Chapter Twenty-Eight

Virgin Bonding

Rome, Italy, June 1985

“You have surprised me on two counts,” said Sergio Sabbatini, frowning as he spoke.

“How so?” replied Maria Orsinni, returning his frown with one of her own.

“Firstly,” qualified Sergio as he stood behind her chair, “you are on time.” He waited until she was seated, then bent to whisper in her ear, “And secondly, you look even more beautiful than you did on our first date.”

Sergio saw her blush and smile at the same time, and marvelled at her apparent surprise to be complimented. He had seen several male heads turn to watch her progress to the table, yet she had glided past them without seeming to lose eye contact with him. He could feel his own face reddening with his thoughts. Then he remembered that he was in the company of a woman who could spot a carabiniere surveillance team without revealing the fact that she had seen them, and told himself now that she would have noticed her admirers.

She was wearing a figure-hugging dress of shimmering printed silk, its pattern using the colours of black and pale gold and turquoise blue to depict the leaves of an exotic looking plant climbing around her body and reaching for the cowl-shaped neck of the dress. Around her neck, a slim chain held the gold crucifix which nestled between the cleavage of her breasts and her long black hair gleamed and fell to her shoulders. She looked stunning, thought Sergio.

“You look very dashing yourself, Sergio,” she said with a smile, “I could be dining with Roma’s answer to James Bond,” she ended, laughing softly across the table.

They were in the Caffe Greco restaurant above the nightclub where they had danced together for the first time, and Sergio grinned at her double-0-seven jibe whilst now wondering if he had made a mistake by turning up in a tuxedo.

“The waiter is approaching with the menus,” he said by way of deflection, “are you hungry?”

“Hungry for food,” she replied, smiling again as she added, “and for knowledge.”

Sergio watched her now across the table as she perused the menu. One month had sped by since Zola had opened the Weintrub suitcase on a rooftop terrace, and ever since that day the sergeant had never referred to Maria Orsinni disrespectfully. While two policemen and a hotel manager had been frozen with shock, she had calmly examined the suitcase contents and informed them that the timer had not been set. Then while he and Zola had bundled the man calling himself Weintrub into Sergio’s car, Maria Orsinni had carried the suitcase which she had continued to hold whilst sitting behind Zola all the way to carabiniere headquarters. Zola had even later expressed the opinion that if they had let Maria question Weintrub they could have probably saved themselves weeks of interrogation.

“His name is Bloomberg,” said Sergio when the waiter had left with their orders, “and he’s an Israeli. We’ve been told he’s one of the best free-lance assassins in the business, and one of the most expensive to hire because he never fails on a contract. He has a reputation for getting to targets considered by others in his fraternity to be too high-profile to reach and take down.”

The pre-dinner drinks arrived, and the waiter was walking away when Maria spoke.

“But Canizzaro has no bodyguards,” she said, “and moves around quite freely. He could surely never be classified as difficult to reach.”

“That’s right,” acknowledged Sergio, watching her closely now, “If Canizzaro had been the sole target, he could have been taken down in any number of ways at any one of a dozen locations. He could also have been killed by any number of assassins with a lower profile than Bloomberg. Men who would have been available for a fraction of the price someone like Bloomberg could ask for and get.”

“So what are you trying to tell me, Sergio?”

“Somebody paid Bloomberg’s asking price because he wanted three things regardless of cost. He wanted to be sure that success was guaranteed. He wanted Claudio Canizzaro dead. And he also wanted Maria Orsinni dead.”

Sergio waited and watched now as Maria sipped wine from her glass whilst absorbing the information she’d been given along with his conclusion.

“What did Bloomberg have to say about the phone call?” she finally asked.

“He denied having anything to do with it,” replied Sergio, knowing how she would respond.

“Which was of course,” she emphatically retorted, “a lie.”

“Hard to believe otherwise,” acknowledged Sergio, “I think his plan was to provoke carabiniere interest in the Bartalucci family as a smokescreen to conceal the person who gave him the contract. The oblique reference to Giovanno Orsinni was his mistake, because he obviously didn’t know of the relationship between your father and Canizzaro.”

He watched now as she fingered the crucifix at her neck and his gaze travelled to her breasts, and then he looked up to see her eyes reading his mind and he felt his face reddening again. But she didn’t say anything about his wandering eyes.

“Well, it’s not rocket science,” she said quietly, “The only somebody who would want Canizzaro and myself killed together, is the dwarf who suffered as a result of our joint actions. By serving notice on Brantano, my uncle was closing off a lucrative and suspicion-free venue for Luigi Rinaldi’s child-trafficking business and paedophile activities. From Rinaldi’s twisted perspective, Canizzaro would probably also have been considered responsible for bringing the carabiniere in to the picture. Which stopped cold the theft of art treasures which Rinaldi would presumably have sold back to the insurance company for several million dollars. Canizzaro also triggered my own unwelcome appearance at the Via Del Moro, which cost Luigi Rinaldi one of his men.”

The ordered soup course arrived at this point, and further conversation was put on hold as they both silently addressed their starter and their thoughts.

“Bloomberg wouldn’t have given you Rinaldi’s name,” said Maria a little while later, pushing aside her empty soup plate, “but you were unsurprised by my summary. So the carabiniere presumably had reached the same conclusions,” she ended.

“As you said yourself,” he replied, “it’s not rocket science.”

Sergio saw her glance around the restaurant, and his own eyes followed suit. The place was filling up with other diners. Couples mainly, saw Sergio, but unlike himself and Maria these were couples exhibiting body language which said they were established partnerships. This was a place made for couples in love, thought Sergio, and its ambience had clearly been created with romance firmly in the mind of its creator. Music was quietly coming from speakers hidden somewhere around the room which would probably seat about thirty people, reckoned Sergio. Artfully highlighted by soft lighting and dotted around the walls, canvassed watercolour depictions of Italy’s cities hung alongside those of photographic prints of scenes from classic romantic films. It was a good place to relax, thought Sergio. But when he looked back at Maria Orsinni, she didn’t look at all relaxed. He felt like kicking himself. He was sitting here allowing this place to get to him, while she was probably still thinking about having herself been a target for assassination. He was about to say something, but she spoke first.

“What’s happening now with Bloomberg?”

“He’s the subject of a jurisdictional dogfight,” replied Sergio, “You may recall my telling you his face was on an international ‘wanted’ poster. A lot of people want to question the man they’ve been hunting for a long time.”

“So by catching him, you’re a carabiniere hero, Sergio,” she said behind a smile.

“I might have been just a dead carabiniere officer,” countered Sergio, “if Bloomberg hadn’t been distracted by a beautiful face under the moon on a rooftop terrace.” He watched her smile as he paused, and decided to float the question. “Have you spoken to your father about this business?” He saw her smile replaced now by a frown as she replied.

“My father is retired, and this business, as you call it, need not concern him. Besides which, his brother was never in any danger, and his daughter was protected by someone he couldn’t be told about. So I didn’t really feel the need to talk to my father.”

The main course was brought to their table at this point, effectively removing Sergio’s need to reply. But he had heard and understood the message, which was that the carabiniere shouldn’t be bothering to include her father in their deliberations. Sergio decided he wasn’t going to ruin this evening by debating the subject of carabiniere versus Bartalucci and, by association, their former consigliere.

“This carbonara looks good,” he said, “what about your fish?”

“I wish I had chosen the carbonara,” she replied, frowning down at her plate.

“My name is Bond,” he said, carefully exchanging their plates, “Sergio Bond, and I can make your wish come true.”

She grinned as they exchanged cutlery. “You’re just encouraging me to become fat.”

“Fat chance of that happening,” he responded, and couldn’t stop his gaze travelling all the way up the exotic looking leaves printed on her dress.

“Your eyes are wandering again, Signore Bond,” she said.

Sergio felt his face reddening again, but she was smiling as she started in on the carbonara, and he turned his own concentration towards picking the bones out from the fish. They proceeded to consume their meal at a leisurely pace, stopping occasionally to share an opinion of the music, or to comment upon the wine, and to answer the harmless questions which were posed from either side of the table. But, as in any friendly exchange of information, they were learning things about one another. They touched on mutual ‘likes and dislikes’, and confirmed the fact that they shared a similar kind of humour. Sergio was discovering just how intelligent Maria was, and wondering how he was measuring up in the course of their brief debates on politics, current affairs, and the works of the legendary Englishman William Shakespeare. By the time that even the small talk was running dry, Sergio had formed the opinion that whatever was bothering Maria, it wasn’t the Rinaldi business. She would have spoken about that, he reckoned. But something was bothering her. He was still wondering what it was that her body language was telling him she couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about, when she looked at him in a way which stopped him thinking entirely but made him feel as if his heart might just explode.

“Would you mind if we skipped the dessert course, Sergio?”

“Not at all,” he managed, wondering anew what was wrong, “Would you like coffee?”

“I thought you might make that yourself,” she replied with a smile.

“Scusi?” he said, completely thrown now.

“Well you’ve seen where I live, but I’ve never been to your home,” she said, “I thought it was time for you to even the score. Anyway I came here by taxi, so you could drive me home later. Unless Signore Bond would prefer not to make me coffee?” she ended with another smile.

Realization was almost overwhelming him, but Sergio feigned a relaxed persona as he returned her smile. Trying to appear relaxed as the thoughts ran through his mind. This was what her body language had been signalling. She had come here by taxi. She had wanted him to take her back to his apartment.

“Immodesty aside,” he said, “I have to tell you that I make a wonderful coffee.”

“James Bond and modesty,” she responded smoothly, “is an unlikely combination.”

“Very well then,” he retorted, determined to match her smoothness, “What you will shortly experience is the best coffee you have ever tasted.”

“Now that,” she said, smiling, “sounds more like my carabiniere hero. I’ll just visit the powder room before we leave,” she added, “I won’t be long.”

Sergio watched her back as she moved away, admiring the subtle sway of her hips and the curves of her body, then shook himself free of the thoughts in his mind. He signalled for the waiter to bring his bill, and forced himself to think differently about the direction in which this evening, and Maria Orsinni, seemed to be taking him. He recalled now their chance encounter of two years ago, and the connection he had imagined had been felt by both of them, but knew that the intervening period would have removed him from her mind just as she had been forgotten by his. But he had felt that connection again when he had seen her at the Via Del Moro, and every sighting since had strengthened his interest in her. But she knew what he did for a living, she knew that his current assignment was to go after the Bartalucci family. Was this sudden move on her part, some kind of ploy to compromise him? To protect her father?

Sergio paused his troublesome thoughts to pay the presented bill, and he gifted the waiter a gratuity generous enough to ensure good service on a future visit. Then he was suddenly alerted by the quick head-turns of two males seated near him, and turned his own head to see Maria Orsinni approaching the table and all of his earlier doubts disappeared in an instant. However uncertain he might be about some things, Sergio knew he possessed the skills of a highly trained policeman. Reading body language was one of those skills, and Maria Orsinni’s body language was currently far removed from that of an agent provocateur or a femme fatale. She was a beautiful woman smiling at him, but on her face he believed he was seeing all the vulnerability of an innocent young girl in a woman’s body. He was still wondering about that anomaly when he stood up to escort her outside to his car.

She thanked him for the meal as they traversed the car park but he could hear the tension in her voice, and his attempted humour at being robbed of his carbonara was received in silence. A silence which was broken as soon as he drove away from the restaurant.

“Do you tell your fellow carabiniere officers all about the women you date?”

Sergio thought that he could now actually feel the tension emanating from his passenger. “Strange as it may sound to you,” he began, keeping his tone light, “I don’t get much time to date women. If we discount occasionally treating my mother over the past two years, you’re the first woman I’ve dated since nineteen eighty-three.” He made sure he had eye contact for his ending, and he also ensured that she could hear the firmness in his voice, “And I don’t discuss my private life with anyone connected to my public life.”

She made no reply, but Sergio was conscious of the more relaxed atmosphere between them as he drove on. They were almost within sight of his Via Claudia apartment when her voice reached out to him.

“Two years is a long time between dates, Sergio.”

“Yes, it is,” he acknowledged, wondering now which of them was the more tense as he brought the car to a halt outside his apartment building.

Sergio led Maria into the foyer of the three-level block of apartments and Enrico, the night security man seated behind his desk, nodded courteously to Sergio and gazed appreciatively at his female companion before the duo stepped into the elevator which would take them to Sergio’s modest apartment on the top floor.

Sergio keyed open his apartment door and stepped aside to usher his date inside.

“This way, Signorina, for the best coffee in Rome.”

But she didn’t move. She stood stock still, staring at him, unsmiling.

“Maria, what...?” he began, but then her words cut into his own and silenced him.

“I’ve never made love before,” she said quietly.

Sergio silently, desperately, fought for control of his emotions. She looked so... so very beautiful, and so... so very capable, as he knew she was, yet she suddenly also looked so very unsure of herself. So very... very shy. His heart was pounding in his ears as he stepped forward and took her in his arms. He held her tightly and felt her respond in kind, and he inhaled her scent as he somehow found the words to whisper in her ear.

“We can make this a first time for both of us.”

She pulled back to look into his eyes and he saw the uncertainty again, and then they were kissing one another and he couldn’t be sure which of them had started it. Her lips were moist, and warm, and his hands were caressing the exotic looking leaves on the dress of shimmering silk, and then she gently gripped his hands and stepped back a pace. She was smiling, and she didn’t look uncertain, and she was breathing heavily as she spoke.

“We’re not going to make love out here, Sergio, are we?”

Sergio was aware of his own heavy breathing as he replied, “It would probably be better if we went inside now.”

“It gets better?” she voiced, still smiling, still breathing heavily.

“Si, Signorina,” he assured her, “I’m sure it will.”

Finally inside the apartment, with the door closed behind them, they began kissing again. Urgently. Hungrily. Somehow, between the apartment’s entrance door and its kitchen doorway, the dress of shimmering silk had left the panting body of Maria Orsinni to join Sergio’s tuxedo on the floor. They bypassed the kitchen, all thoughts of the best coffee in Rome forgotten, and the rest of their clothing was lost between the kitchen and the doorway to the master bedroom which they entered naked and in a high state of arousal.

On the bed, their lovemaking began feverishly and passionately. Then it became slower, more gentle, more controlled, and then the fever took hold of them both again and they climaxed together as the experienced Sergio had wished them to. They lay together panting for breath, the sweat still warm on their flesh, and Sergio was still inside her as she spoke.

“I never imagined it would be like that,” she murmured huskily.

“I never imagined,” he said, “it ever happening at all for us.”

“I needed it to happen with someone,” she emphasised quietly, “and I wanted that someone to be you. Something told me I could trust you to be... to be discreet.”

She chuckled suddenly. At her choice of words, realized Sergio, but it caused her body to stir slightly and he reacted to the movement.

“I can feel you again,” she said, the surprise obvious in her still husky voice, “I can feel you growing inside me. Is it always like this? Oh that feels so... so good.”

Their second bout of lovemaking was again passionate, but she was more adventurous this time and was quick to say yes to his suggestions. Thus aroused, she then began making her own requests which soon became urgent demands and the slap of flesh on flesh intermingled with soft grunts of pleasure and loud cries of delight. They climaxed together for the second time, and collapsed clutching one another as the juices flowed and their hearts pounded in unison.

“That was even better than the first time,” she said, sounding even huskier than before.

“Well you know what they say about practice,” he replied, waiting for the chuckle which never came. Sergio smiled. Maria Orsinni was fast asleep.

Several hours later, following a third session of lovemaking which she said might even have been better than the second but she couldn’t make up her mind, a weary Sergio became just a passenger in his own car. He had allowed a seemingly still effervescent Maria Orsinni to drive his car to her home. The instructors at the carabiniere advanced driving school had told him that Maria Orsinni had the hands of an angel who drove like the devil, and Sergio sighed now with the memory of making love to an angel who had been a delightful devil in bed.

She was silent beside him now, and he wondered what kind of thoughts might be turning over in her mind. Then he remembered his own first time, and of how embarrassed he had felt when the euphoria had subsided. Embarrassed about the things he had said and done during the throes of passion. He also remembered the understanding partner who had told him that it wasn’t just women who needed to know if they would still be respected in the morning. The wise and understanding partner who had steered the conversational aftermath on to subjects connected to the person he had been before first time sex, which had helped him to realize he had not in any way sacrificed respect to sexual desire.

“The advanced driving school instructors have told me that you are doing very well,” he said.

She remained silent for a moment, and he deliberately avoided eye contact.

“I don’t think I’ve thanked you yet,” she replied, “for arranging the lessons. So thank you.”

He knew that she had understood his intention, and was gratefully playing along. “They have also told me,” he said now, “that you are welcome there any time.”

“That’s great,” she responded, grinning as she added, “Maybe I’ll be as good as you one day.”

“Maria,” he began again, wanting to keep this going for the sake of them both, “have you thought about the possibility of Rinaldi making another attempt on you and your uncle?”

“I thought about it,” she answered crisply, “but I don’t believe it will happen.”

“I hope you’re right,” he replied through a yawn. He closed his eyes. She’d rouse him when they got to Canizzaro’s villa, was his last wakeful thought.