Dismissing local enemies, his mind leaped back to the American connection and the stranger Sarkis had reported only yesterday. What was his name? Belmondo? No, Belasko! First name, Michael. Hasty calls to the United States had turned up nothing in the way of useful information, but Makarios suspected that the stranger — or his sponsors stateside — might have been responsible for the Silvestri murder. Another case of gangland competition, with the loser going out of business for eternity.
The sum of thirty million dollars had been mentioned, and Moheden wondered now if it had been some kind of lure to trap Makarios, then Sarkis and finally Razmara. How? As best the Lebanese knew, his men in Nicosia hadn't briefed Razmara on their contact with Belasko. Moheden hadn't forbidden them to do so, but Makarios and Sarkis shared his views on Shiite temperament, and they'd certainly have tried to close the deal before inviting the Iranian to ruin everything with talk of vengeance for the murders in New York.
Where was Belasko now?
It had been nearly ten o'clock before Moheden got his final call from the police in Nicosia. There had been three shootouts, altogether — first, a spot of trouble at a sex club owned and operated by Makarios left six men dead, with several others nursing minor wounds; a second battle, at the Sarkis home had killed Makarios and Sarkis, plus a number of the men employed by Sarkis as his bodyguards. The Lebanese had been discovered in a secret, soundproofed room, beside the mutilated body of a young man who was obviously tortured prior to death. The latter victim was a Cypriot whose name was meaningless to Moheden.
Finally the unknown raiders had attacked Hussein Razmara's compound east of Nicosia, slaughtering at least a dozen of the Shiite's men and killing off Razmara in the bargain. All the dead had been identified, including Cypriots, Iranians and Lebanese. There had been no Americans, no strangers, in the lot.
And what had happened to Belasko?
Two scenarios ran parallel across Moheden's mind, a double feature playing simultaneously. In the first, Belasko was a potential customer, perhaps responsible for killing Anthony Silvestri, eager now to strike a bargain of his own. The other cast him as a villain — what Americans would call a «ringer» — sent to wreak deliberate havoc on the pipeline and destroy Moheden's empire if he could.
But why? Dispatched by whom?
Again, the operation was beyond his local competition, even if they had been able to dismiss their petty differences and work together for a change. The locals had no contacts in America, and Moheden had made no enemies in the United States.
Or had he?
The Silvestri case came back to haunt him. By the simple act of choosing one distributor, had he created opposition on a lethal scale? Would it have been more prudent to approach the Mafia's Commission, as a body, and allow the capos to select participants themselves? Had his attempt to cinch a deal ensured Silvestri's death and brought this havoc down upon himself?
The Lebanese's train of thought was interrupted as the first of his two guests arrived. For once, he didn't wear an artificial smile as he went out to play the role of proper host.
* * *
Ahmad Halaby wasn't frightened — at the moment. He hadn't been seriously frightened since the spring of 1983, when the Israelis sent a pair of Phantom jets to strafe and rocket his command post on the outskirts of Beirut. Surviving the experience had taught him that a man could live through anything if he was cautious and he kept his wits about him.
Bashir Moheden had spared him the specifics when they spoke by telephone. There had been trouble with the Cyprus operation, and another meeting was required. The telephone couldn't be trusted. They must gather and discuss a means of salvaging their network before it was too late.
Halaby often hatched his best schemes under pressure, as when he had been compelled to leave the PLO and carry on his fight without support from Arafat's well-heeled connections. With his back against the wall, Halaby had devised a string of hostage incidents that netted major ransoms for his movement, swelling coffers to the point that he could field a modest army in his war against the Zionists. Of course, there had been only minor victories so far, but with the money earned from his participation in the Bekaa project, he'd launch a new offensive, carrying his fight around the world.
The Palestinian was a cautious man by nature, and a part of that was knowing when to ask a question, what to ask and when to let it go. He hadn't grilled Moheden for the details of the Cyprus problem, knowing it would eventually be explained to him. A surreptitious call to friends in Nicosia filled in Halaby on all the major details, and he recognized the loss in monetary terms, but still he wasn't worried. Cyprus was another world, and violence in the streets of Nicosia didn't phase him. He had buried far too many comrades for the deaths of Sarkis and Makarios to break his heart. As for Razmara, well, the Shiite — while ostensibly a coreligionist — had also been a zealot and a pompous ass.
The violence might not touch him, but Halaby took no chances. For the present journey, he'd brought a second vehicle, more bodyguards and weapons. Just in case. His host's villa was secure, in theory, but so had been Razmara's compound. While their enemies remained at large and anonymous, Halaby's common sense demanded that he cover all contingencies, leave nothing in the hands of fate.
He was alert, as always, to the first sight of Moheden's seaside villa — tile and stucco baking in the midday heat, with sweeping marble steps and pillars that evoked fond memories of Greece. The drug lord had installed the blessed air-conditioning and sauna bath, repaired the swimming pool and modernized the ancient plumbing. He had also fortified the grounds against attack, but one could never be too careful.
Standing on the marble steps, Bashir Moheden made a somber figure. There was no trace of the old familiar smile as he came down to greet Halaby.
"I appreciate your prompt response, Ahmad."
The Palestinian dismissed his partner's gratitude and nodded toward the villa. "Bakhtiar?"
"Not yet."
Halaby raised an eyebrow and frowned. Over eighteen months of meetings, the Iranians were always first on hand. It had become tradition, a running joke among the others, but Hussein Razmara's death had evidently changed the rules. Halaby wondered whether Bakhtiar would come at all. Would the incidents in Nicosia doom them to a fratricidal war among themselves?
The Palestinian didn't like the prospect of a struggle with the Shiites. Bakhtiar and company were single-minded, even mindless, in their dedication to the Islamic revolution. The former Iranian leader's eight-year conflict with Iraq had been a case in point, with Muslims spilling the blood of other Muslims while Israel sat by on the sidelines, laughing. Such mentalities were unpredictable and, therefore, doubly dangerous.
"He knows about Razmara?"
If Moheden was surprised that Halaby knew what had happened, it didn't register. "I would imagine so," he answered.
"Will he come?"
"I think so. Yes."
"And otherwise?"
The Lebanese stared off across the manicured lawn and shrugged.
"Then," he suggested, "we will have to find another way."
* * *
Mir Reza Bakhtiar said nothing during the drive to meet his business partners. His companions in the limousine knew better than to interrupt his thoughts with idle chatter. They were busy studying the landscape, watching out for enemies in front, and making certain they hadn't been followed out of Tripoli.
One car had fallen in behind them on the last leg of their journey, and Bakhtiar had insisted that his driver slow to a crawl and force the other car to pass. His men were armed with automatic weapons, ready at the gun ports when the small sedan edged past them in the other lane, the driver glaring daggers. Bakhtiar permitted him the minor victory, and they didn't return to cruising speed until the other car had faded out of sight.
It was the first time in two years that Bakhtiar had made this trip alone. His gunmen didn't count, as they could never share his plans and secret thoughts. Razmara had been different, al
most an equal in his dedication to the cause, and Bakhtiar had grown accustomed to his company on trips to visit Moheden. It would have been inaccurate to say that they were friends, and yet…
The hint of weakness startled Bakhtiar and made him scowl. The gunners noted his expression and avoided contact with his eyes, aware that Bakhtiar was dangerous at such a time. He'd been known to order executions on impulse, when he wore that look, and it would be a foolish man who risked his anger with a careless glance.
Bashir Moheden had been cryptic on the telephone, refusing to discuss the incidents on Cyprus, but he must have known that Bakhtiar would try to reach his first lieutenant for an update. Several calls had been required before the truth emerged, and Bakhtiar had seen his premonitions realized. The bloodshed in New York had simply been a taste of things to come. Their enemies were drawing closer, claiming further lives along the way.
In Bakhtiar's opinion, it was all a consequence of trusting the Americans. No infidel was ultimately faithful, but Americans were the worst of all. They stabbed each other in the back without a second thought, betrayed their wives and business partners, all the while proclaiming Christ their model of behavior. It had been a gamble, casting middlemen aside to deal with the Americans directly, and despite his acquiescence in the plan — his own attempt to plant the seeds of revolution in America — it now struck Bakhtiar that they had been mistaken.
Worse, it crossed his mind that they had been betrayed.
By whom? He meant to answer that himself, and settle up the score for all his comrades who had fallen. It seemed unlikely that Moheden or Halaby were responsible, since they had also suffered losses in the brief, one-sided war, but anything was possible. While enemies were unidentified, their motives were a matter of surmise. It would remain for Bakhtiar to learn their names and understand their reasoning before he ground his adversaries into desert dust.
The sentries at the villa recognized his car and waved him through, securing the heavy wrought iron gates behind him. In the limousine, his bodyguards remained alert, their weapons cocked and ready to respond in the event of treachery. There might not be enough of them to battle clear, but each man was a dedicated revolutionary guard and would force the enemy to pay a fearsome toll before he gave up his life to God.
His driver parked behind two vehicles surrounded by a troop of Palestinians, their weapons on conspicuous display. Moheden's sentries were spread out along the driveway, others stationed on the roof and at the corners of the house, pretending not to watch the new arrivals. They were casual in the extreme, but there was still a hint of tension in the air, and Bakhtiar imagined that a timely finger snap could set the killing wheels in motion.
Bashir Moheden descended the steps to greet his guest, a simple bow accommodating Bakhtiar's distaste at shaking hands. He made no mention of the obvious, that Bakhtiar was late by normal standards.
"I'm pleased that you have come," the Lebanese said. "I trust your trip was uneventful?"
"Perfectly."
He followed his host inside, along familiar corridors, until they reached the conference room. The Shiite took his normal seat, directly opposite Moheden, with the suggestion of a greeting to Ahmad Halaby. Vacant chairs around the room emphasized the message that their numbers had been cut by half since they last met.
Bashir Moheden scrutinized his two surviving partners, scanned the empty seats and cleared his throat.
"Approximately this time, yesterday," he told them, "I received an urgent call from Sarkis."
Sparing no detail, he told them everything: the strange American, his thirty-million-dollar proposition and the hints of personal involvement in Silvestri's murder, the explosive violence that had left their Nicosia operation in a shambles. He felt their eyes upon him as he spoke, but neither of them interrupted.
"And Belasko?" Bakhtiar inquired when Moheden had finished. "What has now become of the American?"
"Inquiries have been made. No trace of him was found at his hotel. An airline reservation has been purchased in his name, from Nicosia to New York, by way of Rome and London, on the day after tomorrow. I suspect he will not fly, but I have people covering the airport just in case."
"You have a photograph of this American?" Halaby asked.
"Unfortunately no." He felt their disapproval and diverted it to others who couldn't protest. "I'm afraid Makarios was lax in his security precautions. Sarkis may have ordered photographs, but they haven't been found."
"Will the police persist in their investigation?"
"For a time, but I anticipate no inconvenience. Evidence will surface, indicating that the triggermen were members of the Turkish People's Liberation Army. Terrorism will be blamed for these attacks on honest, law-abiding residents of Nicosia."
Bakhtiar was frowning through his beard. "And in the meantime? What becomes of our production schedule?"
"Names and faces will be changed," Moheden answered. "Otherwise, the operation will proceed as planned. Makarios wasn't the only businessman in Nicosia. Sarkis and Razmara will be missed, of course, but they can be replaced."
"The revolution must have vengeance for this unprovoked attack."
"Of course. But first we must identify our enemies. It makes no sense to strike off blindly, chasing shadows."
"The American," Halaby offered. "Sarkis didn't trust him, and his disappearance reeks of guilty knowledge. If we find him, he should be interrogated closely."
"When we find him," Moheden amended, "I will question him myself. I would suggest, however, that we keep an open mind about his offer while we strive to learn the truth. Silvestri was prepared to pay us eighteen million dollars over two years. If this Belasko is sincere about a thirty-million-dollar figure, he deserves a hearing."
Bakhtiar looked skeptical, a favorite expression worn on nearly all occasions. "I have no faith in coincidence," he said. "This man appears from nowhere, claiming — or implying — that he killed Silvestri in New York. If true, that means he also killed Kassim and Bazargan, but it appears that they have been forgotten."
"I assure you…"
The Shiite forged ahead. "Next we hear that he has thirty million dollars, just for us. Has anybody seen the money? Did Belasko name his sponsors so that we could verify their holdings?"
"He intended to discuss these matters with Makarios last night."
"And so we have the final act. Makarios is dead, with Sarkis and my countryman Razmara. Many of their soldiers have been massacred as well. We find no trace of the American in Nicosia, which suggests that either he's very fortunate, or else he's responsible for our misfortunes."
"You assume his guilt," Moheden said. It didn't come out sounding like a question.
"I suspect that he has much to answer for. Until his sponsors have been named and scrutinized, I can't trust this man on faith."
"There is another possibility," Moheden suggested.
"Which is?"
"Suppose that this American and his supporters were responsible for killing Silvestri. Dealers in narcotics kill each other every day. It is a fact of life in the United States. Kassim and Bazargan were caught up in the cross fire, simple casualties of war."
"Go on," Bakhtiar said with obvious reluctance.
"After dealing with the competition in New York, Belasko is dispatched to strike a bargain at the source. Unfortunately members of Silvestri's syndicate — his Family — are hungry for revenge. They know Silvestri's contacts and surmise that Sarkis or Makarios are in collusion with the enemy. Belasko is attempting to conduct his business when the hunters track him down."
"And still he manages to slip away unharmed?" The Iranian didn't sound convinced. "Why kill Razmara? What was he to these imaginary hunters from New York?"
Moheden answered with a question of his own. "Who are the New York Mafia? Sicilians, once removed. For them, revenge isn't a matter of degree. If they believed Makarios and Sarkis were involved in murdering Silvestri, they would certainly respond in kind. Razmara was a known as
sociate, and therefore suspect. His connection with the others was enough to cost his life. As for Belasko… who can say where he's gone, or whether he's still alive?"
"I don't share your faith in strangers."
Biting off the impulse to respond in anger, Moheden replied, "I merely think that we should wait and see before we launch misguided expeditions for revenge. Our first priority should be establishment of distribution outlets in America, as we agreed from the beginning. Once we know our friends and enemies for certain, we can deal with both accordingly."
"Agreed," Halaby said, preempting Bakhtiar's reply. "A wise man separates his friends and enemies before he kills."
"How long do you propose we wait?" Bakhtiar asked.
"Not long. A few days at the most. In any case, we can't move against Belasko or his people if we don't know who and where they are."
"I'm prepared to wait four days," the Shiite said at last. "If your investigation has produced no evidence by then, I may be forced to make inquiries of my own."
"By all means," Moheden replied. "We seek the truth, not a cover-up."
"Four days," Bakhtiar repeated.
"Four days."
And as Moheden forced a smiled, he wondered whether it would be enough.
Chapter Fourteen
"You've got the homer?" Jack Grimaldi asked.
"Right here."
"Okay. I wish the damned thing had a range of better than a hundred miles."
Mack Bolan grinned. "What's wrong? Afraid to work in close these days?"
"Oh, that's hilarious." Grimaldi made a sour face. "You should've been a stand-up comic, guy. In fact, I think there's still a chance that you could make it. Let me turn this crate around, and we can work on getting you a spot. I know this little club in Tel Aviv…"
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