The Wolf (19 page)

“Has he given the dog a name yet?” she asked.

“Hugo,” I said. “He’s in a Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas phase. I did manage to talk him out of naming him after one of the Musketeers.”

“Sometimes the apple does fall close to the tree,” she said, smiling. “I recall you being in such a phase yourself. One, if my instincts are correct, you have yet to outgrow.”

“Jack’s noticed the heavy security detail I put on him,” I said. “And he’s not too happy about it. What boy his age would be? Maybe Hugo will help him ignore what’s going on around him and let him be a kid again.”

“Give that dog some time, Vincent,” Angela said. “Watch him grow and then watch how he will not only know where Jack is but will be aware of who surrounds him, who is a friend, and who is a threat. I’ve seen it myself. Those two dogs of mine you mentioned? They saved my life on more than one occasion. My father told me each dog was worth six of his best bodyguards.”

I nodded, my back against the brick wall of the terrace, my eyes on my son. “He’ll also have a friend,” I said.

“He’s his father’s son, Vincent,” Angela said, turning to face me. “He can handle anything thrown his way.”

“I hate leaving him for such long periods,” I said. “Jimmy fills the void most of the time and my uncle does, too, but it’s not the same as having a father around.”

“Maybe being alone isn’t such a bad thing for him right now,” Angela said.

“You’ve been busy rattling Raza’s cage,” I said, eager to shift the topic to business. “I would imagine by now he’s sniffed out who it is that’s bringing havoc to his plans.”

“My guess is he’ll focus more on you than me,” Angela said.

“Why?”

“You’re the bigger name,” Angela said. “And all terrorists, whether they admit it or not, are headline hunters. He gets me, he might get a few headlines in the Italian papers. But if he brings down a wealthy American, mob boss or not, he’s sure to get a lot more attention.”

“We’re slowing him down,” I said. “But we’re no closer to nailing him or finding out what he has in mind for his major attack.”

“We know more than we think we do,” Angela said. “We know, for example, that the big job will be in Europe, most likely Italy. He’s building up to it. That job we foiled, the one in the port, would have been his biggest attack to date.”

“Did anyone in your crew pick up anything we can use off that train station bombing?” I asked.

Angela nodded. “A sketch pad,” she said. “Not the kind an art student would use. This one was leather bound and expensive. They’re sold in the high-end shops along the Arno in Florence or by the Spanish Steps in Rome.”

“How does that link to Raza?”

“Not sure that it does,” Angela said. “But similar books were found in two of the safe houses we’ve hit. It might have been left behind by mistake or it might be just coincidence.”

“None of that was in the police files,” I said.

“And none of it will be,” Angela said. “One of my men got it from one of his police contacts. It’s in our files now.”

“What was in the sketch pad?” I asked.

“Some charcoal drawings,” Angela said. “Bad replicas of works by Michelangelo, Caravaggio, and Raphael. Again, the same as was found in the safe houses.”

“It’s worth checking out,” I said. “Have our guys run Raza’s photo past the shop owners in both cities, see if it lights a match. He loves Renaissance art, and if he’s a terrorist eager to leave his mark, why not destroy what you love?”

Angela nodded. “It troubles me we’re finding members of his cell too fast and too easy. They practically lead us by the hand to the jobs they’re planning. Raza is smarter than that. He’s better than that and he thinks bigger than that.”

“Which tells you what?”

“That we’ve been fed sacrificial lambs,” Angela said. “Put out there for us to follow and then foil, giving us a sense of thwarting his goals and bringing havoc to his organization.”

“While he is far from the scene, planning the big attacks,” I said. “He’s working out of our sight, without any worries we are on to his game.”

“I knew coming into this Raza was a clever young man,” Angela said.”The question then becomes is he more than just clever? Is he as devious as we like to think we are?”

“He could well be,” I said. “Or it could be Vladimir working as he works best, in the shadows, calling the shots.”

Angela walked over to the glass table in the center of the terrace and pulled back a soft leather chair. “It doesn’t matter who is calling the shots,” she said after several moments. “Maybe they’ve been playing us or maybe not. But this major attack is going to happen soon and it’s going to happen in my country.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“There are no signs of Raza’s crew anywhere in the States,” Angela said. “And he would find it difficult to set up an operation from scratch. Too many eyes on the ground for him to operate in any sort of comfort zone.”

“What else?”

“He likes to devise his plans and take his meetings in museums,” Angela said, talking as much to herself as she was to me. “It serves a dual purpose, allowing him to meet and discuss finance and operations in public places and feeding his love of Renaissance artists. He can accomplish that more easily in Europe than he can in America.”

“And he recruits out of Europe,” I said. “That may be a trust factor more than anything else, bringing new people in who were recommended by those already in his circle.”

“That’s part of it,” Angela said. “But he has never attempted to set up a footprint in this country. I don’t think it’s on his radar, at least not yet. There would be no point. He’s a young man looking to make a name in the terror world. If he executed an attack here, no matter how well planned and how destructive, it would still leave him under Bin Laden’s shadow. In Europe, he has the terrain to himself. If the attack were big enough, it would grab all the attention and put him at the head of the terrorist line. If he’s going for the big hit, Europe will be where it will happen.”

“If he’s not looking to copy Bin Laden and risk being compared to him, he won’t go after financial sites,” I said. “That leaves cultural landmarks.”

“Which feeds right back into his passion for art,” Angela said. “Makes perfect sense.”

I nodded and stepped in closer to her. “If you wanted to make your mark, make a statement and blow up a cultural landmark in Italy, killing as many people as possible in the process, what would you hit?” I asked.

“It would have to be someplace that would shake Europe to its core,” she said, “as 9/11 took America’s breath away. I can think of half a dozen places that would have such a powerful effect—the
David
in Florence, the Duomo, the Leaning Tower, Vatican City, the Coliseum, the Grand Canal in Venice.”

“How secure are all those places?”

“The Vatican is pretty tight, but with crowds coming in every day by the thousands, it would not be difficult for one or two wired terrorists to slip in,” she said. “The Galleria and the rest of them would be a cakewalk. They are big on camera surveillance, but you have a bomb strapped to your chest, you don’t care who sees you walk in.”

“And Raza’s notion of a cultural landmark could differ from ours,” I said. “We could have our eyes on Rome or Florence and he could be targeting Pisa or Milan. We can’t afford to be wrong on this. There’s too much at stake.”

“Raza’s been planning something this big ever since he got into the terror business,” Angela said. “And if he’s half as smart as we think, he feels by now he pretty much has it gamed.”

I nodded. “And he’ll keep the plan to himself until he has to put it out there for his crew. Not even Vladimir will be told, even though it’s his money Raza is playing with. He’s got it figured out. Except for us. There was no way for him to imagine we would step into this. It won’t stop him but it might give him pause.”

“If that’s true,” Angela said, “that he wasn’t planning on drawing the attention of the syndicate, then maybe he wasn’t the one who targeted your family.”

“We’ll find out in due time,” I said. “And that starts with getting our hands on Raza.”

Angela pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll spend some time with Jack,” she said, walking toward the glass doors, “and then I’ll fly back to Italy. If we’re going to stop Raza, there’s quite a bit of work still to be done. And it would help if we doubled up the crew we have on Vladimir.”

“I’ll have that done by tonight,” I said. “I’ll fly out day after tomorrow. I promised Jack I would take him and Hugo to Central Park. And I need to talk to Jimmy.”

“Give my love to your silent consigliere,” she said as she walked into the living room. “And tell him if he ever tires of taking care of you, I have a villa waiting for him in Naples.”

“Thank you,” I said. “This would be much harder to accomplish without you.”

Angela turned and gave me a smile. “You can thank me later,” she said. “After they’re all dead.”

Chapter 31

I sat on the clean cut grass of the Great Lawn in Central Park, under the shade of an oak tree whose limbs had seen better decades. Jack and Hugo rested on each side of me while Jimmy sat in his wheelchair, parked atop the tree’s roots. It was late afternoon and the sun was bright and warm, the sky a blinding blue. Jack looked up at me and then at Jimmy; the smile on his face hadn’t changed since he first saw Hugo pop out of the cardboard box Angela handed him earlier that day.

“Angela gave me a list of the foods he should eat and treats he can have,” Jack said. “She also told me if I trained him right, he would listen to me and be the best behaved dog anyone could ever have.”

Jimmy nodded and held his hands out wide. “That’s right, Uncle Jimmy,” Jack said, “and be the biggest dog anyone could ever have.”

“You watch after him and he’ll watch after you,” I said. “You’ll be partners.”

“Just like you and Uncle Jimmy,” Jack said.

I smiled. “Except Hugo will outweigh Uncle Jimmy by forty pounds and eat three times as much.”

The Neapolitan bullmastiff had a white coat with touches of gray around his face, neck, and sides. I could tell from his wide puppy paws that he would grow to be a large dog, but even now, after only a few hours with Jack, you could see how protective of the boy he would grow to become. The puppy seemed keenly aware of the activity around him—the kids tossing Frisbees; the middle-age man up against a chain-link fence playing a soulful tune on a trumpet, couples laying next to one another, young men sitting on folded towels, deli sandwiches in hand, sneaking in a few quiet moments from a hectic day—but he kept his gaze on Jack, taking in his every move, learning my son’s mannerisms and adapting to the sound of his voice.

“You think Uncle Carlo will like him?” Jack asked.

Jimmy made a gun motion with one hand and pointed at Hugo with the other.

“Jimmy’s right,” I said. “Uncle Carlo will be the one to teach Hugo to shoot a prowler rather than bite one.”

Jack stood, grabbed a tennis ball out of one of the rear pockets of his jeans and showed it to Hugo. “You think it’d be okay if I tossed a ball with him?” he asked.

“As long as you don’t mind him chewing it to bits in about ten minutes,” I said.

I watched my son and the puppy play for a few moments and then turned to Jimmy. “I’ll drive Jack and Hugo out to the house tomorrow morning,” I said. “He’s all excited about taking the dog to the beach and hanging out with you. He’s not keen about me being away again but he loves being out there with you and Uncle Carlo, and even more so now that he has a companion.”

Jimmy made a few hand gestures, calm and assured in his manner, only his eyes radiating concern.

“That sounds about right,” I said. “I want the house covered in and out, but not to such an extent that Jack feels penned in.”

I looked back to see them at play, Hugo gnawing away at the tennis ball, Jack sitting by his side, petting him and speaking to him in a low voice.

“Check out everyone, Jimmy,” I said. “Even kids he’s had play dates with in the past. Take nothing for granted. If Raza is going to make a move on Jack, he’ll try anything.”

Jimmy moved his hands back and forth, a bit more agitated than before.

“I know you can handle it,” I said. “I just want to make sure I have every base covered. I can’t lose him, too, Jimmy.”

Jimmy’s gestures softened and I reached out a hand and rested it on one of his. “If Raza’s got to go through you to get to Jack, then I got nothing to worry about. I know.”

I leaned against the tree and looked out. “The gun guy Raza is using,” I said, “the Mexican, Santos, doesn’t much care where his money comes from so long as it comes. We can offer him twice what Raza is paying, plus he doesn’t have to hand us any weapons.”

Jimmy took out a notepad, scrawled a few lines on a thin piece of paper and handed it to me.

I read it and handed it back. “We might not need to touch Santos,” I said. “Once this is finished and we take Raza down, we hand the Mexican over to the Colombians. They’ll be glad to take care of him.”

Jimmy dashed off another note.

I read and shrugged. “The Russians have been quiet,” I said. “The older bosses are not as keen as Vladimir on working with the terror crews. They might be sitting tight to see how this plays out. If there is as much money in it as Vladimir says, then you’ll see them move—and fast. Until then, there’s no reason for them to do anything other than wait.”

In that sense Vladimir and I were in a similar situation. I knew I still needed to make a convincing argument with some of the leaders of the other crime syndicates that my idea of a declared war would turn out to be worthwhile. While they agreed to start the war and help fund it, many were content to keep their distance and monitor the situation. A few groups—the Yakuza, the Triads, and the Greeks, with Big Mike taking the lead—had done more than their share. The others were sitting back, doing their due diligence, weighing the cost of war versus the loss of revenue brought their way by the terrorists.

If we focused strictly on criminal activities, the terrorist situation would not be as big a concern since it would have little impact on our profits. In truth, we would see an uptick in the sale of drugs and guns, have even more free rein in the sex trade—especially in the distribution of low-budget porno movies—and increase the demand for loan shark money and bookies to work the sports end. It would also enable us to tighten our control over the international movement of counterfeit currency, taking in five clean dollars for every false one sent out.