The Orsinni Contracts

By Bill Cariad

In the U.K… A top secret government project must beat the Russians in a race which will give the winner control of men's minds. Meanwhile the police hunt is on for a gruesome paedophile who mutilates his kills, and the death toll is rising! In Italy…Six children are abducted from Rome's streets on the same day. The carabiniere hunt for them uncovers a paedophile ring with unexpected connections. In America...The Hip Sing and Burning Hand tongs vie for supremacy of New York's Chinatown. In Italy... Maria Orsinni begins a journey towards her new life. It is a journey which will develop her martial arts talent and life-skills. It will also bring her into conflict with America's Mafia and its CIA, Chinese Triads, and killer paedophiles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Oct 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781785380105

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Title Page

THE ORSINNI CONTRACTS

Bill Cariad

Publisher Information

The Orsinni Contracts

Published in 2014 by Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

The right of Bill Cariad to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

Copyright © 2014 Bill Cariad

Cover Design and Illustration copyright © 2014 Haydn

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Prologue

A Stone’s Throw To Destiny

Palermo, Sicily, 10Th Day Of January 1979

Passers-by paid scant attention to the butcher’s van which quietly stopped outside the office building on the busy street adjoining the market square. The van disgorged five men, and the immaculately suited driver and a stocky man in work-overalls entered the office building. The remaining trio, wearing the boldly striped aprons of the macellaio’s they purported to be, withdrew from the rear of the van the metal rack from which hung the gleaming steel hooks. The men in butcher’s aprons positioned the assembly at the pavement’s edge and calmly stood beside it to await the return of their colleagues.

It would be another hour before this building would receive those who staffed the offices on its four floors, so the van driver and his companion had the elevator to themselves and rode it in silence to the top floor. The elevator’s door opened to reveal a spacious reception area and a wall-plaque informing them that this entire fourth floor was dedicated to one company, bearing the name Contracts Consultancy Inc. Through a glass-fronted door to one side of the elevator could be seen a man seated at his desk, busily engaged with whatever he was doing, and his presence was a surprise to the visitors. Nevertheless the smartly dressed van driver and his overall-clad partner ignored the early-bird-clerk, focusing instead on the large reception desk directly in front of them.

The desk was manned by an attractive looking female, who interrupted her typing to greet the unexpected but harmless looking male duo who were smiling pleasantly as they approached her domain. Behind her simple barricade stood the closed door to whom she imagined these men had come to see. She knew that there was nothing in the appointments book about an early meeting and wondered if her habitually imperious boss would deign to see them. The smart looking one in the suit began talking to her and immediately had her full attention. As she listened, her initial doubt vanished. Her boss would definitely be seeing these men.

Behind the door separating him from his receptionist, was the man who had foolishly bitten the hand that fed. The finished telephone conversation still occupying his mind, the man who had been given the soubriquet of ‘Abacus’ stood at the window and surveyed the peaceful scene before him with turbulent thoughts. He had planned for every contingency... except war! The transatlantic ‘heads-up’ call, with its bombshell news that the powerful Bartalucci family who protected him had struck their own protective deal with the Corleone family, didn’t alter the fact that the so-called Sicilian Commission was reportedly on the verge of being ripped apart by an all-out war between the other families. A war which was a distraction he could do without. Which necessitated abandoning his cautious approach and accelerating his plans.

Stylishly clever Italian grooming concealed the corpulence and a benign facial expression masked the arrogance of the man who stood by the window. His blinkered view of the outside world took in richly patterned Arabian domes reaching for a blue sky above the 12th century Palazzo dei Normanni, but the man wasn’t impressed by such things. He had closed the window to shut out the boisterous market sounds and the smell of polluted air. His own private sights were currently set elsewhere and the tantalising scent of success was all that he needed to fill his nostrils. On the solitary desk behind him rested his brand new Commodore Vic-20 computer, retailing for a mere US $299 but which had already keyed him halfway to becoming a secret multi-millionaire. The well-tailored man with a talent for juggling figures was overweight and over-confident. The weight problem was something he’d lived with for a long time, something which hadn’t prevented him attracting the woman who had given him a fine son, something which didn’t seem to bother his mistress, something which hadn’t curtailed the rapid rise to his current indispensable position. The confidence factor was something else. He had always possessed it of course, but would have scorned the suggestion that it might have come to possess him to the point of carelessness.

The man turned away from the window and his glance fell on the framed canvas depicting a Brazilian beach scene. Brazil was never far from his mind these days and Rio de Janeiro was where he and his ten million dollars were destined to live happily ever after... and then the door of his office unexpectedly opened and abruptly closed down the fantasies of ‘Abacus’.

The ensuing question and answer routine was painfully concluded within ten minutes. Additional time was used by a no longer arrogant or indispensable ‘Abacus’ as he complied with supervised procedures on his brand new computer. The van driver led the way back into the now deserted reception area, followed by his stocky companion effortlessly carrying the naked and miscalculating ‘Abacus’ in a fireman’s lift. Duct tape covered the mouth of the overweight figure juggler; he had nothing more of interest to say to his visitors. As expected, the receptionist had obeyed her simple life preservative instructions and there was no sign of her or the previously seen office clerk as the men re-entered the elevator.

The van driver and his accomplice emerged onto the street and transferred their load to the waiting men in striped aprons. Some passers-by stared in disbelief, but they were probably tourists and curiosity at this stage of the exercise was to be expected. Other pedestrians quickened their steps away from the scene. With practiced ease two of the men in butcher’s aprons hefted the naked man and impaled his body on the gleaming steel hooks, whilst the third man produced a butcher’s knife and swiftly slit the throat of ‘Abacus’ before using the razor sharp blade to open the man’s femoral arteries.

The van driver was calmly signalling to rejoin the traffic even as the butchering trio were climbing into the rear of the vehicle. The van drove off as quietly as it had arrived. No siren sounds could be heard by those passers-by who slowed to stare at the human being hanging from the steel hooks with his life’s blood pouring into the gutter. Some of the passers-by had seen this form of Palermo pig-roast before and knew that sirens weren’t the answer. The naked man would bleed out before any help could get to him.

11th day of January 1979, Via Angelo Emo, Rome, Italy

To some, those of a less aesthetic disposition perhaps, it could have passed for just another building in the north-west part of a city knowingly filled with architectural marvels. However, and not wholly attributable to its commanding view of the glorious Citta Del Vaticano, this particular building still frequently drew openly admiring looks from passing tourists and more discerning glances from the better informed of the area’s indigenous population.

The guide book fraternity would note that the building had once housed Vatican dignitaries, and, since no current information was available to them, would sensibly conclude that the heavily manned gatehouse just inside the formidable looking iron gates signalled occupancy by someone still important enough to warrant such protection. One could imagine some of the building’s younger admirers speculating as to which pop or movie star might be resident within it. Set in what appeared to be opulent grounds, to the older and romantically inclined tourists the majestically styled building looked like a palace fit for a king. Of course the historically seasoned of those tourists would have dismissed the idea of the building’s incumbents being any form of royalty, past or present, but their perspective of history would have been shaped by textbooks which had never fully informed.

So, in a somewhat perverse way, the romantics almost had it right. Because if such a building could be said to contain a kingdom and if such a kingdom could be said to have a king, then at this point in time the crown belonged to Don Carmine Bartalucci. Of course he wasn’t a blue-blood royal in the accepted sense; nevertheless sufficient of the red variety had been spilled along the way to making him an absolute ruler. To those in the know, Don Carmine Bartalucci headed one of Italy’s most influential Mafia families. So if such a king granted you an audience in his throne room, it would be to this building on the Via Angelo Emo that you would come. Giovanni Orsinni, the Bartalucci family consigliere (counsellor) had been granted such an audience today and had arrived with a worried mind.

Giovanni Orsinni had not travelled far to counsel his ruler, having simply walked the short distance from his own home which stood amongst the compound of buildings connected to the main house by a maze of ancient underground tunnels. Upon reaching his destination he solemnly kissed the mafioso hand he had faithfully served throughout his life and was cordially invited to sit in the comfortably appointed study of Don Carmine Bartalucci. Persian rugs lay scattered around the room’s floor, and against one of its walls stood the bookcase housing literary tomes which had been written to stimulate debate or inspire creativity. On numerous occasions within this room, life and death had indeed been debated and the latter had often been creatively dispensed to transgressors. There was no telephone on the desk separating the room’s present inhabitants; the two old men currently gathered to discuss family problems avoided telephone conversations whenever possible.

I underestimated him, confessed Giovanni Orsinni, I never thought he would have the balls to steal from us.

Sixty predominantly violent and stressful years had left their mark on Orsinni; a once powerful body had shrunk on its frame and a coating of pure white hair covered his head like a skullcap. Necessity had overtaken vanity, so the classically roman nose on the tired looking face now supported spectacles to aid the weakened eyesight.

From the other side of the desk the pencil-thin body of Don Carmine Bartalucci straightened in its motorised wheelchair; the pain-lined face conveying its acknowledgement of the Orsinni confession with an understanding grimace.

To find a thief in our family, began the Don, is by itself unremarkable. But this one was cunning enough to falsify the necessary records enabling him to divert and conceal five million American dollars. The Don paused to briefly smile across the desk, But his cunning could not control the need to feed his ego by boasting. The pause this time was filled by the seventy year old Don’s heavy sigh prefacing his conclusion.Antonio must learn from this.

Giovanni Orsinni patiently waited out the silence following his Don’s initial response. They were discussing the discovered transgression of Arturo ‘Abacus’ Sardi, who until recently had been responsible for laundering the family’s money in Sicily. The man’s contentious rise through the ranks had largely been due to the influence of Antonio Bartalucci, the Don’s son and successor-in-waiting. Sardi’s betrayal had been deviously inventive, and, had it not been for the loose tongue of his wayward son Fabrizio, would still have been financially bleeding the Bartalucci family as he went for the full ten million dollars. Instead of just bleeding to death where they had left him as an example to others who might succumb to temptation.

Orsinni was anticipating the questions which might follow. He was mentally perusing a menu of answers, most of which he knew would please the Don. Only one complication needed to be presented here, and, although he had already sent experienced men to deal with it, he knew the Don would share his concern.

Something still troubles you, murmured the perceptive Bartalucci, but I don’t think it’s the money. Your eyes tell me you have found our money.

"Si, Don Carmine, he had buried it in an offshore account. After he confessed the error of his ways, he co-operated fully. The transfer back to one of our accounts has already been made."

We teach them too much, growled Bartalucci, not needing to ask how the disloyal Sardi’s co-operation had been obtained. Who do you think should replace him?

Conte.

The Don’s eyes signalled approval ahead of his voice. "In time, Conte will serve Antonio well. A good choice, consigliere of mine."

Fabrizio Sardi, said Orsinni, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes as he spoke, has vowed to avenge his father. He replaced his glasses and looked steadily across the desk as he continued, He was overheard asking about your grandson, Lucca.

The Don’s eyes narrowed, deepening the grooves on his face, but his voice remained calm. So you have good reason to be troubled, Giovanni. Does Antonio know of this?

Orsinni shook his head in reply. Recovering from a fall from his horse, a sedated Antonio Bartalucci currently lay in a bed immediately above the room in which the threat to his only son was now being discussed.

Where is the Sardi boy now?

Orsinni almost smiled. Any male under thirty was a boy to the Don and although Fabrizio Sardi barely qualified, the reply was delivered without attempting to point out this fact.

He arrived in Sicily this morning, but hasn’t been seen since. I’ve sent men to retrieve your grandson, he coughed softly, and my own children.

Still controlling his reaction, the Don silently digested this last piece of information along with his thoughts. Everywhere Paolo and Maria Orsinni go, Lucca Bartalucci follows. Their being together in Sicily, birthplace of the Orsinni’s, is also no surprise. The headstrong Paolo’s idea probably, he is a constant worry to the father who is already burdened with a very ill wife. Maria was just Maria, an intelligent girl but still just a girl. Despite the gymnastics foolishness pandered to by Giovanni... a fresh thought emerged, which he immediately shared. Your son will play his usual games with Lucca’s bodyguards, but he always looks after the other two and they never come to any harm under his wing. He smiled coldly across the desk with his addition, "Should Fabrizio Sardi be foolish enough to try anything, Paolo will probably take care of him as well."

Giovanni Orsinni forced himself to look into the eyes of his Don as he responded. When Sardi was last seen, he had three others with him.

Within view of the two men, suspended on a wall, was an original Lorenzo Ghiberti painting entitled The Gates Of Paradise. Neither man had ever expected to one day enter these gates, but they now stared at one another whilst contemplating a different kind of hell on earth.

Same 11th day of January 1979, Catania region of Sicily

Only yesterday, after hearing his teachers describe him as a very bright adolescent, had he looked at the dictionary to see himself defined as ‘a young person between childhood and adulthood’. A definition, he’d figured, which sounded okay but how long was between? He still preferred the memory of his grandfather telling him he was a fine looking man. Today he wished he could ask his grandfather the kind of questions he didn’t think he could voice to his father. Questions like; was it because he was adolescent he was feeling down one minute, and up the next? Or was it because he was different? He knew he was different from other boys of his own age, but didn’t really understand why. He knew he was different because other boys went to school together, sat in classrooms together, played together, and did all the other things he only did with Maria or Paolo or other people who worked for his grandfather.

His only classroom was inside his own home, two doors down the hall from his own bedroom, and his only classmate was Maria. Whenever he asked his grandfather’s people why he was different, the answers left him puzzled enough to run out of questions. Maria’s explanation about wealthy parents and the risk of kidnapping had almost satisfied his curiosity, but he always felt she was holding something back. Of course he couldn’t ask Maria about all the things he was unsure of, and he didn’t want to ask her brother because he was a scary guy who never really said much to anyone except Maria. Which was another thing he couldn’t figure out. So there was a lot he was unsure about right now, apart from one particular thing. He, Lucca Bartalucci, was pretty sure he was in love with Maria Orsinni. The sun was shining, they were returning from the beach where he had earned her delighted thanks for the special pebbles he had broken fingernails to find for her, and he felt light-headed from the combination of happiness and despair coursing through his adolescent body.

As Lucca Bartalucci trailed behind Maria Orsinni, watching her legs move under the dress, listening to the lovely voice saying something to her brother, Paolo, he was reminded for the zillionth time that everything about her, he mentally searched for the word, captivated him. The clouds in his mind were there simply because the problems multiplied each time he attempted to demonstrate how he felt about her. For starters, speech was a problem. He’d often spent ages rehearsing in his mind what he would say to her, then blush with embarrassment as she giggled at his stammered efforts to get the words out. He hated her at those moments, but only until she smiled at him in that way which made his legs go weak at the knees. Then he thought she was even more wonderful.

Physical demonstration was another problem. Anything he tried, from sprinting or climbing, from distance-spitting or wrestling, anything at all it seemed, she could outdo him. He really detested her at those times, but then she would compliment him in some way which made him feel ten feet tall and he was head-over-heels again. They were the same age but she could, right in front of his eyes, suddenly seem to look much older than fifteen. And sound much older. And act much older, making him feel like a little boy again. He didn’t even like her when that happened, until she’d hold his face with her hands in a way that made him feel special and he was right back where he’d started. Which was with the thought that he was pretty sure he was in love with Maria Orsinni. Whatever love was.

They were now on their way back to the Orsinni casa (house) using an untried route, thanks to Paolo whose idea it had been to run like the wind from the beach and leave behind the two men charged to escort and protect them wherever they went. Lucca was used to Paolo always wanting to go his own way so he was perfectly cool with this. If anything happened, he, Lucca Bartalucci, would rescue Maria and she would fall into his arms. Then Lucca’s daydreams were abruptly halted because ahead of him, something was happening!

The Orsinni trail-blazers had reached an area of well-trodden and sun-baked ground they recognized. This they knew was where the hill farmers stopped to check that their herded goats were all present and correct before descending any further. Undulating under a hovering heat-haze, creating an illusion of vividly coloured and patterned blankets spread out as if to dry, the terraced crop fields they had skirted earlier to reach here now lay below them to their left. The distant Mediterranean sea was a deep blue shimmering border between the multi-coloured land and a clear blue sky suspended over the Catanian Gulf. Dense thickets of small trees and bushes covered a steep hill before them but they knew where the path was, wide enough for two, and they knew that it would take them to their Casa on the other side of the hill.

Sufficiently ahead of Lucca to prevent being overheard, Paolo and Maria had been discussing their mother’s illness, their father’s occupation, and the seventeen-year-old Paolo’s future plans. Clad only in black shorts and a tee-shirt, the muscular Paolo bent suddenly to scoop up a stone from the path. He pitched it skywards, forcefully, as if attempting to release some of the frustration which could still be heard in his voice.

"I am serious Maria. I will leave when our madre is well again."

Her mind busy with thoughts she would never voice, Maria Orsinni didn’t respond. She knew Paolo would never leave while their mother lived. Barefooted like her brother alongside, their footwear had been left behind to lull the guards, and wearing a faded yellow sundress with deep pockets currently housing the beach pebbles she could feel against her legs with every step, Maria carefully picked out the spots on the path to place her feet. Her eyes were focused downwards, her facial expression unreadable. She was unable to tell her brother what she knew beyond doubt. Their mother would never be truly well again. The disease steadily spreading through her body made that an inescapable fact, quite apart from the irreparably broken heart. But her mother had asked for, and had been given, her daughter’s solemn promise not to tell Paolo. A promise which had been readily given, because Maria had instinctively understood that the volatile Paolo must never share the knowledge of his father’s infidelity and its devastating consequences. Giovanni Orsinni’s all-consuming allegiance to the Bartalucci’s, together with his adultery, had, in different ways, left its indelible mark on his wife and children. Sacrificing in its wake, the happiness of one family for the interests of another.

Maria also knew that, no matter what tradition might dictate, when the mother they worshipped inevitably succumbed to her fate, Paolo would leave to go his own way. Paolo was not cut out to be a Bartalucci herd animal, anymore than she herself was, and therefore the future for both she and her brother was impossible to predict. Which had partly contributed to her decision to continuously keep Lucca Bartalucci at arm’s length; the main reason was that she’d simply outgrown him. She thought of Lucca as a boy; a boy she liked and even teased, but that was it. She also looked on her brother as a boy, an older boy she adored but still a ragazzo.

Maria’s concentration on her thoughts was broken as her senses registered changes in her environment. Paolo’s quickening step was taking him ahead of her to crest the hill, and a glance back over her shoulder confirmed that Lucca had shortened the gap between them. She turned her head back towards Paolo and then her thoughts were completely suspended as she saw him stop on the crest of the hill, his back stiffening as he slowly raised his arms in the air. Maria instantly spun round again to face Lucca and rapidly issued instructions.

Keep walking up towards Paolo, but slowly. Keep calling to him as you go, tell him his sister has run away and ask him what is happening.

Maria side-stepped off the path, flicking a glance to where she could still see Paolo’s hands in the air. He still hadn’t moved. Neither had Lucca, who was rooted to the same spot on the path, his eyes wide and staring at her. "Do it now, Lucca," she commanded fiercely. Already moving away from him, she kept her body low and as near to the path as she dared. She was relieved to see that Lucca was obeying her and had started climbing again, calling as he went the words she had given him. She wasn’t worried about Paolo believing the words, he would have realized immediately that she had told Lucca what to do. Just as he knew that his sister would never run away whilst he was in trouble.

The shoulder-high bushes gave way to a cluster of small trees and she chose one which she reckoned would give her a view of what Paolo was facing from where he still stood, body rigid, hands still high in the air. She climbed the tree smoothly, carefully keeping as much of the foliage between her body and whatever she was destined to see once she gained sufficient height. Suddenly she was high enough and the scene ahead and below her made her feel as if her heart was actually beating in her throat. Paolo was slowly moving forward now, down a short but steep incline. Halfway down the incline and to one side of the rough path being negotiated by Paolo, a man sat astride a tree stump and he was holding a Lupara aimed at her brother. The bottom of the incline levelled out to form a small plateau which in turn sloped upwards again to where the Orsinni Casa stood.

Three other men, one of them also armed with a Lupara, were approaching the plateau from the direction of the Casa. Two of them held beer cans which they brought to their lips as they swaggered to join their companion; who had now seen Lucca and was saying something to the clearly frightened boy. Lucca slipped on the incline, and as Maria slithered down her tree she could hear the men laugh.

Grounding herself at the base of the tree, Maria paused. Calming herself by taking deep breaths. She’d recognized one of the men as Fabrizio Sardi, a frequent visitor to her father’s house. But she’d already seen enough to know this was no friendly visit. Without even realizing how fluid her thoughts were at this point, she ran the appraisal through her mind as she gathered herself. Four men, two armed with sawn-off shotguns. The one on the elevated tree stump must have been a lookout while the others had been waiting inside the Casa. Maria allowed herself the small smile; Paolo’s route had brought them in the back door, surprising the men, giving her an edge she must not waste.

Maria regained the path and began moving towards the crest of the hill, selecting from her sun-dress pockets the pebbles she must use, reminding herself she now had two weapons, the pebbles and the element of surprise. She knew that the surprise element was a considerable advantage; these men would have no knowledge of the combat skills she and Paolo had acquired over the past two years. Only a trusted few knew of the professionally equipped private gymnasium and the lessons learned in both orthodox and unorthodox disciplines. All provided for by their guilt-ridden and indulgent father, and exhaustively used by two youngsters referred to as precocious talents. Maria suddenly had a memory-flash of Tanaka telling her she was ‘a natural’, telling her that combat was a state of mind. If you don’t win in your mind, he’d said, you will lose on the ground. Tanaka, who was teaching her about mindsets, would be pleased right now, she thought. Because behind her focused facial expression, in her mind, the four men had just become no more than four targets.

Maria crested the hill and swiftly took in the new scene before her; the figures were now spread out. Maria’s snapshot impression was that of a small fan-shaped tableau and at the base of the path, where it met the plateau, gun number one, maybe less than two metres away, had his back to her and was obviously covering Paolo. Her brother was kneeling on the ground, his back to her, hands behind his head now. Fabrizio Sardi and another man stood in front of Paolo, looking down at him, laughing and saying something she couldn’t make out. Flanking Paolo to his left, in profile to Maria, Lucca also knelt with his hands behind his head. The boy was looking up at gun number two pointing at his terrified looking young face. The man holding gun number two was maybe five metres away from Maria and not looking directly at her.

Maria’s periphery senses picked up the sound of a car engine, but she was committed now and tuned out the sound as she stepped forward and launched her first pebble with tremendous force. Even as the stone left her hand she was reducing the distance to her next target, taking another two quick steps down the path and throwing her second missile at gun number two. The following moves happened very quickly because Maria knew that speed was now imperative; the pebbles would only stun enough to buy shocked seconds. But seconds were all that Paolo and Maria needed. While the men in front of him were just registering the fate of gun number two, Paolo, confident his sister would be covering his back, rose like the gymnast he was and traversed the metre separating him from the staggered man holding gun number two. Paolo grabbed the Lupara and clubbed its owner on the skull, then brought the weapon to bear on Fabrizio Sardi and the man beside him. As in differing fashion three no longer dominant attackers displayed their stunned disbelief at their rapid change of fortune, Maria’s quick strides had already taken her to gun number one and she too seized the weapon and clubbed its owner without any hesitation.

Loud voices could suddenly be heard coming from inside the Casa, and then more men were spilling out of the building and hurrying towards them. Some of the approaching men were brandishing guns, but a relieved Maria now recognized them as her father’s people and also now realized the significance of the car engine sound she’d heard earlier. She helped a badly shaken Lucca to his feet as Paolo grinned at her, the release of tension and spent adrenalin still resonant in his voice.

"Sa’lute, Maria, the time you have forced me to spend in the gymnasium has not been wasted."

Paolo’s eyes were locked on to his sister as his words kept coming, But this was something which could have ended very differently from combat practice had it not been for you. I wondered what you would do, but could never have imagined it would involve the use of beach pebbles. His eyes left her to quickly range over the terrain before returning to her as he added, You must learn to throw a knife, Maria, you have the eye, my sister.

Fabrizio and his sorry looking companions were already being led away, to what fate Maria only briefly speculated upon. Her Sicilian mind told her that these had been men who had come to harm her brother and Lucca, and so deserved whatever fate lay in store for them. She was aware of her trembling and fought to conceal it from the man now gently relieving her of the captured Lupara. His name, recalled Maria now, was Costello and he was clearly in command of the men she was very glad had arrived. She was trying not to think of what her volatile brother would have done had Costello and his men not arrived, and trying not to wonder whether she would have attempted to stop him.

Costello, a craggy-faced individual, smiled at her as he spoke. Only four men and two guns against the Orsinni children? We could have stayed in our beds.

Maria did not respond to Costello’s statement, he was one of the few who knew about the private gymnasium. She saw that Lucca was shaking uncontrollably, but pretended not to notice the dark stain down the front of his shorts. She motioned her intention to Paolo, and together they led Lucca towards the Casa. There she would find clean shorts for her friend, and privacy for her own trembling limbs. She was also pretending not to notice the way that Paolo was looking at her as they walked. Dismissing in her mind the thought that he was looking at her as if he was seeing his own sister for the very first time.

Costello and two of his men watched the Orsinni duo escort Lucca away from the scene, but not until they were out of earshot did one of them speak.

That one is no child, said the man, "she is a fenomeno."

Costello raised a warning hand to silence the man who had used the word freak. Earlier, from the Casa’s veranda, both of them had watched as Maria Orsinni had so effectively triggered the ensuing action.

Watch your tongue, growled Costello. If she had failed, we would all be answering this day to Don Carmine Bartalucci for the loss of his grandson.

Chapter One

Chance Encounters

Rome, Italy, January 1983

The January sales were underway in Roma’s eastern Regola district and Maria Orsinni wasn’t looking for a fight that cold Saturday morning, she was actually looking for shoes.

It was still early but the streets housing the main shopping area were already crowded with people. Maria had spotted a few reluctant looking males but the throng was mainly comprised of her own gender. Brightly coloured ‘half-price’ sale slogans criss-crossed the fully dressed shop windows, attracting intensely focused women of all ages. Like heat-seeking missiles in search of a hot bargain, thought Maria with a wry smile. But when she rounded the street corner taking her into the Via Del Monseratto, what she found was a fight on special offer. It was an offer she instantly knew she would be unable to refuse. Three tough looking characters, two of them armed with knives, were attacking a young man who was falling to his knees as shoppers screamed and scattered. Maria dropped her shopping bag, stepped out of her high-heeled shoes, and took four running paces before launching herself into the air.

Only the last six of Maria Orsinni’s nineteen years had been spent training in the martial arts, but not for nothing had she been described by her Japanese-American teacher as one who had been ‘born with knowledge.’ Even whilst briefly in mid-air, her combat brain was computing at lightning speed the next moves she must make. She knew that the one she was executing now, the Shotokan Karate attack move known as the Yoko Tobi Geri, was a risky one to make on this terrain. With both feet now off the ground she could not afford to miss her targets, but landing badly on concrete paving was something which must be avoided. Her first two targets were the knife carriers and a split second before reaching the first of them, her left leg straightened and snapped out a heel which struck the man’s right eardrum and rendered him unconscious. Even as her first target crumpled and began falling, she was delivering an elbow strike to the nose of the second knife wielder. As his eyes reactively closed she followed up with a knuckle strike to his larynx, then used the body of her first target to break her own fall.

Maria flowed upright to confront the third assailant who had barely moved since his two cohorts had been simultaneously brought down by a flying object. Staring now at a tall shapely girl before him, her black hair swept back in a pony-tail, her long legs encased in black slacks and wearing a red cashmere sweater over magnificent looking breasts, the disbelief was there in his eyes. But even as he was still mesmerised by her appearance, Maria was stepping in close to deliver the Ura Zuki punch to his solar plexus. The man with the scarred face of a bar-room brawler collapsed to the ground, trying to find oxygen for shocked lungs.

Maria side-stepped the prostrate trio and saw that the young man who had been the catalyst of events had risen to his feet and had gathered up the two knives. He held the weapons with one hand, with easy familiarity, she noted, whilst the other was rubbing the back of his head.

"Are you okay, signore...?" she asked, fully aware of how unnaturally calm he appeared to be, suddenly recognizing him for what he was. She saw him survey the scene at his feet before his dark eyes found her own, and he smiled as he answered her in a tone of voice which conveyed his obvious surprise and relief.

Sabbatini, he replied, smiling as he added, "but you can call me Sergio. The smile broadened as he went on, and I’m in better shape than these three, signorina...?"

Orsinni, she replied, smiling herself now as she added, "but you can call me Maria."

At the mention of her name Maria saw the subtle change in his expression, and would have questioned it but for the sudden arrival on the scene of the police van from which emerged three uniformed carabiniere officers. One of them, with a sergeant’s stripes on his arm, saluted the handsome young man holding two knives by his side and still rubbing the back of his head.

"Buon giorno, lieutenant, said the sergeant, what have we here?"

Armed assault on a police officer, replied Sabbatini. Plenty of witnesses, so one of you take statements while we handcuff these three and put them in the van.

Maria watched as one of the policemen moved towards the crowd of spectators.

And the young lady is...? began the sergeant, hesitating, handcuffs at the ready.

If I told you, interjected Sabbatini, "you wouldn’t believe me. But she just prevented these three from carving my face, or worse. You take care of them, and I will talk to the young lady."

Maria was aware of some onlookers already dispersing to renew their own assault on the shops, but she was focusing now on the handsome face of Sergio Sabbatini. Who was regarding her with the same obvious concentration. ‘You can talk to your priest, if you must, but you must never talk to the carabiniere,’ her father had told her a thousand times.

‘Mother of God, she is stunning,’ thought Sabbatini. Trying, and failing, to reconcile the image before him with his three damaged attackers. He cleared his throat, but still heard himself croak the words. A simple thank you seems woefully inadequate.

Maria shrugged her shoulders and silently dealt with the overflow of adrenalin still coursing through her body. A part of her was still replaying in her mind the moves she had just made, automatically thinking of how she might have gained vital seconds had she performed them differently. Another part of her was trying to ignore her throbbing left heel and torn stockings, and the scuff marks on her sweater, and the fact that she didn’t at all mind the way in which the handsome carabiniere officer was looking at her breasts as she drew deep breaths and willed her muscles to relax.

A simple thank you is fine, she replied.

Perhaps..., he began, halting abruptly as Maria saw his body language change and his dark eyes bored into her own with a I know it can never be look, and in that strangely regrettable instant she had confirmation of the fact that he knew who her father was.

Perhaps, she picked up on his word, sensing that he knew she was letting him off the hook, I can retrieve my footwear and continue my shopping. She then added the challenge with a smile. I don’t imagine you will need to, detain me any longer?

No, that won’t be necessary, he responded quietly. "Arrividerci, Maria Orsinni."

"Arrividerci, Sergio Sabbatini."

Maria felt his eyes on her as she slipped back into her high heels and gathered up her shopping bag. She was trembling slightly, but told herself it was the familiar reaction to a burst of high speed action and nothing to do with the handsome man with smouldering eyes and a sad looking smile. She didn’t look back as she walked away.

Sergio Sabbatini watched Maria Orsinni move out of sight as carabiniere files on the Sicilian Mafia were opening in his mind. One particular file, several pages thick, had been dedicated to Giovanni Orsinni and Sergio calculated that the consigliere’s daughter, Maria, must be about nineteen now. Had he not just witnessed her in action he would have questioned the absence of bodyguards, but clearly her father had well-founded confidence in her ability to take care of herself. To have detained her would have roused a Mafia lawyer and the Press, and would have been less than she deserved for saving him from certain physical harm. Nevertheless every bone in his body was screaming the feeling that he should go after her. He had sensed a connection between them, and wondered if she had also felt it. There had been something in her eyes when she had looked at him, something in her smile which had taken his breath away, something which had sparked... but common sense kicked in, overruling these thoughts and emotions, and he moved now to assist his colleagues. The man with a broken nose was carefully bundled into the van, joining companions who were broken in spirit and had nothing to say to him. When the gathering of witness statements was completed, Sergio told the sergeant he would follow the police van in his own car and meet them at the station.

Sergio Sabbatini began the walk to his car with a rueful smile on his face. He was thinking about the fickle finger of fate. He had sworn a solemn oath to serve the carabiniere and knew that he was destined to do so for the rest of his life. Part of that life, probably the greater part, would be spent on bringing to justice people like the father of the girl who ironically might even have just saved that life.

Oxfordshire, England, March 1983

He knew of course it was dangerous, but the pent-up desire was currently overwhelming his natural caution. He drew on the special gloves, and carefully clipped on over his shoes the distorting rubber soles as he glanced around the scene. The conditions were almost perfect, the sighting blinding him to the fact that normally ‘almost perfect’ wouldn’t be good enough.

But how could he resist? he silently questioned.

Why should he resist? was the equally silent answer.

An early evening stroll had suddenly presented him with a golden opportunity. Literally golden, he thought now with a smile, because the blonde hair shone against the pale olive complexioned skin of her neck. Attracting and arousing him immediately. The woman was beautiful also, but quite superfluous to requirements. She represented a risk factor which simply heightened his excitement.

He picked up one of the heavy rocks bordering a floral display, its clumsy weight quite unlike the precision tools he normally handled, as the annoying thought occurred that he would have to deny himself the pleasure of listening to the screams and gasps. He would be unable to allow them on this impromptu occasion, and his choice of words caused him to suppress the giggle which threatened to rob him of the element of surprise.

Moving quickly now he struck the woman with a heavy blow to the back of her head and clamped a gloved hand over the mouth of the little one, who looked at him through blue eyes widened by shock. ‘Oh my word, such a pretty one,’ he thought, ‘my Italian friends would just kill to have you,’ and he allowed himself the giggle now. Then the blue eyes rolled upwards and the firm young body became limp in his grasp and his annoyance returned as he realized she had passed out sooner than he would have preferred.

He withdrew his instrument and angrily, savagely, began his work.

Chapter Two

A Glimpse of Darkness

Shrivenham Village, Oxfordshire, England, April 1983, Beckett estate grounds of the Royal Military College of Science

It was late and all of the part-time workforce, and most of the permanent staff, had already left. So the middle-aged man wearing the distinctive hat was quietly seized in the car-park as he unlocked his car. The man’s hat, car-keys and car, now had a new owner who calmly donned the headwear as he keyed the engine and followed the other car containing the now unconscious victim. The small convoy passed through the security gate without incident and the entire exercise had used only seven of their pre-planned ten minutes.

Inside the Royal Military College of Science, the man was alone in the room which served as his private office. He was seated at his desk, deep in thought. On top of the desk was a glass-fronted picture frame. Behind the glass which might have been expected to protect a family portrait, or a certificate denoting an attained qualification, was a page of text which read:

Extract from the 1967 psychiatric research report produced by the Dept of Psychiatry, Yale University, USA.

‘Man’s Intervention in Inter-Cerebral Functions’

In animals, and in man, the inside of the brain is like an ocean through which we can navigate without visibility. Cerebral maps have been compiled and oriented according to stereotaxic co-ordinates which permits the blind placement of electronics within any desired structure. Communication with the depths of the brain makes it possible to send and receive information to and from the brain. We can start, stop, or modify a variety of autonomic somatic behavioural and mental manifestations. We can experiment with inter-cerebral mechanisms responsible for the onset and maintenance of specific behavioural and mental functions. As no batteries are used, the life of the transmitter is indefinite. Power and information are supplied by radio frequencies.

Chapter Three

A State of Mind

Oxfordshire, England, April 1983

Blasting through the village of Shrivenham’s nature reserve with complete disregard for nesting wildlife, the fierce wind had carried on to swirl around the picturesque area called Tuckmill Meadows. Normally accessed by what was known to local lovers as the ‘kissing gate’, ‘The Meadows’ was generally acknowledged by families to be an ideal picnic spot. It had been here that the unconscious mother had been found, beside her seven-year-old child’s sexually abused and mutilated body.

3,000 souls currently made up the Shrivenham village population, and, figuratively speaking, many of these were regularly called to arms each morning. Some of them had to leave earlier these days, to allow for delays caused by construction of the new bypass, and used the A420 for the short northward journey to the nearby village of Watchfield. Upon arrival, they would then drive past various forms of military accommodation to reach the security gates and car-parks of their own chosen ‘battle stations’. Performing a variety of specialist roles, their working days would be spent within buildings housing either the Joint Services Command and Staff College (JSCSC) or the Conflict Studies Research Centre (CSRC).

Some of the early morning work-bound journeys from rural Shrivenham homes were shorter, their required destination taking them no further than the locally situated grounds of the Beckett estate which housed the Royal Military College of Science (RMCS). So people in uniform was not an uncommon sight in this south-west corner of Oxfordshire and the two men standing outside Shrivenham’s St Andrew’s Church, dressed in tailored uniforms declaring one of them to be a Major and the other a Sergeant in the British army’s Special Investigation Branch (SIB), returned in kind the polite smiles of early morning worshippers leaving the ancient church.

The SIB’s Major Jones and Sergeant Harper were discreetly observing the cemetery adjoining the church, and in particular the man with whom until recently Jones had shared an officer’s mess. Dressed now in civilian suiting, David Foster, his former comrade, stood beside the man they had been tasked to escort to the railway station for his London-bound train and linking Heathrow airport flight back to Rome. The man they knew to be Foster’s brother-in-law was a young looking and sturdily built individual with a handsome olive-skinned face, and he currently wore a uniform identifying him as a Lieutenant of Italy’s Carabiniere. Both Foster and his relative stood with their heads bowed before two clearly new and side-by-side headstones and, achingly evident, one of the headstones was smaller than its companion.

We’ve lost a bloody good man, declared Harper, the younger of the SIB contingent.

And London’s police have gained one, responded Jones, but the only real losers are those two standing over the graves of a sister and niece to one, and a wife and daughter to the other.

I never thought Sophia would have topped herself, muttered Harper, Never imagined she would have left Foster on his own.

She became a mother first and a wife second, said the older, wiser soldier, and I would imagine, he added softly, she just couldn’t live with the thought of what had been done to her only child.

The SIB Major conjured a mental picture of Foster’s Italian wife at the child’s funeral, seeing the beautiful and broken Sophia Foster nee Sabbatini, her head still bandaged as a result of the blow which had felled her. Leaving the girl unprotected and herself burdened with the thought that she should somehow have prevented her daughter’s terrible end. Breaking his reverie, the wind threw an empty plastic bag against what he now knew, thanks to a talkative vicar, was the 15th century tower around which the church had been built in 1700. ‘Towers of strength, that’s what David Foster and Sergio Sabbatini need to be now,’ thought the sympathetic Jones.

Bastard paedophile, growled Harper, I’d tear his balls off if I got my hands on him.

No doubt David and Sergio over there feel the same, responded Jones, "But he has to be caught first, and, if I know men, young Harper, we’re now watching two who will dedicate themselves to finding the person you so eloquently describe."

Bit bloody hard, retorted Harper, "to see how either of them will manage that. The peacock in the fancy uniform looks no older than me, and he’s hot-footing it back to Italy, and the other’s going to be bogged down trying to find his feet in London’s Scotland Yard."

You’ve only been with our unit a short time, responded Jones, "but have already recognized that we’re losing a good man. However you’re new enough not to know that David Foster’s success rate as an investigator was second to none. The only way our CO could keep him was not to put him up for promotion, and David was happy to go along with the arrangement while his daughter was growing. So he’s not the type to get bogged down unless he wants to. Mark my words, Harper, he’ll quickly rise and shine within the ranks of Scotland Yard’s finest. David has also told me a thing or two about his Italian relative who looks no older than you, and I personally reckon either of them would prove to be formidable investigators from wherever they’re based."

The perceptive Major instantly noted the sceptical expression on his Sergeant’s face and decided to remove it with some well chosen words. "Remember your training, Harper, and don’t make the mistake of forming a judgement based solely on surface appearances. Variations of that fancy uniform have been worn by men who gave their lives in two world wars. My own father lost a leg in an African hell-hole in November 1941. He told me he would have lost his life, had it not been for the mobilized carabiniere battalion who pulled him and his mates out."

Jones could see he had Harper’s attention now as he quietly continued, "It may sound daft to someone of your generation, lad, but my dear old dad kept a copy of a supreme command war despatch numbered 539. He used to read it to me whenever he was gearing up to attend the annual remembrance ceremony in London. I’ve never forgotten the words, Harper, which I quote, In the great conflict they gloriously distinguished themselves. A symbol of courage from national detachments, The Battalion of The Royal Carabiniere, even when their ammunition was depleted, continued their furious counter-attacks to the very end. Almost all of them were lost in action".

Jones now held the Sergeant’s eyes with his own as he went on speaking, "During the second world war, Harper, over four and a half thousand of the carabiniere were killed in action, over fifteen thousand of them were injured and hundreds were lost in action. Approximately half these numbers were killed or injured fighting for the Resistance against the Germans. So in any soldier’s army, Harper, that uniform is one to be respected."

Pleased to see that Harper’s facial expression had changed, and warming to his theme, Jones calmly pressed on, "For your further information, young Harper, on the back of brilliant academic achievements that man wearing the uniform, the man you called a peacock, was spring-boarded into the carabiniere when he was twenty. He immediately did a two year WO course split between Florence and Velletri in Rome and attained a degree in addition to becoming one of the carabiniere’s youngest ever Warrant Officers."

Harper’s attention fully engaged now, the Major delivered the verbal coup de grace. "He immediately followed that up by passing a public entry exam which enabled him to successfully complete another one year course, which gained him the rank of Lieutenant and puts him inside one of the carabiniere’s special criminology branches."

Jones placed a hand on the Sergeant’s shoulder as he gently twisted the verbal knife. "Now just remind me, young Harper, apart from those three stripes adorning your tunic, what have you achieved during the past three years of your life?"

Well, responded Harper, huffily, whilst failing to conceal his concessionary glance of respect towards the uniformed Italian, "compared to that, not much at all, I guess. But, he stubbornly continued, my point still stands. The paedophile who killed that child has to be somewhere in this community, which both Foster and Sabbatini are preparing to leave as we speak."

Reluctant to concede that Harper’s point