Chapter Text
69.1 – The Sicilian Connection
Never go in against a Sicilian when DEATH is on the line.
“Grazzii, Papá.” Brad Crawford clasped his hands before him, bowed slightly, and backed out of the dimly lit doorway.
Only after the door closed did he straighten and turn away. He adjusted the cuffs on his fine suit jacket, tugging the shirt cuffs into line just so beneath them.
Budapest. Not his favorite city, by any means, but oh so useful to the wise.
Brad rejoined Farfarello at the small café. “It’s arranged. Are you ready for this?”
“Always, on your order.” Far’s voice held no trace of accent, carrying flatly across the small distance between the two men. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
They played the part of tourists for the next few hours, occupying their thoughts with anything but their upcoming journey. Both men had formidable mental shielding, one due to madness, the other to sheer will. Still, Brad Crawford did not take unnecessary chances. It would be prudent to lay low, and think of other things.
Dusk found them at the edge of town, joining three swarthy men in the back of a dark limousine.
“You have your part of the deal?” Brad asked in flawless Sicilian.
The shortest of the three men did not look at Brad, rather studied the backs of his own fingernails. He wiped absently at a speck on one and replied, “As promised. And you?”
Brad smiled and adjusted his glasses. “The Terrazzi business – stay clear of it. One faction in particular – I believe you know of whom I speak – is looking for a scapegoat; someone will get burned.”
“And?”
Moving slowly so as to not invite disaster, Brad reached into his jacket and produced a thick white envelope. “American. Unmarked.” He suppressed a smirk, for he knew damn well that there were some marks only Esset could notice. Let them search through the underworld: Schwarz would not be there.
The man accepted the envelope, but did not open it. He handed it to his taller associate and told the driver to proceed.
Brad and Farfarello relaxed into their seats as their hosts transported them to a small house in an unremarkable town. By this time, night covered every transaction in a fitting degree of shadow, cloaking the world in a bandit’s shroud.
The Sicilians escorted the men of Schwarz into the building. Inside, four other men greeted their fellows and Brad with robust hugs. To their polite questions, Brad informed them that he had enjoyed his stay in Budapest very much, and the ride here even more. “It is always a pleasure to do business with your esteemed family.”
One older man offered Brad several sets of documents, which the American looked over very carefully. Passports, identification papers, even a birth certificate. He couldn’t help but smile – if the disguises were as good as these, it would certainly be worth the cost. Brad nodded his approval; several of the men took this moment to light cigars, as though they’d been waiting for some sort of benediction.
Brad examined Farfarello’s disguise before even allowing the Irishman to try it on. Current issue U.S. Army, Sergeant First Class, highly decorated, purple heart. Wounded in action, steel pins in left leg, jaw, and a plate in the skull. And every bit of it authenticated and documented. Brad couldn’t help but smile – this was as close to perfect as it gets.
Far stripped and began to dress in the uniform, ignoring the stares of the Sicilians. As he buttoned the final buttons and adjusted the beret, he, too, smiled. Brad handed him his travel papers, which he read over briefly before stashing them in his pockets.
Now that the Irishman was set, Brad turned to his own disguise. The generic black polyester suit was a far cry from his current European styling, but that couldn’t be helped. Besides, the loss of his new designer suit was part of his payment: the Don’s younger son fancied it, so Brad had included it in his bargain.
As Brad removed each article of clothing, he folded it neatly and set it on the table. Fine cashmere and linen made way for a crisp white shirt, dark wrinkle proof two-piece suit and tie, airline insignia and matching pocket handkerchief. Brad’s entire demeanor changed to match his new image, going from highly-trained Esset operative to inconspicuous flight attendant in the blink of an eye. He checked the spare clothing in the small, wheeled carry-on case, and nodded. They had provided him with a shaving kit, gentlemen’s toiletries, and fresh undergarments, as well as a set of casual clothes. At the bottom of the case he found a parking receipt and a set of car keys. He glanced up at his host, Brad’s expression one of mild bemusement.
“You are always so generous,” the elderly Sicilian stated around his cigar. “We, too, are generous.”
“My thanks, as always,” Brad replied with a bow.
“Just one question, my friend.”
Brad raised an eyebrow; Far glanced at his leader as if seeking orders. Brad raised his right hand to signal for him to stand by, then addressed the Don. “No harm in one question among friends.”
“My granddaughter. She says she sees angels, says they tell her things. True things.” The old man leaned closer, his eyes dark with a father’s most desperate fear. “Will they come for her?”
Brad placed his hand over his heart and replied, “So long as I draw breath, they will not touch her. Today she is young; by the time she is a woman, she will have no fear of them.”
The Don touched a hand to his own breast and said, “Then may you draw breath for a long damn time. My family will be happy to give you whatever insurance you need to that end.”
“Grazzii, Papá.”