He opened the door and got out. By the time he had arrived in Palermo, it was way beyond a reasonable time to see Falcone. He decided to pull off the road and call it a night.
He walked around to the front of the car, looking north along the route of Stradale Bellolampo, looking up to the villa perched on top of a hill, to the villa of Pino Falcone.
Castalani had dreams beyond becoming part of the higher echelon of the Falcone organization. His dreams included the villa he was looking at. He glanced at his watch. “It is time.” Getting back into the car, he started the engine then pulled onto the blacktop.
Fifteen minutes later he drove up to the eight-foot high, wrought-iron security gate leading to the main house. A guard, wearing casual workman’s clothes consisting of dark pants, black sweater, jacket, and cap, came to the gate. As he leaned toward the gate, his jacket fell open, revealing a holstered pistol.
Castalani rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “I’m Luigi Castalani. I’d like to see Don Falcone.” Castalani didn’t recognize this guard, but it was a habit of Falcone’s to give his bodyguard’s different assignments around the property.
Without a response, the man went to a small guardhouse near the end of the fence, and used an intercom to announce Castalani’s arrival. Returning to the gate, he unlocked it, swung it outward, then waved Castalani through.
The single lane driveway was nearly three hundred yards long, lined on both sides with tall, graceful Italian cypress. Beyond the cypress and off to the right was a grove of cork trees. Each tree can be harvested twelve times during its lifetime, with all the work being done by hand using a small axe.
Castalani enviously thought about the extra income Falcone was making off this grove of trees.
At the end of the drive, the view opened up. Falcone’s two-story home was built entirely of concrete and finished with stucco, painted in the popular Italian color of burnt orange. The house was positioned at the very top of the hill, allowing him a three hundred sixty degree view, with his favorite view overlooking the beautiful blue Tyrrhenian Sea and the Golfo di Palermo, the location of his warehouse.
Castalani turned off the main driveway, and followed a secondary drive that curved in front of the house. He brought the car to a stop under a portico supported by two large, marble pillars, fashioned from stone originally cut from the quarry in Carrara. Michelangelo selected blocks of marble from this quarry to fashion many of his works of art.
After parking the car in front of the main entrance, Castalani got out, and stood momentarily in deep thought, imagining his upcoming conversation with Falcone. Finally, he walked toward the house and climbed three black marble steps. Standing in front of the wooden, hand-carved, double front doors, he started to reach for the doorbell, when one of Falcone’s bodyguards opened it partially.
Castalani removed his cap. “I would like to speak to Don Falcone.”
Without responding, the bodyguard motioned for him to enter, allowing Castalani entry into the massive, opulent-designed hallway. The floors were covered with white, Travertine marble, the shiniest he’d ever seen. As he followed the man further down the hallway, he glanced overhead at the twenty-five foot tall ceiling, and hanging directly above him was one of the biggest chandeliers he’d ever seen, made entirely of Murano glass. Murano is a small island off Venice known for its spectacular, hand-blown, expensive glassware.
A maid stepped out of a room that appeared to be a small library. She was carrying a whisk broom and dustpan that had shards of glass in it. Castalani glanced beyond the door, noticing broken glass scattered around the furniture. The earthquake did some damage here, too. He remembered his trip from the cave and the number of times he had to drive around rocks and fallen trees.
He followed the bodyguard as he turned left into another short hallway. Both sides were lined with original, expensive artwork. Castalani thought that none of these were quite his taste. All would have to be removed. At the end of the hall was an expansive dining room, probably measuring thirty by forty with floor to ceiling windows along the north and south walls. Falcone had a large family and the long, rectangular chestnut table in the center could accommodate at least thirty.
Sitting at the far end was Pino Falcone, wearing a dark blue silk robe. His thick gray hair was combed neatly and he was clean shaven. A housekeeper stepped near him and began putting his breakfast dishes on a large, wooden tray.
Falcone folded the morning edition of the Italian newspaper La Reppublica and placed it on the edge of the table. He selected a ripe, red pear from the fruit bowl then picked up a small paring knife.
The bodyguard stopped Castalani from proceeding further until he got a nod from his boss. Only then was Castalani allowed to approach.
“Buon giorno, Don Falcone,” Castalani respectfully said.
Falcone finally motioned with the knife, pointing to a chair, for Castalani to sit.
Still showing respect, Castalani chose to sit two seats away and slid an ornate, high-backed wooden chair across the floor. He sat stiffly, unable to relax. Silently, he chastised himself for acting like a weakling in front of Falcone, but he had to continue the charade. What he failed to think about was that no one questioned his arrival, his visit. None of the bodyguards had, and so far neither had Falcone.
Falcone cut a thin slice of pear. Using the tip of the knife, he jabbed it into the fruit, pulling the piece off with his teeth. He looked at Castalani through eyes that gave nothing away, eyes reflecting no emotion whatsoever. When he finished chewing and had swallowed the fruit, he finally asked, “What brings you here this morning, Luigi?”
Castalani moved closer to the edge of his seat, resting a forearm on the table. “I have succeeded in finding weaponry that will bring us… you more money, more power, and more recognition, Don Falcone.”
Falcone put the last half of pear on a small dish in front of him. He wiped his mouth with a gold cloth napkin, then dropped it on the table. Pushing his chair away from the table, he slowly stood, then turned away and walked to a large, plate glass window. “Come, Luigi. Join me.”
Castalani felt more relieved, if only because of the tone of Falcone’s voice. He stepped next to the man who controlled all of Palermo and beyond.
Continuing to look out across his property and to the sea, Falcone said, “Now tell me, Luigi, what is this weaponry you have and from where was it obtained?”
Castalani took his time and named each piece of weaponry, leaving the most important for last. “I have stored six canisters that contain the nerve gas Sarin.”
Falcone slid his hands into his robe’s pockets. “And you stole these from…?”
Castalani hesitated in telling Falcone the truth, but quickly reasoned it would be better not to lie. “From the American compound, located southwest of Catania. The weaponry isn’t American, Don Falcone, but German made. When Germany invaded our island, they constructed an underground tunnel, storing munitions, expecting to use them during the war.”
“And have you planned on how to use these… these things, these canisters?”
Castalani was beginning to feel elated. “Don’t you see, Don Falcone, there may be no need to actually use them.” He turned and faced Falcone, spreading his hands out in front of him. “All that needs to be done is to let it be known that we have the gas. Just the intimation alone should get us… get you whatever you demand.”
“Let me ask you something, Luigi. Whoever it is we threaten, what do you propose be done if they refuse to give in?”
“Why, use the gas, of course. We would not back down, or show weakness as we have in the past.”
Castalani referred to how Italy was perceived during and after World War II.