Supernotes (7 page)

ROS Headquarters, Villa Ada, Rome

April 1997

The Ferrari 348 is the flaming red color you expect from a Ferrari.

It's shiny, gleaming in every detail, as if it's just been washed and polished. Kasper walks past it on his way to the headquarters building. The young subofficer who's escorting him gestures toward the car as if to say, “Not bad, huh?” Then, without moving his head an inch, he whispers: “We found it yesterday with half a dozen other cars, Mercedes and BMWs, all top-of-the-line machines. The Roman Mafiosi treat themselves well.”

Walking on, the subofficer shifts topics. “Your meeting will take place in the bar.”

“In the bar. Of course.”

The coffee bar in the ROS headquarters is located on an interior corner of the barracks, across from the main building. Informal meetings, the meetings where things are actually decided, often take place here.

It's a beautiful April day in Rome. Kasper has arrived a few minutes early, practically escorted by the joggers heading for Villa Ada, one of the loveliest public parks in the capital and home to the Carabinieri's Talamo barracks.

Everything here evokes a long and busy past.

Via Salaria, a few meters from the park entrance, was used two thousand years ago as a route for the transport of loads of salt from the Adriatic coast to the city of Rome. Every layer of earth in these parts represents a historical epoch, from the rape of the Sabine women to the Roman Empire to the vicissitudes of the House of Savoy. In 1943, Benito Mussolini was arrested at Villa Ada and taken away in an ambulance. The stones, the towering pines, and the centuries-old oaks have witnessed pages of history.

A Carabinieri barracks is a perfect fit in here, Kasper thinks.

The Talamo is home to the Special Operations Group, the ROS, for which Kasper has worked since it was officially established in 1990, when he was not much over thirty.

The Talamo is where his superiors are. His past and present are there too, as well as—he hopes—his future.

The men he's to meet are waiting for him at an outside table. The subofficer escorting him stops a few meters away and says, “I'll leave you here.”

The general seems the same as always, serious and stern in his dark gray ministerial suit. He's listening attentively to the colonel. The captain's also following him, nodding slightly as he does. The three men focus on Kasper, and the conversation stops.

Handshakes, a few polite phrases. The general gestures to Kasper to take a seat and says, “We may as well stay here. Later, if necessary, we'll move upstairs.”

The colonel and the captain nod. All Kasper has to do is sit down, drink some coffee, and speak when the time for speaking comes. He knows very well how these meetings work; for all their informality, they still involve military men and military affairs. If they “move upstairs,” it will be to the colonel's office, where they'll finalize the details of the proposed operation.

The colonel concludes his explanation already in progress, something to do with an operation aimed at the laundering of Mafia money abroad. “Very well,” the general says emphatically, which is tantamount to saying, “Let's change the subject.” He turns to Kasper, and with a little movement of his head, more like a father than like a superior officer, he asks, “How's business down there at Sharky's?”

“We get a lot of traffic,” Kasper replies.

“And your American partner?” the captain inquires.

“Partners,” Kasper corrects him. “There are two of them.”

“And they're working out?”

“They're working out fine.”

“They're both with the Company?”

“Only one of them.”

“The one you call Clancy.”

“Right, Clancy,” Kasper confirms. “The other partner used to work as a supplier for the United Nations. He's been in Cambodia since the mid-1980s. Opening the bar in Phnom Penh was his idea.”

“Sharky's,” the captain says with a chuckle.

“A good idea,” the colonel says comfortingly. “Phnom Penh's becoming more and more interesting.”

Kasper tries to think of something appropriate to say, but the general clears his throat and asks a question: “Before we talk about Cambodia, I'd like to know where we are with the Sinai operation. Am I mistaken, or are we at a standstill?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“Not exactly,” the general repeats.

“I think a brief overview would be helpful,” the colonel intervenes.

This is just what Kasper was expecting.

Operation Sinai has been under way for more than a year, ever since Kasper succeeded in making contact with Michael Savage.

Savage is a drug dealer working out of Bangkok, an Irishman who exports cocaine from Colombia to Europe, chiefly Spain, and uses the money he makes to help out his friends in the IRA. Then there's his plan to transfer his European drug distribution hub from Spain to Italy. His projects are ambitious. His connections are of the highest order. For many Americans of Irish ancestry who support the IRA, Savage is a point of reference, a strategic junction.

Kasper was introduced to him by a Thai drug dealer named Wanchai, who had described Kasper to Savage as a good Italian guy, an ex-military man and a pilot willing to do anything for money. Including flying an airplane full of cocaine from Colombia to Italy. And not some small-load flying machine, but a DC-8 Cargoliner with a whole lot of capacity.

Ten thousand kilograms of the very purest stuff. That's the coup Michael Savage wants to pull off. The big score, all at once.

“You understand what I mean?” Savage asks, stressing every word and staring at Kasper. Blue eyes, Irish rebel freckles.

“Ten thousand kilograms is ten tons,” Kasper remarks pedantically.

“Does that sound like too much to you?”

“It doesn't to you?”

“It sounds like enough to me.”

“It can be done,” Kasper replies. And then he names his price: $2 million.

They like each other right away.

Savage asks him to come up with a plan. He wants the plane to land somewhere in Northern Italy, or at least in Central Italy, but no farther south than, say, Tuscany. A large portion of the cargo will have to be transported to northern Europe by truck. The less time a truck spends on the road, the fewer risks it runs.

“I want a plan that'll work, no matter what. No bullshit,” Michael warns him. “Remember, I know Italy well.”

“Excellent. Then you'll be able to judge for yourself without too much asking around.”

“What does that mean?”

“You Irish run your mouths too much. That always causes major problems.”

“Whereas you Italians…”

“My father's an American.”

“Italo-American bastard.”

“Irish arsehole.”

It's a beginning, and a good one, too.

Michael has no idea he's one of the ROS's next targets. He also doesn't know that a few years previously, Kasper contributed to the successful outcome of a similar operation, Operation Pilot. A web is being woven around Michael that will not leave either him or his band of Irish and Colombian accomplices any escape.

Kasper has been working hard during the past few months. He and Savage have met in Bangkok, Phnom Penh, and Europe. Kasper has constructed the plan piece by piece before his eyes. Now everything's ready; all that's lacking is the Irishman's definitive okay. Once he gives it, Operation Sinai will enter its final phase.

Kasper too is ready.

He'll be on that plane. Its belly will be loaded with cocaine in Medellín, he'll be in the cockpit, and he'll fly the beast to Pisa. Ten thousand kilos: a mountain of coke. The biggest drug bust ever pulled off in Italy.

Sinai will be even more sensational than Pilot.

A soft gust of wind blows through Villa Ada and carries off Kasper's last words. The general keeps his dark eyes fixed on Kasper as he speaks, his lips pressed together under a moustache that looks as though it was drawn on with a pencil.

“Ten thousand kilos in one shipment,” the general says, barely nodding. “How many did we seize in Operation Pilot?”

“A thousand, sir.”

“And this Irishman wants to bring in ten times as much. How much does that come to in dollars?”

“Half a billion, more or less.”

“Only cocaine?”

“Maybe a little crack too, but crack is generally destined for the American market.”

The general and the colonel look at each other. It seems to be a signal: the colonel arranges his mouth into a bizarre grimace. “Now, tell me something,” he says. “What's this business about a meeting with Savage in Switzerland?”

Kasper's been expecting that, too. “We're supposed to meet sometime in the next couple of weeks in Geneva,” he replies, in the tone of a man offering the most natural explanation in the world.

“Why in Geneva?” the captain wants to know.

“The DC-8 we want to rent belongs to Jet Aviation in Geneva. The flight will have to be disguised as a humanitarian shipment from the United Nations. I've prearranged everything. I've already got the documentation that will get us a flight plan and a United Nations call sign—”

“The communications we've intercepted recently suggest that your Irish friend is pretty nervous,” the captain points out, interrupting Kasper.

“Maybe he's having some problems with his Colombian partners. I imagine they haven't been able to agree yet on how much each producer in the cartel can put on the plane.”

“You think that's the only reason?”

“I don't see any other explanation.”

“What if he's suddenly smelled a rat?”

“I believe we'd know that already from the wiretaps.”

“Maybe so. Or maybe this trip to Switzerland could be hazardous to your health.”

Kasper doesn't like to contradict the colonel. So he doesn't try. He knows what they expect of him. They don't want the cocky secret agent. They want reassurance.

And he gives it to them. He spreads his arms and puts on his best mask. “If I had perceived the slightest danger…but there's no risk to us. Nothing that can expose us to—”

“Isn't this strange, this summons to Geneva?” the colonel insists.

“But if I don't go, it will be much worse. It will be like backing out on the whole deal. A year's worth of work down the drain. And just when we're so close—”

“All right,” the general cuts him off. “But if it goes wrong, you're on your own. You know that.”

Kasper nods.

“So now let's talk about Cambodia,” the general says. “I still have a few minutes. You all can continue afterward without me.”

There's a moment of silence. A simple matter of resetting the discussion.

“Cambodia, of course,” the colonel says, getting things going. “Well, it's pretty straightforward. The data we have tell us that the Mafia, the Camorra, and the 'Ndrangheta are investing more and more money abroad. Central America and Southeast Asia are the two regions where there's been the biggest increase in money laundering. Various local banks allow money to be cleaned and then reinvested in activities that look legal on paper. Thailand, Vietnam, Indonesia, and Cambodia are the Asian countries currently experiencing the greatest influx of capital from Italian organized crime. In many cases, the money comes back into Italy under the cover of apparently legitimate Asian companies and individuals.”

This is a subject Kasper's familiar with. In Phnom Penh, he often runs into shady businessmen, bankers, and dealers of every kind. They move in high finance and/or governmental circles and are complicit in the corruption and patronage systems of governments and countries that officially loathe one another but when it comes to business—the business that counts—all dance to the same music.

“We're considering opening an ROS station in Phnom Penh,” the colonel explains. “The work will be totally undercover. No communication with our diplomats in the region, and naturally no agreements with the local police. We need someone already familiar with the scene, someone already known there, someone who has the right contacts.”

The colonel's eyes narrow slightly behind his spectacles, and then he allows himself something that resembles a smile. “We've come to the conclusion that you're the right man for the job. If you want to take it on.”

If he was looking for an adrenaline rush, well, here it is. “Has it already been decided?” he manages to ask.

“Of course not,” the general replies. “Our project's still in the planning stage. We need government authorizations and proper financial cover. But we'd like to hear your assessment as to feasibility and margin of risk.”

Kasper measures his words. The structure they put in place should be light, he says. Just a few collaborators, well integrated in the social context, possibly of different nationalities. They'll need a cover activity, and it can't be Sharky's. Not exclusively, anyway. The bar's frequented chiefly by the diplomats and officials of various embassies.

“And by spies, probably,” says the captain with a smile. “Spies and dealers.”

Smiling, Kasper concedes the captain's point. They need something more focused. “Clancy and I have already been thinking about opening a consulting service for financial investments in the region. That would lead us straight to our targets.”

The captain nods. “I suppose it's impossible to do anything without the Company's knowledge.”

Kasper immediately thinks of Clancy, his close friend for almost twenty years now. Practically an uncle.

They've known each other since the early 1980s, when the American was working for an air transport company based in Miami. It used C-123K aircraft to supply arms to the Nicaraguan Contras and organized military support for the Karen insurgents in Burma.