Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (24 page)

‘Why did you do that?'

She shrugged and wrapped her arms about herself against a sudden, stiff breeze. ‘We've done it before,' she said, ‘and we can arrange for you to enter Brazil without the authorities knowing about it. Of course, that takes money. It may sound crude but the authorities we work with expect to be compensated. So do we.'

Strangely, Smythe felt relieved. Had she said that she was doing it out of the goodness of her heart, he would have been skeptical, and pessimistic how it would turn out. But she wanted money, which put it on a pragmatic level. He'd read in thrillers that the only good reason to accept someone who wants to become a spy is money. Alleged love of country, or hatred for a government, doesn't cut it with experienced handlers of turncoats. Only a need for money is an acceptable motivation.

‘How much?' he squeezed out.

‘I don't think that twenty thousand would be unreasonable considering the situation you're in.'

Smythe was faced with a dilemma. The amount she'd cited was perfectly acceptable. He would have gladly paid twice that amount to clear his way into Brazil. The problem was that if he handed over that much money in cash, she would know that he was traveling with lots of money and might attempt to steal everything he had.

Like so many things that had occurred to him recently, he was left without much of a choice. On the one hand, he was being held up by this lovely woman and her husband for twenty thousand dollars. On the other hand, it was his good fortune to have ended up on a ship with people with larceny in their souls who offered a solution to the huge problem of entering Brazil without having to go through Customs and other stumbling blocks.

Would they deliver on their promise to grease the skids for him to enter Brazil?

Would the rest of his money be safe after he handed over twenty thousand in cash?

‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll get the money and bring it back to you.'

‘You won't be sorry,' she purred.

Ten minutes later he handed over the packets of cash.

‘Do you want to count it?' he asked.

‘No. I think you're an honorable man who made a mistake. You're not the cheating type.'

With that, she wrapped her arms around him, pressed her ample body against his, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

‘Sleep tight,' she said. ‘See you at breakfast.'

H
ad he not wanted desperately to reunite with Gina, Smythe would have been content to spend the rest of his life on The Bárbara. The ship had a shelf of dog-eared paperback novels, and he whiled away his days at sea reading, napping, eating, playing bridge, and breathing in the salty ocean air. It was idyllic, and he discovered an inner peace that had long been absent.

He was introduced to Karl, the ship's captain and Kerry's husband, and spent time on the bridge, as did the other passengers. Karl was a beefy Brazilian of few words and a gruff demeanor, although he was not unpleasant. A jagged scar across his forehead and a cocked eye testified to his life not having been without incident. The only conversation of substance Smythe had with him was on the last day at sea.

‘Kerry will take care of everything,' he said. ‘You talk to her and you do what she tells you to do. Once you are in Rio you're on your own. Our job, it is finished. Understand?'

‘Yes,' Smythe said, ‘and I want to thank you for being … well, for being understanding and for helping me.'

‘Why not?' Karl said. ‘Good luck.'

Kerry's kiss the night he'd delivered the money to her had lingered on Smythe's lips and in his memory for the duration of the journey. He had the feeling that if he pursued it she might be willing to go to bed with him, and the contemplation was appealing if not ego-building. But he fought the urge. He was not about to run foul of her husband. More importantly, he would not be unfaithful to Gina.

And so as the trip approached its end, he read books and sat in the sun and dreamed of what life would be like with Gina in their lovely little cottage, the two of them, madly in love and united against the world.

As The Bárbara transported Carlton Smythe to Rio de Janeiro, Paul Saison looked out the window of his Toronto hospital room and did what he'd been doing ever since being transferred there from his jail cell after complaining of chest pains. He cursed Smythe over and over – ‘
Imbécile!
' ‘
Téte d'epingle!
' ‘
Balourd!
' ‘
Bandit!
' ‘
Cinglé!
' ‘
Arriéré!
' – in between bouts of crying.

‘Maybe we should increase his medication?' one of the psychiatrists said to a colleague when discussing Saison's condition. They'd been brought onto his case by the cardiologist who'd become concerned about his patient's mental state. When Saison was granted one call to Angelique, she told him to drop dead, which resulted in a tirade about women that generated blushes from the nurses and necessitated his being restrained.

‘Probably,' the second psychiatrist concurred. ‘The prosecutor in his case isn't happy. The lawyer assigned to defend him is claiming that he's mentally deficient and isn't fit to stand trial.'

‘Not our problem. Let's increase the dosage and see if it does any good.'

It didn't.

Dominick Martone could have used a cardiologist the night things went awry at Power-Can. He was livid, and the irate calls from the other Mafia leaders up and down the East Coast didn't help. Had Smythe been home when Martone and his ‘associates' arrived that night, the police might have been investigating a murder instead of a blackout.

But by the time the police interrogated the Toronto crime boss, he'd calmed considerably. He'd worked out a repayment of the franchise fees he'd been paid, and an uneasy peace had been reestablished between the families.

‘Look, Mr Martone, we're not accusing you of anything, but we do know that you and Mr Smythe had been spending time together,' one of the two detectives said. ‘Smythe's wife says that you were involved in some sort of business deal.'

‘We discussed it,' Martone said, nonchalantly draping an arm over the chair. ‘It didn't work out.'

‘What sort of business was it?'

Martone glanced at the two lawyers who'd accompanied him to headquarters before answering. ‘Smythe's an engineer, you know, a slide-rule kind of guy, numbers and figures and things like that. He wanted me to hire him for one of my enterprises but he didn't have anything that I needed.' He came forward and adopted a sincere expression. ‘I can't believe the guy would pull a stunt like this, paying some bum inside the plant to pull the switch on the electricity. Good thing I have a generator. You have a generator?'

‘No, I don't, Mr Martone. You and Mr Smythe flew to outside Philadelphia where a gang war broke out. People were killed. Do you—?'

‘Wait a minute, Detective,' Martone said, holding up his hand. ‘Gang war? There was no gang war. I was there having a meeting with business associates and some punks decided to shoot up the place. I had Smythe with me because I thought that maybe if things worked out at the meeting he'd have a job. I was doing the guy a favor. His wife, a terrific woman, is on the board of the Canada Opera Company. You ever go to the opera?'

‘No.'

‘Any time you want to go, just let me know. I'm a big supporter of COC. I'll comp you.'

The interview ended as the detectives assumed it would. Dominick Martone was untouchable in Toronto, and had his bases covered. One of the detectives told his partner after they'd left that his wife had always wanted to go to the opera. ‘Maybe I'll take the old guinea up on his offer.'

In Buenos Aires, the team headed by Luis Cortez had intercepted the packages containing cash that Smythe had sent to Guillermo Guzman. When they discovered that the packages contained large amounts of money, Bill Whitlock in Washington ordered them to record the amount of cash in each package, carefully reseal them, and allow the delivery to go through with the goal of identifying those to whom Guzman distributed the funds.

Gina Ellanado hadn't heard from Smythe since the email he'd sent before fleeing Toronto. Had she been a woman who was interested in world news she might have heard reports about the blackout and the ongoing investigation into whether one Carlton Smythe had been involved. But her TV watching habits included soap operas and old movies, and she seldom read a newspaper. The news depressed her and so she avoided it.

She'd spent most of her time at the cottage she'd rented with the money Smythe had given her, adding decorative touches, stocking the bar with expensive liquors, and bringing what she termed a ‘
femenino tacto
' to the surroundings. She bought luxurious bedding, colorful tapestries to hang on the walls, and a compact CD player on which she played tango music.

She called Guzman repeatedly to see whether the money had arrived, to be told that it hadn't but that it should be there any day. On this day when she called, he had good news. ‘The money is here, Gina. I'm taking my commission and depositing it in my private bank. No sense losing interest while we wait for your friend Mr Smythe to arrive.'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘that would be good.'

Guzman hung up and looked at Luis Cortez and two plainclothes officers from the Buenos Aires Provincial Police who sat across his desk from him.

‘Satisfied?' he said.

‘You did good, Guillermo.'

Guzman sneered. ‘The money's a private investment from a client of mine. You've got no right coming in here and threatening me. It's a legitimate transaction.'

‘Not if it's money gained through a criminal act,' Cortez said.

‘Who says it is?' Guzman asked defiantly.

‘
We
do,' Cortez replied. ‘We'll keep the money safe until our investigation is over. In the meantime stay away from Señorita Ellanado. If she calls again tell her the money is invested and waiting for Smythe to arrive. And keep your mouth shut. We don't have to take you in to be sure you don't talk about this, do we?'

‘Take me in for what?'

Cortez shrugged. ‘Money laundering, running a criminal enterprise, maybe fraudery.'

‘Fraudery? What the hell is that?'

‘What we'll accuse you of. Have a good day, and thanks for your cooperation.'

In a suite at the Alvear Palace in Buenos Aires, arguably the city's most expensive hotel – with Cartier across the street and Hermes next door – Cynthia Smythe and her mother, Gladys Wiggins, sat in the living room while the personal butler provided to every guest room meticulously unpacked their luggage in the master bedroom. They'd just arrived and were weary from the trip.

‘What do we do first?' Cynthia asked.

‘First we nap, dear. Then we have an appointment with Mr Miller's colleague here, Mr Domingo. We'll decide what to do after that, depending upon what he tells us.'

‘I—' Cynthia welled up.

‘What's the matter, dear?'

‘I'm afraid to confront Carlton.'

‘Nonsense.'

‘I—'

‘Go on, say what's on your mind. Don't snivel.'

‘I know that he's cheated on me, and that he's a wanted man because they think he was behind the blackout, but he's been a good husband in so many ways that—'

‘He's a scoundrel!'

‘But after you caught Daddy cheating you stayed married to him.'

‘A pragmatic decision.'

‘What if Carlton sees how wrong he's been and begs me to stay with him?'

‘I seriously doubt that will happen, Cynthia, but we shall see. In the meantime let's nap and browse Cartier before seeing Mr Domingo. It's so convenient.'

S
mythe, his suitcases and carry-on at his side, watched from the deck as The Bárbara entered Rio's Guanabara Bay and approached one of the Port of Rio's multiple wharfs at the foot of the downtown area. As it nuzzled up to the Gamboa Wharf and lines were secured, he was consumed with parallel, conflicting feelings.

Until that point and for the past fifteen days his life had been easy; he hated to see it end. At the same time a sense of anticipatory joy overtook him. He was on the final leg of this unlikely journey, and he wondered how he'd managed to survive the ordeal.

Kerry had instructed him to have his luggage with him on deck and to not join the other passengers when they disembarked and went through Customs and other document verification stations. He was to wait until she personally escorted him from the ship.

After an hour had passed he began to wonder whether she would show up. She did fifteen minutes later. ‘Come,' she said. ‘Say nothing. Just follow me.'

She led him to an older uniformed government inspector who stood far removed from the main area through which passengers passed. She handed the man an envelope. He grunted, slipped it into his pocket, and nodded. Kerry and Smythe passed his checkpoint and came around the side of a warehouse.

‘Welcome to Rio,' she said, smiling.

‘That's it?' he said.

‘Did you expect a samba band to welcome you? You're safely in Brazil now. I wish you nothing but the best.'

‘I don't know how to thank you,' he said.

‘No need to,' she replied. With that she wrapped her arms about him and kissed him as she had fifteen nights ago, on the lips, firmly, longer this time.

‘You're very sexy,' he said when they'd disengaged.

‘Thank you. You're kind of cute yourself. Go now, and good luck.'

He lugged his luggage past a succession of warehouses until he emerged from the pier into streets that led to the city's thriving downtown. He found a
botequin
, a coffee café, with a few outdoor tables. He took one, but an employee told him to buy a chit from the cashier and take it inside where he would be served his
cafezinho
, a tiny cup of strong, black coffee. Smythe had the counterman add milk, before taking his drink back outside where he sipped, watched the parade of well-dressed people, and thought.