Think Wolf Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Previous Titles by Michael Gregorio

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Main Characters

  La Mattanza

  Two Years Before

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Previous Titles by Michael Gregorio

  Fiction

  The Hanno Stiffeniis series

  CRITIQUE OF CRIMINAL REASON

  DAYS OF ATONEMENT

  A VISIBLE DARKNESS

  UNHOLY AWAKENING

  The Sebastiano Cangio series

  CRY WOLF *

  THINK WOLF *

  Other Titles

  YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE *

  Non-fiction

  INSIDE ITALY

  FIFTY SHADES DEEPER INSIDE ITALY

  * available from Severn House

  THINK WOLF

  Michael Gregorio

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Michael Gregorio.

  The right of Michael Gregorio to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the Biritsh Library

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8611-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-706-7 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-767-7 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Roberta Barberini

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  We wish to thank Professor Bernardino Ragni of the University of Perugia for generously sharing his expert knowledge of wolves with us.

  MAIN CHARACTERS

  POLICE (in order of rank)

  Lucia Grossi, Captain, Regional Crime Squad of Umbria

  Jerry Esposito, Captain, Regional Crime Squad of Umbria

  Antonio Sustrico, Brigadier, commander of carabinieri in Spoleto

  Mario Pulenti, Special Constable, carabiniere

  Michele Carosio, Special Constable, carabiniere

  NATIONAL PARK POLICE

  Alberto Bruni, Park Director

  Mario Simonetti, Executive Park Ranger

  Marzio Diamante, Senior Ranger (western sector)

  Sebastiano Cangio, Park Ranger (western sector)

  CRIMINALS

  Don Michele Cucciarilli, ’Ndrangheta clan boss, Calabria

  Simone Candelora, ’Ndrangheta lieutenant in Umbria

  Ettore Pallucchi, ’Ndrangheta soldier in Umbria

  CHINATOWN

  Li Liü Gong, Chinese businessman, London

  Heng Lu, Chinese restaurant owner, Foligno

  CIVILIANS

  Loredana Salvini, Seb Cangio’s girlfriend

  Manlio and Teo Pastore, truffle hunters

  Linda Diamante, wife of Marzio Diamante

  Maria Gatti, medium and fortune teller

  Arnaldo Capaldi, bank employee

  LA MATTANZA

  The mattanza is still practised in the south of Italy.

  The word derives from the vulgar Latin mattar, which means to kill.

  Shoals of tuna are lured inside an encircling net which is known as the ‘death chamber’.

  When the trap is closed there is no escape.

  Fishermen move in with clubs and the slaughter begins.

  TWO YEARS BEFORE

  Umbria, Italy.

  A cold breeze sweeps down from the summit of Mount Bacugno.

  Three shadows pick their way through the forest on the lower slopes. Whenever the moon slips behind the clouds, the silver footpath fades before their eyes, yet still they struggle on like blind men in a bad dream, their movements hampered after a hard night’s work.

  Somewhere, a lark trills, announcing the dawn.

  Then distant thunder sounds, and the earth begins to shake.

  They know the moods of the forest by night, the groaning trees, the rustling leaves, the cries of nightbirds. But these are not the sounds of the trees, the wind or the river down in the valley below.

  The shadows freeze, draw close, trying to gauge the danger, trying to pinpoint where the noise is coming from, growing louder each moment like an earthquake rumbling beneath their feet. Then something rockets out of the undergrowth, grunting and roaring, hurtling straight at them, driving between them.

  The one in the middle takes the blow, the others knocked aside like skittles.

  It is over in an instant, the danger gone.

  The sound of charging hooves soon fades. The rasping of the figure on the ground grows hoarse and frantic as silence reclaims the forest. A plastic lighter flares. The gash is longer than a handspan, the left thigh ripped and torn, blood spurting out of a severed artery,
spraying their hands and faces, painting them black in the darkness.

  They step back as a shriek rends the air.

  Their eyes meet.

  No word is said. A tool is raised – a long wooden shaft, an adze-like blade with two curved fangs at the back, like a carpenter’s hammer – and a mighty blow strikes the skull. They wait for a minute, watching for any sign of life, then they go to work with machetes, hacking at the arms and legs, the torso and head, chopping the sections into smaller pieces.

  As the first rays of sun crest the peak of Mount Bacugno, they dig holes in the damp, loamy earth and do what needs to be done.

  ONE

  Calabria, southern Italy.

  Simone Candelora lay flat on a ridge, elbows propped on cold stone.

  Lago Cecità stretched away from right to left, east to west, a pale moon glinting off the vast expanse of water. He couldn’t see the mountains on the far side of the lake. It was pitch black over that way, just one or two lights that might have been stars but were really farmhouses scattered over the mountainside. It was a strange name for a lake.

  Lake Blindness …

  Who the hell had thought that one up?

  He twisted the ring of the binoculars, focused on the farmhouse below.

  Everything looked peaceful down there, but the knot in his stomach told him differently. The carabinieri manning the roadblock out near Taverna had looked peaceful, too, telling him the road was closed, and that there had been a ‘serious accident’. Their bulletproof vests and submachine guns had told him another story. Something was going on, and he had the feeling he wasn’t going to like it.

  He had volunteered for the job that night, wanting to shine in Don Michele’s eyes.

  He checked his watch, a cheap-looking Nite Speed chronograph, but accurate. He never wore the Rolex when he was working. Don Michele had warned him in that rough accent of his: ‘Keep that Rollie out of sight, Simò. The cops are fond of those.’

  The others had laughed at the joke, the suggestion that all cops were thieves, but Simone had taken the joke seriously. If the law stopped you, Don Michele added, a Rolex was the first thing they’d notice before they started asking serious questions.

  ‘Make out you’re a poor bastard, just like them, Simò, or be ready to blast the fuckers.’

  03.23.

  Seven minutes to rendezvous.

  The farmhouse was unlit, but that was normal for a safe house when no one was hiding there. He boosted the magnification, concentrating on the windowpanes. If there were coppers in the vicinity, they’d be well hidden, but they wouldn’t be able to cover every angle. He went from window to window, but there were no reflections, nothing suspicious, no one to be seen …

  No one?

  Where were the donkeys?

  A ton and a half of stuff coming in, there should have been half a dozen men out there, waiting to offload it into the van. He scanned the field to the left of the farmhouse. It was lying fallow, half a dozen sheep to crop the grass. If the labourers were donkeys, those sheep were lawnmowers. So where was the van? The field was empty, except for the stacks of straw, already drenched with petrol, he imagined.

  03.28.

  Two minutes to go …

  Then he heard it, felt it almost, as if the air was changing in consistency. The distant rumble took on a mechanical thrum as it homed in on the landing place. He glanced back down at the farm and the field. He’d been distracted by the noise in the sky, hadn’t seen the fires being lit. There were five of them forming a blazing circle, fifty or sixty metres in diameter.

  It would have needed five men to light those fires on cue.

  The noise was steady now, a regular thumping. Any kid who’d seen a film could tell you what was making that racket. He could hear it, though he still couldn’t see it. The pilot was flying without navigation lights, the cockpit dark as the big bird swooped in on the circle of bonfires down in the plain between the ridge and the lake.

  Then the noise changed somehow, becoming syncopated, yet out of sync, as if the engine had whooping cough. He took no notice, too busy watching as the Agusta Koala appeared in stark silhouette against the flames, rearing back sharply, then settling down on its landing skis in the centre of the circle. Then men came running out from behind the farm buildings.

  Too many men …

  As the rotor blades slowed down, he heard the other noise more distinctly.

  He swung the binoculars upwards, saw it hovering above the black Koala. It, too, was painted black, but it was bigger, a bug-like military helicopter with white letters written on the flank: CARABINIERI. They were blocking any attempt at an emergency take off, the men on the ground moving in fast. Arc lights flashed on, and he saw the scene in startling clarity. Armed carabinieri closing in, machine-guns aimed at the cockpit, warning the pilot and his mate that it was useless to try and escape.

  Don Michele had just lost a helicopter, a ton and a half of coke, a van, some cars, two pilots and half a dozen soldiers.

  Jesus! What were you supposed to tell him?

  Simone slid back down the slope on the seat of his pants, ran to the car.

  He tried to drive back slowly to Catanzaro, but it was hard to stop his foot from pressing the accelerator down to the floor.

  TWO

  Sibillines National Park, Umbria.

  Sebastiano Cangio reached for his binoculars.

  It was a thrill to be up on Mount Coscerno again. The sky was clear, a myriad stars, the land below so dark, so quiet, you could almost hear the grass grow. His heart was pumping with excitement. He had started work at midday, finished the shift at nine o’clock, but he wouldn’t be going home just yet. This was the time he liked the best, the witching hour, when the creatures of the night came out to play.

  Thank God for Marzio, he thought.

  Marzio Diamante was his partner at the ranger station. Marzio had a wife and a family – two grown-up daughters, both married, and his first grandchild, baby Matteo. Marzio wasn’t one to spend his nights out on the mountainside getting cold. He was happy to let Cangio do the late shift. Marzio would be roasting chestnuts over a log fire in the kitchen, washing them down with a glass of Montefalco red.

  One glass? More like three or four.

  Cangio focused his night-glasses and began to search the steep slope on the other side of the gorge.

  The underground den was over to the left in the lee of a thorn bush, but he knew they would have abandoned it for the summer. Like everyone else, they drifted off on holiday when the weather was hot, moving on to higher ground, looking for a change of scene and diet. Now, with autumn coming on, and another breeding season to look forward to, he wasn’t sure whether the female would reclaim the old den or go looking for a new one somewhere else. It would all depend on how the pack had fared over the summer.

  He had followed the breeding pair through the previous spring, seen the four blind pups – all male – crawl out of the den one night, watched in wonder as they started to walk within a few days, then run and play at rough and tumble, just like kids growing up in a normal family, and then …

  Then he had gone and got himself shot.

  Well, no, he thought, before getting shot he had taken Loredana up there one night. First, he had shown her the pups through his binoculars, and then they had made love on the canvas on which he was lying at that very moment. He had been on convalescent leave for more than three months, but now the wound had healed and he was back at work, getting slowly into the rhythm of an eight- or twelve-hour day, patrolling the forests and the mountains, keeping an eye on the tourists and the wildlife.

  He was dying to see the wolves again.

  He shifted the night-glasses to the east, studying the granite boulder outcrop that formed a solid bump against the star-spattered sky. That clump of rocks provided a perfect vantage point. From there you could see in three directions down the mountainside. If anything moved on the slopes below, the scout would see it, let out a low howl and cal
l the others to join the hunt.

  Nothing was happening over there.

  Above his head, something let out a squeal. A bird or a bat, maybe. That was the good thing about Mount Coscerno. There was no lack of food. Down in the valley there were cats, dogs and sheep. Wild boar, porcupine and hedgehogs lived in the woods on the lower slopes above the river, while deer, goats, hares, rabbits and all the birds you could possibly imagine – from sparrows to sparrowhawks – lived on the upper slopes of Mount Coscerno. Just the day before, he had spotted a pair of golden eagles riding the air currents high above the plain of Castelluccio …

  Something moved beyond his left eye.

  He shifted the night-glasses, and began to count.

  One, two, three, four, moving in order of size or rank, he hadn’t yet worked it out.

  The theory was that they were hierarchical creatures, but on-site observation often told a different story, almost as if each one had a distinct personality which defined their place in the pecking order, depending on what activity they were involved in. If one was sick, it led the way, setting the pace for the ones behind. The last of the group disappeared from sight – there must have been a sharp dip in the ground – and he started counting again as the first dark shadow emerged from the blackness, each one a stark silhouette with bright yellow eyes against the fluorescent green field of the background. Night scopes were useful, OK, but the colours were lurid.