Doors on the second floor smacked into the walls as they were flung open. The Italians were being manhandled, pushed into the hallway, then dragged down the stairs.
Grant took hold of Castalani’s shoulder as he was just about to put his foot on the last step. He yanked him to the floor, pulling him toward the corner, causing Castalani to half crawl, half walk as Grant moved swiftly, holding him securely in his grasp. He released his hold after he shoved him against the wall. That’s when he finally noticed the Italian’s face was still red and swollen, with dried blood on his lips and at the corner of his nose.
“Craig, Ken, watch this guy,” Grant ordered. Then he walked over to the younger, smaller man, put a hand on his back, and shoved him toward the table. With a strong hand, he pressed on the Italian’s shoulder, forcing him into the chair.
Grant spun another chair around and sat on it backwards, folding his arms on the backrest, staring hard at the Italian. “Okay, Vince, let’s hear it.”
Russo began relaying the story that this man, Gino Rocca, told him. Rocca and his friend, Paolo Conti, were new to the group, recruited by a man named Giovanni Bruno. Rocca and Conti had been friends from childhood, coming from the small town of San Giuseppe Jado, about seventeen miles south of Palermo. Rocca had just recently been released from prison in Palermo when Bruno started recruiting members.
According to Rocca, neither Bruno nor Castalani ever promised anyone money for participating but just continued ramming home the point the group was specifically being formed for the good of the Mafia.
It had only been a little more than two weeks ago that Castalani learned what had been discovered in the tunnel. That’s when he started to put his plan in motion.
Two men, who had been hired as guards, were paid off by Castalani to spy on the Americans, to try to learn what had been discovered. The assignment had been easy. Even though they were never allowed into the tunnel, mostly all they had to do was watch and listen to conversations by the Italian workers, who were on better terms with the Americans.
Grant sat quietly, patiently, never taking his stare from Rocca, who nervously fidgeted in his seat, with his bloodshot eyes going from Grant to Castalani. All the while Grant kept mentally processing the information being relayed by Russo.
Finally, Grant put a hand up, and said, “Hold it. When did these two guys come up with their ‘plot’ to steal one of the canisters? And why the hell would they want to take such a risk? We’re talking Mafia for Christ’s sake!”
“According to him,” Russo said, “it was an opportunity for money. They didn’t think anyone would notice a canister missing from the truck. And eventually, they planned to extort money from us Americans.”
Grant indicated with his thumb, “Him? He planned this? Doesn’t look like he has the balls to defy Castalani, let alone Falcone.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what he told me.”
Grant narrowed his eyes as he stared at the Italian. His gut was telling him something entirely different. This guy was lying. “Vince, ask him what Falcone promised him and his partner.”
“Excuse me, sir?” a surprised Russo questioned.
“You heard me. Ask him.”
As soon as the words left Russo’s mouth, Rocca stiffened and responded vehemently, “Niente! Niente!”
“Nothing, sir.”
Grant turned in his chair, seeing Castalani with his eyes on him. “Let’s try the game again,” he said quietly. “Vince, draw your weapon.” Without questioning, Russo pulled his .45. Grant got up and shoved his chair with his foot, sending it careening off the wall. He immediately took hold of Rocca around his neck, holding the cold steel blade against the jugular. “Now,” he said to Russo, “go with Ray and Craig, and drag Castalani outside… and I mean drag! Warn the marines, then fire your weapon in the air.” Grant caught a glimpse of Moshenko, lighting up a cigar, enjoying the game being played out by his friend.
“Sounds like a plan, sir,” Russo calmly said. He walked across the room with the weapon in full view. A quick explanation was all that was necessary, and the three SEALs hauled Castalani out the door. In less than five minutes, after warning the marines, the shot from Russo’s .45 sounded like a cannon going off. Russo came back in, holstering his weapon, giving a nod in Grant’s direction.
A slight trickle of blood, mixed with sweat, ran down Rocca’s neck where the tip of the knife jabbed him. The one English word he knew, he repeated rapidly, “Okay! Okay! Okay!”
Grant finally got what he was looking for. His own final confirmation that Falcone had known about the group. ‘Mafia man’ made the threats against these two men, who he had personally selected, and then had them steal the canister. Apparently, Falcone had his own plan for Castalani, his own plan for teaching him, and maybe the whole group, a lesson. It’d be a way to enforce the fact that anybody else who may have the same notion, better not fuck with him.
Grant put in a call to Torrinson, giving him the full scoop. Torrinson asked with concern, “Any idea where that canister is?”
“No, sir. Not yet. So far the Italian we questioned was only given partial information, since his partner was the one delivering the goods to Falcone or taking it wherever he’d been instructed. But I’m not convinced this guy doesn’t know more, sir”
Torrinson knew what was coming next. “And you have plans to do what, Captain?”
“Well, find the canister, sir! And return our Italian friend.”
“You don’t mean to Falcone, do you?”
“Uh, yes, sir. I do.”
“And you plan on doing that how?”
“Have to consider contacting Jack Edwards.”
Torrinson was silently giving approval by nodding his head. Then something dawned on him. “Wait a minute. You said ‘friend.’ Don’t you have two Italians there?”
“Yes, sir. I’m thinking about just returning Castalani, since he’s the one who Falcone’s wanting to get his hands on. I might just let the other guy fend for himself. He’ll probably live in fear for the rest of his life, anyway.”
Torrinson pushed away his plate with a half-eaten cheeseburger and cold french fries remaining. “This sure has turned into one hell of an op, Grant,” he commented as he took a sip from a can of flat Pepsi.
“I know, sir.” Grant rubbed a hand across his forehead, with his thoughts briefly turning to sleep he hadn’t had in — he couldn’t remember how long it’d been. Dark circles under his eyes only proved the fact. “Oh, sir, any word on the injured Italians the chopper took out of here?”
“The medical staff on the carrier did their best to patch them up, then they made arrangements with the civilian hospital in Catania to transport them there. That’s where they should be by now.”
“All of them, sir?”
“As far as I know. Oh, by the way, State’s heard from the Russian ambassador.”
Uh oh, Grant thought. “Yes, sir?”
“Ambassador Yakunin has requested that Colonel Moshenko proceed to East Germany with Tarasov and Rusnak.”
“Sir, you don’t think they’re aware of Grigori’s helping on this one, do you?”
“I sure as hell didn’t spread the word.”
“Of course not, sir. I didn’t mean to imply that, sir.”
Torrinson laughed to himself. Every once in awhile he liked to yank Grant’s chain. “Do you think he’ll have a problem with his comrades possibly spilling the beans?”
“Grigori can take care of himself, and he has a certain way with people, comrades or not.”
Torrinson reached for his cheeseburger again, took a bite, then spit it out. Grabbing his cloth napkin, he tried to wipe the cold grease off his tongue. “So, what’s the plan?”