Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘Neither are we,’ said Patton.

‘What about the army unit?’ asked Cowley.

‘Not yet,’ said Melega. ‘They’re back up. We’ve got the power of arrest.’

‘Let’s go and exercise it,’ said Cowley decisively.

Their helicopter was a UH-ID Cobra, like the ones Danilov remembered from much criticised newsreels on Russian television of American gunships in the Vietnam war. He realised as the flight sergeant was checking their seat belts – which only crossed the lap and seemed totally inadequate – they were to fly with the side doors open, just like they had in Vietnam, too. He was instantly terrified, believing there was no way, despite the belt, he could avoid falling out if the machine tipped on its side to turn. Even when it did, immediately on take-off, and the centrifugal force kept him firmly on his seat, Danilov still felt uneasy: he saw Patton was gripping the underside of the bench, like he was.

The helicopter rose high enough for Danilov to pick out the coast road along which they had travelled the previous day. From the air it looked much straighter than it had from the back seat of a car. The sun was flaring off the sea, whitening it near the shoreline. There were far more boats dotted on the deeper, bluer water: much further out, probably beyond sight of land, three ponderous tankers wallowed in a follow-my-leader line. On the coast road the tight-together congestion of vehicles made it look as if they were all joined together, like some motorised snake.

Babbled Italian rose and fell in Danilov’s helmet, and from the frequent sound fade he guessed they were patched through to the surveillance cars on the ground. It was easy, airborne, to see the sharp inland turn of the road that cut across the island to Catania, and when Melega made hand signals, jerking his finger in a downward pointing gesture, Danilov guessed they were being shown the car they wanted taking the inland route.

The traffic thinned, making it easier to concentrate on the one vehicle to which he believed Melega to be pointing. Just as he began to do so the helicopter banked as well and dropped into a mountain valley, so that they lost sight of the inland road. They were still high enough for Danilov to isolate four more helicopters, all looking the same as the one in which they were flying, and he supposed they were all part of the carabinieri assault force. Then the other helicopters were lost among the mountains and Danilov realised they were going to land.

They did so in a swirl of dust and thrown-about undergrowth on a plateau cut into the side of a mountain. The dust-storm died with the whine of the engine. Danilov climbed gratefully out, stretching, aware of the cramp in his hands where he’d held the underside of his seat for so long.

Melega carried a bundled-up map. He laid it out on the ground, bringing them all down in a crouch. ‘We are here!’ he announced, pointing to an ochre-shaded area.

A thread of river – the Gangi – was marked on the map, and a village or town described as Alimena, but Danilov couldn’t see any evidence of either from where they’d landed: in every direction the mountains were scorched brown and lifeless by the sun, with little green even in the deeper valley below. The only sound, now the helicopter was quiet, was the dry, scratching clatter of cicadas.

‘One of our other helicopters made a high pass over Villalba just after we got airborne from Palermo,’ resumed Melega. ‘There were two cars already outside the farmhouse: I’m guessing the people Palma and the others have come to meet are already there, waiting. I’m not risking another overflight. I’ve called the army in, from Reggio. They’re not going to fly in formation, to avoid attracting attention.’

‘Who’s going to notice eight platoon-carrying Chinooks anyway?’ tried the wisecracking Patton: Danilov decided it was nervousness.

Melega ignored the remark, going back to his map. ‘Once the Fiat has taken the Villalba turning, there will be road blocks here… here

… and here. The Villalba road will be completely cut and on either side of it the Catania route will be blocked. We’ll use the cleared section of the Catania highway to land at least one of the army machines. Another army group, with some carabinieri, will close the road on the other side of Villalba, towards Mussomeli. I’m going to enclose Villalba itself completely. The army will come in right behind us.’

‘So where do we get the signal they’re in the farmhouse together?’ said Smith.

‘It took precisely twenty-five minutes for them to get to Villalba yesterday, from the moment of turning off,’ reminded Melega. ‘I’m assuming they won’t stop at the cafe today. We’re going in thirty-five minutes after they’ve left the main road.’

‘In a fleet of helicopters making more noise than cats screwing on a tin roof!’ openly protested Patton.

‘I’ve talked about it, with the pilot. If we co-ordinate it correctly, we’ll be on the ground two minutes from the moment our approach first becomes audible.’

‘What happens if it’s co-ordinated in correctly?’ persisted the DEA agent.

‘It won’t be,’ insisted the Italian.

‘We should have talked more about this last night,’ said Cowley, in quiet despair.

The sun was beating down on Danilov’s back. He could feel the sweat forming irritating pathways and he shrugged against them, slipping out of his jacket. He looked up, to meet Cowley’s direct stare. Neither had to give any facial reaction to show their uncertainty.

Danilov’s action in taking off his jacket attracted Melega’s attention. Looking at the Russian, although not directly into his face, Melega said: ‘You are not armed?’

‘No.’ Danilov rarely carried the pistol he was authorised to hold in Moscow, and it had never once occurred to him to bring it on this roundabout journey through airport check-points. Danilov regularly underwent shooting practice – usually attaining a higher than average score – but he had never once fired a weapon in the course of duty. He’d drawn it a few times, making an arrest, but only for effect, which had fortunately always worked.

‘Neither am I,’ admitted Cowley, who wished he had drawn something from the embassy in Rome.

Melega collected two pistols from the helicopter, offering one to each man. Cowley accepted his more comfortably than Danilov, who hefted the unaccustomed weapon in his hand, examining it intently. A Beretta, he saw: lighter than the Russian standard-issue Makarov or Stetchkin. The safety catch slipped smoothly in and out of lock, a simple thumb action. He made sure the gun was secured before easing it into the waistband of his trousers, in the middle, bum-crease part of his back, where he’d seen Cowley casually put his. The first of many things, he thought: the first helicopter journey and the first time he would enter a situation in which shooting would be inevitable. Remember to take the safety catch off, he told himself. His stomach churned, rumbling like Patton’s had earlier. Did he have an ulcerous condition? Or was he just frightened? Frightened, he accepted honestly.

The Italian returned to the helicopter for its communication facilities. The rest of them wandered about the tiny clearing. There was nothing to say to each other. Danilov went to the lip of the plateau, overlooking the valley. He still couldn’t see a river, or a village called Alimena. The cicadas gossiped on. The sun was growing hotter, making him sweat more. He’d need a shower when he got back to Palermo. He took the Beretta from his waistband, looking at it again. It seemed remarkably small, fragile even, to be able to kill somebody. How many bullets had been fired from this very gun: killed people? Click went the safety catch: click again when he reset it.