The Wolf (21 page)

Avrim looked up at the
David
and then in a lower voice said, “Do we have the resources for such an undertaking? Or for that matter, the manpower?”

“What we lack, we will be given,” Raza said.

“The job you have planned is massive, and on its own will make our enemies shiver,” Avrim said. “It is brilliant and will do for us in Europe what Osama did to America on September eleventh. Do you really see a need to expand the operation?”

“Bin Laden brought down
both
towers,” Raza said, “though I’m sure one would have had the same emotional impact. We walk in his footsteps. This is a plan he would have embraced. It will bring fear to our enemies and leave them in such a state of confusion they will think we can attack at any time from any place. They will finally believe there isn’t anything of theirs we hold sacred.”

“There are security cameras in every corner of the room,” Avrim said, walking now with Raza around the large statue. “And armed guards at the entrance.”

“They can have as many cameras as they wish,” Raza said. “Once a bomber is in the Galleria, the mission is all but complete.”

“And the guards at the front gate?”

Raza shrugged. “All they see are long lines.”

“So you would think of doing two attacks on the same day?”

“Would be poetry, no?” Raza said. “Look around you. Look at the faces. They are left speechless by such a magnificent work of art. Think how they would feel if it were no longer here, taken from them forever, as if it never existed? They will never recover from such an emotional loss. Never.”

“Have you anyone in mind, should you choose to go in that direction?” Avrim asked.

“I knew who it would be before I envisioned the plan,” Raza said. “I also knew he would embrace the assignment because he will be doing something that will always be remembered.”

“Has he been told yet?”

Raza looked at his friend, smiled and rested an arm around his shoulders. “Not yet,” he said to Avrim.

Chapter 34

Naples, Italy

Santos crossed against heavy traffic, heading for the small coffee shop, eager for a bitter espresso and two—maybe three—fresh pastries. There was a time when he had been in great physical shape and worked out daily, running five to seven miles regardless of weather or which city he happened to be in. But those days were firmly in the rearview mirror. Now, there was nothing he liked better than a good meal and the occasional romp with a high-end woman. Those things, and watching his portfolio grow into the mid-seven figure range. He slid a hand into the side pocket of his blue windbreaker and pulled out a twenty euro bill. He was less than ten feet from the café’s entrance; he could taste the harsh brew on his tongue.

The years of steady success and the safety he felt working in Europe had rusted Santos’s street antenna. Otherwise he would have noticed the black sedan, engine idling, parked in front of the café. He would have seen the two men in leather jackets sitting at an outside table, pretending to read the morning papers. But Santos had made the biggest mistake a man in the business can make—he’d begun to think like a civilian.

The sedan’s door swung open to block his path. The move startled him and caused him to drop the bill to the curb.

“Get in and make it look like it’s something you want to do,” I said. I didn’t move from my seat in the back, but my voice was loud enough to be heard.

Santos held his ground and peered in. “Sounds like a piss-poor idea to these ears,” he said.

“You think dying on the street is a better one?” I said. “If so, I go on my way and the two at the table behind you take it from there. Your call, but make it now.”

Santos looked at the two men in leather jackets, their newspapers now resting on the table.

He took a deep breath and then slid into the backseat next to me.

“Pick up your money and close the door,” I told him, nodding at the bill on the cab.

He did as told, and I nodded to the driver. We eased into the early morning traffic.

“You know who I am?” I asked.

“You’re not looking to sell me a car, know that much,” Santos said, a trace of a Mexican accent still there, despite the years spent living in Europe.

“You run guns and ammo,” I said.

“If I could run, I wouldn’t be in this car,” Santos said. “But, yeah, somebody fed you right. I move arms. Move them to your side if you put up the cash.”

“For the moment, I don’t care about any of the other terror outfits on your payroll,” I said. “I only care about one. Raza’s crew.”

“They bought about five dozen crates and paid the freight in cash,” Santos said. “But you knew that before I got in the car, which, by the way, is a nice ride. You put four gold hubs on this piece and you got yourself a top-of-the-line skirt chaser.”

“I’ll mention it to my mechanic,” I said.

“You want me to stop selling to his crew?” he asked. “That why you breathin’ hard in my direction?”

I sighed. “They don’t get their guns from you, there’s always somebody else ready to sell to them. You keep moving whatever it is they ask you to move. And the money you make from them stays where it is now—in your pockets.”

“So what do you want?”

“I want you to come work for me,” I said.

We were off the side streets now, out on the autostrada, the driver, a handsome young man in his mid-twenties with thick dark hair and skin the color of leather, settling the sedan in at a steady ninety kilometers an hour, following the signs that lead to Salerno.

“You know who Raza’s gunrunner was before he reached out for you?” I asked.

Santos shook his head. “Mexicans never put their nose in somebody else’s soup. I’m like your army before they found religion—don’t ask, don’t tell,” he said. “I just take jobs as they come.”

“He was a Colombian named Carlos Mendoza,” I said. “For a while he was pulling in big money working the terror circuit, Raza’s group included. They paid cash and the guns were costing him nothing. It seems he had a connection in Iraq, one of our soldiers looking to get more out of the war than a free ride home. So stolen guns made their way to Raza and others like him and thick wads of cash found its way to Mendoza and his bosses.”

“Seems like a good deal for all hands on the deck,” Santos said.

“It was,” I said, “and it could have stayed that way for as long as Mendoza had the guns and the terrorists had a need.”

“So what happened?”

“It seems guys who do business with terrorists—guys like you, Mendoza, others—have a short shelf life,” I said. “That’s because guys like Raza only trust people for so long, especially those not loyal to his particular cause.”

“They killed him?”

“They didn’t stop with him,” I said. “They cleared them all out—his transporter, his banker, the soldier in Iraq, Mendoza’s wife and two kids. Each shot dead at close range. That’s their way of letting you know the partnership no longer seems to be working.”

“It’s harsh, give you that,” Santos said. “But we are in a harsh business. And what was bad for him turned out good for me. Everybody in my
famiglia
owes me too many pesos to count, so the more that get dirt-napped, the lighter my load.”

“How much you taking in running weapons for Raza?”

“Terrorists pay a higher freight than what somebody like you would be charged,” Santos said. “Risk factor is higher, more eyes on their movements, longer transport distance.”

“Save it for your accountant,” I said. “All I want to know is how much?”

“I clear about $175,000 if it’s a simple drop,” Santos said. “Nothing more than guns and ammo. Price climbs when they start to toss in explosives and high-end items.”

“How long have you been feeding him?”

“He came on my radar about a year, maybe fourteen months back. Figure five, maybe six shipments in all. One more on the way.”

“You deal with him direct?”

“Why you asking all this shit?” Santos said. “I mean, where you want to go with this? Don’t think an OC hombre big as you gets wrinkles worrying about whether a low-rider like me keeps breathing. That were true, then me coming in with you and double-dealing Raza ain’t exactly laying out a safety net under my Mexican ass.”

“I’ll pay you $250,000 a month. In return, all I need to know is what Raza is asking you to get him and when and where it’s coming in,” I said. “I cannot keep you alive, not when you’re that close to him. And frankly, even if I could, I doubt I would. If you go down, then I make the same offer to the runner who replaces you.”

“So I walk on hot coals for a quarter a million a month,” Santos said. “Say that works for one, maybe two hauls. He’s no moron, Raza, sharp as a farmer’s machete, from what I can tell. He catches on, it’s me feeding you? All that extra money you throw my way gets me is a nice coffin and a top-tier mariachi band. And he
will
catch on.”

“It’s a short-term job,” I told Santos. “Either I make sure of that or Raza will. But whatever happens, you walk away with money from both ends without having to expend yourself.”

“Raza ain’t the only terrorist I ride the rap with,” Santos said. “Word gets out I was doing a double tap, my business on that end dries up.”

“That’s your concern, not mine,” I said. “Won’t be the first time you played one side against another. I have a feeling you’ll figure a way to work it out.”

“I take a pass on your offer,” Santos said, “what happens then?”

“I’m not talking to you because I’m lonely,” I said. “You pass on the offer, that’s your business. My driver will drop you off at the train station. You make your way back to Naples.”

“No bad blood?”

I shook my head. “But I can’t promise Raza won’t know you and I had a conversation, and he might be curious to know what it was about,” I said. “What takes place from that point will be between you and him.”

“So, I read it right, you puttin’ out a take-it-or-leave-it deal?”

I glanced out the window at a clear view of miles of well-tended farmland, the occasional stone house dotting the landscape. “We’re about ten minutes from Salerno,” I said. “I’ll need an answer by the time we get there.”

“No need for a ticking clock,” Santos said. “I’m in.”

I kept looking out at the passing countryside, farmland now giving way to row after row of vineyards, a line of workers tending to the grapes, a sprinkler system keeping the ground drenched. These lands had been harvested for centuries, the only intrusion being attacks from outside forces. I imagine there is a certain serenity that comes from living a safe life. Working the land, waiting through the seasons as the crops ripen and then die.

“The car will stop across from the station,” I said. “The trunk will be open. Inside will be a backpack. Belongs to you. Your first payment is in the pack. There’s also a number in there for you to call when you have information to send my way. Learn the number and burn the paper. If anyone but you uses that number, it would not be good if I found out about it.”

Santos nodded. “Do you need my number?” he asked.

“I have your number,” I said.

Chapter 35

Paris, France

Vladimir sat in an ornate chair admiring the massive lobby of the George V Hotel, from the crystal chandeliers to the marble floor to the oil paintings hanging on the walls, resting within faux golden frames. He had always admired French taste, its shameless excess. Their upper class had a unique style, whether it was clothing, jewelry, cars, or the way they decorated their homes. But he also admired the way they didn’t publicly flaunt their wealth, unlike his fellow Russians, who flung cash around as if it were a day away from being outlawed. He saw the behavior as crude and dangerous, since nothing attracted unwanted attention like the flashing of large sums of money.

“The Wolf is moving much faster than we originally anticipated,” Klaus Marni said.

Marni was one of two men sitting across the table from Vladimir, each having vodka on the rocks. He was one of Vladimir’s most trusted advisors and a dependable assassin. He had turned to petty crime at a young age and soon came to the attention of Klensko, a gangster known for turning street money thousands into legally earned millions. Klensko organized the best of Russia’s young thugs and brought them into his ranks by offering high-end salaries and a percentage of profits. “He acted like a CEO of a major corporation,” Uncle Carlo told me during one of the late night talks we had as I was being prepped to take over the reins. “He paid them enough money not to bolt to other outfits and gave them input into the day-to-day dealings. You had to compare Klensko to anybody, it would be to Luciano.”

It was Klensko who put Marni together with Vladimir, and the two proved a formidable and lethal combination as they rose through the Russian criminal ranks at a rocket pace. And it was Marni who brought the third man sitting at the table into their crew. Ruslan Holt was a Canadian-born street orphan who bounced around a number of European cities as a teenager before making his way to Russia with a fake passport after a drunken argument in a London nightclub left two men dead and Ruslan’s prints all over the crime scene. He thrived in the Russian underworld, where the police could be ignored and he could operate with impunity so long as he remembered to kick back a portion of any profits he earned to the local bosses in his district.

The three men, sitting in the safe confines of one of the finest hotels in the world, were now in control of nearly forty percent of the vast Russian criminal organization. They had risen through the ranks together, gathering profits and disposing of enemies at an alarming pace, brushing past the old guard and bringing fresh vitality to the Russian criminal landscape, thriving even in a chaotic new world order where the Soviet Union became a distant and forlorn memory. From the beginning they had set their sites on dominating all of organized crime, not just the vast and extremely profitable Russian end. The growth of terrorism and the declared war launched by the various branches of the criminal universe was the opening for which they had patiently waited for decades.