Both men resembled characters out of a gangster movie, with barrel chests, broad shoulders, hands the size of ham hocks, and lifeless eyes. Neither of them were quick on their feet, and their IQs were as high as un asino (a donkey). He selected them solely on their appearance, as the intimidation factor was a high priority.
As he looked in the mirror, he visualized in his mind the two men using every vulgar word in the Italian language as they did their best to catch up to him this evening. Basta, he thought. Enough. He eased up on the accelerator.
Luigi Castalani, about 5’6”, in his mid-forties, and heavy set, was born in and grew up in Palermo. His pockmarked face and blue eyes were always an embarrassment to him during his growing up years. Even though nearly eighteen percent of Sicilians have blue eyes, Castalani felt like an outsider, always wondering if his father was actually his natural father.
During and after World War II, living on the streets of Palermo became a way of life for young men. For many it meant survival. Castalani was one of those young men, taking to the streets of his home, bullying and intimidating. He’d dropped out of high school early, but he had what many deemed more important than an education. He had developed a knowledge of the streets.
Following in the footsteps of his Uncle Francesco, he joined the Palermo Cosa Nostra at the age of eighteen. On advice from his uncle, he made it a point to stay close to Pino Falcone, with full intention of learning the ways of the Mafia, learning how to control, learning how to always come out on top, no matter who he stepped on along the way, and if necessary, who he “disposed of.” It was a matter of survival and power.
Castalani rolled down the window and rested his arm on the door. The early evening hour was cool and damp. Breathing in deeply, he smelled smoke from fireplaces and stoves. Sicilians in this part of the country, living away from cities, still maintained the older, simpler way of life, cooking on wood-burning stoves, making crusty breads and fresh cheese. Most still raised chickens, goats, sheep, living naturally off the land of their ancestors.
But for him, as poor as his family was, he felt richer than the people living here, living the lives they led. And yet, whatever he had, from his childhood to the present day, it never seemed to be enough. He always wanted more; he always expected more. And he was determined to get whatever he desired.
He turned on the headlights, preparing to start the drive alongIl Serpente(the serpent), the dark, two lane road stretching in front of him. He knew the road well, having traveled on its many twists and turns several times over the past months. For those who were unfamiliar with it, especially traveling at the speed he was going, disaster was likely. As the vehicle slid around a curve, its headlights glinted off dented fenders and broken glass scattered along the shoulder, a testament to Il Serpente’s hazards.
The Spider’s tires found dirt as the car entered a sharp curve. Castalani maintained complete control, still with only one hand holding the leather-covered steering wheel.
He’d been traveling for about ninety minutes. Any time now he was expecting to see the lights from Enna, a city where his brother, Angelo, lived with his son. The city is situated on a mountaintop almost in the exact center of Sicily and is the highest city on the island. It’s the only important city of ancient Sicily that wasn’t founded by foreign invaders.
A month earlier Castalani advised Angelo he was meeting friends in Enna, and from there, they’d be going away on a brief trip. And since his friends had already offered to drive, Luigi promised his brother to leave the Alfa with him, much to Angelo’s surprise.
The brothers had little in common and their visits were rare. They were always cordial to one another but that’s as far as it went. Angelo was a simple man, content with his life as a green grocer. His wife had died when she was thirty-four, leaving him to raise their eight year old son. He was a man who never questioned the life his older brother led, but was determined his own son would never become anything like his Uncle Angelo.
The hour was late when Castalani pulled into the driveway. Seeing the headlights, Angelo stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The brothers gave each other a quick, customary kiss on each cheek, then separated, both of them feeling uncomfortable.
The conversation was brief, with Castalani’s attention constantly being drawn away from his brother. His interest was mainly on the road.
In less than five minutes, and with relief at seeing the Fiat coming up the one lane road, Castalani tossed his brother the keys and said a quick goodbye. Angelo nodded and immediately went back into the house.
Dino Luca, sitting in the passenger seat of the Fiat, jumped out and opened the rear door for Castalani. Once his boss was settled, he slammed the door and climbed into the front seat, just as Castalani ordered, “Andiamo!”
Chapter 3
The U.S. had plans to build a new facility to house the Armed Forced Network (AFN) in southern Europe. After weighing other possible sites, the Italian island of Sicily was chosen. Fifty acres located approximately ten miles southwest of Catania, forty miles from the volcano Mount Etna was purchased.
The location was ideal since the countryside around the compound was mostly vacant land. A few farmhouses, long since deserted by families looking for better lives in America, are the only evidence this once held the dreams of many. Now olive groves, citrus and grape orchards, with scrub grass growing wildly around them, stand as reminders of what could have been.
Negotiations with the Italian government to lease the property took seven months. Construction was completed in fifteen months, and finally, after another two months, the network was up and running.
Already on the property was a dilapidated airplane hangar built during World War II, and adjacent to the hangar stood a small two-story building once used by the Germans as barracks. Having the buildings available made the property all the more feasible.
Shortly before 2100 hours, a Russian Kamov KA-25PS helicopter landed inside the compound of AFN. Mostly used for SAR (Search and Rescue) and transport, the helo didn't have a weapons bay but had provisions for twelve passengers or stretchers. Usually painted red and white, the only distinguishing mark was a red star painted on each of the triple tail fins.
The side door slid open and two men emerged, ducking and holding onto their hats, as they rushed beneath the rotating blades. One man carried a tan-colored leather briefcase, while the other had a small, black box with a handle. They were dressed in civilian suits, both dark gray in color, and black leather jackets. The men appeared to be in their early sixties, about the same height, 5’8”, both with salt and pepper hair. They hurried away from the helo, waiting for their escort.
Once the engine was completely shut down, the pilot unlatched his shoulder harness, then lifted his luggage from behind his seat. He walked to the open door. Leaning slightly, he gave a quick look around, then stepped out. He adjusted his hat, centering it squarely on his head, then closed the sliding door behind him.
He was 5’10”, with a solid body and short black hair, showing some gray strands near his temples. He had a typical Russian face, round with well-defined cheekbones, and eyelids that drooped slightly at the corners. He wore an olive green wool uniform and had a long coat folded over his arm. His visor hat was emblazoned with a sickle and hammer emblem, a complete uniform of the KGB.