The Orsinni Reprisals

By Bill Cariad

In Spain… Financier Fernando Chevaz is violently slain. His 'time bomb' legacy has been overlooked. Which is still not the most fatal mistake his killers have made! In Italy… A Carabiniere officer needs information from the Mafia. The person who can get it for him is the woman who broke his heart. But not even the Mafia can stop the organization known as Pandora and they too must obtain help. Not just from outside their own ranks, but from a woman! In England... A terrorist known as The Algerian unexpectedly surfaces. Spymaster Sir Gerald Fraser has a jigsaw headache and needs help to make the pieces fit. He must use outside assistance. He needs someone ruthless. Someone capable of killing. Someone he can manipulate. Someone ultimately deniable. He thinks he has found just the woman! In Wales... A former SAS sergeant discovers a Damascus-inspired plot to wipe out the entire cabinet of the British government in a single day! Maria Orsinni has spent three years trying to bury her past. Maria has lost a husband, and a brother, to violent death. Maria is no ordinary widow, no helpless grieving sibling. Some people are about to learn that the hard way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Dec 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781785380860

Book preview

coincidental.

Prologue

Suspended Sentence

County of Sussex, England, March, 1991

Maria Kennedy watched impassively as her husband’s killer vibrated with life. Over recent weeks she had learned a great deal about Sir Harold Morrison. He shook hands with his smug looking lawyer now before dislodging the mask of remorse as he smiled his thanks to a back-slapping well-wisher. Maria saw the shoulders, freed from their burden of doubt, lift and square in readiness for their triumphal return to dealings in the city; contemporaries at the club, and the cocoon of family ensconced on the country estate. Money and connections, reflected Maria, both once more proving to be excellent conversationalists.

The more seasoned of the remaining onlookers had brought their own cushions, upon which they perched wearing disgruntled facial expressions. Perhaps hoping, thought Maria, the next attraction on the County Court list would provide more in the way of entertainment than a simple run-of-the-mill contested drink-driving offence. The by-product of a fatality mildly shocking but, given the times they lived in, insufficient to satiate palates regularly jaded by more salacious fare.

Maria’s quick visual scan of the cut-price coliseum confirmed that Lady Holbrook had heeded her request to stay away. She also noted, but didn’t acknowledge in any way, the man called ‘Old Jock’ as on preparing to leave he caught her eye. Her own court-appointed legal knight, who had dismally failed to impress with his feeble presentation of events leading up to her husband’s death, was murmuring into his mobile phone and she half-listened to his pleased acceptance to something, somewhere, for the coming weekend. Finally, he turned his obviously reluctant attention back to her and she heard the scratch of impatience across his voice as he feigned interest in her understanding his summary of the verdict.

Maria Kennedy, nee Orsinni; twenty-seven year old daughter of Sicily; three months old widow of Tommaso Kennedy, understood only too well. Her husband was morto (dead) while his killer preened himself before her eyes. Throughout the past three years of married tenure; she had regularly felt the erratic pulse of her adopted country, often scarcely able to believe the reports she had read of lawlessness and the countless horror stories relating to man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. She had been repeatedly dumbfounded by the response of the British judiciary; governing, so far as she could tell, a so-called justice system whose only consistency seemed to be its inadequacy.

So she had chosen not to further line the pockets of an over-priced legal voice today, and instead had endured this charade in the full expectancy of an unsatisfactory outcome. Refusing him the reply she turned away from the ineffectual lawyer, dismissing him from her presence and her thoughts, and began her dry-eyed passage through the throng of people still entering and leaving the courtroom building. An explorer of the fanciful phrase might have described her as a deserted island of grief in a swelling uncaring sea, but, as any explorer of nature could tell you, a deserted island can be a deadly place.

West London, England

Currently enjoying a boom of bad news, the tabloids had been spoiled for choice. So coverage of Sir Harold Morrison’s court appearance had been sparse, but the reproduced wedding photograph of Tom and Maria Kennedy had been instantly recognized by Donald Stanhope’s wife, Joy. She and Donald had only just met when he’d invited her to accompany him to ‘the wedding of an old colleague.’

Even now; Joy could remember the strikingly attractive young Italian woman who had clearly been in love with her new husband. But she hadn’t seen them again until her own wedding day, which Tom and Maria had attended. Donald’s subsequent retirement from the insurance business had so transformed their social life that she hadn’t seen the couple again until spotting the photograph and reading of Tom’s death.

When she showed the newspaper to Donald, normally an even-tempered man, his eyes narrowed with what she surprisingly recognized as anger.

"Unbelievable! Morrison refuses to pay their bill for services rendered. Tom threatens to take him to court and is then conveniently killed by Morrison’s car, evidently driven under the influence of drink, and Morrison walks!"

We read of one unbelievable thing after another these days, Joy reminded him.

"She’ll never lie down for that verdict," stated Donald, quietly emphatic.

"What else can she do?" challenged Joy.

She’s a Sicilian, Donald enigmatically answered.

Whilst registering in his wife’s facial expression the inadequacy of his reply, Donald’s thoughts were already casting him back in time. To his previous life before regular games of golf with the chaps and cosy candlelight dinners with Joy. To the high-risk world of kidnap insurance. He was remembering the adrenalin rush of Sicily’s kidnap industry, and his first encounters with Tom and Maria. His sudden recall of his then company’s maxim for that time and place, prompted the recital he now delivered to his once more surprised looking wife.

"When examined rationally, the equation follows common sense to its logical conclusion. Successful industries are run by professionals, and professionals will be capable of ruthlessness in pursuit of success. So to compete successfully against a ruthless professional, you need the other side of the professional coin. Someone who can be even more ruthless towards achieving an opposing objective."

What brought that on? queried a now bemused looking Joy.

Just reading aloud a remembered passage from the old company bible, explained Donald with an apologetic smile. Kidnapping in Sicily, he continued, "was very definitely an industry, and probably still is, I imagine. A very profitable industry, run by ruthless professionals. So in my day, whenever an industrialist client, or the sibling of a wealthy family client, was abducted in Sicily a well-oiled recovery machine was set in motion. He stopped to offer Joy a mock-bow, Your humble husband, he resumed, occasionally played the part of a small cog in such a machine, but, regardless of how professional the other members of the team might have been, we sometimes ran into seemingly insoluble situations. Which was when we needed to call in someone local. Someone who could command respect, and literally pull out the proverbial chestnuts from the fire. Donald paused, his narrative taking him back to nail-biting deadlines and ultimatums, In those days, he continued, we sent for Maria Orsinni."

"Our Maria...?" exclaimed Joy, eyebrows lifting in further surprise.

The very same, acknowledged Donald, She used to say that in such a macho place, her gender was her biggest edge. Anyway she brought Tom out of a pretty hairy scenario once. Saved his life probably. They fell in love, and some people said it wouldn’t last.

Donald’s silent stare back to the past prompted Joy to reach out and clasp his hand, wondering what she should say at this point. Then her husband rose to his feet and she anxiously watched as he paced the floor. She had never seen him like this before, had never envisaged such a reaction, and a part of her suddenly wished she hadn’t brought the newspaper to his attention. But his disclosures had been fascinating enough to arouse her interest.

So Joy was now looking at this normally affable man she had married and trying to imagine him in the kind of situations he had so tantalisingly described. Then Donald suddenly snapped her attention back, venting a heavy sigh as he began speaking again.

So now the widow Kennedy has been denied justice. His tone was bitter as he finger-tapped the newspaper he still held, The price of a life: The old-boy network slaps this Morrison on the wrist, gives him a driving ban which simply guarantees his chauffeur regular work, and he gets a fine he can pay from petty cash. Whilst Maria..., he trailed off.

Whilst Maria ... what? queried an enthralled Joy.

As I said, responded Donald, his tone now sombre, she’s a Sicilian.

County of Sussex, England

The station platform was crowded with home-going commuters and several male heads turned to take a second look at her. Some of the looks were covert; others quite open, all of them drawn to the physical presence of the tall woman who made them think of Mediterranean moonlights and margaritas. Whilst admiring the dark hair which gleamed and fell to her shoulders, from what could be seen of her legs the watchers imagined a good figure to be concealed under the long cape she wore. Some thought the eyes too large for the pale high-cheek-boned face, immediately rejecting the opinion when her gaze chanced upon them. Ultimately only two of the fantasising males were fortunate enough to find themselves sharing the first class train compartment with the woman who appeared oblivious to their attention.

Maria occupied a window seat; outwardly presenting a relaxed demeanour; inwardly battling a maelstrom of emotions, knowing that Tommaso had occasionally travelled home on this train. Perhaps, she mused, he’d even sat where she did now; ignoring the wandering eyes of fellow passengers. Did your eyes ever wander, amore mio? she silently wondered, trying not to think of what might have been if they had stayed in Italy instead of coming here to live. Trying not to think about the fact that Tommaso had brought her here to change her lifestyle and save her from self-destructing.

Becoming one half of their privately entitled ‘two-man financial consultancy band’, Tommaso had dubbed her ‘the brass neck section’ because of her pushiness. And she had pushed, for him, she had owed him more than he had realized. They had even steadily rebuilt from the emotional rubble of her miscarriage; when he’d told her to think of the fun they would have trying again to turn themselves into a trio. Then the car had mounted the pavement, smashing the sandcastle and crushing the dream. She had held him in her arms, washing his broken face with her tears until the paramedics took him away from her. She had forced herself alongside the policeman questioning Morrison and had scented the alcohol-tainted breath, and had made the silent and irrevocable Sicilian vow to her dead husband.

Knowing that her life here in England was finished, immediately after the funeral she had removed the wedding band from her finger and put up for sale the cottage which had doubled as ‘Consultancy HQ’ and home to the lifestyle they had both happily embraced. ‘No more embraces, amore mio,’ she whispered on a breath. Her thoughts braking with the train, she disembarked and headed for the station car-park.

Collecting her car, Maria drove towards her temporary refuge with Lady Eleanor Holbrook now occupying her thoughts. She was reluctant to involve her new-found friend any more than was strictly necessary. Herself a widow, and past acquaintance of Tommaso, she had presented herself shortly after his funeral to reveal two things: Firstly, that Tommaso had given her timely financial advice when she’d lost her own husband, and secondly to express her dislike of the neighbouring Sir Harold Morrison.

Immediately warming to the physically small but big-hearted older woman who had also declared her willingness to help in any way she could, Maria had confessed her reluctance to stay on at the cottage she intended selling. Eleanor had responded with the tactically accepted offer of accommodation. Negotiating now the Holbrook driveway, Maria failed to convince herself that her acceptance of Eleanor’s hospitality had not been influenced by the proximity of Holbrook House to the estate of Sir Harold Morrison. Eleanor, concern lines etched on her face, came to meet her as she emerged from the car.

Old Jock telephoned, my dear. I can only imagine how you must feel.

I expected nothing more, replied Maria with a philosophical shoulder-shrug.

Unspeakable man, blurted Eleanor, I’ve just been reading about him.

Maria injected politeness into her voiced Really? but had heard something indefinable in Eleanor’s tone. Motioned to follow, she was led inside the house and from a hallway table her hostess picked up a magazine which was then passed to her.

It’s The Horse and Hound, Eleanor crisply identified before adding too casually, I’ve marked the passage I thought might interest you.

Maria was silent, now intent upon reading the marked extract from an interview with Sir Harold Morrison: Wherein he was expounding about his early morning rides on his estate. ‘While the world’s abed, I’m on the hoof’, was his stated claim. A rather grandiose claim, thought Maria, obviously made with scant regard of time zones and shift workers. Another thought pressed for attention and Maria looked up into the benign facial expression of Eleanor Holbrook as she voiced it. What prompted you to mark this particular passage?

Lady Eleanor blushed, but her eyes sparkled as she replied. Old Jock says there’s more to you than a pretty face. I think he’s probably right. He and Tom were very close, you know. She made direct eye contact, Is it useful, my dear?

Maria held in her hands the magazine which might just be pointing her towards the solution to a problem: The problem of how to gain private, and, more importantly, undisturbed access to Sir Harold Morrison.

Lady Eleanor, tomorrow morning, can I borrow a horse? she asked by way of evasion.

Weather Gods were quietly crop-dusting with menacingly low and dense clouds of blanketing mist as Maria stepped out into the mid-March early morning. Dullish sounds of unidentified activity, competing with a pungent smell, jump-started her senses and guided her to the stables. As Old Jock came into view she slowed her approach, marshalling her thoughts as Eleanor’s words of yesterday floated across her mind; ‘He and Tom were very close, you know.’ Al contrario, (on the contrary) Maria silently reflected, she hadn’t known.

Old Jock, she saw now, was supervising a young man who was busily mucking out a stall. The elderly Scotsman spat on the ground and motioned her to silence as she drew to within paces of where he stood. Old Jock, reckoned Maria, was himself within spitting distance of seventy. He reminded her of the so-called ‘old men’ in the hills of her own country. From where she stood, he appeared to be five-feet-eight of bone and muscle in a frame that looked like a six inch nail and was probably just as durable. Below the waist his concession to conditions was trousers tucked into rubber boots, whilst his torso made do with a cotton shirt, the rolled-up sleeves exposing weathered skin stretched like parchment over bony arms. Maria was fascinated by his hands, which she could visualise gracing the keyboard of a Bechstein, and one of them pulled her gaze to his hollow-cheeked face as it scratched the flattened nose before lifting the cap he wore to rub at wisps of white hair.

Still as a sniper, he murmured loud enough for her to hear.

One of his eyes was bloodshot, she noticed, but both were clearly watching for a reaction. Refusing him, Maria silently held his stare. He turned to his worker and muttered what she presumed to be instructions, before retrieving a jacket from the depths of the stall and coming to where she stood. He watched her as he donned the jacket, and, when she still didn’t respond, he smiled to reveal his collection of gold fillings.

Most men would have fidgeted. You’d like to borrow a horse, her Ladyship tells me.

Why were you in court yesterday? countered Maria.

Your Tom was a good man, he replied unhesitatingly, He gave a lot of his time here to save her Ladyship from financial ruin. Wouldn’t take a penny for it. Said he couldn’t. Not from a widow woman who reminded him of his own grandmother, he said. The Scotsman grinned through the pause, Said you’d skin him for being a softy, so we were sworn to silence.

Which explained so much! realized Maria. So it hadn’t been wandering eyes, amore mio, it had been your big wonderful heart over-ruling your business head. Despite her racing thoughts on Tommaso’s past unexplained absences, Maria saw Old Jock’s body language suggesting he was uncomfortable. In sudden confirmation, he began shifting from foot to foot as he spoke.

I used to work for Morrison. It was me who pointed him in Tom’s direction when he wanted some of that fancy-Dan consultancy work. He spat earthwards, Never forgive myself. I went to the court hoping to see him get what he deserves. But he didn’t, as you well know.

Maria saw the restless footwork cease as he faced her squarely with his next words.

"Now then, I recall Tom telling me things about you, and if you plan on teaching Morrison a lesson then that’s fine by me." He stopped, but the anger still moved in his eyes.

"Yes, I would like to borrow a horse, responded Maria, carefully adding, and perhaps you could do me a sketch of the Morrison estate..., she hesitated, and tell me the best way to get there unseen."

I’ll do better than that, Lass, I’ll take you, he replied firmly.

Moments later, suppressing irritation upon discovering that he had already saddled two horses, Maria surrendered to Old Jock’s anticipation and calmly expressed logic.

If reaching his place unseen is what you want, I can help you do that. You’d never do it alone, not even once I’ve shown you the way. He spat on the ground once more to preface his firmly added, Take my word for it.

Old Jock put her up on a mare he said was called Nutmeg, who began following his own mount without demur as the Scotsman looked back over his shoulder to make eye contact.

If we keep to my pace, we’ll be there in one hour, he promised her.

Fifty minutes and as many directional changes later, Maria was silently, reluctantly, acknowledging that she wouldn’t be able to duplicate this route unaided Which meant she must factor in the additional risk of unwanted company when the time came. A thought which put a faint furrow on her brow.

The earlier mist had vaporised, replaced by worryingly clear visibility. But Old Jock was as good as his word; when he eventually stopped beside uprooted trees bordering a stream, her watch told her one hour had elapsed without any awareness of observation. Apart from wildlife, the only voices she’d heard had been their own as her guide, in response to her occasional interrogation, had imparted valuable insights into Morrison’s routines.

Other side of those dead trees and you’re on his land, proclaimed her guide.

How far is his house from here? responded Maria.

Seemingly ignoring her, Old Jock effortlessly dismounted and Maria wincingly followed suit to join him where he already knelt constructing a crude map of twigs and stones. She stood and watched his delicate looking fingers become pointers as he began speaking.

"We’re here. The house is there, say one hour’s ride from here, he pointed away from the map, in that direction, but he always rides through a small wooded area here, he added a stone to his construction, and follows a bridle path for about half a mile to here, he used a twig this time, then turns around and goes back the way he came."

Looking quite pleased with his handiwork, Old Jock glanced up at her expectantly.

Can I get to the wooded area unseen? probed Maria.

Should do, he replied, From here you follow the stream until you come to the edge of the wood where he turns around. The bridle path is easy to spot.

How long will it take me to get there?

If you keep to the pace we’ve been doing, about ten minutes, he replied.

And you’re certain he always rides out at the same time? she pressed.

Regular as clockwork, he consulted his watch, He would have reached the bridle path about ten minutes ago, and he’ll be turning around to go back as we speak.

Maria stretched to ease her stiffness before responding. Okay, you wait for me here. She turned away from him and moved towards Nutmeg.

"Is it Ciao or Grazie?" Old Jock abruptly queried.

Maria paused with one foot in a stirrup, "Mi Scusi?"

Italian for thanks, said the Scotsman, Thought you might know the word.

Sorry, offered Maria, Lot on my mind. She hauled herself back up on Nutmeg.

Old Jock watched her until she disappeared, then spat on his makeshift map. The parting words had unsettled her enough to dissolve her focus, and for a startling moment of altered clarity Maria felt the full force of her emotional dislocation. Since Tommaso’s death she’d been living in the skin of two different personae; the public one, exuding detached politeness, and the other one: The private one, enclosed deep within the self she had once been, the one which had slept for a while and was now awakening.

Maria willed her attention back to the stream she must follow and the silent communion she needed to maintain with Nutmeg as they moved over the terrain. Nutmeg actually saw the bridle path before she did, and, comfortable with the familiar, happily carried her rider onto the well used track. Maria’s concentration was now absolute, and, as Nutmeg obliviously walked on, she visually mapped the passing surroundings. Trusting to natural instincts which had lain dormant for three years. Instincts which immediately stirred when she saw the stoutly branched Oak tree. She reined in Nutmeg beside the mighty Oak, allowing herself to nurture the idea forming in her mind, automatically gauging dimensions before dismounting to repeat, with variations, her calculations from where she stood surrounded by trees housing occasionally glimpsed and chattering birds. Could it work? she wondered. It could be made to work, she decided. Finally she walked around the base of the tree and her heightened awareness drew her experienced eyes to the man-made attempt to camouflage the animal trap.

Old Jock was where she had left him and his tone was gruff.

Find what you came for?

I think so, thank you, she politely answered. She was rewarded with a flash of the gold fillings before she saw the bloodshot eye narrow as he registered her uncertainty.

What’s wrong?

Describing its location, Maria told him about the camouflaged trap.

That’ll be young Davy up to his tricks, he informed her with a chuckle.

Maria responded carefully, I intend meeting Sir Harold Morrison tomorrow morning beside that Oak tree. She paused for effect, Three would be a crowd.

Tomorrow’s Sunday, he replied with a dismissive headshake, Young Davy will be sleeping off the drink when you’re having your meeting.

They started their journey back to Holbrook House and after a while she asked him if he could, for tomorrow’s ride, obtain a western saddle for Nutmeg.

Aye, that’s no problem. Leave it to me.

Which, Maria silently calculated, left her with visits this afternoon to a hardware store and probably a novelty shop. She felt herself unwind slightly. You’ve been very helpful, Jock, and I’m sorry about earlier, she said to his back.

"Being eccentrico, he replied over his shoulder, is understandable in the circumstances."

Eccentrico! No one had ever called her that before, and where had the old Scotsman learned the Italian word for bad tempered? Maria didn’t know whether to laugh or protest and she saw him look back over his shoulder in time to witness her compromise.

But yon’s a bonny smile you have, Lass.

Preferring to see an opponent’s eyes, arguing in the dark didn’t appeal to Maria. Nevertheless here she was, toe to toe with Old Jock, birthing the new day with conflict beside a bubbling stream and uprooted trees. Sensing his mood when they’d set out and attributing it to the necessary earlier start, she had concerned herself with keeping him in sight and herself awake in the comfortable western saddle. The night before had punished her with fitful sleep. Knowing why had increased her restlessness, the wakeful mantra denying her peace: You lost your life, amore mio, because I persuaded you to take me out for a walk. You always allowed me to persuade you to do whatever I wanted.

They faced one another in the dark, but Old Jock was alight with questions and refusing to do her bidding.

What kind of lesson will you be teaching him, Lass, that you don’t want me to see?

I would prefer you remained here, insisted Maria, fighting irritation.

What have you got in the wee bag?

You don’t have to know that, she refused.

I could help you, he tried.

It’s best if you don’t, she countered, inwardly cursing her choice of words.

I want to see his face when you teach him this lesson, he confessed.

I never agreed to that, and I want you to stay right here.

Maria signalled an end to the dispute by turning away from him; feeling his eyes on her as she mounted Nutmeg, adjusted the tote-bag, and wordlessly set off.

Old Jock waited until she was out of sight, spat into the bubbling stream, then mounted his horse and followed her.

Nutmeg unerringly followed her previous day’s trail to the bridle path and as the first rays of tentative sun slowly reached out to the secluded woodland, Maria tethered the horse beside the chosen Oak tree and began working.

From the tote-bag she took out a pair of clear plastic gloves, a tin of grease, some duct tape, a serrated-edge combat knife, and a clothes-line rope. She left one item untouched in the bag, knowing she wouldn’t need it until the last moment.

Selecting first the gloves, she put them on before opening the grease tin. Picking up the rope, she lightly greased a section of it until reaching one end which she fashioned into a noose. She slipped the noose over her head for a fitting test, decided it was okay and removed it. She then threw the noose-end of the rope up and over her chosen branch, letting it fall back to her waist level. She then stooped for the knife and held it between her teeth.

From her courtroom observations she had roughly estimated Morrison’s height, but she didn’t know how big his horse would be. So she left the rope dangling, untied Nutmeg and led her to the noose. Visualising Morrison’s probable height in the saddle by comparing Nutmeg’s positioning, she pulled the rope until the noose was at a height she judged to be accurate enough. Then, keeping the tension in the rope, she slowly mounted Nutmeg and walked her away from the tree until the noose was almost touching the branch. Whereupon she stopped, took the knife from her teeth and cut away the surplus to her end of the rope.

Controlling the rope, Maria led Nutmeg back to the tree and tethered her. Next, she flicked at the noose until she had it back to her previously adjudged position above his estimated saddle height. She tied off her cut end of the rope to the western saddle’s pommel then gathered up the spare rope which went back in the tote-bag. Her combat clock was running in her head; Morrison could appear at any time now. Picking up the duct tape, she carefully taped the knife to her saddle and tossed the unused tape in the bag. Collecting both bag and grease tin she stepped behind the tree, grounded the bag and stripped off her tracksuit. Then she heard the noise!

Maria froze where she stood, listening to the faint but unmistakable rustling sounds of movement. Suddenly the profile of a man appeared between two nearby bushes. Maria realized the man only had to make a fractional head-turn and she would be seen and at that instant she heard the pounding of a horse’s hooves. Morrison was coming!

To her astonishment Old Jock materialised alongside the stranger, physically turning him away from her position. She hadn’t time to think about it. Already naked now apart from her boots, she quickly smeared grease over her upper body and her arms down to the wrists. She then scrabbled in the tote-bag for the Zorro mask which completed her stage props. Scrambling aboard Nutmeg she gathered in the noose, angling it towards the pommeled end of the rope and shielding it as much as she could between tree and horse.

Maria Kennedy,