Luciano's Luck (8 page)

When she went into surgery, Tankerley was already there, a small intense man in a white gown that, from its condition, had already seen considerable service. There was no one else there except for the corpse under a sheet.

Tankerley pulled on rubber gloves impatiently. ‘Do get a move on, Sister. I've got a ward round in an hour.’

He was three years past the retirement age, had only stayed on because of the war; a fine surgeon and convinced atheist who had little time for nuns at the best of times and certainly not in hospital.

An assortment of surgical instruments was laid out on a trolley beside the operating table. Sister Maria pulled the sheet away and folded it neatly. The body was that of a middleaged man who had obviously been in remarkably good condition, with powerful shoulders and strong, muscular arms. The eyes were closed, the face peaceful.

‘The general staff shortage being as bad as ever and no shorthand writer available, I'm going to have to do the report from memory later,’ Tankerley told her. ‘He was found on the pavement near a bus stop in Lime Street at five-thirty. Age around fifty, good physical condition, no evidence of external bruising, so obviously not the victim of an assault. What would your diagnosis be, Sister?’

‘Coronary?’ she said.

‘Yes, I'd go along with that. Everything fits, including the age, so in the circumstances, we'll dispense with the whole works and go straight for the heart.’

He held out his hand. She passed him a large scalpel and he opened the body from throat to belly with one practised stroke. A living patient was different but this was something she had always found difficult to take. She swallowed hard as Tankerley started to break the ribs with a pair of large cutters.

‘Raw meat, Sister.’ He was, as usual, unable to resist taunting her. ‘That's all there is to a man at the end of the day. Where's your God now?’

She passed him a small scalpel. ‘A superior piece of engineering. Totally functional. There seems to be no task a human being is not capable of, wouldn't you agree?’

‘Except learning how to live for ever.’

‘No, but it is people at their most extraordinary I am interested in,’ she said. ‘Is that all that's left, a body on a mortuary slab? I don't think so. Christ, Professor, was once only a man dying on a cross. Two thousand years later he is a visible presence to millions.’

He glanced up and halfsmiled in grudging admiration. ‘Oh, you have a way with the words, I'll say that for you.’

And then, as the first stock of bombs fell across the docks, there was an explosion close at hand. The whole building shook, there was the crash of breaking glass. The lights dimmed for a moment and, somewhere, a woman screamed in fear.

‘They certainly pick their time,’ Tankerley said. ‘On your way, Sister. They'll be needing you in Casualty. I'll finish up here on my own.’

As she reached the door, another stick of bombs dropped across the docks. The steel instruments rattled on the tray as the building shook again. Tankerley reached for another scalpel and continued with his task while Sister Maria wrenched open the door and hurried out.

There was a tremendous hubbub in Casualty, people running up and down the corridor and a smell of burning. The bombing had stopped and Maria could hear fire engines in the distance.

The hospital was working at full stretch now and she was on her own, patiently inserting twenty-five stitches into the left leg of a young seaman who had been brought in from the docks half an hour previously.

He watched her carefully, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘You're doing a good job there, Sister. How about giving me a little kiss for being a brave boy?’

‘Not part of the service, I'm afraid.’

‘What a waste,’ he said. ‘I mean, a good-looking girl like you. It must be hell.’

Behind her, Tankerley moved into the room. He produced a cigarette lighter and flicked it on. ‘Here, light your cigarette and shut up.’ He leaned down to examine the leg. ‘Very nice, Sister. You can go now. I'll finish here.’

She moved out through the curtain and started awkwardly to unfasten the ties at the back of her gown. Tankerley appeared behind her. ‘Let me.’ He pulled the bows one by one and she was aware that he was angry. ‘Young swine,’ he muttered.

She turned, shaking her head. ‘He doesn't understand, that's all. So many people want everyone else to be as they are. And he's right. It can be hell. St Chrysostom called celibacy the little crucifixion.’

‘And is it?’ he asked.

‘Not really, Professor. A very fair exchange in return for what is gained.’

He scowled and gave her a push. ‘Go on, get out of here before you seduce me entirely. Go home.’

For once, she did as she was told, too tired, too spent to argue.

The Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity was in Huby Road, a large red-brick building behind high walls which had once been a college for the training of elementary school teachers. The teachers had long since moved out and a large mortgage had taken over. For twenty years this and the Little Sisters, with a considerable amount of faith had been the base for all their work in the city.

The chapel was cold and smelled of damp, which was hardly surprising as no heating of any kind was possible because of fuel rationing. It was a place of shadows, candlelight and darkness alternating.

Maria Vaughan genuflected at the altar rail and lit a candle to the Virgin. She knelt in prayer for a moment, then rose, picked up her mop and bucket, moved to the central aisle and started to clean the floor. In spite of the tiredness she did not mind, for it was a simple enough task and gave her time to think.

High up in the gallery, Sister Katherine Markham, the Mother Superior of the convent, stood with Harry Carter and Luciano watching her.

‘I thought you said she'd been working all day at the hospital?’ Carter said.

‘That's so. She's a theatre sister there.’

‘Then why this?’

‘However hard the day has gone, each member of the Order has an allotted task to perform each evening. However menial, Colonel, it is a symbol of the love that binds us all together. We”ll go down now and I'll introduce you.’

She started along the gallery to the stairs. Luciano grinned and said softly, ‘Ask a stupid question, Professor, and see what you get.’

Maria looked up as they approached and paused in her work. ‘Sister?’ she said.

Sister Katherine smiled. ‘You have visitors, Maria. This is Colonel Carter and this is Mr Orsini.’

Maria stood there, transfixed, staring at Luciano. He smiled easily and said in Sicilian, ‘Hello, pretty one. It's been a long time.’

Sister Katherine gently took the mop from Maria. ‘I'll finish here. You can take these gentlemen to my office.’

Maria looked again at Luciano, turned and walked away. As Carter and Luciano started after her, Sister Katherine said, ‘We use the lodge as a guest house, Colonel. You're welcome to spend the night with us.’

She dipped the mop in the bucket and started to work on the floor as they went out.

The office was small and cluttered, barely room for the desk and filing cabinets. Luciano leaned against the door, smoking, while Carter and Maria faced each other across the desk.

‘So there you are,’ Carter said. ‘It's really very simple. All it requires is a yes or a no. Mr Orsini and I…’

‘The subterfuge is not necessary, Colonel,’ she said calmly. ‘I am familiar with Mr Luciano. He is a part of a past which I no longer wish to acknowledge. Which no longer forms a part of my life.’

‘Can you cut off a leg, an arm and be the same person?’ Luciano asked in Sicilian.

She answered in the same language. ‘Good husbandry, Mr Luciano, to lop off the rotten branch to save the tree.’

Carter said patiently, ‘Sister, to save thousands of lives it's necessary to persuade your grandfather to come over to our side publicly. You could just be the one to do it.’

‘You're wasting your time, Colonel. I have had no dealings with my grandfather for years. This entire affair is preposterous and nothing to do with me. And now you must excuse me. I have work to do.’

She brushed past Luciano and went out. Garter picked up the telephone and gave the long distance operator the number of SOE's headquarters in Baker Street in London

Luciano said, ‘So, what happens now?’

‘She'll go,’ Carter assured him.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Oh, the thought of all those dead men should do it. She's a
good
woman, after all. Can't you tell?’

The phone rang and he picked it up. ‘Give me Control Two. Carter here. The code word is Scorpion.’

He reached for a cigarette and Luciano lit it for him as a voice echoed faintly in Carter's ear.

He said, ‘Hello, Jack, Harry here. Yes, all systems go. This is what I'm going to need. A safe house for a few days near Manchester. Is Bransby Abbey still on the list?’

Luciano said, ‘Heh, wait a minute.’

Carter ignored him. ‘Two heavies as part of the back-up team. Good Italian essential plus all the usual skills, but I must have them within forty-eight hours. And signals to 138 Squadron at Maison Blanche and our friends in Bellona to make ready for a drop seven to ten days from now.’

He listened for a while then smiled. ‘No, no problem.’

He replaced the receiver. Luciano said, ‘Like I said; no emotion. Everything click, click, click. Only you're wrong about one thing, Professor.’

‘Tell me,’ Harry Carter said.

‘If Maria goes, it won't be because of the thought of all those lives she might save.’

‘So what's your theory?’

‘Simple. She's so eaten up with guilt that it's impossible for her to say no.’

Sister Angela's one vice was cigarettes. Maria knew where they were kept. Behind the flour bin in the kitchen pantry. She lit one with trembling fingers and stood there in the dark, smoking furiously, like a defiant child.

The Sicilian half came to the surface rather easily on occasion, something to be fought against but not now. The sight of Luciano's face, the old sardonic smile, had opened wounds and things walked out of dark corners to confront her again.

She could smell the burning, see again the blood on her mother's face as she crawled towards her. And afterwards, the pain. The long weeks in hospital, the skin grafts for the burns and her grandfather, sitting there day by day beside the bed, in spite of the fact that she would not speak to him.

The hate in her, the rage, was so strong now that, in a kind of panic, she dropped the cigarette in the sink, turned on the tap and bathed her face with cold water.

After a while, she felt better. The past was over and done with. She had buried her dead and that included her grandfather. Sicily and all that it stood for was a matter of total indifference to her now. She had her work, her daily routine, the hospital. There was no place for anything else. Luciano and Carter would have to understand that. She smoothed her robe, took a deep breath and went out.

The Refuge in what had been the old stables at the back of the convent wasn't much of a place, but the stone walls had been neatly whitewashed, there was a coke fire in the stove, benches and blankets for those who queued there each night.

They were a strangely assorted group. Whole families, mother, father, children, who had been bombed out, servicemen on leave or between trains and needing a bed. And then there were flotsam and jetsam to be found in any great city, the unwashed, the destitute, the drunks who could no longer cope.

Maria and two other nuns stood together behind a trestle table doling out bread and hot broth to the slowly moving line of people.

Two young soldiers in khaki battledress were arguing at the end of the line. There was a sudden cry, a flurry of blows. Maria went round the table like a strong wind and flung herself between them. The one she was nearest to, a young, red-headed Scot, bit out wildly, still trying to reach his opponent, and struck her in the face.

Suddenly Luciano was there, looking like the Devil himself. His right hand slapped across the boy's face very fast, his left seized him by the throat.

Maria had him by the arm now with both hands, exerting all her strength. ‘No, please. This isn't the way.’

And Luciano was smiling now and released his grip so that the boy fell to his knees. ‘Okay, pretty one. Whatever you say,’ he said in Sicilian.

There was a sudden buzz of conversation as the crowd came back to life. The soldier stood up and gingerly touched his throat.

‘I'm sorry, miss,’ he said to Maria. ‘I don't know how it happened.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Get your soup and sit down,’ and she turned and went after Luciano.

‘It's been a long time,’ he said. ‘The summer of ’thirty-five. How old were you, sixteen?’

‘And you,’ she said. ‘You don't change.’

‘So you've kept up with what happened to me?’

‘Oh, yes, I know all about the great Lucky Luciano whose answer to everything is still violence. And where did it get you? Thirty years in prison.’

‘On a bum rap and I'm out now, aren't I?’

‘You were my hero that summer when you visited my grandfather, you know that? Robin Hood and Richard the Lionheart rolled into one. When we walked in Palermo and people stopped to kiss your hand, I thought it was a mark of respect. But I was wrong. It was only that they were afraid.’

‘What about Don Antonio. You ever hear from him?’

‘No.’

It seemed colder than ever in the chapel and Luciano leaned against the end of a pew as he looked down at her. ‘You still love him, don't you, and that tears you apart because you should hate him.’

‘Very clever,’ she said.

‘Listen, when I was in SingSing, a psychiatrist gave me all those fancy tests and told me I was below average intelligence. Wrote it on the report. Said I should learn a trade.’

She was unable to stop the slightest of smiles from touching her lips. ‘That's better,’ he said. ‘You laughed a lot that summer. That's what I remember best. Your smile.’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, Mr Luciano, what's to become

of you?’

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I'm not making any excuses. I could say Tenth Street was no place for any kid to grow up, but I won't. I made a conscious choice. When people talk to me about the war, I say what war? I've been at war all my life, but I engage in a combat that's nothing to do with civilians.’