Free The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan by P. B. Kerr Page B

for them and them alone. Neither had forgotten the gist of what he had said earlier in the morning: that in some frightening and predestined way it was down to them as djinn, and to their tribe in particular, to save the world.

CHAPTER 8
KIDNAPPED
    T wo men stepped out of the second ice-cream van. Neither one of them looked particularly friendly.
    One, smoking a cigarette, jostled past Bruno and ducked into his van. There he inspected the ice-cream drum, which was full of vanilla flavor, switched it off, and then, as if to make sure that it was spoiled, tossed his cigarette inside.
    Groanin thought this was a bit unnecessary. All the same, he smiled and tipped his bowler hat to the other, larger Italian walking toward him. The man was carrying Bruno’s shotgun, which was the main reason Groanin felt an extra obligation to be courteous. In Groanin’s opinion it always paid to be polite to a man carrying a gun, especially in a foreign country.
    “Good morning, kind sir,” he said cheerily. “Lovely day, isn’t it? Perfect for selling ice cream, I should have thought. Not that we were doing that, of course. I said, not that we were doing that. We only stopped to ask for directions to the airport, which is where I am going. We certainly didn’t stop to sell any actual ice cream, you understand. Indeed, the factthat my friend here is driving an ice-cream van is incidental to the fact that he is acting in the role of taxi driver, there being no taxis to be had in the whole of Naples, what with rail strikes and volcanic ash and so on. It could just as easily have been a furniture van. Or a grocery van. The important thing was that I might travel back to England as soon as possible. I have important business I need to attend to. In Manchester. I don’t even like ice cream very much. It’s too cold for my stomach, you see.”
    While Groanin was explaining himself, the man from the Mafia — whose name was Vito — looked the butler up and down with some incredulity. He saw an Englishman with pin-striped trousers, a dark jacket and matching vest, a crisp white shirt and black tie, and a bowler hat. In short, he looked very like a picture the Mafioso had once seen of Sir Winston Churchill, a former British prime minister. And it was very evident to the Mafioso that Groanin must be someone equally important. Surely only someone important would have dressed in this ridiculous and absurdly formal fashion. This impression was underlined when the Mafioso searched Groanin’s bags and found one of them full of money.
    “You speak any Italian?” Vito asked Groanin.
    “I’m afraid not,” said Groanin. “Just English.”
    “That’s all right,” said Vito. “I speak the English pretty good, eh?”
    “Yes,” agreed Groanin. “You speak the English very good.”
    Vito called the other, smaller Mafioso over and, for a moment or two, they discussed the cash, in Italian.
    “How come you have so much money?” Vito asked Groanin. “What do you do for a living, Englishman?”
    “I’m a butler,” said Groanin.
    “What is a butler?” asked Vito.
    “A servant,” said Groanin.
    “For someone very important?”
    Suddenly, Groanin thought it best not to be unemployed but to be someone who had an influential employer.
    “Oh, yes,” said Groanin. “Very important. And very powerful, too. You’ve no idea how powerful. If anything happens to me, this person will be furious.”
    “Is this his money, or yours?”
    “It’s his,” said Groanin. “I’m looking after it for him.”
    “So this person you work for, he’s rich, yes?”
    Groanin laughed bitterly. “Oh, making money’s never been a problem for him. If he wants some money, he makes it.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
    “Maybe this man you work for might pay us a reward for looking after you. For protecting you, yes? For delivering you safely back to him.”
    “Perhaps,” said Groanin. “Yes, it’s possible. But I’m not in need of any