The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [162]
Velardi ordered the four policemen out of the room but gave the officer a signal to stay. He also gave him a signal to be ready to draw his gun. Then he turned his full attention to Stefan Andolini.
“I want any information on how I can put my hands on Guiliano,” he said. “The last time you met with him and Pisciotta.”
Stefan Andolini laughed, his murderous face twisted in a malevolent grimace. The skin grained with red beard seemed to blaze with violence.
No wonder they called him Fra Diavalo, Velardi thought. He was truly a dangerous man. He must have no inkling of what was coming.
Velardi said to him calmly, “Answer my question or I’ll have you stretched out on the cassetta.”
Andolini said with contempt, “You traitorous bastard, I’m under the protection of Minister Trezza and Don Croce. When they have me released, I’ll cut your sbirri heart out.”
Velardi reached over and slapped Andolini’s face twice, once with his palm and then backhand. He saw the blood well up on Andolini’s mouth and the rage in his eyes. He deliberately turned his back to sit at his desk.
At that moment, anger blinding his instinct for survival, Stefan Andolini grabbed the pistol out of the Inspector’s belt holster and tried to fire. In that same instant the police officer drew his own gun and fired four shots into Andolini’s body. Andolini was hurled against the far wall and then lay on the floor. The white shirt was stained completely red and, Velardi thought, it matched his hair quite nicely. He reached down and took the pistol from Andolini’s hand as other policemen rushed into the room. He complimented the Captain on his alertness, and then in full view of the officer he loaded his pistol with the bullets he had emptied out of it before the meeting. He did not want his Captain to get delusions of grandeur, that he had actually saved the life of a careless head of the Security Police.
Then he ordered his men to search the dead body. As he suspected the red-bordered security pass was in the sheaf of identification papers every Sicilian was required to carry. Velardi took the pass and put in into his safe. He would hand it over to Minister Trezza personally, and, with luck he would have Pisciotta’s pass to go along with it.
On deck one of the men brought Michael and Clemenza small cups of hot espresso which they drank leaning against the rail. The launch was slowly heading in to land, motor quiet, and they could see the lights on the dock, faint blue pinpoints.
Clemenza was walking around the deck, giving orders to the armed men and the pilot. Michael studied the blue lights which seemed to be running toward him. The boat was picking up speed, and it was as if that churning of the water swept away the darkness of the night. A chink of dawn opened in the sky, and Michael could see the dock and beaches of Mazara del Vallo; the colored umbrellas of café tables were a dusky rose beyond them.
When they docked there were three cars and six men waiting. Clemenza led Michael to the lead vehicle, an open and ancient touring car which held only a driver. Clemenza got into the front seat and Michael got into the back. Clemenza said to Michael, “If we get stopped by a carabinieri patrol, you duck down to the floor. We can’t fool around here on the road, we just gotta blow them away and make our run.”
The three wide-bodied touring cars were moving in the pale, early sunlight through a countryside almost unchanged since the birth of Christ. Ancient aqueducts and pipes spouted water over the fields. It was already warm and humid, and the air was filled with the smell of flowers beginning to rot in the heat of the Sicilian summer. They were passing through the Selinunte, the ruins of the ancient Greek city, and Michael could see