Free Luciano's Luck by Jack Higgins Page A

'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 74 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 75 BELLVILLE 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, hit 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. 76
    'I'm sorry, miss,' he said to Maria. 'I don't know