“OK, back to the point. Let’s see this wine thing…”
The wine cellar, as big as an average living room had two sections; one was for red wines that were kept at 67.5°F and a section for white wines that was kept at a frosty 42.5°F. The champagne was kept with the reds in a special case that rotated the bottles once a day; these would be chilled to 48°F or less just before serving. The labels of the red wines, Marco’s preferred libation, were a veritable tour of the world, beginning with the Americas. Zinfandels, cabernets, and merlots from California, Oregon, Virginia, Washington, New York, and New Jersey represented the US. From Argentina; Malbec, syrah, pinot noir and bonarda; Chile had cabernets, particularly some well-aged Don Melchor that was worth a small fortune. Uruguay and Paraguay had some Tanat and to Marco’s surprise a couple of Brazilian blends. Private vintages from Australia, New Zealand, Russia, Germany, Poland, South Africa, and Greece were also present, and, of course, a huge selection of French reds, followed by the best of Italy.
Again Marco thought of his uncle in a different light. While wine was always on the table at their homes, nobody ever asked what it was…because it was always red and always poured out of a gallon jug with no label. Now this incredibly sophisticated wine cellar was in the home of a man that Marco had always loved as a father but never thought of as a connoisseur of anything but the making of money.
Marco went to the chilled section of the cellar and chose a few bottles of Pinot Gris from Washington State’s Russian River that he was sure would go well with the pompano. He walked back to the kitchen where Pete and Luigi had joined Matilde, who kept on cooking while chattering incessantly in Spanish with Luigi, who apparently understood what was going on. Matilde received the wine, smiled, and gave Luigi instructions in the tone of voice that Marco’s grandmother used with him when she needed him to run an errand without argument. Luigi pulled two ice buckets out of a cabinet and filled them from a large icemaker that produced half-moons. In went the wine and it was taken to the table.
Marco, Pete and Joe sat down and were served by Matilde. Oven-broiled pompano, coconut rice, and grilled ripe tomatoes were on each plate. In a basket at the center of the table were fried green plantains that had been boiled, fried, stomped on, and then fried again. They were called tostones and were accompanied by large-grain sea salt and hogo, which was like a fried salsa. To complete the meal, a large bowl of fresh greens drizzled in homemade raspberry vinaigrette was passed around.
Luigi came back and joined them. “All’s secure. The second shift reported all normal.”
Marco tried not to sound too much like the fish out of water that he felt like. “What exactly do you mean?”
Pete answered without condescension “The house hired a primary security service from an outfit owned and operated by a retired special forces major who has no other mob connections and is loyal to his clients, and paid a fortune for his services. His loyalty’s been tested several times and he’s always succeeded in impressing us with his abilities and the discipline of his people. He’s also absolutely discrete something men like Sal needed and appreciated.”
“Furthermore,” Pete concluded, “the house is covered from all angles and all fronts by CCTV, which generates a satellite feed at high resolution every three minutes. Help, if needed or anticipated, is only three minutes away – very capable and heavily armed help.”
Marco had a general idea of this service because he had seen the bills from this operation and understood that a capo like his uncle could not afford to be without it.
The conversation shifted to other, more distracting themes, such as what was the story with all the fishing paraphernalia. Even though Marco knew that Sal was a fishing enthusiast, he never fathomed the depth of his uncle’s commitment to the sport, and now both Luigi and Pete were enlightening him on the matter.
“For the last ten years two great passions dominated Sal’s life,” Pete explained. “Patricia and fly fishing, in that order. The boss picked up the sport early on in his relationship with Patricia. They were on a trip to Mendoza, Argentina, buying wine when the owner of one of the vineyards invited them to his “Estancia” near San Martin de los Andes in Argentina’s Patagonia. There they were both enchanted by the marvelous landscape, the crystal lakes and rivers, but above all by the soul-seeking tug of a trout on the line.”
“You get a little lyrical there, Pete, were you there?”
“Oh yeah, so was Luigi here, but at that time we were gofers, not the boss’ backs.”
“A few days of instruction with Martin Carranza, a famous Argentinean angler, got Sal and Patricia casting and fishing reasonably well,” Luigi added, “Then they did a two-day float down the historic Chimehuin River, where they each caught dozens of fish. The experience left them hooked for life.”
“That’s for sure,” Pete continued. “For the last ten years Sal and Patricia have been fly fishing all over the planet. But this home was their headquarters and their favorite getaway. As you may know, fishing, particularly fly fishing for tarpon, is world famous in these waters.”
Another trip to the wine cellar, two slices of key lime pie, and Marco was ready for bed. In a flash the two bodyguards did a security check and bid Marco a good night. Sleep came easy and dreamless.
He woke up early, feeling exceptionally refreshed. Coffee filled the air, bacon followed and then something sweet…maple syrup being warmed on the stove. Marco showered and skipped the shave, put on a pair of light shorts and a linen shirt, tan deck shoes, and he was down the stairs and out the door.
At the main house the dining room table was loaded with fresh pineapple, a bowl of assorted berries, sliced mango, and kiwi. There was a French press with coffee and a stack of waffles, butter and the maple syrup, agave and honey, a plate filled with crispy bacon and another with fluffy scrambled eggs. A bottle of Prosecco and a pitcher of orange juice completed the feast. A tone was being set for a lifestyle that Marco did not know. His idea of breakfast was a cup of black coffee and a stack of the night’s banking reports.
Matilde stood proudly next to the table, awaiting the new patron’s orders for whatever else he wanted. Her sunshine smile filled the room. Marco was looking at the spread with increasing appetite, soon bordering on ravenous hunger. He sat down and was promptly joined by Joe Strasso and Luigi. Pete had been out since early morning doing a security overview with a rep from the agency.
After breakfast Luigi and Joe sat down with Marco for an update on several things that were pending since Sal’s passing. Luigi gave Marco two sealed envelopes. Predictably, both were addressed to Marco in Sal’s handwriting, one read “Personal,” the other “Business.” Marco pocketed the personal envelope and opened the one that said business.
In the envelope Marco found a list of instructions and two keys that belonged to safety deposit boxes in Grand Cayman and Tortola, both with the same British Overseas Investment Bank logo embossed on them. Marco vaguely remembered that some ten or twelve years ago Sal had asked him to sign some cards from that bank, but then nothing more and he had forgotten about them. Now he wondered what these could be.
He also found a Black Titanium Charter member American Express card in the name of Marco Lorenzo Massimo, a US passport in the same name and a European Union passport also in that name. The photographs were recent and Marco remembered that he, Ian Carlo and Sal had these photos taken for an ID card for the New York’s Italian American Athletic Club, a venue none of them had ever visited.
There was a very succinct note from Sal’s own hand that simply read, “Go first to the Caymans.” A second note read, “Take up fishing…Pete and Luigi can teach you. It’s business, but you might find it enjoyable.”
Marco put the passports and the Amex card back in the envelope and in his pocket. He looked at his men and realized that they knew what was in there and were waiting on his orders. “I guess we’re flying to Grand Cayman. I’ve been there a few times but for business only, in and out trips…Joe, when can the L
ear be ready?”
“Give me a couple of hours’ notice and I’ll file a flight plan.”
“It’ll be Monday morning at the earliest,” Marco replied, “and before that I may want to go to New York for a day.”
“Just say the word; it’s an easy two hour hop from Sarasota,” added Joe with some enthusiasm. The man was a flight junkie.
“Now one or both you guys can tell me why Uncle Sal wants me to go fishing for business and, questionably, enjoyment.”
Luigi took the lead on this one. “The boss felt fishing is a perfect cover for doing business. Nobody questions a few anglers on a far off quest. Most countries welcome this type of tourist and your uncle was an artist at setting up his private business in outlandish places. He went trout fishing in Cuenca, Ecuador, just to meet quietly with a Bolivian politician and a Colombian businessman in order to get them to supply one of his companies with rare minerals destined for the electronics market in China. Naturally Sal’s people became the go between at all stages, to the frustration and anger of a couple of multinationals.”
Pete continued. “You know that doing legitimate business of large magnitude requires more cloak and dagger skills than most organized crime, and Sal was an artist at both. For example, that big Benetti yacht out there is an ideal meeting place. It’s ocean transoceanic and can cruise comfortably outside the legal jurisdiction of most countries. I’ve seen business personalities that grace the Wall Street Journal spend many hours on it; occasionally they even enjoyed some blue water fishing.”
“Who’s the crew?” Marco asked.
“I’m the captain,” said Luigi. “Sal had me take a six-month course at the Boston Marine Academy, and I might add that I grew up on a ship. But on long trips we take a retired merchant marine first officer, a real sea dog if you like. The crew is provided by the security company; they play a double roll for which they have been extensively trained. We also take a cook and a cabin steward. The whole crew is eleven including me.”
“How long to set up a trip on this boat?”
“Not long, a couple of days maximum. It depends on how much time at sea and how far it’s going.”
Marco was just beginning to feel like he had a sense of his uncle’s local infrastructure, and it was, to say the least, impressive. Now it was time to contact Sal’s widow and see what “a better understanding” really meant.
CHAPTER THREE
Patricia answered on the second ring with a soft hello that offered a backstage sensuality to her front stage formality.
“It’s Marco, Patricia. How are you doing?”
“Well, thank you. I was expecting your call…” She spoke like it was a foregone conclusion that he would do so.
“I thought we might have some lunch and go through some things Sal wanted me discuss with you.”
“Lunch is fine Marco, but why don’t you come by the apartment for a drink before we go out?”
“Suits me; see you around noon.”
Marco asked Luigi to arrange the car to be ready with enough time to be at Patricia’s by noon. Next he sat down at his computer for a couple of hours and called Ian Carlo to bring him current with some decisions and changes in banks that he had made. He, Sal, and Ian Carlo had a verbal code that would thoroughly confuse any eavesdroppers on their conversation. Ian Carlo brought Marco up to date on certain relationships that appeared to be a little awkward and should be looked into more carefully.
By the time he was finished and had changed into more formal attire, Luigi let him know that it was time to leave. A dark blue Lincoln town car was waiting, the back door open and a very large, serious looking driver stood by. Marco got in the back after acknowledging the driver and Luigi sat in the front passenger seat. It was obvious that both men were armed and he knew that under each seat there were additional weapons and that the trunk was well supplied with heavier hardware. This was part of being a Carducci. You never, ever, went without proper security.
It took twenty minutes to get to Patricia’s condo. A valet indicated that Mr. Carducci was expected and that they could enter through the lower lobby adjacent to the parking. The driver dropped Marco at the elegant lower lobby door, and he went to elevator number six, which would take him directly to the penthouse apartment. As soon as Marco walked in, the doors closed and he was on his quiet ride to spend time with the mysterious Patricia.
She was at the door as the elevator opened to an ample foyer elegantly furnished with a table in front of a large mirror in a gilded frame that reflected a beautiful ikebana arrangement, very impressive.
Patricia kissed Marco lightly on the cheek and took him by the arm. “This way,” she said, and guided him to a studio that had huge windows on the two fronts facing the gulf and the seventh green of a manicured golf course.
A large photo of Sal and Patricia dressed in waders holding fly rods, with a white capped mountain in the background that Marco would learn was the Lanin Volcano in Patagonia, occupied a privileged position on a large glass-top desk that also held an all-in-one ASUS computer and little else. No wire to be seen anywhere. There was a rolling bar with all the proper amenities and a variety of crystal decanters that held golden liquids of different tones and another two with shimmering clear liquids, surely vodka and gin, both on ice.
“What would you like?” asked Patricia.
Marco chose single malt straight. Patricia served herself a glass of Torrontes wine from Salta, Argentina. With libations in hand they sat in comfortable winged rattan chairs that faced each other angularly in front of a beautiful coffee table holding a few books on fly fishing and several photos in silver frames – some of Patricia and Sal and others of Patricia and an older gentleman that Marco recognized as her father, Francisco Lujan. There was also a photo of her in what appeared to be an old Spanish setting.
Patricia saw Marco contemplating the image and said, “That’s my mother a few days before she was killed.”
“Killed how?” asked Marco.
“She was murdered by the Sendero Luminoso – Shining Path – guerrillas during a kidnapping attempt; I was only a few years old.” A fleeting expression of loss and pain crossed her beautiful face.
Marco kept silent for a few moments, his own mind flying back to when his father had been killed on his own doorstep in front of him and his mother. A sniper from afar ended the life of an innocent man just for being Salvatore Carducci’s younger brother. A crime many times avenged but never forgiven or forgotten, the pain of it lingering through the years and suddenly Marco felt closer to this woman who shared that feeling.
“I know you understand, Marco,” said Patricia quietly. “Sal told me about your father. That is why I shared with you this intimate part of my life. I thought it might make it easier for us to talk sincerely about the many things that we must discuss.”
Marco wanted to say something but found prudence in silence. He and Patricia finished their drinks and stood somewhat uncomfortably with each other. There was now a bond, but between total strangers.
Patricia decided on the restaurant, as Marco was a stranger to the area. They chose to go in Marco’s car, taking advantage of the driver and the required security. Patricia gave the driver the name of the restaurant, the Epicure, expecting that he would know where it was. He nodded and they headed for downtown Sarasota. As they left the garage, a Mercedes S500 fell in behind the Lincoln.
Luigi turned to Patricia, “Are your people behind us?” Patricia nodded and raised an eyebrow; wasn’t it obvious? Luigi turned back to looking forward. Marco said nothing but made a mental note to ask Luigi about the matter later.
Most of the good Sarasota restaurants are on Main Street nested between the “Fruit Streets” – Pineapple, Lemon, Orange, etc. The Epicure is no exception; an Italian trattoria with a large Florida accent.
Both Patricia and Marco had Capresse salads and shared a pizza capricciosa accompanied by a delicious bottle of Prosecco from Lago di Garda. Luigi and a Latino man sat at a discreet dist
ance where they kept an eye on the couple and on passersby.
The conversation was kept light while an adjacent table was occupied by a young couple and two well-behaved children, but once they left Patricia changed the conversation instantly.
“Have you opened the two envelopes that Sally left you?”
This caught Marco off guard and he took a few seconds to look around as for eavesdroppers and then answered truthfully, “Only the one marked business, I thought of opening the other one tonight.”
“Then there will be more to talk about later. For now, tell me when you plan to go to the Caymans?” asked Patricia, showing her intimacy with the matter.
Again Marco was caught off guard. Here was Patricia in a totally new light, as if she were a person who had crawled out of the one he knew, the discreet wife of a strutting businessman, now converted into a forceful entity of her own. Even her features, which until now had been slightly blurred as if in background, took on definition and clarity. She was truly beautiful he thought. Black hair cut in a pageboy, big dark-green eyes, a generous mouth, perfect nose, high cheekbones highlighted in soft tones of peach over very white skin that decried her Andean origin. Dressed in a white linen frock with little other adornment than a single emerald on a gold chain around her neck and matching earrings. He realized that her slim but well-proportioned body combined with that face gave her a regal look that didn’t go unnoticed. He also realized that she aroused him. For a second, before he checked himself, he saw her naked in his mind. Then he forced himself back to the business at hand and answered her question.
“I don’t know, probably Monday. I’m flying to New York after lunch but I’ll be back early Monday and fly from here…” Marco hesitated before continuing. “I must say, Patricia, that you have me at a disadvantage. You obviously know more about me than I about you, and I’m guessing you know some things that I don’t about Uncle Sal.”
The Carducci Convergence Page 3