Six Graves to Munich - Mario Cleri [35]
Rogan frowned and shook his head. “She’s too lively, and men can’t talk with women around. I like your company too much to have it spoiled by a female’s idle chatter.” Bari laughed and they were agreed; they would leave early the next morning and return late in the evening. Genco Bari had some business in a few small villages that could be taken care of along the way. Rogan was glad to see that these villages were on the road to Palermo.
They started off the next morning with Rogan driving and Genco Bari, his skull-like face shielded by his inevitable cream-colored Panama hat, seated next to him. They drove a few hours on the main road to Palermo, and then Bari directed Rogan to take a side road that wound up in the hilly regions. The road ended in a narrow trail, and Rogan had to stop the car.
“Bring the food and wine,” Genco Bari said. “We’ll picnic beneath the rocks.”
Rogan carried the basket to where Bari was standing in the shadow of the hill. There was a red-checked tablecloth to spread over the ground, and on top of that he put the covered dishes of fried aubergine, cold sausage, a loaf of crusty bread wrapped in a white napkin. There were wide short glasses for the wine, and Bari poured from the jug. When they had finished eating, Bari offered Rogan a long, thin black cigar. “Sicilian tobacco, rare, but the best in the world,” Bari said. He flared his lighter and lit Rogan’s cigar for him, then said in exactly the same tone of voice, “Why are you going to kill me today?”
Rogan, surprised, took a quick glance to see if he had been led into a trap. Genco Bari shook his head. “No, I have not taken any precautions to guard my life. It is of no value to me any longer. But I still like to satisfy my curiosity. Who are you and why do you wish to kill me?”
Rogan said slowly, “You told me once that you had never done violence to a woman. But you helped to kill my wife.” Bari looked puzzled, so Rogan went on. “On Rosenmontag, 1945, in the Munich Palace of Justice. You fixed my tie before Eric Freisling shot me in the back of the head. But you never killed me. You never killed me. I stayed alive. The Freisling brothers are dead, Moltke and Pfann are dead. After I kill you I have only Pajerski and von Osteen to punish, and then I can die happy.”
Genco Bari puffed on his cigar, stared at Rogan for a long time. “I knew you would have an honorable motive for killing me. You are so obviously an honorable man. All week I could see you planning how to kill me and then get safely on your plane in Palermo. So I’ve helped you. Leave my body here and go forward. Before anyone knows what has happened, you will be in Rome. Then I suggest you leave Italy as quickly as possible. The Mafia has a long arm.”
“If you hadn’t straightened my tie, if you hadn’t distracted me so that Eric could sneak up behind me, I might not kill you,” Rogan said.
On Bari’s emaciated face was a look of surprise. Then he smiled sadly. “I never meant to trick you,” he said. “I thought you knew you were going to die. And so I wanted you to feel a human touch, to comfort you in those last few moments without betraying myself to my fellow murderers. You see, I do not excuse myself from that deed. But I must insist to you now: I had nothing to do with your wife’s death or with her screams.”
The Sicilian sun was directly overhead and the rock overhanging them gave no shade. Rogan felt the sick anticipation rising in his stomach. “Was it von Osteen who killed her?” he said. “Tell me who tortured her, and I swear by her memory and her soul that I will let you go free.”
Genco Bari stood up. For the first time in their relationship he was harsh and angry. “You fool,” he said. “Haven’t you realized I want you to kill me? You are my deliverer, not my executioner. Every day I suffer terrible pain that no drugs can completely banish. The cancer is in every cell of my body, but it can’t kill me. As we did not succeed in killing you in the Munich Palace of Justice. I may live in this pain for years to come,