The Lieutenant was mentally chastising himself—had he so easily forgotten all of his war training? The success of every commando-like strike was geared to the intelligence factor! So where was Bolan getting his intelligence? From a beautiful whore in a flowered bikini? Was Jean Kirkpatrick an innocent witness … or was she an accomplice to a killer?
Bolan had to have an accomplice! Those lightning strikes didn’t just materialize spontaneously! They were planned to the closest detail, and executed with military precision!
Wilson punched the elevator button and, in the same motion, made a grab into his breast pocket for his notebook and hurriedly flipped the pages to his notes of the Sandbank investigation. Uh-huh, there she was. 2015 Palmetto Lane. There was the start … and maybe the ending.
The boat had picked them up at the north end of Miami Beach and then headed south, backtracking along their earlier route, past the seaquarium and across Biscayne Bay. Then Bolan was outfitted in ragged jeans which were several inches too short and thonged sandals, also too small. It was at this point that Toro had apologetically applied the blindfold, explaining while not explaining, “You understand, amigo, the necessity for secrecy.”
Some time later they bumped ashore and Bolan was guided up over the bow and into grassy marshland. After a twenty minute hike with difficult footing, Bolan’s blindfold was removed. They were in rough country and quite removed from the water. Bolan oriented his directions by the setting sun, but could arrive at no meaningful analysis of their course. They seemed to be zig-zagging, travelling on first one heading and then another. In the last faint light of dusk they emerged from thick underbrush onto a narrow dirt lane and a waiting jeep. A pretty senorita sat behind the wheel. She was clad in tight-fitting combat fatigues and wore a U.S. Army .45 in a flap holster. A field hat with the brim snapped up did little to imprison a thick sheen of luxurious raven hair.
Toro performed a quiet introduction. Her name was Margarita, and the lustrous dark eyes did not miss a detail of Bolan’s physical presence. He became awkwardly aware of his ill-fitting jeans and dust-sweat-caked torso, mumbling an acknowledgement of the introduction as he slid onto the rear seat of the jeep. Toro climbed in beside the girl and they conversed in rapid Spanish as the vehicle sped along the lane at suicidal speeds—or so it seemed to Bolan, considering the terrain. The girl’s statements at times took on an agitated quality and she would toss her head angrily with an occasional quick snap toward their visitor. Bolan began to feel like an unwelcome dinner guest.
The night had firmly settled in when they reached the compound, and a chill was falling upon the air. As the jeep bounced to a halt, Toro stood on the floor and hurled an authoritative string of Spanish phrases toward a guard tower, high above them. A floodlight flashed on and washed the jeep with a brilliant glare. Bolan closed his eyes but kept his face elevated, in his mind visualizing an armed camp with machine-gun towers, barbed wire, and nervous sentries with willing fingers. Someone opened a gate, Toro sat down, the floodlight went off, and the jeep went in.
Bolan experienced a surge of uneasiness as the gate closed behind him. He had played a hunch and ridden it to the bitter end … but what if his instincts had gone awry? How did he know that Toro was a friend … or a militant exile … or even a Cuban? And even if it were all true, the Cuban bit and all, how could Bolan be sure that the Mafia cancer had not spread to include such groups for one purpose or another? He discovered that he was breathing too shallow, his stomach tight and queasy. He forced himself to relax and to still the disquieting doubts. They were speeding along a smoother road, headlamps extinguished, and with a total cessation of conversation in the front seat.
A dip, a wild turn, then an abrupt climb and they broke into a large clearing. Dismal yellow light seeped from the open windows of a dozen or more long and lowslung barracks-type wooden buildings. Somewhere a man was strumming a guitar and singing in soft Spanish. The jeep slowed and swerved between several buildings, then again broke open ground and jounced to a halt in front of a crumbling stucco house. A number of men in varying styles of dress filed out through the wide doorway and lined the rail of the veranda, staring quietly at the new arrivals.
The girl leapt from the jeep and went into the house without a backward look. Toro showed Bolan a flashing smile, then stepped to the ground and delivered a flourishing statement in Spanish to the men on the veranda.
Bolan caught only the last few words, “… Senor Mack Bolan, El Matador!”
The announcement produced a startled reaction from the men on the porch. Then they made a rush for the jeep. A fat man with a cigar clenched between his teeth grabbed Bolan’s hand and helped him to the ground. The others milled about, exclaiming excitedly in hushed Spanish, and pressing warm handshakes upon the surprised visitor.
Toro caught Bolan’s amazed reaction and quietly extricated him from the welcoming, moving him insistently toward the house. “Is it so surprising, Senor Bolan,” he said, grinning, “that courage and daring is admired in this place?”
“I guess not,” Bolan replied. His doubts had left him. El Matador, he was certain, was in the very best of hands.
Chapter Eleven
A MATTER FOR COMPETITION
Ciro Lavangetta had put in a rough day … and it was getting rougher by the minute. George the Butcher had been needling him mercilessly, with at least the tacit approval of the eastern bosses—right up to the moment when the electrifying news came in from the Tidewater Plaza. From that point on it had been sheer turmoil, with Ciro on the hotseat, being required to repeat over and over each tiny detail of his entirely second-hand knowledge of Mack the Bastard Bolan.
The Talifero brothers had presented the worst ordeal, with their suavely cold manners and often cooly mocking attitude during the interrogation. At least five times they had insisted that he repeat his complete impressions of the scene at Palm Springs, site of Bolan’s latest big operation. They even tried crossing Ciro up, interviewing him one at a time in a closed room and each one asking identical questions—and Ciro never knew which one he was talking to. Stand those two boys side by side and you couldn’t tell which was which.
The whole thing was terribly unnerving to Ciro and of course he blamed Mack Bolan for the entire ordeal. What the hell, Ciro had never done anything to Mack Bolan, or to Bolan’s old man or old lady or the damn kid sister. Was it Ciro’s fault the bastard comes roaring home from the war on a vendetta against the organization? Hell no. Was it Ciro’s fault the bastard slams Sergio and Deej and tumbles their whole territories into ruins? Hell no. And now these Talifero brothers acting like Ciro was to blame for it all! Well, screw the Taliferos, this was Ciro’s reaction. If they were such goddamn hot stuff, let them find the bastard theirselves and put him through the ordeal—why take it out on Ciro Lavangetta?
The Arizona chieftain’s discomfiture was understandable enough. The Talifero brothers were not every day items in the life of a Costa Nostra boss. They occupied a unique niche in the family hierarchy, answering to no particular Capo or family, but to the invisible and impersonal body of the Commissione itself. Indeed, the Taliferos constituted a “family” of their own, also largely invisible, impersonal and loyal only to the unified concept of “this thing of ours,” or La Cosa Nostra.
It is not certain as to just how, when, or by whom the brothers were originally empowered to carry out the Commissione’s edicts. It is not even known if Talifero is the true family name (a constructed name could be suggested by the Italian tale, meaning “such,” and ferro, “iron”) but that they were brothers is beyond contest. They were, it seems, identical twins. Each stood about six feet tall, weighed about 175, had dark hair, light skin, blue eyes, and were evidently well educated. Legend has it that they were graduated from the Harvard Law School; if so, they did not attend under the name Talifero.
At the time of the Miami convention, the brothers were about 40 years of age. They dressed immaculately, spoke precise English in the Harvard manner, and were s
aid to be in athletic good health. If they ever smiled, there is no record of this rare event. Perhaps they had little to smile about. Or perhaps they felt too strongly the weight of their grave responsibilities to “this thing of ours.” The Taliferos were, in the deeper analysis, that much debated entity of international crime, “the boss of all the bosses.” Not in decision-making functions, nor in the normal run of business—but they constituted the physical will of the council of Capo’s. As such, the Talifero brothers were the final word in family discipline. They served not themselves, not the Capo’s, but this thing itself.
A normal Mafia family was actually a business enterprise, geared to the accumulation of money by whatever means available. Contrary to their public image, the Families did not normally indulge in overt criminal activities, such as armed robbery, burglary, etc. Occasionally an individual Mafioso, short of funds and seeking a new stake, might pull a stick-up or a hijack, but this type of activity was generally frowned on by the Family itself, considered far too risky for the rewards available. Relative safety with rich rewards was much more likely along the “trade routes” of the underworld, in endeavors such as gambling, loan-sharking, narcotics wholesaling (never retailing), smuggling, and brokerages in illegal whiskey, stolen automobiles and appliances, etc. Labor racketeering had also proven lucrative, and millions of illegally acquired dollars had moved into legitimate trade areas like banking, construction, trucking, vending machines, garbage collection, nightclubs and casinos, restaurants and bars, and virtually anywhere that profits could be reaped by unscrupulous and non-regulated manipulating.
Violence upon the outside world, then, was not a normal Mafia pursuit; that is, it was not regarded as profitable. A certain amount of strong-arming was perhaps inevitable in some minority of business pursuits; for the most part, however, violence was a thing of, in, and around the underworld itself. Protection of trade routes, for example, against invasion by outside or competitive interests; enforcement of Family fealty and territorial rights against over-ambitious Mafiosi; and, of course, protection of the Families themselves against unwarranted persecution by members of the “straight” community and legal establishment. In this connection, the major obstruction to court prosecution of known Mafiosi lay in the difficulty of keeping prosecution witnesses alive long enough to get their testimony into the court records.
From all this emerges the true picture of a Mafia Family. Except for a small number of “enforcers” working within each Family group, the average Mafioso was little more than a shrewd businessman with a total disregard for legal restraints. He might be called upon from time to time to bear arms, to protect the Family estate, or even tapped for an execution of an errant brother—and he might hire “rodmen” from outside the Family to discourage competition or to provide for his own protection. He could be, and often was, a vicious and conscienceless killer—when the cause was right. Torture killings were a favorite method of vengeance against those foolish enough to betray or threaten the Family, from within or without, and some of these were hideously perpetrated.
Even so, life inside the Mafia was generally quiet and businesslike, with as few ripples upon the surface of society as was possible to make. The general inclination was toward total non-recognition, and to foster the idea that stories and charges of La Cosa Nostra’s existence were entirely mythical.
The Talifero brothers did not operate a typical Mafia Family. Their business was murder, intimidation, espionage, and violence of every stripe. Their cadre had never been officially numbered, but it is known that their influence was ever present throughout the scattered provinces of Mafiadom, and that they were feared more than any other force of La Cosa Nostra.
When the brothers left the council chambers that evening, they knew Mack Bolan’s professional background as perhaps no other persons living. They had wrung dry the memories of both Ciro Lavangetta and Frank Milano; they had carefully and painstakingly reconstructed the strikes at Pitts-field, Los Angeles, Palm Springs, Phoenix, and Miami Beach; and they had a fairly valid working model of The Executioner for their specialized minds to ponder.
Lavangetta gratefully closed the door behind their departure and told Augie Marinello, “I don’t want to ever be put through anything like that again. I’d rather face a Congressional committee.”
Marinello smiled and replied, “You know, we wouldn’t have asked you to, Ciro, except that we thought it just had to be.”
“We should of put them on the job a long time ago,” George Aggravante growled. “And then maybe we wouldn’t have this mess to face right now.”
“You know how I hate to see those boys activated, Georgie,” Marinello said quietly.
Aggravante snickered and replied, “Yeah, it’s sort of like starting nuclear warfare, huh. This’s a job for massive retaliation though, Augie. I don’t see how we could of done otherwise.”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling Ciro here. We just had to turn those boys loose. I’m sorry if they ruffled your dignity any, Ciro.”
“Dignity is a thing you get buried with,” Lavangetta replied. “The Taliferos can dig at me anytime they want to, so long as they’re not burying me. I just want them to bury that Bolan. I’d put up with anything to see that.”
“You better get your eyes rested, then, ’cause you’re going to be seeing it pretty soon.”
Lavangetta laughed nervously, lit a cigar, and excused himself. He wanted some fresh air. He wanted to sit by some pure water and sip some fine wine and maybe even feel up some wild women. The day had been a nightmare. He hoped that the night would prove to be of a far better quality.
In fact, it would not.
Within 30 minutes after the Taliferos had been “activated” by the Commissione, and long before the completion of the skull sessions with Lavangetta and Milano, a “ring of steel” had gone into place to protect the “Miami Convention” from further Bolan raids. Under Talifero direction, the dispersal rule for visiting Mafiosi had been reversed, and three “centers” had been established wherein the Families would dwell, in strength, throughout the remainder of the summit conference.
The council meetings were to be held in a different center each day, with the location to be decided by the brothers in each instance and at the last moment. This decision created quite a problem in logistics. Two beachfront hotels, wholly owned by Mafia interests, were selected as the major strongholds. A phoney “strike” by employees of those establishments would be engineered as a pretext to cancel reservations and to empty those accomodations already retained by the “straight” public. Handpicked “employees,” hastily recruited through underworld contacts, would be retained to serve the special guests who were already arriving.
The third “center” was a large cruise boat, also Mafia-owned and crewed, the MV Merry Drew—infrequently used as a party yacht, more often as a gambling casino and floating pleasure palace, and occasionally as a contraband carrier to and from Latin American ports.
These arrangments were more aesthetically pleasing to the visiting Families than the earlier plan. A convention was a place for business, certainly, but it was also a time for renewing old friendships and relaxing with large numbers of one’s own kind. Even with the Bolan menace in town, it was regarded as natural and right that a Family reunion be a thing of good-natured celebration and cheer. The general consensus among the visitors was that Mack Bolan was not going to spoil their holiday. The Talifero boys would take care of Bolan. Probably before the next dawn Bolan’s head would be in a Talifero basket. It was even beginning to seem, in some minds, that a kindly fate had maneuvered The Bastard into this confrontation with the reality of La Cosa Nostra. Maybe even Bolan’s head would serve as a new chalice to restore the confidence of the faltering brotherhood. There had been too many reverses lately, too many successful challenges to the omnipotence of the organization.
Yes, Bolan had been sent to them, C.O.D. The Taliferos would do the collecting, Bolan would do the paying, and La Cosa Nostra, this con
secrated thing of theirs, would reap the profits of this most productive convention in their history. Or so the feeling went among certain of the rank and file.
One or two bosses, though, were not so certain of the “profits” to be realized from this enclave. There was a territory to be deeded, a most lucrative property, and hungrily eyed by the feudal kings of the adjoining estates. What businessman would not gamble a small piece of his soul for an opportunity to double his fortunes overnight? Bolan’s presence in Miami, and especially during this convention, seemed to represent an unknown value to the disposition of these lands, at least to one or two among the visiting royalty. Somehow, went this feeling, the Bolan presence could be used to powerful advantage, and for a more specific form of profit. But how? As the Talifero brothers stepped into high gear and the rest of the convention appeared to relax and take comfort, this question was uppermost in a line of thought which replaced “this thing of ours” with “this thing of mine.”
Even in La Cosa Nostra, it seems, there existed competitive kings.
Chapter Twelve
THE SOLDADOS
Bolan had bathed away an accumulation of Atlantic salt, sweat, and dust. The clothing remained a problem; he had elected to stick with the swim trunks. During the meal, quietly supplied by Margarita, Toro advised Bolan that his personal effects at the Tidewater Plaza had been “sent for,” and were being delivered to the camp in Bolan’s rented car.
Bolan thought about that for a moment, then replied, “I guess you considered the possibility of a police stake-out.”
“Si. This is not for concern. There was no search of unoccupied rooms.” He smiled and produced a watersogged registration card from the hotel. “As you see, there is no record of a Senor Blanski at the Plaza.”
Bolan grinned. “You’re pretty sharp, Toro. And I envy your intelligence network.”
“It is in our good interests to have the knowledge, senor.”
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