. We all know what they want.

‘They cut each other’s throats as cheerfully as they do ours.’

‘General Walther was explaining to me about this Mafia movement,’ Kesselring said. ‘Are they a force to be reckoned with?’

‘Yes, I think they have very real power under the surface of things and again, they are peculiarly Sicilian. Mainland Italy and Mussolini mean nothing to them.’

‘And if an invasion comes, they will fight?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ Koenig nodded. ‘All of them. Our main worry would be the Italian Army itself.’

‘You think so?’ Kesselring asked.

Koenig took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet. ‘Frankly, Herr Field Marshal, I think the fact must be faced that the Italian people as a whole, have lost any interest they ever had in the war and all enthusiasm for Mussolini.’

There was a slight pause and then Kesselring smiled. ‘An accurate enough assessment. I wouldn’t disagree with that. So, you think invasion will come to Sicily?’

Koenig ran a finger along the road south from Palermo to Agrigento. ‘Here is the most vital road in the whole of Sicily, passing through the Cammarata, one of the wildest and most primitive places in the island. There has been considerable partisan activity in that area recently. According to our informants, a number of American agents have been dropped by parachute during the past few weeks. So far, we haven’t succeeded in catching any of them.’

Kesselring picked up a folder from the desk. ‘And yet you almost had this man.’ He opened the file. ‘Major Harry Carter, in charge of the Italian desk at Special Operations Executive in Cairo. You had him, Koenig, and let him slip through your fingers.’

‘With respect, Herr Field Marshal,’ Koenig corrected him firmly, ‘my task was to provide back-up forces on the ground. The affair was in the hands of the Geheimefeldpolizei and Gestapo. And I would remind you, sir, that thanks to Russia, I have only thirty-five men remaining in what was once a battalion. Not a single officer is left on the strength except myself.’

‘The capture of Carter would have been an intelligence coup of the first order and Berlin, in the person of Reichsführer Himmler, is not pleased. To that end he has ordered the transfer of one of his most trusted intelligence officers from the Rome Office to work with you here.’

‘I see, Herr Field Marshal,’ Koenig said. ‘Gestapo?’

‘Oh, no,’ Kesselring told him gravely. ‘Rather more important than that.’ He turned to Walther. ‘Show Major Meyer in.’

The man who entered was broad and squat with a flat Slav face and cold blue eyes. Koenig recognized the type at once for the security service was full of them; ex-police officers, more used to the criminal underworld than anything else. He wore SS field uniform and his only decoration was the Order of Blood, a much coveted Nazi medal specially struck for those who had served prison sentences for political crimes in the old Weimar Republic. The most interesting fact about him was his cuff-title which carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread. Reichsführer der SS, the symbol of Himmler’s personal staff.

‘Major Franz Meyer, Major Koenig.’ Walther made the introductions while Kesselring stood looking out of the window, smoking a cigarette.

Meyer took in everything about Koenig with the policeman’s 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, ‘I know what you’re going to say, Koenig, and you’re quite right. It places you in a most difficult situation.’

‘Almost impossible, Herr Field Marshal. I will have no 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 Reichsführer’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 Führer 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 Führer 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, Major. I would very much appreciate an opportunity to discuss my duties at the earliest possible moment. This Carter affair, for example.’

‘Gestapo business, not mine,’ Koenig said, pulling on his 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. ‘Reichsführer 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 all. The Field Marshal was very sorry, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.’

He reached into his pocket for matches and the 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 Obersturmbannführer Max Koenig. What was it Kesselring had said? I 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.’




4


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 déja 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 the next few weeks the British under General Montgomery will invade at the Eastern end of the island, while General Patton and the Seventh Army will land in the South and strike for Palermo. Are you surprised?’

‘Not really, sir, although there’s been a strong opinion 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 it ‘Still, one thing’s (or sure. If George Patton and his boys have to fight their way through those mountains to Palermo, they’ll die by the thousands.’

He repeated the phrase in a whisper as if to himself. Carter knew that in his mind’s eye, Eisenhower was seeing again the American dead on the battlefield of Kasserine, that terrible débâcle 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?’

‘That’s it, Major,’ Eisenhower replied without looking up.

Carter closed the door, paused, then crossed the hall to the entrance and went down the steps to his jeep. He climbed in beside the driver and glanced at his watch. It 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 the sun and never crossed the line alone under 10,000 feet. He soloed at sixteen, thanks to his uncle’s tuition, then moved on to Harvard to study law, more to please his father than anything eke. 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 eleven 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 Tempsford 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 in their attacks on RAF bombers engaged on night raids over Europe. And he didn’t have a thing to fight with except skill, for the Dakota carried no kind of armament.

The cabin door swung open behind him and the two supply sergeants peered in.

‘Hang on!’ Grant said. ‘I’m going to see if I can make him do something stupid.’

He went down fast and was aware of the Junkers, turning 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 staggered under the impact of cannon shell. The Junkers 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 started 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 the 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 supposed 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 thing, too.’ They were passing a hangar in which ground crew worked under floodlights repairing a badly damaged Halifax. Half the tail plane was missing and the rear gunner’s compartment shattered. ‘Rear gunner and navigator both killed on a supply drop to Sicily 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. Wars 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 – I mean really tired. So I don’t care any more.’

‘It’s the war, Harvey. It’s gone on too long.’

‘Good,’ Grant said. ‘I 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.’



When the jeep dropped Carter in the courtyard outside the villa, there was a big Packard staff car outside. Carter went 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 the next stop?

The door to Eisenhower’s office opened and General George Patton walked across the hall. He wore field cap and heavy military greatcoat, his hands pushed deep into its pockets as if cold.

As Carter moved out of the shadows, Patton paused. ‘Are you Carter?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

Patton stood there looking 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 desk where Eisenhower sat working on a file in a haze of cigarette smoke. He glanced up as Carter entered and put down his pen.

‘You know, one thing they omitted to tell us when I was a cadet at West Point was the amount of paperwork that went into being Commander-in-Chief.’

‘If they did, maybe nobody would want the job, 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 the man. See what he has to say. Yank him right out of that damn prison if you have to. You’ve got the power. Now, are you going to use it or aren’t you?’

Carter, filled with an excitement he had not known in years, 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 temporary, 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.’




5


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 infinite 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 said.

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 smile of contempt directed at the world in general.

Franco said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Luciano, but there’s a kid here called Walton from D block. He needs a favour.’

Luciano looked up. Walton was a tall, gangling young man 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 Luciano 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 said ‘Just a man the court appointed. He only spoke to me 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’ll 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 club 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 ivory Madonna. When he pressed her feet, six inches of blue steel appeared, sharp as a razor on both edges. ‘Nothing personal, Mr Luciano. With me, this is strictly business.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Fiorelli. He sent you his regards and gave me strict instructions 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 if 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 warden 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 1929 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.’

‘I know,’ Carter said. ‘In Sicily they prefer the lupara, the sawn-off shotgun, for that kind of thing. You have to get close, but then, that’s really the point.’

‘They say Luciano’s killed at least twenty men himself and that isn’t those he’s put a contract out on.’

‘Just how powerful a figure is he?’ Carter asked. ‘I mean, he is in 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!’ 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 from the Government and he has full authority to speak with you on a matter of national importance, so I’m going to leave you to it.’

He went out and Carter took out his silver case. ‘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 has 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 shot guns, 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 the 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. God and the Devil, they both exist, only these days God’s outnumbered.’

‘I see,’ Carter said. ‘So you’ve settled for reigning in hell?’

‘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, Professore?’

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 kid’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 was. I was boss of the rackets. I had an interest in most things, but never girls. Tom Dewey tried every damn way he could to get me and failed. Finally, they brought me to trial with nine other guys and some of them were in the prostitution business. At the end of the day, the jury 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.’

‘I know about that but wasn’t there something special about his daughter?’

‘That’s right, Sophia. During the First World War while she was supposed to be at school in Rome, she joined 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.’




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