The goddam hat skimmed out across the dark water, caught an updraft, spun round and round, rose to a hundred, then perhaps a hundred-and-thirty feet, sailed, and finally vanished from the policeman's sight in the darkness. The only thing he could see was the diminishing lights of the ferryboat. With the magnificent Latin philosophical attitude, knowing he could do nothing whatever about the ferry and the huge man who'd taken command, the airplane got to his feet, steadied himself, and peed over the side.
Finished with his business, he lit a cigarette and made himself comfortable. It was a long time till daylight.
Mack Bolan wished for a night fifteen hours long, instead of one so short as this night in late spring so near the equator. He spoke to the captain. "How long for the crossing?"
The captain shrugged, with the kind of Lathi eloquence Bolan tried earlier to imitate, not especially successfully.
"It depends, signor, upon the wind, the seas, the tide."
Bolan showed the captain the Beretta.
"There are no tides in the Mediterranean."
"Ah, so, yes. But in the Strait, she is different. Huh? Meeting our Tyrian Sea with the Med."
"Old man," Bolan said flatly, ruthlessly, without remorse, "I can see the island now. Sicily. The big vast dark shape rising out of the sea." Bolan paused, and laid the icy cold iron along the side of the shipmaster's face. "There is no way I can miss it. Agreed?"
"Si, signor."
"Surely you have no stupid idea of dying on my account. I've harmed no crewman, set the airplane free, have not even inquired about your safe, correct?"
"Assolutamente, signor! Absolutely, sir!"
"You have valuables in the safe?"
The captain hesitated just a fraction of a second too long, so when he answered, Bolan knew the captain lied. "No, no valuables."
"You lied. But no matter. Take them for yourself and blame it on me." Bolan laughed coarsely. "What else, eh?"
The captain did not reply.
"Now, you are on course, correct?" Bolan asked. Then sarcastically — "Allowing for the tide and winds and so forth, naturally."
"I am on course."
"Stay so and you have nothing — listen to me! Nothing to worry about, understand?"
"Si, signor."
"I am leaving the wheelhouse now, scouting around; but you saw the devastation of this gun I hold. Now, you son of a bitch are you going to maintain course for Messina or what?"
"Straight on course, absolutely."
"Or the ship has a new captain."
And before the ship's master was sure the black-clad big man was gone, he was alone.
Bolan slithered across hatches and found the aft hold. He lifted the cover and squirmed down inside. With a penlight he located his crate. Sweating and struggling, he shifted the cargo so the crate would be first unloaded, then he went back topside. The lights of Messina had come into view.
Bolan found his peasant clothing, rolled it into a bundle and covered it with a large plastic bag, moved to the port railing, drew the .44 Automag and sent a thundering shot through the wheelhouse, deliberately wide, missing the captain, but sending along the message.
Then he rewrapped the Automag in protective covering and secured it and fell off the port rail, landing on his back. Twenty minutes later Bolan was ashore. In the brittle starlight and late cast of the dying moon, he could look almost straight up and see the snow-capped towering loom of Mount Etna.
He found a hidden cavelike cove amongst the rocks, dragged in driftwood and built a fire. He stripped off his skintight black combat garb, removed the ammo, maps, emergency rations and other equipment, and stood before the fire to warm. He checked his watch. Plenty of time. He broke open a kit of rations, ate the concentrated vitamin/high-protein bars, then allowed himself the luxury of a single cup of coffee while he smoked a cigarette.
Then he lay on the sand with his feet to the fire, set his mental never-fail alarm, and slept until an hour before dawn. In six minutes Bolan was up and moving, having erased every trace of his landing, of his existence. As the blood-red rising sun rose upward across the eastern horizon, Bolan squatted in hiding beside the Messina-Catania road, wearing the rough, ill-fitting, impressed peasant costume over his weapons and black combat suit.
There was hardly any traffic. Bolan had to accustom himself to that. As he'd done in Calabria. Christ, back in the states in Metropolitan New England/New York/D.C. — all along the Atlantic Seaboard between Boston and Virginia, it was a lousy 24-hour-a-day scramble. He'd seen people who couldn't afford a $7 taxi fare to Manhattan wait two and a half hours in a stone buzzard at La Guardia for a bus: fare, two bucks.
On the other hand, it simplified Bolan's problem.
He knew the name of the freighter. He had the manifest wrapped in oilskin in his pocket. He had chosen the crest of a long grinding grade for his watchpoint. Bolan chuckled to himself, remembering when he'd done his research on Sicily. Some professor writing for one of the encyclopedias dismissed the Mafia with a single sentence:
"The Mafia as such, and organized brigandage, no longer exist on the island."
Bolan had a lunch of cheese and wine. He did not smoke. He waited. At two in the afternoon he drank another slug of the wine. He waited. During the whole day nine cars and eleven trucks passed.
Shortly before sundown he saw a truck coming that bore both the name and the colors of the hauler who was supposed to have The Bohemian Magician's gear aboard.
Bolan crept out of hiding, staying concealed by roadside vegetation, caught the tailgate of the truck as it passed. He climbed inside, knife ready, slashed the ropes and quilted coverings ... and found nothing.
He eased back and dropped off the truck, returned to his hiding place and waited, wondering. Would the cartage company send a night truck?
There was not that much business on Sicily.
Bolan felt a little sick.
He felt as though he'd been had.
He felt his neck hair bristle again. Okay, they had him made. No matter who. The cops, the "members." The next truck would have his gear, and a load of empty boxes. Inside each box, if large enough, would crouch a soldier, armed, ready, eager to collect the bounty on Mack Bolan.
Bolan eased back into concealment and checked his map. The plan sprang instantly to the front of his agile mind, but it depended entirely upon his own physical stamina and capability.
At first he felt completely confident. Hell, he could do anything! A moment later his combat senses took control and he worked it out.
It was just possible.
Just.
As the gloom of night descended, Bolan stripped to his black commando uniform, darkened his face and hands. And just as twilight settled in, the sun lowering behind the ten-thousand-plus feet of Mount Etna, Bolan heard the truck laboring up the hill toward him.
He let the truck go by, watching the cab. A soldier from Naples, an insignificant punk called Rapa, The Turnip, sat behind the wheel. Alone.
Like hell, Bolan thought, watching. Turnip was crammed against the far door, as though he had six guys out of sight in the cab with him.
Bolan let the truck go past, then fell in behind it at a slow jog, all it took to keep up on the steep grade. He flashed his penlight on the freight. One case, his own with the MAGO marking, showed evidence of being solidly nailed down. Five other large wooden boxes....
With a fingernail a man could lift the lids!
Okay, figure a minimum of two hardmen to the box. That made ten. The Beretta held eight 9mm Parabellums in a pistol-grip magazine, and one round chambered, a total of nine shots. Nine deadly crunchers. Phutting death. With the silencer, the Beretta made the sound of a smothered cough.