CELLE LIGURE, ITALY
It was two hours of madness. They turned off the coastal highway and carried the body of the dead driver into a field, stripping it naked, removing all identification.
They returned to the highway and sped south toward Savona. The road checks were similar to those on the Via Canelli: single guardhouses next to telephone booths, two soldiers in attendance at each. There were four checkpoints; three were passed easily. The thick, official document that proclaimed the vehicle assigned to the ufficiale segreto was read with respect and not a little fear. Fontini-Cristi did the talking at all three posts.
“You’re damned quick,” said Apple from the front, shaking his head in agreeable surprise. “And you were right about staying back there. You roll down that window like a Punjab prince.”
The road sign was caught in the headlights.
ENTRARE MONTENOTTE SUD
Vittorio recognized the name; it was one of those mediumsized towns surrounding the Gulf of Genoa. He recognized it from a decade ago, when he and his wife had driven down the coast road on their last trip to Monte Carlo. A journey that had ended a week later in death. In a speeding car at night.
“The coast’s about fifteen miles from here, I think,” said Apple hesitantly, interrupting Fontini-Cristi’s thoughts.
“Nearer eight,” corrected Vittorio.
“You know this area?” asked Pear.
“I’ve driven to Cap Ferrat and Villefranche a number of times.” Why didn’t he say Monte Carlo; was the name too much of a symbol? “Usually on the Torino road, but several times on the shore route from Genoa. Montenotte Sud is known for its inns.”
“Then would you know a dirt road that cuts north of Savona—through some hills, I gather—into Celle Ligure?”
“No. There are hills everywhere.… But I know Celle Ligure. It’s on the waterfront just beyond Albisolla. Is that where we’re going?”
“Yes,” said Apple. “It’s our backup rendezvous with the Corsicans. In case anything happened, we were to make our way to Celle Ligure, to a fishing pier south of the marina. It’ll be marked with a green wind sock.”
“Well, something happened, as they say,” interjected Pear. “I’m sure there’s a Corso wandering around Alba wondering where we are.”
Several hundred yards ahead in the glare of the headlights, two soldiers stood in the center of the road. One held a rifle at port arms; the other had his hand raised, signaling them to stop. Apple slowed the Fiat, the transposed motor emitting the low sounds of its decelerating power. “Do your bitchy act,” he said to Vittorio. “Be arrogant as hell.” The Britisher kept the car in the center of the road, a sign that the inhabitants expected no interruption; pulling off to the side was unnecessary.
One of the soldiers was a lieutenant, his companion a corporal. The officer approached Apple’s open window and saluted the unkempt civilian smartly.
Too smartly, thought Vittorio.
“Your identification, signore,” said the soldier courteously.
Too courteously.
Apple held up the thick official paper and gestured toward the back seat. It was Vittorio’s cue.
“We are the ufficiale segreto, Genoa garrison, and in a great hurry. We have business in Savona. You’ve done your job; pass us through immediately.”
“My apologies, signore.” The officer took the heavy paper in Apple’s hand and scratinized it. He creased the folds as his eyes scanned downward in the very dim light. He continued politely. “I must see your identifications. There is so little traffic on the road at this hour. All vehicles must be checked.”
Fontini-Cristi slammed his hand down on the top of the front seat in sudden irritation. “You’re out of order! Don’t let our appearances fool you. We’re on official business and we’re late for Savona!”
“Yes. Well, I must read this—”
But he was not reading it, thought Vittorio. A man in inadequate light did not fold a page of paper toward him; if he folded it at all, it would be away—to catch more light. The soldier was stalling. And the corporal had moved to the right front of the Fiat, his rifle still held across his chest; but the left hand was now lower on the barrel grip. Any hunter knew the stance; it was ready-at-fire.
Fontini-Cristi sat back in the seat, swearing furiously as he did so. “I demand your name and the name of your commanding officer!”
In the front, Apple had edged his shoulders to the right, trying to see into the rearview mirror, unable to do so without being obvious. But in his pretended anger, Fontini-Cristi had no such difficulty. He whipped his hand up behind Pear’s shoulders, as if his irritation had reached the breaking point.
“Perhaps you did not hear me, soldier! Your name and that of your commanding officer!”
Through the rearview mirror he saw it. Quite far in the distance, beyond the clear range of the mirror, not easily seen through the window itself. A car had pulled off the road … so far off, it was half into the field bordering the highway. Two men were getting out of the front seat, the figures barely visible, moving slowly.
“… Marchetti, signore. My commanding officer is Colonel Balbo. Genoa garrison, signore.”
Vittorio caught Apple’s eye in the rearview mirror, nodded slightly, and moved his head in a slow arc toward the back window. At the same time, he tapped his fingers rapidly on Pear’s neck in the darkness. The agent understood.
Without warning, Vittorio opened his door. The rifle-bearing corporal jerked his weapon forward. “Put that down, caporale. Since your superior sees fit to take up my time, I will put it to use. I am Major Aldo Ravena, ufficiale segreto, from Rome. I will inspect your quarters. I will also relieve myself.”
“Signore!” shouted the officer from across the Fiat’s hood.
“Are you addressing me?” asked Fontini-Cristi arrogantly.
“My apologies, major.” The officer could not help himself; he stole a quick glance to his right, to the road behind. “There are no facilities inside the guardhouse.”
“Surely you are not immaculate in your bowels, man. The fields must be inconvenient. Perhaps Rome will install such facilities. I’ll see.”
Vittorio walked swiftly toward the door of the small structure; it was open. As he expected, the corporal went with him. He walked rapidly through the door. The instant the corporal entered behind him, Fontini-Cristi turned and jammed the pistol up under the man’s chin. He pushed the weapon into the flesh of the corporal’s throat and with his left hand grabbed the barrel of the rifle.
“If you so much as cough, I’ll have to kill you!” whispered Vittorio. “I don’t wish to do that.”
The corporal’s eyes widened in shock; he had no stomach for heroics. Fontini-Cristi held the rifle and gave his order quietly, precisely.
“Call the officer. Say I’m using your telephone and you don’t know what to do. Tell him I’m calling the Genoa garrison. For that Colonel Balbo. Now!”
The corporal shouted the words, conveying both his confusion and his fear. Vittorio pressed his back against the wall by the door. The reply from the lieutenant betrayed the officer’s own fear; perhaps he had made a dreadful mistake.
“I am only following orders! I received orders from Alba!”
“Tell him Colonel Balbo is coming to the telephone,” whispered Fontini-Cristi. “Now!”
The corporal did so. Vittorio heard the footsteps of the officer running from the Fiat to the guardhouse.
“If you wish to live, Lieutenant, remove your pistol belt—just unbuckle both straps—and join the corporal at the wall.”
The lieutenant was stunned. His jaw dropped, his lips parted in fright. Fontini-Cristi prodded him with the rifle, lancing the barrel into his stomach. The bewildered officer winced and gasped and did as he was told. Vittorio called outside, in English.
“I’ve disarmed them. Now I’m not sure what to do.”
Pear’s half-whispered shout came back. “What to do? My God, you’re a bloody marvel! Send the
officer back outside. Make sure he knows we have our weapons on him. Tell him to return to Apple’s window right off. We’ll take it from there.”
Fontini-Cristi translated the instructions. The officer, prodded by the barrel of Vittorio’s pistol, lurched out the doors and crossed swiftly in front of the car’s headlights to the driver’s window.
Ten seconds later the officer’s shouts were heard on the road outside.
“You men from Alba! This is not the vehicle! A mistake has been made!”
A moment passed before other voices replied. Two voices, loud and angry.
“What happened? Who are they?”
Vittorio could see the figures of two men come out of the darkness of the field. They were soldiers and held guns at their sides. The officer answered.
“These are segreti from Genoa. They, too, look for the vehicle from Alba.”
“Mother of Christ! How many are there?”
Suddenly, the officer pushed himself away from the window, screaming as he dove for the front of the automobile.
“Shoot! Open fire! They are—”
The muffled explosions of the British pistols erupted. Pear leaped out of the right rear door, covered by the automobile, and fired at the approaching soldiers. A rifle answered; it was a wild shot that thumped into the tarred surface of the road, triggered by a dying man. The checkpoint lieutenant sprang to his feet and started to race toward the opposite field into the darkness. Apple fired; three muted reports accompanied the sharp, abrupt flashes of his weapon. The officer screamed and arched his back. He fell into the dirt off the road.
“Fontini!” yelled Apple. “Kill your man and get out here!”
The corporal’s lips trembled, his eyes watered. He had heard the muted explosions, the screams, and he understood the command.
“No,” said Fontini-Cristi.
“Goddamn you!” roared Apple. “You do as I say! You’re under my orders! We’ve no time to waste or chances to take!”
“You’re wrong. We would waste more time and take greater risks if we could not find the road into Celle Ligure. This soldier will surely know it.”
He did. Vittorio drove, the soldier beside him in the front seat. Fontini-Cristi knew the area; if they ran into trouble, he could handle it. He had proved that.
“Relax,” said Vittorio in Italian to the frightened corporal. “Continue to be helpful; you’ll be all right.”
“What will happen to me? They’ll say I deserted my post.”
“Nonsense. You were ambushed, forced at the point of a gun to accompany us, to act as a shield. You had no choice.”
They drove into Celle Ligure at ten forty; the streets of the fishing village were nearly deserted. The majority of its inhabitants began their days at four in the morning; ten at night was late. Fontini-Cristi drove into the sandy parking area behind an open fish market that fronted the wide ocean street. Across was the main section of the marina.
“Where are the sentries?” asked Apple. “Where do they meet?”
At first the corporal seemed confused. Vittorio explained. “When you are on duty here, where do you turn around?”
“I see.” The corporal was relieved; he was obviously trying to help. “Not here, not at this section. Up farther; I mean, down farther.”
“Damn you!” Apple was forward in the back seat. He grabbed the Italian by the hair.
“You’ll get nowhere like that,” said Vittorio in English. “The man’s frightened.”
“So am I!” countered the agent. “There’s a dock across there with a green wind sock on it, and a boat in that dock we have to find! We don’t know what’s happened behind us; there are soldiers on the piers with weapons—one shot would alert the whole area. And we have no idea what orders have been radioed the water patrols. I’m damned frightened!”
“I remember!” cried the corporal. “On the left. Up the street on the left! The trucks stopped and we would walk through to the piers and wait for the man on duty. He would give us the patrol sheet and be relieved.”
“Where? Exactly where, Corporal?” Pear spoke urgently.
“The next street. I’m sure of it.”
“That’s roughly one hundred yards, wouldn’t you say?” asked Pear, looking at Fontini-Cristi. “And the street below this another one hundred, give or take some.”
“What’s your idea?” Apple had released the corporal, but kept his hands menacingly on the top of the seat.
“Same as yours,” replied Pear. “Take the sentry at midpoint; less chance of his being seen there. Once he’s out we walk south to the wind sock, where, I trust, a Corsican or two will show themselves.”
They crossed the ocean road into an alley that led to the dock complex. The smell of fish and the sounds of half a hundred boats creaking in rhythmic rest in their slips filled the darkness. Nets were hung everywhere; the wash of the sea could be heard beyond the planked walkway that fronted the piers. A few lanterns were swaying on ropes over decks; a concertina played a simple tune in the distance.
Vittorio and Pear walked casually out of the alley, their footsteps muted by moist planks. Apple and the corporal remained in the shadows. The walkway was bordered by a railing of metal tubing above the lapping water.
“Do you see the sentry?” asked Fontini-Cristi softly.
“No. But I hear him,” answered the agent. “He’s rapping the pipe as he walks. Listen.”
It took Vittorio several seconds before he could distinguish the faint metal sounds among the rhythmic creakings of wood on water. But they were there. The unconscious, irregular tattoo of a bored man performing a dull task.
Several hundred feet south on the walkway, the figure of the soldier came under the spill of a pier light, his rifle angled down to the deck through his left arm. He was beside the railing, his right hand aimlessly tapping out his steps.
“When he gets here, ask him for a cigarette,” said Pear calmly. “Pretend you’re drunk. I will, too.”
The sentry approached. The instant he saw them he snapped up his rifle and cracked the bolt, holding his position fifteen feet away.
“Halt! Who’s there?”
“Two fishermen without cigarettes,” replied Fontini-Cristi, slurring his words. “Be a nice fellow and give us a couple. Even one; we’ll share it.”
“You’re drunk,” said the soldier. “There’s a curfew tonight on the piers. How come you’re here? It was on the loudspeakers all day.”
“We’ve been with two whores in Albisolla,” answered Vittorio, lurching, steadying himself on the railing. “Only things we heard were music on a phonograph and creaking beds.”
“Very nice,” mumbled Pear.
The sentry shook his head in disapproval. He lowered his rifle and approached, reaching into the pocket of his tunic for cigarettes. “You Ligurini are worse than the Napoletani. I’ve done duty there.”
Behind the soldier, Vittorio could see Apple coming out of the shadows. He had forced the corporal to lie down on his back in the corner of the alley; the corporal would not move. In Apple’s hands were two spools.
Before Vittorio could realize what was happening, Apple sprang out of the passageway, his arms stretched, angled upward. In two swift moves, the agent’s hands whipped over the sentry’s head, and with his knee jammed into the small of the soldier’s back, he yanked violently, causing the guard to arch spastically and then collapse.
The only noise was an abrupt, horrible expunging of air, and the quiet fall of the man’s body into the soft, moist wood.
Pear rushed to the corporal; he held his pistol against the soldier’s temple. “Not a sound. Understood?” It was a command that left no room for debate. The corporal rose silently.
Fontini-Cristi looked down in the dim light at the guard on the walkway. What he could see he wished he had not seen. The man’s neck was severed half off his body, the blood was pouring out in a dark-red stream from what had been the man’s throat. Apple rolled the body through a wide space in the rai
ling. It hit the water with a muffled splash. Pear picked up his rifle and spoke in English.
“Off we go. Down this way.”
“Come on,” said Fontini-Cristi, his hand on the trembling corporal’s arm. “You have no choice.”
The green wind sock was limp, no breeze billowing its cloth. The pier was only half filled with boats; it seemed to extend farther out into the water than the others. The four of them walked down the steps, Apple and Pear in front, their hands in their pockets. The two Englishmen were obviously hesitant. It was apparent to Vittorio that they were concerned.
Without warning or sound, men suddenly appeared on both sides of them, their weapons drawn. They were on the decks of the boats; five, no, six men dressed as fishermen.
“Be you George the Fifth?” said the gruff voice of the man nearest the agents, standing on the deck of a small trawler.
“Thank God!” said Pear in relief. “We’ve had a nasty time of it.”
At the spoken English, weapons were replaced in belts and pockets. The men converged, a number talking at once.
The language was Corsican.
One man, obviously the leader, turned to Apple. “Go to the end of the pier. We’ve got one of the fastest trawlers in Bastia. We’ll take care of the Italian. They won’t find him for a month!”
“No!” Fontini-Cristi stepped between the two men. He looked at Pear. “We gave our word. If he cooperated, he lived.”
Apple replied, instead, his whispered voice drawn out in irritation. “Now, you see here. You’ve been a help, I’ll not deny it, but you’re not running this show. Get out to the bloody boat.”
“Not until this man is back on the walkway. We gave our word!” He spoke to the corporal. “Go back. You won’t be harmed. Strike a match when you reach a passageway to the ocean road.”
“And if I say no?” Apple continued to grip the soldier’s tunic.
“Then I’ll remain here.”
“Damn!” Apple released the soldier.
“Walk with him part way,” said Fontini-Cristi to the Corsican. “Make sure your men let him pass.”
The Corsican spat on the pier.
The corporal ran as fast as he could toward the base of the dock. Fontini-Cristi looked at the two Englishmen.