A Season in Hell, page 18
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve operated in Sicily. I shouldn’t even hint at this, it’s a security breach on my part, but the main reason I didn’t want to work for Ferguson and Group Four is because I was on attachment to them from SAS, just before I went to the Falklands. Attachment in Sicily.”
“What were you doing?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I were you. Let’s say we’re back to Assassins again and leave it.”
“I met Barbera on the plane coming over,” she said stubbornly. “I was very upset. We talked about Eric. He was understanding and kind.” She held up the card. “This is his grandson, Vito Barbera. He runs the family business in London. Casinos, betting shops, restaurants. No drugs.”
“Who says so?”
“Don Rafael, and I believe him. He was on his way to Palermo, but he told me he’d speak to his grandson about me. That he’d tell him to help me in any way he could.” She was very determined now. “I intend to see Vito Barbera, Sean. If you won’t help, I’ll go alone.”
They stood there confronting each other, and then the doorbell rang and Egan looked out the window and saw Ferguson and Tony Villiers on the steps.
ELEVEN
It was Egan who opened the door. Villiers pushed his way past, looking angry. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Ferguson followed. “Morning, young Sean,” he said brightly.
“What’s got into him?” Egan asked as he closed the door.
“He’s not happy, not happy at all,” Ferguson said. “Thinks you’re leading the lady into what I believe the bullfighters term the circle of danger when you should really be curbing her excesses. To be perfectly frank, I agree with him.”
He went into the sitting room and Egan followed. Villiers was confronting Sarah. “We have what’s called a moving-search system on our computer. If we put your name on it, it picks up whatever’s happening to you on computers elsewhere. Credit cards, which restaurants you’re eating at, where you shop. Wonderful aid to keeping tabs on what you’re up to.”
“Strange,” Sarah told him. “I’d always thought the Gestapo went out of business in nineteen forty-five.”
“My dear Mrs. Talbot,” Ferguson said, “we only have your best interests at heart, you must see that. Tony feels that this young idiot,” here he glanced at Egan, “is rather allowing your enthusiasm to run away with him.”
“The computer picked up that you’d both gone to Paris on a British Airways flight yesterday,” Villiers said. “And with Jack Shelley.”
“You came back in a rush close to midnight and booked Mr. Shelley into a rehabilitation clinic for alcoholics in St. John’s Wood,” Ferguson put in, smiling. “I’ve been familiar with Mr. Shelley’s activities for years, and whatever other failings he has, and they are numerous, I can assure you he doesn’t have a drinking problem.”
“Which intrigued us so we made enquiries at the clinic,” Villiers said. “Oh, very discreetly of course. The good Dr. Aziz doesn’t suspect a thing.”
“But what we found does confirm our suspicions that you’ve had a lively night out in Paris, Mrs. Talbot, if it cost Jack Shelley a bullet in the shoulder,” Ferguson said.
Sarah said, “I’ve got nothing to say.”
Villiers turned to Egan angrily. “Are you trying to get her killed or what?” He took a white sheet from his pocket and unfolded it. “The man with the scar on his face on the underground who you thought worked for me? Well, he didn’t. We put a computer search on, explored every possibility and came up with this.”
He passed the printout across. It was a facsimile of what Crowther had given Egan on Jago. Egan pretended to read it, then passed it to Sarah. “Captain Harry Evans-Lloyd,” she said and turned to Egan. “Jago?”
“Jago?” Villiers said. “What are you talking about?”
“That seems to be the name he’s known by,” Egan told him, and glanced at Sarah, who nodded. “He’s a contact man for someone we only know as Mr. Smith.”
“Smith?” Ferguson frowned. “That doesn’t strike any chords.”
“Well, he does exist,” Sarah told him. “He’s behind everything.”
Ferguson unbuttoned his coat and sat down. “I really think it might be an idea if you told us what’s been going on.”
Sarah said, “You might as well handle that, Sean. I don’t see any reason to hold back any essential facts.” And yet there was something in her eyes that was telling him otherwise.
Egan picked his way briefly through the affair: Jago’s appearance not only on the underground, but at All Hallows; the abortive visit to see Greta Markovsky; the discovery of Eric’s diary. He made no mention of Alan Crowther’s part in the affair at all, but launched into an account of what had happened in Paris. Before he could reveal what Agnés had told them about Deepdene Garden of Rest, Sarah cut in.
“All right, Tony, so if it gives you any satisfaction, we went all that way for nothing.”
“Yes, well as a matter of interest, after we discovered Shelley had been wounded, I phoned a friend of mine in Service Five, that’s a rather important department of French Security,” Villiers said. “I asked him to check police sources and see if there’d been any gunplay in Paris last night.” He took out a small notebook. “Claude Valentin, thirty-eight, a real all-around bad lad, shot to death. Also his girlfriend. A known prostitute, named Agnés Nicole. I’d say our friend Jago was responsible for that.”
“A very dangerous man,” Ferguson commented.
Villiers said to Egan, “So, Agnés and this man Valentin didn’t tell you anything at all?”
Sarah cut in quickly. “They didn’t get a chance. It all happened so fast.”
Egan, taking his cue from her, said, “We’ll never know the truth now, but I think they must have been trying to double-cross Jago in some way, if it was Jago, that is. Then the shooting started from up above. Jack was hit. I just wanted to get Mrs. Talbot out of there.”
Ferguson stood up and buttoned his coat. “I’m sure you see now, Mrs. Talbot, that it’s far better to leave these things to experts.”
“And Jago?” Egan put in. “What about him? Will you pick him up?”
“First we have to find him,” Ferguson said. “And friend Smith. But then, as I said before, there are security aspects to the affair. That’s why one wouldn’t want gentlemen with hairy knuckles from the drug squad at Scotland Yard handling things.” He turned to Villiers. “We’ll go now, Tony.”
He went out. Villiers said, “What will you do now, Sarah, go home?”
“I’ll see, Tony.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Try not to worry about me.”
“But I do,” he said, and he followed Ferguson out.
The brigadier was already in the rear of the black Daimler as Villiers joined him. Ferguson tapped on the window and the driver started the car. “What do you think, sir?” Villiers asked.
“Oh, they haven’t told us everything,” the brigadier said. “That was obvious. They have a further lead, that’s my guess.”
“So what do we do?” Villiers demanded.
“At this stage, let them get on with it. We’ll monitor the situation. It could lead us to where we want to be, Tony.” Villiers looked grim and the brigadier laughed. “My dear Tony, you can’t hold her hand forever. Now let’s get back to Curzon Street. There’s a lot to be done.”
Egan said, “That was pretty devious. No mention of Bird and the Deepdene place.”
“Because that would have disclosed the link with the Frasconis and I don’t want that, not yet. I want to deal with Vito Barbera myself. See what he has to say. Are you game, Sean?”
“Oh, what the hell, why not? We’ve come this far.”
“I’ll get dressed.”
She reached the door and he said, “There is one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Agnés was still alive when we left the mill, which means Jago must have killed her after we’d gone.” Egan shook his head. “He’s a bad bastard.”
“I know,” she said, “I know,” and she went out and upstairs quickly.
Jago was on the line again to Smith within minutes. “Not good, I’m afraid,” he said when he was finished.
“The understatement of the age,” Smith told him. “First of all, Group Four know your identity.”
“No problem,” Jago said. “They don’t intend a general search for me, my mug on the wall of every police station. This is a security affair as far as they are concerned, and that’s because of the Irish link. Never pays to get involved with those people, I’ve told you before. Too volatile.”
“But somebody will be looking for you. The Talbot woman knows your face, the rest have a photo.”
“So I change, old stick.” Jago laughed. “I’ve done it before, believe me, or which me do you want to believe? There are several locked up tight in my old black makeup box. I was a great loss to the National Theatre.”
“But now Ferguson and Villiers know I exist,” Smith said. “They’ll be thinking their way to me is through you.”
“And there’s the joke, old man,” Jago said. “Even I don’t have the slightest idea who you are, unless, of course, you care to reveal all.” He stiffened as he heard Sarah’s voice on the speaker. “Got to go, they’re getting ready to move.”
Instead of the usual Burberry, he varied his image. A checked sports jacket, scarf at the neck, a pair of black Ray-Ban sunglasses and a camera over his shoulder. He hurried down to the garage and got into the Spyder. As he eased out of the entrance, Sarah and Egan emerged from the house and got into the Mini Cooper. They drove away and Jago followed.
The Flamingo in Corley Street was not the Barbera family’s most important casino. For one thing, it was the smallest, had never aspired to the kind of opulence that most of the larger establishments offered, but Vito Barbera had a soft spot for it. He’d once been its manager, although that was fifteen years ago, as a very young Sicilian in London to learn the language and the business.
The main gaming room was thickly carpeted and furnished in excellent taste, murals of Garibaldi’s march on Rome painted on the walls. There were the usual gaming tables available as one would expect the world over and a wonderful bar in onyx and crystal, tables scattered around it.
Vito Barbera sat at the bar in his shirt-sleeves, a dark, rather intense young man, very handsome, a hint of classical Greek in his face, which in view of Sicily’s history was not surprising. He was examining last night’s accounts, a glass of champagne and orange juice at his elbow. The far door opened and one of the club porters came in.
“Lady and gentleman to see you, sir, a Mrs. Talbot.” He put a card on the bar top. “Asked me to give you this, sir.”
Vito examined the card, frowning, then his face cleared. “Of course, show the lady in.”
The man went out and came back with Sarah Talbot and Egan. Vito went around the bar to greet them. “Mr. Barbera,” she said, “I’m Sarah Talbot and this is Sean Egan. I believe your grandfather may have spoken to you about me?”
“Indeed he has, Mrs. Talbot.” He kissed her hand gallantly. “I’ve had my orders, believe me, and they are to do anything I can to assist you.” He went back behind the bar. “But first, join me, please. No Sicilian likes to drink alone.”
He poured fresh orange juice and champagne into two glasses. Sarah settled herself on a bar stool. “That’s very kind.”
He toasted her gravely. “So, how can I be of service?”
She glanced at Egan and then explained as briefly as possible.
Barbera’s face hardened. “I can now see why my grandfather sent you to me. In what way can I be of service?”
Egan said, “We now know rather more than we did. The man behind all this, the Mr. Big, is called Smith. Does that ring any bells with you?” Vito shook his head. “Or Jago, does that help? He’s the middleman.”
“No, neither name means a thing.”
“All right,” Sarah said, “let’s try Frasconi—Danielo Frasconi.”
Something unholy glowed in Vito Barbera’s eyes. “Frasconi?”
“Apparently he was heavily involved with the drug trade in London. Is that true?” Egan asked.
Vito nodded. “He should have got twenty years, but his people went to work on the witnesses. He did a short sentence for assault and went back home. But how is he involved in this?”
“Apparently there’s a connection between the Frasconis and Smith,” Egan said. “We know Danielo Frasconi took delivery of a suitcase packed with heroin from one of Smith’s people here in London last year.”
There was a short pause. Barbera poured himself another glass of champagne and drank it slowly. He said, “Let me explain. Back home my grandfather is Capo Mafia in all Sicily, number one man, but there are those who don’t like this.”
“The Frasconi brothers?” Egan suggested.
“Exactly. My grandfather will not, and never has, soiled his hands on drugs. He is an old-fashioned man. The Frasconis on the other hand—” Vito shrugged. “They have attempted his life three times in the past year. Oh, he’ll win in the end. He’s finished them off in New York, but it’s a difficult situation.”
He hesitated and Egan said, “There’s more?”
Vito said, “I know nothing of this man Smith. I’d have to ask my grandfather about that. What does interest me in your reports are those deaths in Ulster.”
“Why?” Sarah asked.
“Terrorists over there on both sides have been involved in the drug trade, that’s common knowledge, but there have been rumors that the Frasconis have had an Irish connection for some time. The use of that drug burundanga, and now the link with Smith and the Frasconis here in London, speaks for itself.”
“So what do you suggest we do now?” Egan asked.
“I’ll phone my grandfather, speak with him, bring him up-to-date with things and then we’ll talk again later this afternoon.”
“Here?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t see why not. I’ve got other business as well, but I could be back by three.”
“Fine.” Sarah and Egan got up, and Vito Barbera came around the bar and walked to the entrance with them.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Talbot.” He took her hand. “I’m certain my grandfather will come up with something.”
“What now?” Sarah asked as they drove away.
“I thought we’d see how Jack is, then something to eat perhaps. Fill the time in until we see Barbera again.”
“Do you really think Don Rafael can help?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I get the distinct impression that in helping us he’d be helping himself,” Egan told her, and pulled into the curb outside the clinic in Bell Street.
As they got out, Jago parked a few yards away and waited.
Shelley was sitting up against the pillows eating grapes and watching a cartoon on television. “Cartoons in the morning, that’s all you get,” he complained.
“There’s always the Open University on the other channel,” Egan suggested.
“Very funny. Now what’s been happening?”
Sarah and Egan told him, between them. When they were finished, Shelley said, “All right, nobody has the slightest bleeding idea who Smith is, but Jago’s another matter. They should be able to run him down on the information they’ve got, no trouble.”
“I’m not so certain,” Egan said. “He’s clever and it’s possible they don’t want to pin him down just yet. The security implications.”
“Yeah, well fuck ’em with their stupid bleeding games,” Shelley said. “John Le Carré’s got a lot to answer for. I mean, these geezers take it seriously.” He shook his head. “All right, Smith doesn’t mean a thing to me, but Frasconi does. They’re evil bastards. This Danielo creep was lucky to get back to Sicily, and there he’ll stay, but that means he’s beyond your reach.”
“And Barbera?” Sarah asked.
“Never met the old boy, but I’ve seen Vito around. We’ve never clashed. Like me, they’ve got legitimate business interests.”
The door opened and Aziz came in. “Long enough, I think. He needs rest.”
“Stuff that. What I need is a good-looking nurse in suspenders,” Shelley replied. He called to Sarah and Egan as they left, “Keep me posted.”
They ate in an Italian restaurant on Fourth Street and Jago, in the Spyder up the road, ate a sandwich from a nearby takeout and talked to Smith.
“Does Barbera have anything on you?” Jago asked.
“Not a thing as far as I know.”
“But there is the Frasconi connection. What if he’s heard something about that? And the Irish link?”
Smith said, “Yes, that wouldn’t be good.”
“All right,” Jago said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Sarah and Egan sat in the Mini Cooper a few yards down from the Flamingo and waited. She said, “This could be it—some sort of solution.”
“Perhaps,” Egan said. “We’ll see.” And then Vito Barbera appeared.
“There he is,” Sarah said and they got out.
A yellow British Telecom truck roared around the corner, bounced onto the pavement and tossed Barbera into the air. The truck reversed and Barbera tried to get up. Incredibly, the truck roared forward again and slammed him into the railings. It reversed into the road and drove away at full speed. People were running from several different directions, and a small crowd had already collected as Sarah and Egan arrived.
Someone said, “He’s dead!”
Sarah took a step forward and Egan pulled her away. “No, leave it!” he said in a low voice. “We can’t do anything here.”
He led her along the pavement to the Mini Cooper. She slumped in her seat, covering her face with her hands.
Jago dumped the stolen Telecom truck several streets away, walked a quarter of a mile to where he’d left the Spyder and drove off. When he reached Lord North Street, the Mini Cooper was already outside the house. He parked the Spyder in the garage and hurried up to his apartment to listen.
“So that’s it,” Egan said.
Sarah drank her tea slowly. “No, that’s not it as far as I’m concerned. We can go to Sicily. See Don Rafael. He has a villa outside the village of Bellona in a place called the Cammarata.”
