I stood exposed between two pillars, listening for the bootsteps to get closer. They were behind me. It was time. I let go of the lever and it sprang away, bouncing off the stone with a metallic twang. I threw underhanded, rolling the grenade perfectly, watching it bounce on the uneven paving and come to rest. I had about two seconds left.
I saw Harry. He came from behind a column, just a few feet forward of the grenade. I opened my mouth to warn him, but before I could make a sound, something hard hit me in the head and a blinding flash of pain sent me to my knees. I tried to shout, to warn Harry, but I couldn't fight through the sharp electric stabbing sensation in my skull. My hand went to my holster, there was a rapid babble of Italian, more pain, then an explosion, right where Harry had been.
I opened my eyes and saw the Temple of Concordia. GIs wandered around it craning their necks and gawking at the ancient columns. Did they wonder at the bloodstained floor inside? The stonework glowed softly golden in the bright sun. It was beautiful in the daylight, not at all the place of dark shadows from my memory. I saw one officer focusing his camera on it, a tourist in dogshit brown, snapping photos to impress the folks back home while other soldiers fought house to house less than a mile away. The temple receded from view as the little Fiat sped down the road, churning up dust behind us, obscuring the brightness and leaving me with my memories of betrayal and death in the night.
My right hand shook as I recalled the feel of that grenade in my hand, the grooved case iron cold against my palm. My heart was thumping to beat the band and I glanced at Sciafani to see if he'd noticed. It was hard to believe everything I remembered hadn't just happened. Sciafani's head was slumped against the window as he stared at something very, very far away, clutching the burlap bag to his chest. I relaxed and shut my eyes again, wishing for oblivion, clasping my left hand over my right to hide its trembling, hoping the visions wouldn't return. Thanks for the memories.
So what did this tell me? Nick had betrayed us, demanding the handkerchief for his own purposes. That was important, but there was something else equally important. He had been desperate and anguished. Not cold and calculating. He wanted the handkerchief; no, he needed the handkerchief. That meant he was under pressure to get it, the kind of pressure that makes a man turn a gun on his friend and beg him to give him what he wants and then leave. He'd gotten away, that much Tommy the C had confirmed. Too bad Sciafani had killed Tommy. I would have liked to ask him a few more questions, like who we were supposed to meet and how they had eluded the Italian soldiers. He'd said their officer was killed in a grenade blast, and then some of them deserted. That had to have been my grenade. With their officer dead, the Italians must have lost interest and gone their separate ways, some back to their unit, one to report to the caporegime at the cathedral, the rest headed for the hills. Except for Roberto.
Now it came to me. The cut on my arm had been from a bayonet. One of the soldiers had stabbed at me when I tried to unholster my. 45. It had been Roberto. It was a halfhearted stab, more of a push to dissuade me from shooting. His officer had stepped in front of us, his pistol raised. If Roberto hadn't stopped me, he would have had plenty of time to plug me. Roberto had saved my life.
Wait a minute. The Italian officer had stepped in front of us. The grenade was a few yards behind him, then there was a couple of yards more to where Harry stood. Would Harry have stayed rooted to the spot, out in the open, with an enemy officer yards away? Maybe yes. He might have advanced, to take him out before he could shoot. Maybe no. He might have ducked behind a column to take cover. Which was it?
"Enrico," I said, nudging Sciafani in the ribs.
"What?" He turned away from the window and answered, like a drunk at a bar who only wants to stare into his glass. His eyelids were lowered, half hiding the redness of his eyes.
"Ask the driver if he was the one who was to meet me and two others at the Temple of Concordia." He did, and the driver shook his head.
"It was not him," Sciafani said. "It was his brother."
"Jesus, man, ask him what happened. Ask him if one of the other two men died!"
Sciafani shrugged and obliged. They exchanged some rapid-fire Italian, and Sciafani shrugged again, that all-purpose gesture that I'd seen more of in Sicily than I had before in my whole life. "He says Don Calo will tell you what happened, if he wishes to, and to stop asking questions."
I was pretty sure Sciafani had added that last part himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
We drove north, on back roads through little villages. The Fiat strained up a dirt track climbing through orchards and olive groves until the road straightened out and we saw a small hilltop town in the distance. A signpost said Montaperto, and I could make out a collection of orange-tiled roofs clustered together on the highest point around. I looked back and was rewarded with a view of green rolling hills and a dusty, brown view of Agrigento farther out. The car slowed, and I saw an Italian soldier approach us carrying a shovel on his shoulder. He wore his bustina but no shirt and he was soaked in sweat. I tried to shrink into the backseat, to make my American uniform invisible.
It didn't matter. He and the driver chatted amiably as four packs of cigarettes were handed over to the soldier. They were Echt Orients, a German brand. I guessed the Mafia liked to spread its business around. The driver ground his gears as the Fiat struggled with the incline. The soldato called to his buddies and they left the entrenchment they were digging to claim their smokes. As we passed, the snout of a heavy machine gun was visible, protruding from the sandbags and covering the lovely valley behind us. A mortar was set up behind it, surrounded by sandbags and shells. Camouflage netting covered the emplacement, making it look like a natural fold in the terrain. By the time you got close enough to see it, you'd be dead.
"They are Sicilian," Sciafani said, as if that explained everything: the easy passage, the cigarettes, the deadly ambush.
We drove through the narrow street that cut through the village. The buildings were two or three stories tall, covered in faded stucco that had crumbled away in places, revealing rough brickwork underneath. Probably a few hundred people lived in these homes, crowded along the roadway at the top of the hill. I knew what would happen to them if our guys came up that hill and got hit by the mortar and machine gun. The soldati would take out a dozen or so GIs before they were pinned down. Some energetic lieutenant might try flanking them, but there was no cover on either side of the road. That would fail, and finally he'd radio Battalion HQ for artillery or an air strike. They might have to wait a while. Or maybe they'd have armor support coming up. Either way, the small emplacement would be smashed, along with a good portion of the village. People would hide in their cellars, and tons of brick would fall on them, fires would rage, and the ground would shake with each hit. A couple of hundred people would die, all because four Sicilian soldiers stayed at their post.
Had Nick betrayed our mission? Or could he have needed the handkerchief for something else? I couldn't think about him. Right now I had enough to worry about with Sciafani. He was armed and in his own strange world, and I had no idea how that was going to impact mine.
We cleared the village and the Fiat bounced over a potholed dirt track, descending into the valley due north. Sciafani pulled his dagger out and cleaned it, using the burlap bag to wipe it down. When he was finally satisfied, he smiled weakly, almost apologetically, and cut a piece of cheese and bread with it. He handed them to the driver, who took the food without comment or thanks. Then he cut up the rest and we shared it, washed down with wine from the bottle, which we passed around. A communion of secrets.