Читать книгу Point Blank - Don Pendleton - Страница 13
Оглавление“I need to ditch this car,” Bolan informed his silent passenger. “As soon as possible.”
“Of course.” She answered dully, as if they were discussing the weather.
The police would find his rental car sometime within the hour, if they weren’t already at the shooting scene. That meant they’d trace it to the airport and discover his I.D. An all-points bulletin was sure to follow, with a photocopy of his driver’s license and a tight watch on his credit card in Scott Parker’s name.
Bad news, but he was not prepared to call it a catastrophe.
The I.D. was disposable. Once he’d placed a call to Hal, inquiries into Scott Parker would collide with cold stone walls, all record of the man erased, leaving police—and anybody else who tried to trace him in the States—without a clue. As far as money went, he had enough on hand to see his mission through, and he could always pick up more by ripping off the ’Ndrangheta.
But his enemies would be looking for the car he’d borrowed. Whether they passed on its description to the cops or not, all eyes beholden to the syndicate would be wide open, watching for the black Lancia Delta.
Too bad, Bolan thought. It was a nice ride, but every minute he spent behind its wheel brought him closer to danger. Losing the car in Catanzaro shouldn’t be a problem, but his best bet for a quick replacement was the long-term parking lot at the same airport where he’d rented the Alfa Romeo. Maybe he could put the woman on a flight out of Calabria at the same time.
“You saved my life,” the woman said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.
“Happy to do it,” Bolan replied.
“But why?”
“Why not?”
She hesitated. “Are you...’ndranghetisto?”
“No,” Bolan said. “Not even close.”
She tried again. “Police?”
“I’m strictly unofficial,” he said. She looked confused. “You are not Italian.”
“No.”
“ American, I believe.”
“Does it matter?” Bolan asked.
“No, I suppose not. I simply want to understand.”
“I saw an opportunity to help and took it. Let it go at that.”
“What happens now?”
“First, I find another set of wheels, and then I make arrangements that will keep you safe.”
That brought a bitter laugh. “Where on Earth will I ever be safe?”
“I have some friends. They’ll think of something.”
“Oh, yes. That’s what they told my brother. Now he’s dead and I am hunted like an animal.”
“Your brother?”
“Rinaldo,” she answered. “Rinaldo Natale.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Bolan said. “He was—”
“An informant, yes. He brought shame onto all of us.”
“And you were being punished for it.”
Bolan knew the ground rules of a classic vendetta. No survivors could be tolerated.
“Not only me,” she replied. “My mother, aunts and uncles, cousins. Everyone. Gianni will not rest while any of them are alive.”
“Gianni Magolino.”
She was staring at him now, eyes narrowed. “You know of him?”
He rolled the dice. “I’m here because of him. Because he killed your brother in the States.”
“I asked if you are police,” she said, her tone accusatory.
“And I’m not,” Bolan assured her.
“What, then?”
“Someone who solves problems when the law breaks down.”
“What will you do with me?”
“I told you. Find someplace where you’ll be safe.”
“There’s no such place in Italy. No such place in the world.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She laughed at that. “I’ll be surprised if I wake up alive tomorrow, Signor... What should I call you?”
“Scott Parker,” Bolan said. At least for now, he thought.
“And I am Mariana.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“How will you save me then?” she asked.
“First thing, we find new wheels. Then I need to make a call.”
Le Croci
CAPTAIN NICOLA BASILE stepped out of his Fiat Bravo, surveying the crime scene on Via Solferino. Off to his left, a bullet-riddled Alfa Romeo sat in a farmer’s field. The pavement before him was bloodstained, with police trying to step around the evidence while taking measurements and photographs. Basile frowned as he saw Lieutenant Carlo Albanesi approaching, face cracked by a smile.
“Captain, you’re here.”
“Where else should I be, Lieutenant?”
Albanesi blinked at him. “I simply meant—”
“I understand four dead ’ndranghetisti. True?”
Albanesi took the interruption in stride. “That is correct.”
“Their names?”
Albanesi took a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Ruggiero Aiello, Gitano Malara, Fausto Cortale and Dino Terranova.”
“So, the Magolino family,” Basile said. “And no one else?”
“No one.”
“Their car?” Basile nodded toward the Alfa in the field.
“No, sir. We think theirs was stolen. This one is an airport rental, hired by an American.” Albanesi’s eyes went back to the notebook. “A Scott Parker of Baltimore. Examination of flight records is proceeding at Lamezia Terme as we speak.”
Basile would have praised most any other officer for that report, but he could not bring himself to congratulate Albanesi. The lieutenant was a dirty cop—reputed to be a bagman for the ’Ndrangheta. He’d been untouchable so far because the cash he collected flowed to higher-ranking officers within the Guardia di Finanza. Even so, Basile—who had never touched a bribe in twenty-seven years—refused to treat him with respect and was constantly on watch for ways to bring him down.
“What about the dead men’s vehicle?” Basile asked.
“We’re looking into it,” Albanesi said. “No description yet.”
“Have you asked Gianni Magolino?”
Yet another blink from Albanesi as he answered, “No. Why would I?”
Smiling vaguely to himself, Basile answered, “Why? To question him about his poor santisti, cut down in their prime. Why else?”
“I thought it more important to get after the American,” Albanesi said. “And I did not wish to trespass on your territory.”
“Mine?”
The fat lieutenant shrugged. “A man of Magolino’s stature. Surely he deserved a captain, eh?”
“Perhaps you’re right, Lieutenant. Why insult him by sending a lackey?”
Albanesi stiffened, color rising in his jowls, but whatever tart response had come to mind, he wisely kept it to himself.
Basile eyed the cartridge casings scattered around the scene and said, “The dead were armed, I take it?”
Albanesi nodded silently, still simmering.
“With automatic weapons, it appears.”
“An Uzi, a Kalashnikov, some pistols.”
“Good. Perhaps Signore Magolino can explain where his employees got that kind of hardware in Calabria.”
A scornful snort. “You think he’ll tell you?”
“I hope not,” Basile said.
He’d confused the fat lieutenant once again. Not difficult, but satisfying.
“You hope not?”
“When he refuses, or pleads ignorance, I may have grounds for a search warrant. Possession of unlicensed firearms is a serious offense. Distribution of such arms to others, much more so.”
Albanesi shrugged, as if to say Basile was free to waste his time should he choose to. Both knew his application for a warrant might well be rejected by one of the several magistrates who banked on Magolino money for a posh retirement. In any case, Basile thought, the odds of finding Magolino personally in possession of illegal arms were slim to none.
But irritating the padrino
