Blood Alone (9 page)

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, goddamn it! If I could remember I’d tell you, don’t you get it?” I wanted to grab Banville by the collar and take out all my frustrations on him. It felt good to get angry. And I was glad of the distraction for Kaz.

“Did you leave him somewhere? Don’t tell me you can’t remember your good friend Lieutenant Harry Dickinson? The fellow you almost got killed up in the North Sea? The man who captained the Motor Torpedo Boat that took you to Bône? Where he got shot in the leg, helping you?”

Banville was up now, his clenched fists resting on the tabletop as he leaned over me.

“I was in the hospital, Billy. In Algiers. You saved my life, do you remember?” Kaz asked.

“No, I don’t. I don’t remember being in Algiers. There are all sorts of gaps in my memories. I have no idea who Harry is. Ike mentioned Harry somebody this morning—”

“You saw General Eisenhower? Today?” Kaz asked, surprised.

“By accident, on the road to the POW enclosure. Harry Butcher was with him. I remembered Butcher, but Ike mentioned another Harry, said I should bring him with me to see him when it was all over.”

“Eisenhower knows only the bare outline of the original plan, nothing about what has actually happened,” Kaz said.

“Kaz, what was the plan? What was I supposed to be doing?”

I wanted to ask if I was an assassin, a murderer made legal by a state of war, but I didn’t. If it was true, I knew Kaz would dress it up in nicer words, but I wasn’t ready to find out.

“You do not remember coming ashore?” Kaz asked, avoiding my question.

“No, nothing before the field hospital—wait, no—at first that was all, but then I did remember Roberto leading me away from somewhere. He wanted to surrender, and helped me to our lines. Rocko found us and shot him.”

“Rocko Walters, the soldier who was killed?”

“Same guy. He babysat me in the field hospital. He was very interested in this,” I said as I drew out the silk handkerchief.

“Put that away!” Kaz said, thrusting out his hands to cover it. “And thank God you still have it.”

“What the hell is it, and why did Rocko want it so badly?” I asked as I stuffed it into my pocket now, wishing it had gone into the fire with Sciafani’s uniform.

“It might be best not to give Lieutenant Boyle too much help, medically speaking.” Sciafani’s voice surprised us as he approached to sit at the table. Kaz glanced at me, probably wondering the same thing I was. Had Sciafani seen the handkerchief? He seemed not to have noticed, as he was busy pulling and tugging at the black suit that had replaced his uniform. It was a bit too large on him, but he was the kind of guy who could look good in most anything. He adjusted the cuffs of the threadbare white shirt as if they were gleaming white linen with ivory cuff links.

“How do you mean?” Banville asked. He scowled at Sciafani with as much distrust as he showed me.

“Well,” Sciafani said, with the confident air of a man in a new suit when his previous garments have been khaki or gray-green, “I am not an expert in these matters, but I have studied in Vienna with students of Freud. And it is best if the patient recalls the missing memories on his own. Which has begun already, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, as I told you—”

“How much have you told him?” Kaz said, his eyes darting between Banville and Sciafani.

“Only that I had memory loss. I was keeping it a secret from everyone else, but it seemed as if it couldn’t hurt to tell a POW the truth. He told me I had some sort of psycho amnesia.”

“Psychogenic amnesia,” Sciafani corrected. “The result of witnessing a traumatic event. It is not permanent, as I said.”

“The whole war’s bloody full of traumatic events,” said Banville, his face turned away from me but not so far that I couldn’t see his mouth turned down in a sneer.

“Why did you keep it a secret?” Kaz asked.

“I didn’t know what I had done before I arrived at the field hospital,” I said. “Things didn’t add up, like that jacket I wore instead of my uniform, and amount of time I must have been on the island. I didn’t know if I was legitimate or—”

“Enough,” Kaz said, holding up his hand. Signora Ciccolo entered the arbor bearing a bowl filled with steaming pasta with cauliflower and anchovies. Filipo followed with plates and bread and they set the table, serving Sciafani first. They chattered in Italian, and I watched Kaz as he watched them, worry creasing his forehead once more. Banville poured himself wine, his grim eyes focused on me. Suspicion and secrets hung in the air, mixing with the smell of fresh bread, making me hungry and anxious at the same time.

“I don’t speak the Sicilian dialect,” Kaz said to Sciafani. “What were you talking about?” Sciafani shrugged, an entirely Italian gesture, lips down turned, shoulders and palms up, head cocked slightly to the side.

“Family,” he said. “Who our fathers, uncles, and cousins are. Sicilians always seek to find what we have in common, what binds us to each other. It is all we have.”

“And what do you and the Ciccolos have in common?” Kaz asked.

“His nephew lives in my village, about thirty kilometers from here.” “Village?” I asked. “I thought you were from Palermo.”

“Palermo is where I have my medical practice. But I was born in a village in the mountains.”

“Which village?” I asked.

“Sciafani.”

“You’re named after a village?” I asked.

“Um, no,” Sciafani said as he chewed on a piece of bread. He washed it down with a drink of wine and smiled at me. “In the fourteenth century, the honor of the village name was given to my family.”

“What are you then, this fellow’s lord and master?” Banville asked.

His dislike for me seemed to transfer to Sciafani automatically. He drained his third glass of wine, staring at Sciafani as he tilted his head back.

“
Il signor
Ciccolo is his own master, as is any Sicilian man. He would not be alive today if he were not. He is a good
mafiusu
, and knows his own worth.”

“He’s in the Mafia?” I asked.

“No, no, he is
mafiusu
. It is not a gang of thieves, although that may be the case in America. To be
mafiusu
, a man understands who he is, and is ready to stand against all outsiders. We do not depend on others to give us justice. A man makes his own. In any clash with authority, Sicilians stand together; that is to be
mafiusu,
a man of honor. As I said, it is all we have. But do not worry.
Il signor
Ciccolo is a man of his word, even to one who speaks with a Tuscan accent.”

Kaz nodded, and ate the food in front of him. I tasted the wine, and it was harsh.

CHAPTER • ELEVEN

KAZ AND I SAT alone. Banville had drunk too much and staggered off to sleep in the barn, where he was to keep watch on the truck. Sciafani was taken to the room of the Ciccolos’ son, the bed of honor in their meager home. Signora Ciccolo brought out a candle in a glass chimney and set it between Kaz and me on the table. It lit most of Kaz’s face, casting a deep shadow along the scar on his cheek.

“Tell me—”

“The doctor said it would be best if you remembered on your own.”

“You don’t want to talk about the past?” I said.

“No. I do not.”

“My mission, though, you have to tell me about my mission, and this Harry Dickinson. What does it all mean? Why am I here?” I glanced around, whispering, as if there were spies and eavesdroppers surrounding us.

“The handkerchief was a message, a token. You were supposed to deliver it.”

“Who to?”

“Wait, Billy,” Kaz said, holding up his hand.

It was the first time he’d called me by name, the first sign of friendship from him, and it filled me with a startling joy. After losing all memory of friends, it was like a drink of cool water on a hot day, refreshing and reviving my soul.

“I will tell you a few things, and we will see if that helps you remember on your own. It is very important, and I don’t want to set you back in any way.”

“Maybe we should ask the doctor?”

“No. It would be too great a risk. We don’t know much about him, not even if he really is who he says he is.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“No, of course not. He has a piece of paper saying he is no longer our enemy, but that is all it is. Paper. And Filipo treats him as someone to be obeyed.”

“Can you trust Filipo? How did you connect with him?”

“Let me start at the beginning,” Kaz said. He removed his steel-rimmed spectacles and cleaned them with a white handkerchief. He adjusted them carefully, looking a bit like the studious bookworm I had first come to know in London. Back when. . . when what? A memory of London, of headquarters in Grosvenor Square, the sound of footsteps on marble stairs. . . .

“Billy?”

“What?” I snapped at Kaz, the thread of memory gone. “Sorry.” I waved my hand at him to continue and took a drink of wine. I set the glass down and felt the wood of the table, worn smooth at the edges, patterns etched in the grain like the contours of the hillsides. It was very old, dark and stained with spills from meals served decades, maybe a century ago. I ran my thumb across the shiny surface and wondered at the years of talk, food, and drink it had witnessed, and who had made it, and how long ago.

“Billy, do you need to rest?”

I shook my head.

“It was hard not knowing, not remembering,” I said.

“But perhaps not as difficult as remembrance?”

I barely heard the words. It was a beautiful night. Through the grapevines I could see the twinkling of stars. The air had cooled and the wind brushed through the grove of orange trees,
whooshing
the leaves like waves lapping at the shore. It was pleasant here, as I was poised on the brink of recall, but terrifying too. I was like a child at the seashore, fascinated by the water but too frightened to go in.

“Let’s find out,” I finally said.

“Harry Dickinson and Nicholas Cammarata. Do those names mean anything to you?”

“No. Banville said I knew Harry. Is that true?”

“Yes. He’s a Royal Navy lieutenant, captain of a Motor Torpedo Boat.” Kaz watched me, looking for the lightbulb to go on, but I couldn’t even find the switch.

“Nothing,” I said. “The other guy?”

“Lieutenant Nick Cammarata, U. S . Naval Intelligence.”

“Zilch. Tell me more.”

“Lucky Luciano?” Kaz lifted an eyebrow, as if to dare me not to recognize this name.

“Sure, Mafia boss, serving time in a New York state pen. Prostitution charges, I think.”

“Correct. He was born Salvatore Lucania, in a village not far from where we are now: Lercara Friddi, about fifteen kilometers northeast of us.”

“So?”

“Luciano has been cooperating with your government, through the Office of Naval Intelligence, to provide assistance to the war effort. At first, he used his Mafia and union connections to keep watch on the waterfront docks, to prevent Axis agents from gathering intelligence or committing sabotage. After the SS
Normandie
burned at her moorings in New York Harbor, there were questions, and ONI began to rely more on Luciano’s sources.”

“I remember that; it was right after the war started.”

“Right after America entered the war,” Kaz said. His family had been killed when the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939, so the war had already been old in 1942 when the
Normandie
burned and capsized in the Hudson River, and I had still been learning how to do an about-face in basic training.

“Of course,” I said. “Go on.”

“When the invasion of Sicily was planned, ONI got Luciano to provide contacts in Sicily to assist our forces.”

“Mafia contacts, you mean.”

“Naturally,” Kaz said. “Mussolini tried to wipe out the crime families in Sicily, so of course they hate him, not that Sicilians would be too friendly to any government in Rome.”

“What does Luciano get out of all this?”

“There are rumors,” Kaz said, “that he will be released from prison once the war is over. Even that he is here in Sicily already. Or that he is running his criminal operations openly from prison, take your pick. I doubt he is here, but his influence is very important.”

I pulled out the silk handkerchief with the large
L
and laid it on the table.

“Luciano?” I asked.

“Yes. The night before the invasion, Harry brought you and Lieutenant Cammarata ashore secretly in his Motor Torpedo Boat. Banville is his petty officer. Cammarata is Sicilian-American himself, one of a team of intelligence officers sent in to make contact with those who could be helpful to us.”

“Why was I along for the ride?”

“General Eisenhower was leery of doing business with gangsters. He thought with your police background, you would be useful in assessing their honesty and worth. Harry went along as added security.”

“What was I supposed to do with this?” I laid my hand on the yellow silk square, feeling the supple fabric between my fingers as I gripped it. In the fire, I thought, in the fire.

“You are to deliver it to Don Calogero Vizzini, head of the Sicilian Mafia, in a little mountain village called Villalba. It is a sign that the bearer has the blessing of Luciano. This method of communication has been used by Don Calo himself.”

“No wonder Rocko wanted it,” I said.

“The dead supply sergeant?”

“The same,” I said. “I could tell he had more than a casual interest in it. How could he have known what it meant?”

Kaz shrugged. “Do you have any idea who killed him?”

“There was a guy in Rocko’s tent the night he was killed. I didn’t see him but I heard him talking. He was putting pressure on Rocko to find me and to find Roberto Bellestri, the Italian who helped me. They were in contact with a Lieutenant Andrews at the POW camp by field telephone, and Rocko was practically ordering Andrews to find Bellestri.”

“Did the sergeant address this man by name or by his rank?”

“No, but it was clear he was scared of him, and that this guy was used to intimidating people. He didn’t have an accent exactly, but when he said the name of a place here it came out smooth, like he knew how to say it the right way.”

“Was he in uniform?” Kaz asked.

“I couldn’t see him. But I heard a jeep start up after he left the tent, so he had to be. He mentioned something odd, though. Is there a safe that needs to be cracked in all this?”

“What?” I knew Kaz had heard me, but I’d thrown him with that one. “No, not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“One of the ONI agents who went ashore got into the Italian naval headquarters and blew open a safe. He brought out the operational plans for Axis naval operations around Sicily. But that had nothing to do with your mission.”

“Right, since he used dynamite. Rocko and this guy talked about a yegg—gangland slang for a safecracker who works with his fingers.”

“Billy, we have to put that aside for now. I don’t know what it means, but we have to figure out what happened to you and complete your mission, if at all possible.”

“Not that I suppose it will be easy to find the head of the Sicilian Mafia, but why did you say that?”

“First,” Kaz said, counting off on his fingers, “prior to the invasion it was easier to move about on the island with the proper precautions. Your jacket, for instance. At night, it would make it impossible to tell if you were American, Italian, or German.”

“Sure. It would give
everyone
a reason to shoot at me.”

“Secondly, Cammarata knew the location of the rendezvous with the contact who was to take you to meet Don Calo. Something must have gone wrong, so unless he told you and you can remember it, we have no way of contacting Don Calo, short of walking into Villalba and asking for him. And that would be a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because we have heard rumors that Don Calo has put out a contract on you. He wants you dead.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” As the words came out I could hear my father speak them. It was the worst blasphemy he could utter, and he saved it for those times when simple anger wouldn’t do, when he needed a string of names to signify total, stunned disbelief in the face of overwhelming bad news.

“Indeed,” Kaz said. “Which is one reason we cannot trust the good doctor. With all his talk of
mafiusu
, he may be one himself.”

“What about Ciccolo?” I asked.

“He wouldn’t have been a problem,
mafiusu
or not, if the doctor had not known about your situation. Now we must keep Sciafani with us. It would have been easier to shoot him.”

“But you didn’t.” I was glad to hear it, remembering that Kaz had not only grown careless about his own life, he had become more casual than I liked about killing.

“No. Banville was adamant about not shooting prisoners, especially a doctor.”

I took a drink. The wine had grown less harsh, but it still bit my tongue and left a taste of sour grape skins in my mouth.

“All right,” I began, trying to summarize. “I failed in my mission. Harry and Cammarata are missing, and the MPs want me for one murder, maybe two. The Sicilian Mob has a hit out on me. I don’t remember most of the key events surrounding any of this, and—let me guess at this one—the mission is critical to the war effort and we need to get this damn yellow snot rag to Don Calo, toots sweet.”

“
Tout de suite
, yes. A task made difficult by the fact that he apparently wishes you dead.”

“Goes without saying on this island. Can you tell me why this is so important?”

“Don Calo can influence the Italian soldiers, especially those in Sicilian units. The island is dotted with pillboxes on every hillside overlooking the main roads, mostly manned by Italian troops. If they fight, we lose lives and days. If they disappear or surrender. . .”

“We save lives. And time.”

“In war, those are nearly the same thing,” Kaz said. He was right. It was more of the terrible mathematics of war, which was all too familiar. If these few men die today, fewer may die tomorrow. If I risk my life, I can save other lives. Tough part was, the guys doing the dying didn’t give a damn about the math. I didn’t either, but I couldn’t deny that saving GI lives was worth a risk. I just wished it was someone else’s neck on the line.

“OK. At least we have one advantage.”

“What is it?” Kaz asked.

I took the wrinkled note from my pocket, and placed it on the table, smoothing it out.

“Dottore Sciafani knows where paradise is.”

“Where did you get this, Billy?”

“Rocko had it. When I was shanghaied into that fight at Biazza Ridge, I grabbed some gear when he turned tail. It was his gear, and this note was hidden in it.”

“That is the same message Lieutenant Cammarata received about the rendezvous. His family is Sicilian, and he recognized it immediately.”

“He didn’t explain it to anyone?”

“No. Security.”

Of course. The military loved security. That way, if I’d been caught, the Nazis could have tortured me all night long and I’d never have given them a thing. So thoughtful.

“I have a feeling this mystery man from Rocko’s tent knows where it is. You know, he mentioned Palermo to Rocko, and said it with an accent just like I heard a guy in Boston say it.”

“Who was that?” Kaz asked.

“Phil Buccolo, he was born there. Last time I was home, he was the head of the Boston mob. Lucky Luciano put him there.”

“The navy and army intelligence services were recruiting everyone with a Sicilian background they could find, right up to the invasion,” Kaz said. “There are probably quite a few native-born gangsters on the loose now. It could have been anyone.”

“Yeah, well this character knows how to use a knife, doesn’t mind killing, and is smart enough to frame me for it. That makes him someone to worry about in my book.”

“I am too tired to worry, Billy. We should sleep.” Kaz took a final drink of wine, winced at the taste, blew out the candle, and stood. “I’m glad you’re alive, Billy. And that you didn’t desert, or worse.”

“Thanks, Kaz. Thanks for coming to the rescue.”

We locked eyes for a second, no more. I sensed he was repaying a debt, one that was tied up with things I hadn’t remembered yet. I followed him to the front of the house, wondering what were the ties that bound us, and if I deserved the payment. Desertion? Or worse? How could I be sure I was free of guilt? We entered the house. The small candle above the door had been relit and glowed in the carved niche, a timid, faltering flame that I supposed was an offering to the old gods or the newer saints, or perhaps simply a light to guide their son home from the wars, to sleep safe in his own bed once again.