Maid of the Mist (15 page)

Morton nodded solemnly. He fingered his glass. Corrigan proffered the bottle; Morton hesitated, then shook his head. 'I want to tell you,' he said slowly, 'about TCOs.'

'TCOs,' Morton said. 'Transnational criminal organizations.'

Corrigan nodded. 'You mean the Mafia.'

'I wish it was that simple.' Morton leaned back in his chair, folded one leg over the other and looped his hands over the extended knee. 'Sure,' he said, 'if you think of organized crime you think of the Mafia. You think of Italy, the United States of course, maybe Japan. You know the Yakuza?'

Stirling nodded. 'Movie with Robert Mitchum.'

'I wish it was that simple,' Morton said, patiently. 'During the past few years we – that's the FBI – have recognized that organized crime is no longer something that is limited to a few countries. For all sorts of reasons.' He let go of his knee and began counting them off on his fingers. 'The rise of the global market for illicit drugs, the end of the Cold War, the breakdown of the barriers between East and West, the collapse of the criminal justice system in Russia and other states of the former Soviet Union, the development of free-trade areas in Europe and North America, the emergence of global financial and trading systems: the whole cartload. Put them all together and you realize that criminal organizations have had to develop into TCOs to survive.'

'It's difficult to talk about all this and then think of Pongo,' Stirling said.

'Pongo?'
said Madeline.

'This is the problem,' Morton said. 'While you've been thinking about Pongo, I've been thinking about the struggle of the Colombian cartels to change their government's extradition policy. The attack of the Sicilian Mafia on the Italian state. The emergence of Russian criminal organizations, not only at home but in Western Europe and the United States. I'm thinking about money laundering and trafficking in nuclear material. I'm thinking about the Chinese triads, the Nigerians, the Turks . . .' He stopped, looked round the table. 'I can't emphasize enough the extent to which these TCOs violate national sovereignty, undermine democratic institutions, how they add a new dimension to problems such as nuclear proliferation and terrorism. I can't emphasize enough the
danger.'

'And they're all in our backyard,' Corrigan said quietly.

Morton nodded. 'These organizations, they're like . . .' he clicked his fingers, looking for the right word '. . . a plate of spaghetti. Once in a while we arrest someone we're sure is important. And probably he is right up until that moment, but once we have him, he's suddenly no more than a tiny cog.' He smiled. 'Although I believe that's a mixed metaphor. I just need you to understand the magnitude of this. If you're right about this, it's the convention from hell.'

'What I don't understand,' Corrigan said, 'is why a convention at all.'

'And where Pongo comes into it,' added Madeline.

Ignoring her, Morton said: 'Why not a convention? Doesn't matter whether you're a dentist or a computer programmer or a toy salesman. People like to network, they like to find out about new developments in their field. Only these guys don't subscribe to
Drug Dealer and Money Laundering Quarterly.'

'And they hold them, what, every year?' Stirling asked. 'Like the World Series?'

'Sure, every year. Started about seven, eight years back. You know Arruba? Sixty-nine square miles of everything the Caribbean should be, and every inch of it owned by the Sicilian Mafia. Literally. The Cuntrera Brothers, late of Siculiana, Sicily and Caracas, Venezuela, bought it out of the billion dollars they made from the North American heroin trade in the eighties. Hotels, banks, casinos, construction, building land, customs, the police and the prime minister. Bought up every one of them. So they felt safe inviting a few of their international allies for a vacation.'

'I'm betting there wasn't much vacatin',' Stirling volunteered.

Morton nodded. 'The Sicilians and Colombia's Medellin cartel agreed to join forces. Wham and you have a $300-million-a-year drugs colossus. Come the next year, word's out; everyone wants in on the deal. The American Mafias, the Russians, the Chinese Triads, the Japanese Yakuza, the usual suspects. There's a new spirit of co-operation, they sign non-aggression pacts, divide up the world, swap gossip. But as the convention gets bigger, Arruba gets smaller. They need a new venue, so it goes to Bangkok. Then New Orleans and Mexico City.'

'It's not really my field,' Madeline said, 'but I take it this isn't common knowledge, is it? How on earth do they keep it quiet?'

'No, it's not common knowledge. They buy people off. There's such a huge amount of money involved that there's few can resist it.' He looked at Corrigan. 'I'm surprised you haven't been approached.'

Corrigan smiled. 'Maybe they know better.'

'Or maybe they come at you a different way.'

'You mean my wife?'

Morton shrugged. 'Maybe. Anyway. Crime syndicates now vie for the honour of hosting it, the same way cities spend millions campaigning for the honour of hosting the Olympics or say the soccer World Cup. And once they have it, they guarantee complete secrecy, complete security. Which is why these murders interest me, and what they have to do with the Old Cripple.'

'Ah,' said Stirling, 'back to the Old Cripple.'

Morton laughed suddenly. 'The Old Cripple. It does have a certain ring to it, doesn't it? So definitely un-PC. The Old Cripple. He's hosting this year's convention in Niagara Falls.'

'Who on earth is the Old Cripple?' Madeline asked.

'He's Pongo's father.'

Corrigan told her about Pongo and the dead girl and the confession.

Her reaction was,
'Pongo?
Of the cute . . . the great singles? I lost my virg . . .
Pongo?'

'One and the same,' said Stirling. 'Only he's not so cute any more. Next time he wipes his nose on his sleeve his fucking nose is going to come off, if you get my meaning.' She didn't. 'Cocaine,' he added. Madeline nodded.

'Which brings us neatly back to the Old Cripple,' Morton said, 'and what he does.'

'Which is what?' Corrigan asked.

'Jack of all trades. Master of most of them. He's an importer, exporter, facilitator, negotiator, arbitrator and killer. He's known as the Old Cripple, because, well, that's what he is. Blown up. Years ago. Eighty per cent burns. Confined to a wheelchair. If anyone best represents the ideal that the disabled really can look after themselves, well he's the man.'

'If he's such a fucking big deal,' Stirling asked, 'how come he's living in
our
neck of the woods and we've never heard of him?'

'Because he's international. You won't find so much as a parking ticket on him here. He's global. We've been trying to get him for years. To understand him, you have to understand what he does and why he's held in such great respect. These organizations, they're going global, but you can't just throw businessmen together and hope they come to some agreement; there are too many natural obstacles. Language, culture, not to mention monstrous egos and a propensity for violence. The Old Cripple is like Henry Kissinger, Armand Hammer and the Pope rolled into one. Take the Mexicans . . .'

'I prefer not to . . .' Stirling said.

Morton laughed. 'OK, take the Nigerians. The Old Cripple has set up an alliance between the Nigerians and the Colombian cartels based on product exchange. The Nigerians are classic free-market entrepreneurs; they started out as couriers for others, but now they're major players in their own right. Cocaine and heroin. Nigerians supply heroin to Colombians in return for cocaine. This has helped the Colombians to develop their own heroin market while also allowing the Nigerians to sell cocaine in Western Europe.'

'And from it all, this Old Cripple takes a cut,' Corrigan said.

'Exactly.'

'OK,' said Stirling, 'you've got me curious about the Mexicans.'

'Much the same. He's brokered a risk-reduction alliance between them and the Colombians. The Mexicans have a well-developed smuggling infrastructure for the transport of goods and services across the frontier with the United States. The Colombians get their drugs into their primary market, and the Mexicans get a foothold in the cocaine business. More profit in cocaine than in marijuana, which is what they traditionally smuggled in. Or take people. I mean, we all know how many Mexicans come across the border illegally. The Old Cripple set up a deal between the Mexicans and the Chinese to smuggle Chinese along the same routes. We reckon there's some 2,000 a month coming across via Mexico.'

Corrigan refilled his glass. He offered another shot to Morton, but he turned it down. Stirling accepted. There was none left for Madeline. Corrigan stood and began to rifle through the cupboard. He produced an unopened bottle of Martini Bianco. 'Best I can do,' he said.

'Beggars can't be choosers,' said Madeline.

Corrigan broke the seal and poured her a glass. He offered some to Morton again. Morton raised his eyes and Corrigan apologized. As he was screwing the top back on Corrigan said: 'You seem to keep your finger pretty firmly on the pulse, for someone's been out of the saddle for so long.'

'Ignoring for the moment the mixed metaphors,' Morton replied, 'keeping my finger on the pulse has been one of the few things that has kept me going. I'm sure you heard that my. . .'

'I heard,' Corrigan said.

'You should form a club,' Stirling said, and then wished he hadn't. 'I mean, for mutual support, kind of thing.'

'What happened . . . ?' Madeline asked.

'I moved up here because I was sick to death of the media's obsession with the Empire State thing, not because I was tired of fighting crime. And then my family died in a car crash.'

'So, indirectly,' Stirling said, nodding at Madeline, 'it was your fault.'

'What is your fucking problem?' Madeline snapped.

'Journalists,' Stirling said, 'and the bullshit they . . .'

'Girls, please,' said Corrigan. 'We have to make a decision.'

'A decision?' said Madeline.

'Yes, a decision. What we're going to do. About the convention.'

Stirling rubbed his hands together. 'I should have thought that would be obvious,' he said. 'We're going to nail the fuckers.'

For a despairing alcoholic, James Morton was acting pretty chipper. He talked enthusiastically and animatedly about strategy, secrecy, observation and action. He was, of course, the voice of experience. He'd danced with the devil and written a book about it.

Corrigan was just a do-hickey cop by comparison.

Stirling's knee was jolting up and down with excitement.

Madeline produced a video camera from her handbag and started recording.

'Excuse me,' Stirling said, 'but what the fuck do you think you're doing?'

She removed her eye from the viewfinder. 'Fly-on-the-wall documentary.'

'I think not,' Corrigan said, reaching a hand out to block the lens.

She jerked it away from him. 'It's important,' she said, 'that there should be a record of this. To show that you got into this for all the best possible reasons.'

'Nothing to do with the fact that you work for a
television
station, of course,' Stirling said.

'Believe me,' Madeline replied, 'if this thing is as big as you all seem to think it is, you're going to want to have it on tape.'

'She may have a point,' Morton said. 'There should be a record. As long as you understand . . .'

'That I don't breathe a word until it's all over. I understand. I thought we agreed that already.'

'As long as you understand,' Morton repeated, 'that we agree on a four-way split on the profits. All the profits. I got fucked over on the Empire State deal. I mean, I did OK, but I could have done very OK if I hadn't signed away most of the rights. And
they
talked about making a historical record and accuracy and all the time they were selling the broadcast rights to Algeria. We need to agree this now or there'll be trouble further down the line. Frank?'

Morton looked to Corrigan, who was shaking his head. 'I'm interested in finding out who killed my wife and stopping this convention. It doesn't matter a fuck to me about Algerian television rights.'

'But
it will,
once it's over.'

'Believe me,' Corrigan said, 'it won't.'

'Frank,' Stirling said, 'don't be too hasty. Algeria's a big country.'

Corrigan rolled his eyes. 'OK. Right. International television rights. We split them four ways. OK? Is that OK?' Madeline nodded reluctantly. 'OK, now let's concentrate on some of the minor details like . . .'

'Who's going to play us in the movie,' said Stirling.

'. . . finding out a little more about this convention,' said Corrigan.

'Pongo may be our best route into it,' said Morton. 'If we can get to him.'

'We can get to him,' Corrigan said confidentially.

'Are we presuming' Madeline said, 'that your girl Lelewala . . .'

'My girl?'

'That Lelewala and the murders are tied into this convention?'

Corrigan looked to Morton.

'I would tend to think they must be tied in,' Morton said. 'Niagara's too small for all this shit to be happening at the same time and they're not connected in.'

'So we need to go after her as well.'

'Sure,' said Morton. 'And we need to start working on the Old Cripple.'

'We need,' Corrigan said, 'more men. And women.'

'What do you think?' Morton asked. 'Will your guys at the station work with you on this?'

Corrigan shrugged. 'It'll be hard for them if Dunbar's cracked down. I don't know. Mark, how was I doing in the popularity stakes? Do you think some of them would put their careers on the line to help me nail this . . .'

'Mmmmm?' said Stirling, suddenly aware that he was the focus of attention.

Corrigan knocked his fist on the table. 'Hello? Anybody in?'

'Sorry,' said Stirling. 'I was thinking about Brad Pitt.'

'What?' said Madeline.

'For the movie.'

'Jesus,' said Corrigan.

'To play who?' asked Madeline.

'Well,' said Stirling, and gave a shy little shrug.