high cheekbones, green eyes.
‘She sure is a beautiful young lady, Mr Morgan’s daughter,’ the chauffeur said.
‘Stepdaughter, Johnny,’ Mori reminded him.
‘Sure, I was forgetting, but with her taking his name and all. That was a real bad thing her mother dying like that. Asta, that’s kind of a funny name.’
‘It’s Swedish,’ Mori told him.
Asta Morgan jumped up and down excitedly. ‘Come on, Carl, murder them!’
Carl Morgan glanced sideways as he went by, his teeth flashed and he went barrelling into the young forward for the opposing team, slamming his left foot under the boy’s stirrup and lifting him, quite illegally, out of the saddle. A second later he had thundered through and scored.
The game won, he cantered across to Asta through the rain and stepped out of the saddle. A groom took his pony, Asta handed him a towel then lit a cigarette and passed it to him. She looked up, smiling, an intimacy between them that excluded everyone around.
‘He sure likes that girl,’ Johnny said.
Mori nodded. ‘So it would appear.’
Morgan turned and saw him and waved and Mori went forward. ‘Carl, nice to see you. And you, Asta.’ He touched his hat.
‘What can I do for you?’ Morgan asked.
‘Business, Carl; something came up last night that might interest you.’
Morgan said, ‘Nothing you can’t talk about in front of Asta, surely?’
Mori hesitated. ‘No, of course not.’ He took the small tape recorder from his pocket. ‘My grandson, Tony, had a man die on him at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital last night. He told Tony a hell of a story, Carl. I think you could be interested.’
‘OK, let’s get in out of the rain.’ Morgan handed Asta into the estate car and followed her.
Mori joined them. ‘Here we go.’ He switched on the tape recorder.
Morgan sat there after it had finished, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, his face set.
Asta said, ‘What a truly astonishing story.’ Her voice was low and pleasant, more English than American.
‘You can say that again.’ Morgan turned to Mori. ‘I’ll keep this. I’ll have my secretary transcribe it and send it to Don Giovanni in Palermo by coded fax.’
‘I did the right thing?’
‘You did well, Antonio.’ Morgan took his hand.
‘No, it was Tony, Carl, not me. What am I going to do with him? Harvard Medical School, the Mayo Clinic, a brilliant student, yet he works with the nuns at Our Lady of Mercy for peanuts.’
‘You leave him,’ Morgan said. ‘He’ll find his way. I went to Vietnam, Antonio. No one can take that away from me. You can’t argue with it, the rich boy going into hell when he didn’t need to. It says something. He won’t be there for ever, but the fact that he was will make people see him as someone to look up to for the rest of his life. He’s a fine boy.’ He put a hand on Mori’s shoulder. ‘Heh, I hope I don’t sound too calculating.’
‘No,’ Mori protested. ‘Not at all. He’s someone to be proud of. Thank you, Carl, thank you. I’ll leave you now. Asta.’ He nodded to her and walked away.
‘That was nice,’ Asta told Morgan. ‘What you said about Tony.’
‘It’s true. He’s brilliant, that boy. He’ll end up in Park Avenue, only, unlike the other brilliant doctors there, he’ll always be the one who worked downtown for the nuns of Our Lady of Mercy, and that you can’t pay for.’
‘You’re such a cynic,’ she said.
‘No, sweetheart, a realist.’ He slid behind the wheel. ‘Now, let’s get going. I’m famished. I’ll take you out to dinner.’
They had finished their meal at the Four Seasons, were at the coffee stage, when one of the waiters brought a phone over. ‘An overseas call for you, sir. Sicily. The gentleman said it was urgent.’
The voice over the phone was harsh and unmistakable. ‘Carlo. This is Giovanni.’
Morgan straightened in his seat. ‘Uncle?’ He dropped into Italian. ‘What a marvellous surprise. How’s business?’
‘Everything looks good, particularly after reading your fax.’
‘I was right to let you know about this business then?’
‘So right that I want you out of there on the next plane. This is serious business, Carlo, very serious.’
‘Fine, Uncle. I’ll be there tomorrow. Asta’s with me. Do you want to say hello?’
‘I’d rather look at her, so you’d better bring her with you. I look forward to it, Carlo.’
The phone clicked off; the waiter came forward and took it from him. ‘What was all that about?’ Asta said.
‘Business. Apparently Giovanni takes this Chungking Covenant thing very seriously indeed. He wants me in Palermo tomorrow. You too, my love. It’s time you visited Sicily,’ and he waved for the head waiter.
The following morning they took a direct flight to Rome, where Morgan had a Citation private jet standing by for the flight to Punta Raisa Airport, twenty miles outside Palermo. There was a Mercedes limousine waiting with a chauffeur and a hard-looking individual in a blue nylon raincoat with heavy cheekbones and the flattened nose of the prize fighter. There was a feeling of real power there, although he looked more Slav than Italian.
‘My uncle’s top enforcer,’ Morgan whispered to Asta, ‘Marco Russo.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Marco, it’s been a long time. My daughter, Asta.’
Marco managed a fractional smile. ‘A pleasure. Welcome to Sicily, signorina, and nice to see you again, signore. The Don isn’t at the town house, he’s at the villa.’
‘Good, let’s get moving then.’
Luca’s villa was outside a village at the foot of Monte Pellegrino, which towers into the sky three miles north of Palermo.
‘During the Punic Wars the Carthaginians held out against the Romans on that mountain for three years,’ Morgan told Asta.
‘It looks a fascinating place,’ she said.
‘Soaked in blood for generations.’ He held up the local paper which Marco had given him. ‘Three soldiers blown up by a car bomb last night, a priest shot in the back of the neck this morning because he was suspected of being an informer.’
‘At least you’re on the right side.’
He took her hand. ‘Everything I do is strictly legitimate, Asta, that’s the whole point. My business interests and those of my associates are pure
