“You’re not alone on this,” I said. “Every one of my guys, best I have, will be made available to you. I’ll fund the entire operation and toss in an additional five million as a bonus. And let’s not forget that you’ll be fighting on home turf and no one knows this city like you do. That alone is worth a few million Vladimir dollars.”
“I’ll need more than money and manpower,” Angela said, her voice still warm, but stiffening.
“Name it,” I said.
“It’s foolish to track a terrorist on foot,” she said. “They do their planning by cell phone and rotate seven to ten different numbers. The best method to track Raza is with a digital GPS computerized system to monitor those cell numbers, tell me where they are, who they’re talking to and about what. I’ll need a system that can pinpoint time, location, and date and give me visual confirmation. I would like that system set up in a secure location and run by the best computer people you can find. If you can do that for me, you have a partner.”
“I’ll get you a system that can handle a dozen cell phones at the same time,” I said. “And it will allow you to laser in on locations of as many as four people at once. It can be set up anyplace you choose in less than a week.”
“How many techs to run it?” she asked. “It goes without saying, the fewer in on this, the more comfortable I feel.”
“I’ll leave that to the Greek,” I said. “My guess would be no more than three rotating around the clock. Maybe a fourth on stand-by in case something happens. Big Mike will handpick the techs.”
“I’ll need your files and data on Raza,” Angela said. “Everything, no matter how trivial—hobbies, favorite movie, what ice cream he likes.”
“He’s lactose intolerant,” I said, giving her a smile, “so I wouldn’t sweat the ice cream. But he likes licorice, black not red. With that tidbit alone you should be able to pin him down.”
Angela gazed out at the city, a place she not only lived in but held sway over. She sipped her drink and stayed silent for a few moments. “What do you want, Vincent?” she asked. “I don’t mean getting rid of Raza. That helps us all, and I’m with you on that. But when it’s all over. What happens to you then?”
“I haven’t thought it through that far,” I said. “I suppose I’ll take my son somewhere and try to piece together a normal life. I’ve never done it before and I’m no expert at what passes for normal, but I owe it to the kid to give it a shot.”
“You’re not a man who fails, Vincent,” Angela said, her voice coated with affection.
“My wife and daughters are dead because of me,” I said, words painful and measured. “I’d call that a failure.”
“And you think if you were on that plane they would have survived?” Angela asked. “Or did you fail by letting them board that plane in the first place?”
“Any way you spin it, their death is on me. Now, I have a son to protect. I won’t fail him.”
“This from a crime boss who has little use for bodyguards,” Angela said. “Just because we run our business like a corporation, Vincent, doesn’t make us CEOs. We’re gangsters. That makes us targets. That goes for our families as well.”
“I didn’t see many guns guarding your front gates,” I said.
“This is my father’s city,” Angela said with pride. “No one would dare lift a finger against either of us without expecting wrath to come down. Fear is my bodyguard. But I live under different rules than you do back home.”
“What else do you need?” I asked.
“Just one thing more,” she said. Angela put down her glass and walked toward the interior of the palazzo.
“What?”
“Buy me dinner,” she said, glancing at me over her left shoulder, “a very expensive dinner. I know just the place.”
“I bet you do,” I said.
Chapter 19
The pieces of my plan were falling into place.
I would work in alliance with Angela, a brutal blending of the Camorra with my New York outfit, the Silent Six tossed into the sauce. The other crews were each given specific assignments—the Yakuza would put dents in the financial pipeline of the terror networks, focusing primarily on Raza’s organization; the Triads were to steer terror outfits clear of our core businesses and ensure they made no inroads in the Asian marketplace; the Marseilles mob would supply me with street intel gathered from the dozens of Muslim gangs working in their city; the mafia would wreak havoc with the gun and drug shipments sent out of Mexico to be sold in European territories; the Israelis’ assassin team would target key Russian gangsters, selecting the elimination of high-end bosses, all of whom had close connections to terror groups.
My focus would be on Vladimir and Raza.
Like I’ve said, it’s not that different from a chess match.
The first steps appear unimportant, movements of convenience or opportunity. It is not until later, deep in the heat of battle, that the vanquished realize how cruel and purposeful those first moves had been. That’s what I expected the elimination of Raza and his crew to be—a winning first play in a long and difficult fight.
Taking Raza down would show the other crews that Vladimir could be made to taste defeat. I know many of the organizations, despite the tough talk and bluster, feared the Russians. My allies were envious of the piles of money they accumulated, the manpower at their disposal, and the difficulties that existed in infiltrating their ranks or brokering an arrangement with them. The Russians made their working model clear from day one. They are quick to break their word and have nothing but contempt for other members of the organized crime world.
They are convinced it is their destiny to rule, with all factions reporting to them. And they see no better way to ensure such a takeover than to partner with terrorists. It was a bold move, forging an alliance with ideological murderers. In the short run, neither group—the Russians or the terror outfits—entered into the partnership seeking profit. Terrorists, from their end, are determined to set straight the world in their own demonic fashion, slaughtering as many innocents as they can. The Russians thrive on chaos and confusion and are willing to bankroll the terrorists. In the process, the structures that have been in place and which have held firm for decades would be sure to collapse.
Then Vladimir intended to step in and fill the void.
“It boils down to organized crime against disorganized crime,” Frank Tonelli once told me. “For my money, give me organized crime any day. At least with those guys I know the playbook, the rules. These other guys … they’re in it for the kill, pure and simple. That scares the hell out of a guy like me, and I don’t scare easy.”
Tonelli was a retired detective, considered one of New York’s best. Back when he was a young cop, he often butted heads with my uncle. Over time, despite being on opposite sides of the table, they developed a mutual respect. In their winter years that respect evolved into friendship. They were similar in many ways, and it would not be an odd occurrence for me to turn to either for advice, often on the same subject.
I had a strong feeling Tonelli would hate my plan but see the logic behind it. He knew law enforcement could not defeat the terrorists on their own, despite the legal and manpower advantages. He understood that sometimes you needed to live beyond the reach of the law in order to bring down those who walked its edges. He had been a cop for too long not to frown on such a notion, but he was also a realist and understood the brutal capabilities of the enemy I was circling. And he knew that enemy needed to be stopped.
I considered him a useful resource, someone I could turn to in a pinch and who would provide me with a name, a background, the address of a safe house or a police connection in a foreign city. I never pushed to get information that would cause him to break the law. All he required in return was to remain in the shadows, keep the business end of our relationship private, and never be put in a compromising position. There were dozens of men and women like Tonelli to whom I could turn to in time of need. It was one of the early les
sons my uncle embedded: if I were to survive as a crime boss, I would need lifelines that extended beyond the borders of the mob.
The more trusted confidants I had, the longer my reign would last. Now, to my way of thinking, there is a major difference between a trusted confidant and a friend. A confidant expects something in return for information; a friend expects nothing.
The ability to tell the difference between the two can keep a man in my line of work alive for a long time.
Trusting no one and suspecting everyone may not be the way to lead a balanced life, but that applies only to the civilian world, not the criminal. A great crime boss must live his life on the seam. There is little room for mistakes, no hedging a move based on a hunch.
I normally prefer to go into my battles alone, but with this fight, going it alone would have been a plan destined for failure. And while we’re on the subject, I may not like to have bodyguards, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. You just can’t see them. Not just true of me. It’s true of any top-tier mob boss. You want to see bodyguards, find yourself a movie star or a model. They pay good money for a show of force. The best bodyguards are the ones you never see, an invisible army that doesn’t materialize until they’re needed. I may walk alone. But you can bet your life—and it will be your life—on this one fact: I am never alone.
I find comfort that the rules I apply to my plans date back centuries and were once used, with various modifications, by the crime bosses who preceded me—from the mafia’s legendary founder, Giuliano, to Joe “the Boss” Masseria, to Frank Costello, to Lucky Luciano. These mob bosses took calculated risks, eyes to the future. These were the men I emulated and studied, adapting their lessons to a world that was changing, shrinking, a world that would become something not even they could imagine.
There is one more element essential to achieving victory against an opponent as imposing as the one I now confronted—the utilization of enemies.
An enemy is as crucial as any friend or ally. His motives vary depending on who sits on the other side of the table. In the case of the Russians, the Mexicans, and the terrorists, my chosen enemies were members of the Colombian drug cartels.
They were once kings of the cocaine trade and among the most feared gangsters in the world. Now they were standing outside the candy store, faces pressed against the glass, looking in with envy and anger. Their power was reduced by increased law enforcement scrutiny, rebellion in their ranks, and bold maneuvers by their rivals. The Mexicans had been making a concerted effort to go after the Colombian end of the action since the early 1990s and the Colombians did little to prevent the takeover. They had grown weary, tired of the chase, drug lords too rich or too drugged up to put up much of a battle. They had failed to plan for the future and made an error fatal to any gangster—in truth, fatal to any businessman who seeks to stay on top: they assumed they would always be the leaders. But there is always someone else waiting to move in, take over, and toss the current boss aside.
That’s where the Colombians now sit, stripped of power and assets, biding their time, rebuilding their resources, eager to move against the Mexicans and regain their premier standing in the multi-billion-dollar drug trade.
I can help them achieve those goals, which would make me an important component in their success or failure. By doing so, I would be turning a potentially lethal enemy into a criminal element fighting on my side.
All they need to do is accept the proposition I make them.
A long war with the Mexican gangs would cut deep into the drug pipeline that is a major source of income for all the criminal factions involved, including my crew. The syndicates would be willing to sustain a loss of income for a certain period. But as the drug flow slowed and demand increased, their patience would wear thin and their allegiance to the battle would weaken. If I got the Colombians to step in, they would fill the drug vacuum and ensure the bottom line would hold. In return, I would supply them with cash and legal cover in their head-butt against the Mexicans. Two enemies would then have no choice but to wage war against a mutual foe, forming an uneasy partnership that would benefit both.
It is the way of the world.
Chapter 20
New York
Michael Paleokrassas, head of the Greek cartel, was one of the most important members of the international crime syndicate. He was a tall man, in his early thirties, muscular and always tanned, regardless of the time of year. He had a relaxed and easy manner and never showed signs of a temper. But he was first-rate with a gun, better with a knife, and just plain deadly with his hands. He was a man of his word and respected by all factions of the underworld.
Michael was also a digital genius.
I made my first deal with him fifteen years ago and have since grown to trust him more than anyone outside my inner circle. He was one of Jimmy’s long-distance computer buddies, and when he was in town would come by the house and together the two would spend hours playing chess or video games.
It was the Greek who developed the sophisticated software for us to use in our business—from running background checks to eyes on the ground to tracking devices. He was our syndicate’s Bill Gates, only heavily armed and ready to kill to preserve his business interests.
I ordered two Camparis and a plate of biscotti. We were in an outdoor café in downtown Manhattan, street traffic crawling its way through the morning rush.
Mike rested his large hands on the small table. “How you holding up?” he asked.
“Every day’s the same,” I said. “Mostly bad.”
“Time will help with that,” the Greek said. “A little.”
“I need more than time,” I said. “I need a lot of people to die.”
The Greek nodded. “I’m with you.”
I slid a folded piece of white paper across the table. “Let’s start by cloning those cell numbers,” I said. “I’d like to have visual as well as audio on each. Link them to one another. I need to know who talks to who, where, and when.”
The Greek picked up the piece of paper and slipped it into the left pocket of his blue jacket. “How far back?”
“Three months before the attack on the plane,” I said. “You can give me the before in one batch. Moving forward, I’d like to see daily reports. Can you make that happen?”
“Money’s not an issue,” the Greek said. “Neither is capability.”
“What is?”
“The terrorists change cell phones on a daily basis,” he said. “If they’re working on something big or think they’re being monitored, that can go as high as three times a day. The Russians not so much, only because they hardly speak on cell phones. They have other people in other locations do the talking for them.”
I sat back and waited as a young waitress placed the two drinks in front of us and the plate of biscotti in the center of the table. “Can you overcome that?”
“Not easy,” the Greek said. “But every system has a crack. Just need to find it.”
“You work this alone or you need a team?”
“A team would be a help,” the Greek said. “But given the circumstances, I’ll work with John Loo on this if that’s right by you. He’s as good as I am and has a horse in the same race.”
“Kodoma’s nephew,” I said. “Being groomed for the top spot. The more we involve the Yakuza in this, the better our chances.”
“I’ve had my eye on him for a while,” the Greek said. “John’s the real deal. Smart, ruthless, and loyal. Reminds me of you in some ways. Solid guy to have on our side.”
“I don’t want anyone else to know about this,” I said. “We need to run silent and deadly.”
The Greek sat back and smiled. “They can clone our phones as easy as I can clone theirs,” he said. “These days secrets don’t last long.”
“I’ll cover you on that end,” I said.
The Greek picked up on my intended meaning. “We can’t kill everyone, Vincent,” he said.
I pushed back my chair, stood and dro
pped two twenties on the table. I looked at the Greek. “We can try,” I said.
“We might want to start with the two on the far corner trying real hard to make us think they’re not looking our way,” he said.
“There are two more on the other end of the street,” I said. “Been on me since I left the apartment.”
“So they had two tailing you,” Big Mike said, “but those first two were here waiting for us. Which means they knew where you were meeting me.”
“Let’s take a walk,” I said.
We stepped onto the sidewalk, late morning pedestrian traffic light, and headed farther downtown. Big Mike stood to my left, taking the outside position, the first to be targeted if the ones on our tail made a move. “I didn’t tell anyone I was meeting you,” he said. “And no one asked where I was going.”
“No one on my end, either,” I said. “Jimmy’s the only one who knows you’re even in town.”
“But here we are,” Big Mike said, “four on our tail, two in place before we even got here. I don’t think they showed up working off a guess.”
“Let’s walk to a friendly street.”
“Lead the way,” he said.
We headed west, away from the chic boutiques and high-end coffee shops that had sprouted up in recent years, turning right and left until the streets got narrower, with even fewer people, the sidewalks hemmed in by thick cobblestones. The four men were still following us, forced by space to be even more conspicuous, tossing aside any doubt that Big Mike and I were the intended targets.
We were in the middle of a street filled with tenements and old-world storefronts selling fresh fruit and pastries. It was a street that had fought against the crush of the modern world, resisting the lure of the developer’s money. I knew everyone on this block and everyone knew me. I stepped off the sidewalk, walked to the center of the street and turned and faced the four men. Two were to my far left, the other two on my far right, all standing a short distance away from the corner. Big Mike stood next to me and slid his hands into his pockets. “Looks like they got us right where they want us,” he said.
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