“Admirably, Mr. Hardy. It’s always an impressive sight. I think we’ll have privacy here. But what about you, aboveground?”
“I’ve got three stout bars to put behind the outer door. Her Majesty’s Horse Guards couldn’t bust their way in. There’s a private egress if you require one. You have any persons causing you annoyance, Mr. Barker?”
“Aye. Sicilians.”
“They won’t get in here, that’s a promise.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Barker said, and began climbing again.
I followed him up the ladder. It was better perhaps that I was surrounded by near perfect darkness. If I’d seen how high I was from the floor I might have frozen to the ladder in fear.
Finally, I reached the top rungs and Barker helped me out. I tried to act nonchalant, but my heart was hammering in my chest.
“What did you think of our little den?” Mr. Soft asked me.
It took a few seconds to realize he was serious. He was very proud of his “property,” and I’m sure he and Mr. Hardy lived rather well on the proceeds of their little enterprise. There must be various members of the underworld who required such a secret and impregnable room. I didn’t think Mr. Soft and Mr. Hardy were very particular about to whom they rented or for what purpose, as long as the money was paid, half up front, half afterward.
I’ve been down many a mine shaft in my time, though not as often as my brothers, who became miners, but I was not prepared for the cold, clammy feeling that came over me a minute or two after I’d resurfaced. Perhaps it was the exertion, or the change from open chamber to close, stuffy room, but I broke out in a sweat all over, and couldn’t help but jump when it rolled down my spine.
“It always does that the first time,” Mr. Soft reassured me.
“Tomorrow, then,” Barker said, bowing to the little man.
“We shall have everything at your disposal,” he said. “Mr. Hardy, do show these gentlemen to the door.”
A minute later we were in the dirty lane again, though this time I was aware we were standing over an immense chasm. Were we to experience a cataclysm such as the one that had occurred in mythological Atlantis, or more recently in Krakatoa, we would be dashed to our deaths a hundred feet below. One shiver of the earth’s crust and it would all be over for this little street in the East End, not that it would be much of a loss.
“Do you think the members of our little group shall be impressed?” Barker asked me.
“I don’t know about impressed,” I replied, “but I doubt they shall forget it.”
21
"So, exactly how many MAFIUSI are in London, and where are they hiding?”
I can generally be relied upon to ask the most rudimentary question. After I asked it, I pushed a piece of bread around a plate of herbed olive oil and ate it. We were in the Neapolitan again, and Victor Gigliotti felt it was impossible to think on an empty stomach-or do anything else, for that matter. On the table in front of us was the inevitable tray of antipasti. Though it was not yet noon, a flask of Gallo Nero stood at my elbow. I avoided it, for one glass and I’d be no good for the rest of the day.
“At the very minimum, two,” Barker said, rolling slices of cheese and ham together and taking a large bite. “It’s possible that the two assassins came here together and have planned these assaults themselves, but more likely someone else is telling them what to do and staying in hiding, for whatever purpose. I presume it is Marco Faldo, which makes three. If Faldo is wise-and I believe he must be in order to have come this far-he has either brought along or recruited a handful of underlings, men such as Venucchi who are not as experienced or proficient as his two assassins, to act as bodyguards and lackeys. I don’t believe a self-respecting criminal mastermind would allow himself to deliver threatening notes under doors or to attempt to steal small dogs.”
“Are you telling me,” Gigliotti asked, “that I, with a thousand men at my beck and call, am being harassed by one fellow and a handful of underlings?” He slammed his little coffee cup so hard into its saucer that the handle broke off. “Luigi!” he bawled over his shoulder. “Another cup!”
“I believe he has formed a new organization from among the Sicilian dockworkers.”
“Then we know where to look,” I put in. “Down by the docks. That must be where they are.”
Gigliotti grinned, showing his vulpine teeth. “They would not settle near the docks,” he corrected. “Italians always settle near a church, and there is but one Italian church in London, Saint Peter’s.”
“You yourself live in Clerkenwell, is that not correct?” Barker continued.
“It is.”
“Have you moved your family?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I have emptied my household, save for guards and servants. You will forgive me if I do not say where they have gone.”
“Of course. That is wise. Have you doubled the guard around your ice warehouse?”
“There seemed no need if I have my own guards nearby. It is me they want, me they threaten.” He stood and went to the money box by the front door and drew out a shotgun from under the counter. “Forgive me, my friend, but you have been in England too long. You wait upon events. You think too much when you must act. They stabbed your cook, cut your assistant, even tried to steal your dog, yet you wait for all the members of your little coalition to agree when to meet. Let us take this war to them. Hunt them down in Clerkenwell today, I say. I will help you. I’ll even call in all my employees to turn over the entire district. You’ll have your own private-”
“Down!” I cried.
I’d been facing the front of the restaurant with its elaborate frosted windows and lace curtains threaded on thin rods, not looking at anything in particular, just listening to what the restaurant owner was saying, when I noticed a sudden flutter at either side of the glass, shadows appearing against the panes. Suddenly, that sense that Gallenga had trained in me began jangling.
I kicked over my chair as the glass shattered and buckshot scattered across the room, encountering wood, plaster, cutlery, and human flesh.
Gigliotti turned as the glass shattered. He had been peppered with buckshot and glass but was unhurt, lifting the rifle in his hand. Then a man stepped in front of the windowframe, and before the Camorran could react, fired a second volley into him from ten paces. Victor Gigliotti dropped the shotgun and fell back onto the floor, his body riddled and bleeding. I watched the man turn to leave, and as he did so, the two of us locked eyes. An instant later he was gone.
Belatedly, the bodyguards rose from among the shattered tables screaming curses and ran past us out the door, guns drawn, while I struggled to my feet. What was a well-appointed restaurant a moment before was now a shambles. Tables and chairs were upset, bottles broken and leaking onto the floor, and dishes trampled underfoot.
“Are you all right, sir?” I called from the floor. One of my cuffs was stained red, but I was relieved to see it was only from the Chianti bottle beside me.
“Well enough,” Barker said, straightening his tie.
I dared stand. Instead of the intimate restaurant front, there was now a clear view of the street, the buildings opposite, and the dozen or more people surveying the damage in wonder. With the sun streaming down, the street seemed unnaturally bright and colorful, as if it were a stage set and we the audience. Another dozen citizens soon peered in at us. My employer crossed over to Gigliotti and put two fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse, and shook his head. The leader of the Camorrans was dead.
“You’re bleeding, sir,” I pointed out. “Your forehead.”
The Guv dug a tiny ball of shot from his temple with his nail and dabbed at the cut with a serviette.
“Your training with Gallenga seems to have served you in good stead,” he remarked.
“Did you see him?” I asked, as I brushed glass from my cutaway coat.