Paul Christopher - The Templar Cross

"So what can I do for Moustafa's friends today?" Al asked when the preliminaries were over.

"Girls," said Holliday bluntly as Al popped the last piece of gooey pastry into his mouth.

"You don't seem the type of guys who'd be looking for girls," said Al, speculatively. "You don't have that collegiate look, capisce? None of that Brotherhood of the Traveling Panty Hound look you sometimes get here, know what I mean?"

"We're looking for the people who might deal in girls as a commodity," said Holliday.

"Business," said Al, nodding, getting the idea.

"Business," agreed Holliday.

"Not my thing," Al said with a shrug. "I'm strictly small-time. Bit of booze, bit of weed, maybe even some blow if you get really hard-core, but that's as far as I go. Like to keep a low profile, right? Flying under the radar, yeah? The Fonz has a good thing going here." Al gave them a hard look. "Got the family reputation to protect as well, right?"

"But you know what I'm talking about," said Holliday.

"Sure."

"And you are connected," added Holliday.

"But you're not," answered Al flatly.

"No," agreed Holliday. "But believe me, Al, my friends and I can be dangerous."

"That some kind of threat?" asked the young man, bristling slightly. He stubbed out his Marlboro and lit another.

"More like a warning," said Holliday. "We're going to find out what we need to know one way or the other; you can either help us or hinder. It's up to you. These people kidnapped my cousin, my family, Al. We're going to get her back even if other people get hurt in the process. Capisce?"

Al took a long drag on his cigarette and stared at Holliday.

"How'd you lose the eye?"

"Afghanistan," said Holliday curtly.

"Army?"

"Rangers."

"You saying it's Axis or Allies?"

"Something like that."

"Italians could have saved themselves a lot of trouble, they'd gotten rid of Mussolini in the first place."

"Agreed."

"Guy you're looking for has a place in Le Forna, up the road. Runs a dive shop. Good-looking, forty, forty-five. Gray hair, expensive sunglasses."

"What's his name?"

"Conti. Massimo Conti."

Le Forna was a sleepy little village on the upper horn of the island's crescent, and like Ponza Town it clung to a series of stone terraces carved out of the tuffa cliffs millennia before. Al drove them in his Fiat Idea Minivan, following the twisting narrow road along the spine of the island, heading north.

"Conti's not a local," said Al, from behind the wheel. "I think he's from Naples. There was a hotel for sale in Le Forna and he bought it. Just appeared one day and started spending money in the town. Hotel one summer, then the dive shop, then an air charter service. Turbo Otters from Rome for the glitterati. Seems to be paying off."

"Naples," said Holliday. "Camorra?"

"Who knows from Camorra?" Al shrugged. "Mario Puzo time. Everyone wants to be a Soprano." The young man made an unpronounceable sound like a badger clearing its throat. "It's all bull." The young man paused. "He does have some kind of juice though, that's for sure. Two years and half the town is his."

"How does he handle the women?"

"It's a way station. Any talent that actually works here are imports from Rome. Classy stuff, not the raw meat you're talking about. Word is he parks the goods in the old abandoned prison on Santo Stefano, then brings them to the mainland when he's ready. Doesn't crap in his own nest so to speak. Uses his dive boats as cover and transportation."

"Where's Santo Stefano, and what is it?"

"An island twenty-five miles east, closer to the coast. It's a rock, maybe half a mile across. The prison's about four hundred years old. They used it right up to the sixties."

"What else is there?"

"Nothing. There's another island, Ventotene, about a mile and a half away with a few hundred people on it, but that's it."

They arrived in Le Forna. Al found them another cafe high on the cliffs above the harbor. He ordered coffee and rolls for everyone, then pointed out Conti's dive shop far below them. It was no more than a shack on an old seawall that looked as though it was part of a Roman ruin. As they watched, a big cabin-decked inflatable was being hauled down a long stone ramp into the clear, sparkling water. The aluminum boat's inflatable collar was bright orange and the upper deck and cabin were red and white.

"Two hundred grand a pop with a pair of Honda 225s," commented Al. "And he's got six of them." The young man snorted. "Like I said, juice from somewhere."

"Color scheme's interesting," commented Holliday. "I saw one just like it back in the harbor at Ponza."

"Noticed, did you?" Al laughed. "Same as the Guardia Costiera. You can bet he's got some sticky signs around that say just that."

"I take it he's bringing in more than women," said Holliday, watching as the inflatable was rolled into the water. There were half a dozen tourist types watching from the pier as scuba tanks were loaded on board.

"There's places on the island you could unload a small freighter, no problem," Al said and nodded. "I've seen it for myself. Bales of dope, crates of weapons. He's got a whole black market going. Anything people buy, Massimo Conti and his people sell." The Brooklyn taxi driver nodded toward the shack on the ancient pier below them. "Speak of the devil," he said quietly.

A middle-aged very fit-looking man in Gucci sunglasses and an eighty-dollar haircut appeared. He stood by the small group of tourists on the pier, chatting as their dive boat was prepared. He clapped one of them on the back and they headed down the old stone ramp. He watched for a second, then stepped back into the shack.

"That was him?" Holliday asked.

"Yup." Al nodded.

"You know anything about his schedule?"

"Wednesdays he goes out on his boat. Big Dalla Pieta 48 he keeps in Ponza. Comes back Fridays. Says he's diving on an old destroyer that was sunk off Anzio, the HMS Inglefield."

"You don't believe it?"

"Not his kind of thing. Look at him. George Hamilton with pecs. Mr. Adventure. He'd go for a Roman wreck maybe, something with class, but not a rusty old piece of tin from the Second World War." Al lit another Marlboro. "Besides, friends of mine have seen him in Ventotene on Thursdays, partying."

"What's wrong with that?" Rafi asked.

"Nowhere near Anzio," said Al. "Opposite direction."

"Think he's supervising a pickup or a drop?" Holliday asked.

"Could be," said Al.

"Tomorrow's Wednesday," said Rafi.

"So it is," said Al.

"Can you get us to this Santo Stefano by tomorrow night?" Holliday said.

"Sure," said Al. "Hookers is one thing, white slavery's something else." The young man grinned. "Kinda thing gives organized crime a bad name, capisce?"

Al's uncle Paolo, Mario the cousin's father, had a twenty-four-foot Toyo trawler named Sofia that he used for fishing when he wasn't busy raising rabbits for the hotels. Uncle Paolo was perfectly happy to rent Holliday Sofia for a price as long as he promised faithfully to bring the boat and his American nephew back to him in one piece-emphasis on Sofia rather than the nephew, Uncle Paolo being a practical man, after all.

Peggy would have called Sofia "cute." To Al she was "smart." To Holliday she seemed just a little silly, almost a toy. The plywood semidisplacement hull looked like a lifeboat with a telephone booth perched on the back and was painted white with a nice sky blue stripe down the gunwales.

The forward hold, lined with zinc, was big enough to carry a hundred and forty cubic feet or a little more than a ton of shrimp, caught using what Al referred to as a single Dutch seine rig towed behind the boat at a depth of about eighty to a hundred feet along the muddy and sandy bottom of the offshore area between the islands.