“You’ve lost me somewhere, pal,” Brognola admitted. “I don’t understand a damn thing you’re telling me.”
Bolan sighed as he launched into the explanation. “I intend to deliver Eritrea on his knees. He’ll be begging for the job. In exchange for your protection.”
“Protection from you?” Bolan shook his head. “From his own kind. I’ve been setting the guy up all day, Hal. When I’m done with him, he’ll be a sure candidate for the turkeymakers. They’ll draw and quarter the guy and roast him on a spit. Unless …”
“Unless,” Brognola responded heavily, “he can find himself a sponsor.”
“Right. You can offer him care and feeding. And all he has to do, in exchange for that, is admit to the world that he’s been on the government payroll all the time he’s been with the mob. And the guy is really pretty clean, Hal. Cleaner than Leo, if you want to get technical. The embarrassment to the government would be minimal.”
They walked on in silence for a full minute before Brognola heaved a deep sigh and told the most wanted man in America: “If you can pull it off, okay. But we have only a little more than twenty-four hours.”
“If I do it at all, I’ll do it in twelve,” Bolan assured him.
“You’re incredible. I never have been able to believe you, man. I keep seeing it, but I still keep wondering if it’s all some crazy illusion. I’m getting your drift now. You aren’t just after Eritrea. You’re really staging the grand slam, aren’t you? You still believe that you can erase them all. What is it you’re setting up? Besides Eritrea?”
They’d traveled halfway around the block. Bolan looked at his watch. “Let’s start back,” he suggested. “Time’s running short, so let’s cover as much as we can as quick as we can. You’re right. I have an ambitious program in mind. But you’re wrong, too. I do not still believe that I can erase them all. And I’m not even trying that, not here, not now. The whole mob is here and they’re all nervous as hell. Their biggest enemy is themselves. They all know that. I want to reinforce the idea, promote it. I want to break up the grand alliance, Hal. I want to see them separated into isolated regional groups, the way it used to be—competitive, distrustful of other groups—I want to break up this goddamned command structure, or at least weaken it, defang it.”
“Congratulations,” Brognola sniffed. “You and about ten thousand feds want the same thing.”
“I don’t have your limitations, your burdens,” Bolan said quietly. “I may be able to pull it off. Eritrea is the key to that. He’s been selling these guys a unification program which—if it worked, and it certainly could—would put the whole western world in one big pot for them to eat at their leisure. So my first goal is to destroy Eritrea’s credibility so devastatingly that his program falls with him. But now I’ve lucked onto another tool. I’ve found the Ace of Aces, Hal—and I’ve discovered that he has wires on everybody. There’s cause enough right there to spark a total revolt. But here’s the beauty.”
“Wait a minute. Who is this guy?”
“Hang on to your cigar. The guy is Barney Matilda.”
“What makes you think so?”
“You can’t buy it?”
“Not right off the top of your head, no. See, I’ve had an operative on that guy for quite a while. It’s inconceivable to me that—”
“Hal. I was with Sally earlier today.”
The fed gave him a hard stare. “So?”
“So she gets all the credit. She’s known for quite a while. She knew you’d pull her if there was the slightest suspicion that it was true. So she’s been sitting on it, waiting for the goods. Don’t fault her, Hal. She’s done a hell of a job.”
“Sure she’s done a hell of a job,” Brognola fumed. “And you’re right, I’d have jerked her damn quick. We picked Barney because of all his ins. Figured it would be a perfect contact point for a flasher. And that’s all her job was in the beginning. To flash movements, associations, that sort of thing. I wanted to pull her the moment the old guy made a double agent cut of her. She talked me out of it. Against my better judgment. So. It’s true? Old Barney is the kingfish?”
Bolan nodded. “I think I verified it. I told you about the wires. They’re controlled—at least partially—from his limousine. You’ve seen the war wagon. Barney’s Cadillac is a mini war wagon, strictly wired for sound collection. You’ve heard the wild tales about these Aces and their incredible makes on all the boys. Know all, see all, hear all. Well, that’s how. The hard arm has wires everywhere, I’m guessing. I’ll bet there’s a limousine in every family.”
“I see what you meant by ‘beauty.’ I wonder how long he’s been getting away with it.”
“That’s not what I meant, though,” Bolan said. “The beauty of the whole thing is that Barney Matilda is leading the dissidents against Eritrea. He’s the guy who sponsored Augie’s runaway to Pittsfield, and he’s the guy who was sending Aces around the country to pick up old tabs and to rally the boys to Augie’s cause. Hal—Barney Matilda is Peter.”
“Jesus Christ!”
Bolan grinned. “No, Augie was Jesus Christ. Barney is Peter—and Peter, you may recall from a Sunday School lesson, is the rock upon which the church is built. Now here’s some more beauty. Eritrea hates the aces with all his heart and soul. If he gets in, the first thing to topple will be Barney’s secret gestapo empire. Don’t think crafty old Barney doesn’t know that—and don’t think for a minute that he intends to sit by and let it happen. This is a door-die battle for him. With all his power, though, he does have certain limitations—imposed by the very nature of his operation. Augie was his power base. As long as Augie occupied the throne, Barney could call his shots wherever he damn well pleased. As Sally put it, which one of the two was really the boss? I read it as a double kingdom, one of which was invisible. Neither could exist without the other. Barney no longer has that other kingdom as support. Most of the other bosses hate the Aces as much as David does—and that’s especially true of the new generation of rankers. So you see what I’ve got here to play with.”
“I’m not sure I do see,” Brognola growled. “It’s very involved and confused. Give it time to soak in. Meanwhile, what about Sally?”
“Well, now, there’s a worry,” Bolan said, sighing.
“Couldn’t you get her out?”
“Oh, I got her out. But your gal Sal is a mighty determined operative. She gave me the slip. I’m sure she’s too smart to try another whirl with Barney. But she’s up to something cozy, bet on it. She’s on the town, Hal.”
“Well, dammit,” said the chief fed.
They were back to their starting point.
“I’ll keep an eye out for her, Hal. You keep an eye on Leo. I think he’s still in deep trouble. I’m going to give him Barney’s limousine. He’ll know how to use it to the best possible advantage.”
“He knows about Barney?”
“He knows, yeah. Leo can be a hell of a tiger. I’ve watched him operate. Think I’ll let him operate on Barney. I’ll concentrate on Eritrea. We’ll get them in the pincers and see what comes crawling out of the shell. I feel good about this one, Hal. I really do.”
The fed threw down his cigar and shoved both hands deep into his pockets. “For what it’s worth, so do I. I didn’t mean what I said a while ago. I believe you, guy. I believe in you. And I can’t say that about many. You go ahead. Do it to them. And I’d defend you in God’s court. I mean that.”
They shook hands and Bolan said, “Thanks. I respect you. It’s good to have your confidence. I’ll give it my damnedest.”
“When didn’t you?” said the fed.
Bolan winked and walked away.
He did more than respect Hal Brognola. He loved the man like a brother. In that big, broad brotherhood of men, the chief fed was a real man. There would be no reproach for Sally Palmer, not from that real man. She was a brother, too, albeit a real woman. And there would be no cop-outs in courts or Senate chambers, no senseless sacrifices in the name of
many-tongued gods with their faces pointing in all directions at once, spouting the one litany.
Yes, it was very good to have the confidence of such a man. And it was comforting just to know that such a man could survive in the fantasy structures of Wonderland-on-the-Potomac.
12
MESSAGES
A telephone message awaited Bolan on the war wagon’s recorder. It was Leo Turrin’s voice. It was brief. It was urgent.
“I think I have some heat. I’m laying it on the floater since I may not have another chance at a telephone for a while. Your friend Peter came stomping in with a couple of high locals in tow. They had at me for about thirty minutes. Wanted a full rundown on yesterday, complete with all the trimmings. I played it straight, from the point of view of my new sponsor. From one pro to another, I’ve never been interrogated so thoroughly. I think hell is breaking loose. They have now called a two o’clock meeting of all ranking locals. My sponsor was not invited, or even informed. I have been ordered to stand by for further testimony. Sounds very hot. I’ll be traveling east on the 27th. Stay loose.”
Time of receipt was 12:25. It was now nearly one o’clock. Broken down in plain language, the message meant that Barney Matilda and two New York bosses had interrogated Turrin regarding the events at Pittsfield. He had “told all”—as the events unfolded in David Eritrea’s understanding. As a result, the New York families were assembling in council, sans Eritrea, for further discussion. Given present circumstances, this could mean but one thing: Barney felt ready to make his case against Eritrea. And the table was to be held in the East Room on the twenty-seventh floor—the Commissione’s executive quarters.
Bolan immediately picked up the mobile phone and called the Marinello estate. A guy named deFlorio, the house boss, kept Bolan cooling for more than a minute before Eritrea came on. And it was a certainty that two instruments lifted simultaneously into that connection. Billy Gino was probably on the line also.
Eritrea angrily inquired, “What the hell is going on?”
“That’s what I meant to ask you,” Bolan replied coldly. “You’ve got the whole damn town in an uproar. I had you figured for more class, David.”
“Wait a minute there!” he fumed. “What are you saying? I didn’t tell you to go in there and cut everybody down! Who the hell do you think I am?—Frank Anastasia?! Of all the goddamned—it looks like I ordered that shit, Omega, and I don’t like it a damned bit!”
“One of us is off our rocker,” Bolan calmly told him.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Eritrea yelled. “Are you saying you did not—?”
“Are you saying I did?” Bolan countered icily.
The guy’s balloon was rapidly deflating. “Well, I thought—I just assumed—if you didn’t, dammit, then who did?”
“Look, I didn’t call to play twenty questions,” Bolan told him. “I want you to know that you’re blowing it. Maybe it’s too late already. They’re all meeting at two o’clock to talk about it.”
“Who is meeting?” Eritrea asked, plainly aghast.
“The whole damn New York company, that’s who. I think you should be there.”
“Damn right I’ll be there. Two o’clock? At the penthouse?”
“East Room, twenty-seventh floor. And David …” “Yeah?”
“Find out who’s behind it. You’ll find Peter.”
“Wait a minute, wait! I want you there, too. It’s time to get it all out of the woodwork. I want your whole damn crew to be present and accounted for.”
“I’ll be there. Is that you, Billy, on the extension?”
Gino’s solemn tones confirmed the fact. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Not if I can help it,” Bolan told the Head Cock. “You’d better come in strength. Pick me up outside. I’ll ride in with you; it’ll look better.”
“You mean outside the corporate office building. South ramp?”
“South ramp, fine. See you there. David?”
“Yeah,” the would-be boss glumly responded.
“Maybe it’s best this way. We’ll get it all on the table. We’ll nail it down.”
“Sure, sure.”
“And maybe I’ll give you Peter’s head.”
“In a paper sack!” he snarled, and hung up.
That was an order, a royal decree, from a guy who did not yet wear the crown.
Bolan went to the wardrobe closet and made a selection for the next act.
Stay loose, Leo? Not hardly.
13
NUMBERS GAME
The numbers were falling, yeah, but a bit out of sync for Bolan’s game. The various pieces of the grand slam were all rushing together out of control—like an implosion of volatile substances. Unless Bolan could get securely into the act to stage-manage some of the movements, critical mass would be attained prematurely and the resultant explosion could destroy the game beyond repair.
It was crazy to go in there with Eritrea, sure. Too wild, too many variables which could not possibly be controlled from within—a soft penetration of La Commissione was entirely outside the realms of sound tactical logic.
But he had to try it.
He gave it every possible chance, wearing the skin-tight combat blacks beneath another suit, which was more appropriate to the role. The Beretta rode shoulder harness beneath his left arm—two spare clips on the harness, two in the hip pockets of the suit. He wore a leg harness on each calf, assuring further comfort. And he carried a briefcase crammed with other support.
The convoy from Long Island hit the corner outside the corporate office at eight minutes past two o’clock, which was pretty good considering the distance they had traveled. And, yeah, they’d come in full strength. Four big limos, all crammed with tense-eyed paranoics ready for anything. David’s car was second in the lineup, Billy Gino leading the procession, two other crews bringing up the rear.
Bolan-Omega showed himself as the lead vehicle swung across the sidewalk and lined into the ramp for the underground garage. A front door sprang open and Bolan popped inside, with the car still in motion. Billy Gino scrunched closer to the wheelman, making room, as he grunted his greeting: “Didn’t know for sure it was you, sir. We’re a bit late.”
“The timing is fine,” Bolan assured him. “We want to catch them with their hands on the table, anyway. Right?”
“If, uh, I’m not sure I know what—”
“Standard routine, Billy,” the “Ace” instructed. “Just do it the way you always do it. I’ll let you know when that changes.”
A radio speaker in the dashboard crackled with Eritrea’s tense voice. “Where are your people, dammit?”
Bolan accepted the mike from Billy Gino to reply, “All around you, David. Relax. This is your show.”
There was no response to that. The procession was moving swiftly along the ramp, descending into the earth beneath the highrise office building. Most of this building, Bolan knew, was legit. Only the top floors were occupied by the corporation. The twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh floors housed the nerve center of international Mafia operations. The twenty-eighth floor was called the penthouse and was reserved for special occasions, such as full summit meetings and strategy sessions, as well as other high-level affairs, some of which involved representatives from the straight community. The fact that the table on Eritrea was being conducted on the twenty-seventh floor served a double function of mob protocol. First of all, the location of the meet downgraded its relative importance to that of a local problem which did not merit the dignity of the penthouse table. Thus, visiting dignitaries from outside the city would not be affronted by their exclusion from the process. Secondarily, those local bosses who were in attendance would feel less uncomfortable, less the schemers, in the lower-level setting. Bolan understood the Mafia mind.
But he had never been up there in that nerve center. He did feel a certain familiarity with both the physical plant and the human atmosphere, thanks to Leo Turrin’s fine sense of detail. And his instincts we
re at full combat shiver when that convoy from Long Island came to its screeching halt in the Mafia’s bowels.
He was outside the vehicle and coolly surveying the situation down there before the car was fully halted. Billy Gino slid out behind him, a small walkie-talkie in hand, and trotted on independently. People were also coming out of the other vehicles and moving swiftly in typical coverage of the territory. Bolan strolled back to the second limo and leaned into the open doorway for eye contact with Eritrea. “It’s okay,” he growled.
But the man from Long Island preferred to hear it from another. He had the mike to the car radio in hand and was speaking into it. “How’s it look, Billy?”
“They’re all here,” was the instant reply. “I’ve made Mr. Pelotti’s wheels—Mr. DiAnglia’s, Mr. Gustini’s, Mr. Fortuna’s. They look clean.”
“How many boys?”
“Just the wheelmen. They’re gathered down here outside the office. It’s soft. It’s okay.”
Only then did the hopeful Boss of Bosses come out from behind the armor plate and bulletproof glass. He swept past Bolan-Omega without so much as a nod or a glance, the crew of tagmen quickly forming around him and the whole group moving as one man toward the elevators.
Bolan brought up the rear, moving leisurely, briefcase in hand, eyes and ears alert to every nuance of this almost melodramatic operation. He knew that it was not melodrama. These men lived within the jungle of savage minds, and they moved accordingly whenever they were outside their own little private sphere of that jungle. It was a hell of a way to live, sure—but it was the only way they had; they had built it for themselves, and now they were trapped in their own structure.
Two elevator cars had been called and held by tense hardmen. Others had run along corridors and ramps to secure the territory. Bolan estimated a total of thirty to thirty-five guns here—quite a lot of strength, yeah, for this visit to the headshed.
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