tried to crush the movement but it simply went under the surface. You can talk of Separatists, Communists and other political factions as much as you like, but in Sicily, it’s still the Mafia which has the real influence.’
Eisenhower sat staring into space, brooding.
Finally, as if coming to a decision, he tapped the brown manila folder in front of him.
‘This is the file you referred to as the Mafia connection. Are you familiar with an individual mentioned in it known as Lucky Luciano?’
Carter nodded. ‘A New York Sicilian gangster and probably the most important capo in American Mafia. He’s serving a thirty-to-fifty year sentence in Dannemora Penitentiary at the moment. I believe the charge was organized prostitution.’
‘Not now, he isn’t,’ Eisenhower said. ‘According to the file, he’s been moved to Great Meadow at Comstock. It seems that after the liner Normandie was burned out on the Hudson last year, Naval Intelligence became worried about increasing sabotage on the New York waterfront.’
‘I know, General, and when they approached the dockers’ unions, they discovered that the man to see was Luciano, inside prison or out.’
Eisenhower said, ‘Quite incredible. In the middle of the greatest war in history they have to go to a crook for help. As if that wasn’t enough, I now find that our people have been putting agents into Sicily for some time now, usually Americans with an ethnic Sicilian background. Were you aware of this?’
‘It’s a specifically American project, General, but yes, I did know about it. The aim is, I believe, to ensure Mafia cooperation in the event of an invasion.’
Eisenhower exploded angrily. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be fighting the same war, for God’s sake?’ He took another cigarette and struck the match so forcibly that it snapped. ‘They approached Luciano in the penitentiary again about giving his assistance. They seem to think he has some influence in Sicily also.’
‘Considerable, General. If he appeared in some of those mountain villages it would be like the second coming.’
‘Our Intelligence people certainly seem to think so. Apparently a yellow scarf with the initial L in black, which is Luciano’s calling card, will be dropped extensively in apropriate areas at the right time.’
‘And they think this will help?’ Carter asked.
Eisenhower turned back to the map. ‘The theory is sound enough. The terrain Patton and his army have to pass through to reach Palermo is a soldier’s nightmare. The area around the Cammarata particularly is a warren of ravines and mountains. It could take months to hack a way through it. On the other hand, if the Mafia used its power to promote an uprising of the people and to persuade Italian units to surrender, the Germans would have no other recourse but to get the hell out of it.’
‘Yes, General,’ Carter said.
‘You don’t sound too certain. Don’t you think the Mafia can deliver?’
‘Frankly, sir, not as the people in Washington who dreamed this thing up seem to expect. One major weakness. If you take the Mafia boss, the capo, in one particular district, you may find he doesn’t have much influence elsewhere. Another thing, your Intelligence people have been recruiting American service personnel with Sicilian or Italian ethnic backgrounds.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Eisenhower demanded.
‘It’s better than nothing, of course, but being Italian doesn’t cut much ice in Sicily and as regards the language, there are at least five Sicilian dialects in Palermo alone.’
‘But surely the idea of using Luciano was to get over such difficulties by having someone whose name meant something to everyone.’
‘I don’t happen to think it’s enough.’
‘But Washington does?’
‘So it would appear.’
There was a brief silence, Eisenhower frowning down thoughtfully at the file, and then he looked up.
‘All right, Major, you’ve had one briefing. Now I’m going to give you another. I want the facts on this Mafia thing and straight from the horse’s mouth. When you return in two weeks or whatever, I want you back here Priority One with a first hand assessment of the situation in the field. You understand me?’
‘Perfectly, General.’
‘Good. You’d better get moving, then.’
Carter saluted. Eisenhower nodded and picked up his pen. As Carter reached the door and opened it, the General called softly, ‘One thing more, Major.’
Carter turned to face him. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Leave the rough stuff to other people. I’d be considerably inconvenienced if you failed to keep our next appointment.’
2
It started to rain as Carter went over the ridge, a heavy, drenching downpour, sheet lightning flickering beyond the mountain peaks. He leaned the cumbersome bicycle against a tree and took the field-glasses from his pocket. When he focused them the houses of Bellona three miles away jumped into view. He followed the valley road to where it disappeared into pine trees, but there was no sign of life. Not even a shepherd.
He replaced the field-glasses in his pack, moved back through the trees to the other side of the ridge and looked down at the villa in the hollow below, quiet in the evening light, waiting for him.
He was tired and yet filled with a sudden fierce exhilaration, faced at last with the final end of things. He started down the slope through pine trees, pushing the bicycle before him.
He entered the grounds by a gate in the rear wall and followed a path round to the front of the house. The garden was Moorish, lush, semi-tropical vegetation pressing in everywhere. Palms swayed gently above his head and in the heavy downpour water gurgled in the old conduits, splashing from numerous fountains.
He emerged into the courtyard at the front of the house, leaned the bicycle against the baroque fountain, and went up the steps to the front door. There was already a light in the hall and he pulled on the bell chain and waited. There was the sound of footsteps approaching and the door opened.
The man who stood there was perhaps forty, his heavy moustache and hair already grey. He wore a black bow tie and alpaca jacket and looked Carter over with total disapproval.
‘What do you want?’
Carter removed his cloth cap and when he spoke, his voice was rough and hoarse, pure Sicilian. ‘I have a message for the Contessa.’
The manservant held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’
Carter shook his head, assuming an expression of peasant cunning. ‘My orders were to deliver it personally. She’s expecting me. Tell her Ciccio is here.’
The manservant shrugged. ‘All right, come in. I’ll see what she has to say.’
Carter stepped inside and stood there, dripping rain
