No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The evening conference unanimously concluded the operation depended heavily upon helicopters: three more twin-rotored Chinooks with a carrying capacity of twenty men each were allocated overnight, making eight in all. Melega additionally increased their manpower by having a fifty-strong army unit seconded to them, completely to seal every route – even mountain tracks – leading to and from Villalba. The Italian agreed with Cowley that such a build-up on the island stretched the security risk beyond breaking point, so the unit and their helicopters were held at Reggio di Calabria, on the mainland just across the narrow Straits of Messina.

That night there was not a lot of drinking and no-one slept well: Danilov was up before seven, and when he got to the breakfast room he found Cowley already there. Smith and Patton arrived within minutes. No-one ordered anything but coffee.

‘It might not be today,’ said Smith.

‘But then again it might,’ said Patton.

‘I hope it is today,’ said the FBI man. ‘I want to get it over.’

‘I want to get it right,’ qualified Cowley, ‘It’s a bastard not being able to set up anything in advance: I want a wire in that farmhouse, listening to every goddamned word.’

‘Which we’re not going to get,’ deflated Danilov, realistically. He was still worried about exactly what they were going to get, even if they made the arrests. Would the Federal Prosecutor formulate a charge under the Russian criminal code to get the three extradited back to Moscow, or would he leave them to Italian jurisdiction and prosecution?

When Melega came in it was from the street, not from his upstairs room. ‘They’re already up,’ he announced. ‘According to my people, they’re not as relaxed as they were yesterday.’

‘Neither are we,’ said Patton.

‘What about the army unit?’ asked Cowley.

‘Not yet,’ said Melega. ‘They’re back up. We’ve got the power of arrest.’

‘Let’s go and exercise it,’ said Cowley decisively.

Their helicopter was a UH-ID Cobra, like the ones Danilov remembered from much criticised newsreels on Russian television of American gunships in the Vietnam war. He realised as the flight sergeant was checking their seat belts – which only crossed the lap and seemed totally inadequate – they were to fly with the side doors open, just like they had in Vietnam, too. He was instantly terrified, believing there was no way, despite the belt, he could avoid falling out if the machine tipped on its side to turn. Even when it did, immediately on take-off, and the centrifugal force kept him firmly on his seat, Danilov still felt uneasy: he saw Patton was gripping the underside of the bench, like he was.

The helicopter rose high enough for Danilov to pick out the coast road along which they had travelled the previous day. From the air it looked much straighter than it had from the back seat of a car. The sun was flaring off the sea, whitening it near the shoreline. There were far more boats dotted on the deeper, bluer water: much further out, probably beyond sight of land, three ponderous tankers wallowed in a follow-my-leader line. On the coast road the tight-together congestion of vehicles made it look as if they were all joined together, like some motorised snake.

Babbled Italian rose and fell in Danilov’s helmet, and from the frequent sound fade he guessed they were patched through to the surveillance cars on the ground. It was easy, airborne, to see the sharp inland turn of the road that cut across the island to Catania, and when Melega made hand signals, jerking his finger in a downward pointing gesture, Danilov guessed they were being shown the car they wanted taking the inland route.

The traffic thinned, making it easier to concentrate on the one vehicle to which he believed Melega to be pointing. Just as he began to do so the helicopter banked as well and dropped into a mountain valley, so that they lost sight of the inland road. They were still high enough for Danilov to isolate four more helicopters, all looking the same as the one in which they were flying, and he supposed they were all part of the carabinieri assault force. Then the other helicopters were lost among the mountains and Danilov realised they were going to land.

They did so in a swirl of dust and thrown-about undergrowth on a plateau cut into the side of a mountain. The dust-storm died with the whine of the engine. Danilov climbed gratefully out, stretching, aware of the cramp in his hands where he’d held the underside of his seat for so long.

Melega carried a bundled-up map. He laid it out on the ground, bringing them all down in a crouch. ‘We are here!’ he announced, pointing to an ochre-shaded area.

A thread of river – the Gangi – was marked on the map, and a village or town described as Alimena, but Danilov couldn’t see any evidence of either from where they’d landed: in every direction the mountains were scorched brown and lifeless by the sun, with little green even in the deeper valley below. The only sound, now the helicopter was quiet, was the dry, scratching clatter of cicadas.

‘One of our other helicopters made a high pass over Villalba just after we got airborne from Palermo,’ resumed Melega. ‘There were two cars already outside the farmhouse: I’m guessing the people Palma and the others have come to meet are already there, waiting. I’m not risking another overflight. I’ve called the army in, from Reggio. They’re not going to fly in formation, to avoid attracting attention.’

‘Who’s going to notice eight platoon-carrying Chinooks anyway?’ tried the wisecracking Patton: Danilov decided it was nervousness.

Melega ignored the remark, going back to his map. ‘Once the Fiat has taken the Villalba turning, there will be road blocks here… here

… and here. The Villalba road will be completely cut and on either side of it the Catania route will be blocked. We’ll use the cleared section of the Catania highway to land at least one of the army machines. Another army group, with some carabinieri, will close the road on the other side of Villalba, towards Mussomeli. I’m going to enclose Villalba itself completely. The army will come in right behind us.’

‘So where do we get the signal they’re in the farmhouse together?’ said Smith.

‘It took precisely twenty-five minutes for them to get to Villalba yesterday, from the moment of turning off,’ reminded Melega. ‘I’m assuming they won’t stop at the cafe today. We’re going in thirty-five minutes after they’ve left the main road.’

‘In a fleet of helicopters making more noise than cats screwing on a tin roof!’ openly protested Patton.

‘I’ve talked about it, with the pilot. If we co-ordinate it correctly, we’ll be on the ground two minutes from the moment our approach first becomes audible.’

‘What happens if it’s co-ordinated in correctly?’ persisted the DEA agent.

‘It won’t be,’ insisted the Italian.

‘We should have talked more about this last night,’ said Cowley, in quiet despair.

The sun was beating down on Danilov’s back. He could feel the sweat forming irritating pathways and he shrugged against them, slipping out of his jacket. He looked up, to meet Cowley’s direct stare. Neither had to give any facial reaction to show their uncertainty.

Danilov’s action in taking off his jacket attracted Melega’s attention. Looking at the Russian, although not directly into his face, Melega said: ‘You are not armed?’

‘No.’ Danilov rarely carried the pistol he was authorised to hold in Moscow, and it had never once occurred to him to bring it on this roundabout journey through airport check-points. Danilov regularly underwent shooting practice – usually attaining a higher than average score – but he had never once fired a weapon in the course of duty. He’d drawn it a few times, making an arrest, but only for effect, which had fortunately always worked.

‘Neither am I,’ admitted Cowley, who wished he had drawn something from the embassy in Rome.

Melega collected two pistols from the helicopter, offering one to each man. Cowley accepted his more comfortably than Danilov, who hefted the unaccustomed weapon in his hand, examining it intently. A Beretta, he saw: lighter than the Russian standard-issue Makarov or Stetchkin. The safety catch slipped smoothly in and out of lock, a simple thumb action. He made sure the gun was secured before easing it into the waistband of his trousers, in the middle, bum-crease part of his back, where he’d seen Cowley casually put his. The first of many things, he thought: the first helicopter journey and the first time he would enter a situation in which shooting would be inevitable. Remember to take the safety catch off, he told himself. His stomach churned, rumbling like Patton’s had earlier. Did he have an ulcerous condition? Or was he just frightened? Frightened, he accepted honestly.

The Italian returned to the helicopter for its communication facilities. The rest of them wandered about the tiny clearing. There was nothing to say to each other. Danilov went to the lip of the plateau, overlooking the valley. He still couldn’t see a river, or a village called Alimena. The cicadas gossiped on. The sun was growing hotter, making him sweat more. He’d need a shower when he got back to Palermo. He took the Beretta from his waistband, looking at it again. It seemed remarkably small, fragile even, to be able to kill somebody. How many bullets had been fired from this very gun: killed people? Click went the safety catch: click again when he reset it.

‘You ever worked partner assault?’

Danilov turned at Cowley’s question, not understanding it. ‘What?’

‘Worked with a partner, as a team? Staying close, watching each other’s back?’

‘No.’

Cowley sighed. ‘We’ll keep together when we get there. You hear me say “go down” you go down, fast as you can. That’s all we’ve got time to work out. OK?’

Danilov nodded. ‘Listen out for me, too.’

Cowley smiled, wanly. ‘We should have practised.’

‘They turned off the main road!’ shouted Melega, from the helicopter. In his excitement he began in Italian, having to stop and start again, in English.

Everyone moved back towards the machine. Danilov stowed his unwanted jacket in the rear, where the tail narrowed, but carefully, folding one lapel across the other so neither would crease, and straightening the sleeves side by side.

‘You’re right to be careful,’ tried Patton. ‘Lot of thieves around here.’

None of the others laughed. Danilov forced a smile.

‘Let’s get ready,’ urged Melega.

They took the same seats, like people do in an interrupted journey: there was a lot of noise getting seatbelt buckles engaged. They put on their helmets, plunging their heads into a cacophony of Italian. The pilot depressed switches and buttons: the engine whined and coughed, the whine growing in pitch, and the helicopter lifted off precisely at the moment Melega, hunched over his watch, patted the pilot’s back.

They didn’t soar, bird-like, into the air as Danilov had expected. Rather the helicopter came cautiously up over the low peak of the mountain and momentarily hovered there, like a player in a grown-up game of hide-and-seek, which Danilov supposed was exactly the game they were playing. Continuing the impression, other helicopters peeped up all around, from neighbouring valleys, like awakening flying things seeking prey. Danilov counted five, then six. A seventh straggled into view. They all abruptly started to move at the same time, in an arrow-head formation. Theirs led at the very tip but they did not go up, like people are supposed to fly. but down to hide again, skimming the valley floors so close Danilov could see the bushes and the scrub and the trees but at the same time not see them, not clearly, everything blurred and rushing in front of him. He clamped his mouth against the stomach retch and closed his eyes, which didn’t help because with his eyes shut he was more aware of the lifts and drops. One climb seemed higher than the rest and when he looked he saw they were going over the island-crossing highway: cars already blocked it, uniformed policemen motioning protesting traffic back the way it had come. One Chinook was already on the closed-off part of the road, disgorging troops in camouflaged fatigues, and another was flying in, following the road line, the soldiers sitting with their legs dangling over the side, ready to jump before it properly landed. Beside him Danilov saw Patton’s mouth forming words no-one could hear: the man’s head was moving slowly from side to side, a shake of resignation.

Danilov was never able, later, to separate the crossing of the sealed-off road and disgorging soldiers with what happened at Villalba. Helicopters seemed to fill the sky, a swarming insect cloud. There were snatched glimpses of panicked people running from houses and buildings, to look, and then being driven back to cover by the swirling, deafening whirlwind of descending rotors.

Danilov was aware of running but not knowing where, blinded by the billowing dirt, someone’s hand on his shoulder for contact, not for guidance. There were a lot of popping sounds, like a faulty scooter exhaust, which Danilov did not at once realise were shooting: it didn’t then – or at any time – occur to him to crouch or take cover. The hand wasn’t on his shoulder any longer. Then the dust cleared, and with it his confusion.

The farmhouse was directly in front of him, two helicopters – one a Chinook – beyond. The village was behind and to his left, his view limited to one or two houses and what appeared to be a shop of some sort. People’s faces were at its window. He could not see Melega, Cowley or Smith, but Patton was directly, ahead and running straight towards the farmhouse. Danilov ran after the American, without thinking of what he was doing. A squad of soldiers in flak jackets, maybe five or six, ran suddenly around from the rear of the building. There was a loud blast, of a shotgun, and Danilov clearly saw a soldier’s head blown entirely from the top of his body: another explosion and the flak jacket of another soldier puckered and he went down.

And then there was another shotgun blast, right in front of him. Danilov was never able to remember if he actually heard the shot, ahead of everything else. His first conscious awareness was being hit by something very hard, which stopped him in his tracks: of stinging all over his chest and body, and a lot of blood, and then he was falling. But not by himself; with someone on top of him.

It was Patton, he realised: Patton who had been hurled back into him by the force of the shotgun blast that had completely severed the man’s right arm above the elbow: Patton whose blood was gouting all over him and who was initially too shocked to feel any pain and seemed surprised to find Danilov so close – holding him – and who began: ‘What the fuck…’ before they landed one on top of the other in full, unobstructed view and range of the farmhouse, the American virtually cradled in Danilov’s lap. Stupefied, they both looked at the shattered, gushing stump. Angrily Patton said: ‘My arm! They’ve taken my fucking arm! Where’s my fucking arm?’ And then he shrieked as the agony gripped him, arcing up from Danilov as if they were partners in some odd choregraphed dance.

The scream broke Danilov’s inertia. He heard someone shouting to get down and, recollecting what Cowley had said, tried to pull Patton back to the ground. Patton did slump, and as he did so Danilov looked beyond, to the farmhouse – and saw the double-barrelled snout of a shotgun emerge, aiming directly at them.

Danilov felt no fear: rather, there was an almost serene, disembodied calm in which he knew precisely what to do and how to do it: that he could do it. He was unaware of drawing the Beretta or of releasing the safety catch: it was just suddenly in his hand, ready, and he was aiming, unhurriedly, without panic. There was a lot of other firing all around but he was aloof, separate from it, not distracted or worried by the noise. He reviewed his first shot with studied control, sure it was the one that splattered plaster off the window edge, annoyed it was not more accurate. It was still good enough for the barrel of the rifle to be jerked back out of sight, unfired. His next shot entered the window without any deflection, and the one after that, and the one after that: he was shooting without haste, allowing the pause between each trigger pull, cautious against the weapon jamming. Patton was unconscious but still cradled in his lap, his body shuddering in spasm at the blood loss from his massive wound.

Danilov pumped carefully placed round after carefully placed round into the window space, his mind functioning sufficiently for him to wonder if he was hitting people and making them bleed to death like the man he was holding was bleeding to death. When the Beretta clicked empty he groped for Patton’s gun, but the waist holster was empty too. I suppose I’ll die now, he thought. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much when the bullets or the cartridges tore into him.

Danilov never saw how the stun and teargas grenades got into the farmhouse: probably through a window on one of the other sides he could not see. There was just the vibrating whump of the stun bomb, which actually made his ears ring, and then the billowing smoke of the gas making it look as if the house was on fire.

The shooting stopped abruptly, one minute aching noise, the next echoing silence. Danilov was conscious of a lot of men in various uniforms, their faces masked, pouring into the house, and of other uniforms crowding around him. Patton was eased away from him but only enough for medics immediately to tourniquet the shattered arm and plunge hypodermics and saline drips into the man’s remaining arm. Other soldiers were manhandling Danilov, pushing him to the ground to tear at his saturated shirt. Danilov realised what they were doing – and why – and shouted: ‘I’m all right! It’s his blood.’ And when he became fully aware that it was and how much of it covered him, he vomited, not even able to avert his head when he did so, adding to the foul mess.

Danilov wasn’t entirely uninjured. When they cut his clothes away the Army medics found his left shoulder and arm pitted with six separate pellet wounds, but none of them deep nor serious. They injected local anaesthetic to remove the lead shot and cleaned the wounds, and from somewhere a camouflage jacket and trousers were found for him to wear: they were too big, and the trouser bottoms had to be rolled up before he could walk.

Melega broke into the group around him before all the pellets were taken out, urging him towards the medevac helicopter into which the stretchered body of the deeply unconscious and drip-fed Patton was being lifted, with Cowley and Smith attentively on either side. With his unrestrained right arm Danilov waved the Italian away, insisting he was unhurt and didn’t need further treatment: Melega didn’t argue. When the helicopter lifted off, they were buffeted by the updraught.

Danilov’s arm was being strapped to his side, leaving the left sleeve of his camouflage vest hanging limp, when the matchingly grave-faced Cowley and Smith reached him.

Cowley said: ‘You all right?’

‘Pellet wounds, that’s all.’

Cowley offered his hand and instinctively Danilov responded, unsure until they were shaking hands why they were doing it. Cowley said: ‘That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire fucking life!’

‘Mine too,’ came in Smith, covering their hands with his.

Danilov flushed hot with embarrassment. Withdrawing his hand from the cluster, he nodded towards the farmhouse. ‘How many are alive?’

‘All three Russians,’ reassured Cowley. ‘Palma, too. There were five Sicilians. One’s dead. Another’s shot in the head: probably going to die. The Sicilians are from a known Family, the Liccio. They’re all being flown direct to the mainland, to the maximum security jail in Rome.’

‘I saw a soldier’s head blown away?’ said Danilov. The anaesthetic began to wear off from his shoulder and arm: it was not a gentle ache but sharp, jabbing pains.

‘Two soldiers were killed, and one of the carabinieri. Four wounded,’ said Cowley. ‘It’ll be murder charges, against all of them.’

Danilov nodded towards the medevac helicopter, already a distant speck in the sky. ‘What about Patton?’

‘Bad,’ said Cowley. ‘Very bad.’

Seemingly reminded, Smith turned furiously to Melega, who had at that moment returned from the lift-off area. Tight-lipped but yelling, the FBI resident said: ‘Why the fuck didn’t we have flak jackets?’

‘I didn’t think of them,’ admitted the Italian. ‘ You didn’t think of them…’ He paused, to let the rejection settle. ‘And it was his arm: a flak jacket wouldn’t have saved his arm.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Cowley, coughing against a choke of revulsion.

There was a moment of confusion, no-one immediately able to understand. Gradually they followed the direction in which the face-screwed American was looking. Very close to where Danilov and Patton had been treated – the ground stained brown from Patton’s blood – the man’s hand lay perfectly intact, severed from the wrist. It still clutched the revolver for which Danilov had groped, when the magazine of his Beretta had run out.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ said Jones.

‘If you want an apology, you’ve got it!’ offered Hartz. ‘It was a brilliant operation, justifying to the last cent whatever it cost, and I’m sorry I ever doubted it.’

Leonard Ross, a pragmatist never interested in look-back debates, said: ‘There’s the possibility we’ll have a dead DEA agent. I want the bastards to die for that.’

‘What about the Russian?’ demanded the Secretary of State.

‘You’re the protocol experts,’ shrugged Ross. ‘He deserves an award: according to Cowley, it was like something out of a Rambo movie. If Danilov hadn’t sat there, firing every time the bastards raised their heads, Patton would have been shot to pieces.’

‘An award might restore goodwill, after all the squabbles.’

‘I hope the Italian publicity hasn’t screwed things in Moscow.’

Now Hartz shrugged. ‘An international Mafia organisation was smashed. Are you surprised the Italians wanted to shout about it?’

‘It hasn’t gotten us one inch closer to understanding the connection between two murders here in Washington and one in Moscow.’

On the far side of town, in their temporarily allocated FBI office, Rafferty tossed the Washington Post across to his partner and said: ‘So that’s where they’ve been, not in deep shit as we were told. All that bullshit about mistakes and collapses of relationships were just that: bullshit!’

‘Just like the shoot-out at the OK Corral,’ reflected Johannsen, reading that morning’s account. Lifting from his desk the piece of paper that had arrived at the same time as the newspaper, he said: ‘And now there’s this!’

‘This’ was a cable from the Swiss police, hopeful of finding a photograph of Ilya Nishin.