The Cassandra Compact

CHAPTER NINE

After landing at the Naples airport, Peter Howell took a taxi to the docks, where he boarded the hydrofoil for the thirty-minute ride across the Straits of Messina. Through the big windows of the lounge, he watched as Sicily came into view, first the craters of Mount Etna, then Palermo itself, nestled beneath the limestone bulk of Monte Pellegrino that tapered off into a plateau at sea level.

Settled by Greeks, invaded by Romans, Arabs, Normans, and Spaniards, Sicily has been a waystop for soldiers and mercenaries for centuries. As one of the breed, Howell had been on the island both as a visitor and a warrior. After stepping off the hydrofoil, he went into the heart of the city ― the Quattro Centri, or Four Corners. There he found accommodations in a small penzione where he had stayed before. It was well away from the tourist traffic yet within walking distance to the places Howell needed to go to.

As was his habit, Howell reconnoitered those areas of the city he intended to visit. Not unexpectedly, nothing had changed since his last trip, and the map he carried in his head served him well. Returning to the penzione, he slept until the early evening, then headed for the Albergheria, a warren of narrow streets in Palermo's craftsmen's district.

Sicily was famous for its knife makers and the quality of their wares and Howell had no problem buying a finely honed ten-inch blade with a sturdy leather handle. Now that he had a weapon, Howell proceeded to the docks, where the taverns and rooming houses were definitely not mentioned in the tourist guides.

Howell knew that the bar was called La Pretoria, although there was no sign on the stone walls. Inside was a large, crowded room with sawdust on the floor and timbers lining the ceiling. Fishermen and boatbuilders, mechanics and sailors sat at long communal tables drinking grappa, beer, or cold, flinty Sicilian wine. Wearing corduroy pants, an old fisherman's sweater, and a knitted cap, Howell attracted little attention. He bought two grappas at the bar and carried the drinks to the end of one of the tables.

The man sitting across from him was short and thickset, with an unshaven face scarred by the sea and wind. Cold gray eyes regarded Howell through the haze of cigarette smoke.

“I was surprised to hear from you, Peter,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Howell raised his thimbleful of grappa. “Salute, Franco.”

Franco Grimaldi ― one-time member of the French Foreign Legion, now a professional smuggler ― put down his cigarette and lifted his glass. He had to do this because he had only his right arm, having lost the left one to a Tunisian rebel's sword.

The two men tossed back their drinks and Grimaldi jammed the cigarette back between his lips.

“So, old friend. What brings you to my parlor?”

“The Rocca brothers.”

Grimaldi's fleshy lips creased into what might have been misconstrued as a smile. “I hear things did not go well for them in Venice.” He looked at Howell shrewdly. “And you just came from there, didn't you?”

“The Roccas executed a contract, then someone executed them,” Howell replied, his voice hard, flat. “I want to know who that was.”

Grimaldi shrugged. “It's best not to inquire too closely into the Roccas' dealings ― even if they are dead.”

Howell slipped a roll of American dollars across the table. “I need to know, Franco.”

The Sicilian palmed the money like a magician.

“I heard that there was a special contract,” he said, cupping the side of his mouth as he held his cigarette.

“Specifics, please, Franco.”

“I cannot tell you. Usually the Roccas made no secret about their contracts ― especially after a few drinks. But they were very quiet about this job.”

“And you knew about it because…?”

Grimaldi smiled. “Because I sleep with their sister, who kept house for her brothers. She knew everything that went on within those walls. She is also highly excitable and loves to gossip.”

“Do you think you might use your charms to get a few more details?”

Grimaldi's smile became even wider. “It would be difficult work, but for a friend… Maria ― that is her name ― probably hasn't heard the news yet. I will break it to her, then let her weep on my shoulder. Nothing like grief to lubricate the tongue.”

Howell gave him the name of the penzione where he was staying.

“I will call you later this evening,” Grimaldi said. “Meet me at the usual place.”

As Howell watched Grimaldi slip his way around the tables and out the door, he noticed a pair of men sitting at one of the smaller tables near the bar. They were dressed like locals, but their bodybuilder physiques and close-cropped haircuts betrayed their true identities. Soldiers.

Howell was familiar with the big American base outside Palermo. During his days with the SAS he'd had occasion to use it as a staging ground for joint operations with U.S. Navy SEALs. For security reasons, most of the personnel stayed within the base perimeter. When they ventured out, it was usually in groups of six or more, and then only to the popular clubs and restaurants. There was no reason for these strapping specimens to be here unless…

C-12.

The explosives used to kill the Rocca brothers were an American creation. Tightly controlled. But certainly available at one of the largest U.S. bases in Southern Europe.

Had the Roccas' paymaster ― possibly the individual who had hired them to kill Danko ― also been the one to booby-trap the gondola?

As he rose from the table, Howell took another look at the two Americans.

Or had it been a soldier's mission from the very beginning?

Just before midnight, the penzione's sleepy porter knocked on Peter Howell's door to inform him that he had a phone call. He was surprised to discover that his guest was dressed as though ready to go out.

Howell spoke briefly on the phone, tipped the porter, and disappeared into the night. The moon rode high in the sky, illuminating the shuttered shops of the Vuccira market. Howell crossed the empty square to the Piazza Bellini, then drifted along the Via Vittorio Emannuele, the city's major thoroughfare. At the Corso Calatofini, he turned right, now just a hundred yards shy of his destination.

Dominating the Via Pindemonte is the Convento dei Cappuccini ― the Convent of the Capuchins. While a striking example of Middle Ages architecture, the monastery's real attraction lies below ground. In the catacombs that surround the convento are buried over eight thousand bodies, belonging to both lay and religious persons. Preserved through various chemical processes, they are placed in the niches along the corridors, and are dressed in the clothes the interred themselves had provided prior to their death. Those bodies that aren't lined up along the cold, sweating limestone walls rest in glass coffins, stacked floor to ceiling.

Although open to the public during the day, the catacombs had been a favorite hiding place of smugglers for centuries. There were a dozen ways in and out, and Peter Howell, who had studied the catacombs carefully, knew them all.

As he approached the gates that fronted the parklike entrance to the monastery, Howell heard a low whistle. He pretended not to notice Grimaldi slip out of the shadows until the smuggler was only a few steps away. The moonlight created dancing pinpricks of light in Grimaldi's gray eyes.

“What have you found out?” Howell demanded.

“Something worth getting out of bed for,” the smuggler replied. “The name of the man who hired the Roccas. He's frightened. He thinks that after the Roccas, he's next. He wants money to get off the island and hide on the mainland.”

Howell nodded. “Money isn't a problem. Where is he?”

Grimaldi motioned the Englishman to follow him. They skirted the tall wrought-iron fence, moving into the shadows created by the monastery's high walls. The smuggler slowed, then crouched by a small gate cut into the fence. His fingers were busy working the lock when Howell spotted the anomaly.

The lock was already open!

Howell moved like a wraith. As soon as Grimaldi pushed open the gate, he delivered a blow meant to stun, not kill, to the side of the head. Grimaldi let out a soft sigh and dropped, unconscious.

Howell didn't pause. Slipping through the gate, he made his way along the hedgerow that formed a corridor to the entrance of the catacombs. He spotted nothing, which meant ―

The trap was outside the perimeter, not inside!

Just as he whirled around, Howell heard the creak of the gate's hinge. Two shadows hurtled toward him. In the split-second that the moonlight caught their faces, he recognized the soldiers from the tavern.

Instantly the knife appeared in his hand. Howell held his ground until the last possible second, then, like a matador, pivoted to allow the first soldier to rush past him. He swung the blade up and across, its cutting edge drawing across the man's midsection.

Howell didn't wait to see the killer drop. Feigning right, he moved left, but that didn't fool the second soldier. He heard a soft shut! as a silenced automatic spat. The hot breath of the bullet almost kissed his temple. Howell dropped low, kicked out with his legs, and drove his heel into his assailant's kneecap.

Instantly Howell grabbed the pistol, but before he could train the weapon on the soldier he saw Grimaldi stagger to his feet. The bullet meant for the soldier tore through Grimaldi's throat, dropping the smuggler. As the second soldier fled, Howell tucked the gun into his waistband, ran over to Grimaldi, and dragged him inside the gate up to the entrance of the catacombs. As he expected, this door was also unlocked.

A few minutes later, Howell was deep inside the monastery's tunnels. The light from a lamp he had found revealed his catch for the night: Grimaldi lay next to a large, concrete-lined ring whose cover had already been pried off. The wounded soldier, the front of his jacket covered with blood, was propped up against the three-foot-high concrete ring as well.

“Name.”

The soldier's breathing was ragged, his face turning gray from the blood loss. Slowly he raised his head. “Screw you!”

“I went through your clothes,” Howell said. “No wallet, no identification, not even labels on your shirts. Only people with a great deal to hide go to those lengths. So what are you hiding?”

The soldier spat, but Howell was too quick. Standing, he hauled his captive up to the lip of the ring.

“Did you kill the monastery watchmen?” he demanded. “Is that where you disposed of them?”

Grabbing the soldier by the neck, he forced him halfway over the concrete ledge.

“Is that where you were going to throw me?”

The soldier screamed as Howell, holding him by his jacket collar, forced him over the yawning black hole. From fifty feet below rose the stench of brackish water.

Howell looked down at the red dots that darted at the very bottom.

“Rats. There's probably enough water down there so that the fall won't kill you. But they will. Slowly.” He jerked the man back.

The soldier licked his lips. “You wouldn't…”

Howell stared at him. “You're wounded. Your partner is long gone. Give me what I need and I promise you won't suffer. Listen.”

Howell pushed him to the ground, then went over and picked up the inert form of Franco Grimaldi. He carried him to the well and without the slightest hesitation heaved him over the side. A second later there was a terrific splash followed by the high-pitched chatter of rats embracing their victim.

The soldier's eyes rolled in terror.

“Name?”

“Nichols. Travis Nichols. Master Sergeant. My partner is Patrick Drake.”

“Special Forces?”

Nichols groaned as he nodded.

“Who sent you after me?”

Nichols stared at him. “I can't…”

Howell grabbed him and jerked him close. “Listen to me. Even if you live you'd be nothing more than a loose thread that needs cutting. Especially when they discover that I'm not dead. The only chance you have is to tell me the truth. Do that and I'll do what you need.”

Nichols slumped against the concrete ring. His words stumbled out on bright red bubbles.

“Drake and I were part of a special squad. Wet work. Communications by cutouts only. One of us would get a phone call ― a wrong number, only it wasn't. Then we'd go to the post office where we had a rented box. The orders would be waiting.”

“Written orders?” Howell asked dubiously.

“On flash paper. Nothing more than a name or a place. After that, we'd meet a contact and he'd fill us in.”

“In this case, the contact was Grimaldi. What were your orders?”

“To kill you and get rid of the body.”

“Why?”

Nichols looked up at Howell. “You and I are the same. You know nobody gives reasons for things like that.”

“Who is 'nobody'?”

“The orders could have come from any one of a dozen sources: the Pentagon, army Intel in Frankfurt, the NSA. Take your pick. But with wet work, you know that the source had to be right up there, real high. Listen, you can throw me to the rats but that's not going to get you a name. You know how these things work.”

Howell did.

“Does the name Dionetti mean anything to you?”

Nichols shook his head. His eyes were glassy.

Howell knew that no one except Marco Dionetti ― the man who had opened his home and extended him his friendship ― knew that he was traveling to Palermo. Dionetti… with whom he would have to have a little chat.

“How were you to report that this mission was successful?” Howell asked Nichols.

“Drop off a message at another post office box ― no later than noon tomorrow. Number sixty-seven. Someone will come by… Oh, Christ, it hurts!”

Howell brought his face very close to Nichols's lips. He needed one last thing from Nichols, and prayed that the soldier had enough strength left to give it up. He strained to hear as the soldier finally let slip his most precious secrets. Then he heard the soft gurgle of the death rattle.

Leaving the lamp where it was, Howell took a moment to compose himself. Finally he hoisted the corpse and dropped it over the side of the well. Quickly, so that he wouldn't have to listen to the rats, he pushed the heavy lid in place and locked it down.