The Octopus at the Vatican

# 9 - May 12, 1978 - Cinisi (Sicily) - the pursuit

Alessa Lombardi⁠ was alone among the olive trees in the valley. The river was dry. The town of Cinisi stood in front of her. Behind her, the vale narrowed to a steep slope, she had just left. On the right, the hillside was sharp, like the olive groves in Corfu where she spent holidays with her parents as a child. To the left, the hillock was softer.

The local election had taken place the week before, with an odd outcome. Peppino Impastato had been elected when everyone knew he had just been murdered. The popular message to Cosa Nostra was clear.

Alessa took a few photos to remember the site for her articles. According to what she had been told in town, this must be the place Peppino Impastato's father had been killed a year earlier.

Not a place for a murder, she thought. Peaceful, charming, bucolic even. She hated that her father had often taken her hunting when she was growing up. He had hoped she would take to it, like him. That is what alerted her. On the way, the birds had been singing. Now there was silence.

A crime has been committed here. Both Impastato were murdered. This is concrete. I'm a journalist and I sift through their rubbish.

She could feel the danger. It was palpable, sliding down her spine. An instinctive, ancestral feeling of becoming prey. She lay down slowly in the sparse dry grass.

If they fire on me, it's not much protection, she thought.

There was a loud bang at that moment. A split second later, a twig fell, then a shower of green olives landed around her. Buckshot, a killer but not precise.

She slipped behind a huge olive tree which hid the hilltop. There were a lot of trees behind. The sniper must be on the gentle slope; he can see better to shoot me.

A second shot skimmed past her ankle. She curled up behind the big trunk. OK, it's coming from this side, that's a good thing. If they are two, I've had it. I can't stay here. One or two, either way, my only chance is to run like the hare, zigzagging as fast as I can. She was oddly calm and clear-thinking, and strangely, was aware of it. She was still full of the thriller Marathon man she had seen in the cinema. Dustin Hoffman had managed to distance himself from the killers by running. Her only chance. Me too, it's my trump card. With my fitness, I will give him a run for his money. Go on! Go for it!

Leaving behind her camera, she leaped up and started to run towards the town, zigzagging between the olive trees, jumping over tree stumps and stones. She heard shots but didn't take any notice. She heard the branches showered with bullets but didn't stop, continuing her fast zigzag run. The shooting had stopped. The valley was widening, she was leaving the woods. There were fields ahead, as far as the eye could see, separated by a footpath. If she took it, she could run faster but would be totally exposed. She glanced over her shoulder. Two men, young, slim. Slim, she thought, if they were short and fat, it would be easier. With a bit of luck, they'll give up. She ran onto the path as fast as she could. She had no problems breathing. Oh no, this bloody town is so much further than I thought. I can't see anything. No bell tower, only fields. And no-one about. Behind her, the first man had reached the path. He had a shotgun in his hand. She second one was further behind. He hadn't yet left the olive grove. He can't run and shoot at the same time. If he decides to shoot, he'll have to stop and I'll shake him off. If he continues to run, I'll increase the distance. But he continued to run and the distance didn't increase. He even looked closer. Two hundred meters, she guessed, glancing behind her. She gave a further push. She had warmed up now and felt good. If he can keep this up, I have Sicily's sprinting champion on my hands! A spire appeared on the horizon, the first church in the town. If I reach it, I'll be no safer than here. I need a plan. The church? They'll even gun me down inside, they have no respect. They will wait for me outside. And I will be trapped. My car, where is my car? Next to the main café, on the main square. My keys? There, in my pocket.

The first houses were already within striking distance. But to her right, a man in the distance was running at a right angle towards her, to bar her way. How do they keep in touch? With a radio, of course! The one behind I can't see any longer, raised the alarm. She veered to the left, through the fields. She had slowed down. The man on her right was also in a field; the one behind was slightly further back. Three hundred or 400 meters away, maybe. She jumped from furrow to furrow. The earth was hard and dry under her feet. Thank God I didn't put on my town shoes today, she laughed, surprised at being able to joke about it.

When she passed the first house to enter a paved road, the two men were a long way away; the second one, who had come from the right, was the nearest. Ahead in the distance, she could see the sea. She would never be able to unlock the car, to open the door, sit down and start the car. He would have ample time to adjust his weapon and shoot at her. She was running still. She was out of breath now and couldn't find a way out.