The Carducci Convergence

by Nicolas Olano

  “Wouldn’t we all mate? Let me make a call. In the meantime get out of that suit. You’re making me hot. Ufff!”

  Twenty minutes later Special Agent Delany and Inspector David Buchwald met in the lobby. Delany was now wearing light cotton pants, a Hawaiian shirt and Dockers, yet he managed to look just as uncomfortable and out of place. Maybe it was the briefcase or the redness of his neck that a few minutes in the sun had stamped there.

  “Himself will see us at noon and the missus has invited us for a light lunch. High times for us working blokes, what! In the meantime I’ll give you the toppence tour of the island.”

  “I’d rather see the wreckage of the yacht if that’s OK?”

  “There is no wreckage. All that we got was a few suitcases with clothes, most of them badly burnt, and a few odds and ends. The fire and the current after the explosions left little.”

  “What about dead bodies? I understand about ten people died.”

  “Not a one so far. Like I said, fire, current, and I suppose sharks might have taken anyone left in the water. Our mates and the Yanks…sorry, the US Coast Guard, spent a day looking for survivors or casualties but found nothing.”

  They got in the open Ranger and headed towards the center of Road Town. There they saw the daily ritual of the tourists and the vendors. While Tortola is not the destination of many cruise ships it gets several ferries a day from the other islands and keeps busy. They left the town behind and started climbing along the winding road to Brewers Bay, only a mile or so from there but the road does a weird circumvention and it took almost half an hour. The villa was on the slopes of Mount Healthy overlooking the bay and it was reached by a private road that was well kept and surrounded by a magnificent garden of palms, bougainvillea, ginger, birds of paradise and many other tropical species. The guards were expecting them and they were directed to the main entrance from where they were escorted to an ample terrace with a pool and bar. The villa itself was an old plantation house that had been modernized and appointed with all the facilities of a retreat in paradise. The place spelled power and money enough to impress the son of a man who had everything and had spent lavishly on himself and his family.

  Coming out of the house was an impressive woman; tall, slender, blond, dressed in a one piece summer outfit that could only come from the design table of one of the great couture of our time. She extended her hand towards the inspector, who barely resisted the temptation to kiss it but who did bow deeply to the lady.

  “Inspector, a bit early but always welcome,” she said, now turning her attention towards Joseph.

  “May I introduce Special Agent Joseph Delany with the FBI?”

  “My goodness, what serious title for such a young man,” she said smiling and shaking hands. “Marc will be coming out in a few moments. He is just finishing a physiotherapy session with the nurse. In the meantime, tell me what can we offer you? There is lemonade, iced tea, a grand beer that is my preference, and then anything stronger if you like.”

  They both accepted a beer seeing that the lady had one herself. Besides it was what the soul craved in this setting. That, or a long, long, Long Island tea. But that would not be advisable.

  As they were served by a uniformed waiter, the door opened and a man about six-foot-three with snow on his temples and a sprinkling of the same on a full beard walked onto the terrace. He wore a light blue linen shirt over beige linen trousers and canvas slippers. His right arm was in a sling and he was obviously bandaged over his shoulder and around his chest and back. He had dark Costa del Mar sunglasses that didn’t let the eyes be seen but the crinkles at the edges hinted of the smile that he wore naturally. Joe guessed he was in his late thirties or early forties and appeared to be about eight to ten years older than his wife.

  “Gentlemen, welcome. Before we discuss the business that brought you here let me get one of those beers that look to be just what the doctor ordered.” He received the beer that appeared almost miraculously and indicated that they should go under the awning where a table was set for four.

  Other than the guards at the entrance from the road Joe hadn’t seen any other security but was sure that it was there. He participated in the small talk for a few minutes while lunch was brought in. A side table was set up and roast beef tenderloin in pepper sauce was placed together with abundant half lobsters, a big salad of fresh greens, and a bowl of tropical fruit. The lady was served first, then the guests, and finally Marc MacKenzie was helped by his wife who carefully de-shelled a lobster and cut it to manageable pieces and did the same with a couple of slices of beef. She put some salad and small fresh potatoes on his dish and then drank some beer. As if this were a sign, the waiter disappeared and they were alone. Or so it appeared. They ate quietly for a few minutes and then the conversation went to the point.

  “The inspector tells us that you have some information about our assailants special agent. What, pray, may that be?” asked Celia MacKenzie.

  “I have more questions than answers, but I’ll tell you what we know. The wounded mercenary that is now under our care in Puerto Rico is a wanted ETA member who has committed a bombing and a murder in Bilbao and Santiago. She refused to say a word but the threat of extradition to Spain shook her up enough to tell us that she was hired through an agency that operates on the Internet and that she was paid $30,000 from an account in Luxembourg that we traced to a Swedish corporation that denies knowledge of such payment and has sued the bank in that respect. She told us that the leader of their group, which she thinks was not a hired gun, had an American accent but used Italian terms when he got mad or excited. By his physical description and his abilities we have narrowed it down to a few hundred Navy Seals. She described a tattoo of an eagle, an anchor, and a trident that the man had on his right shoulder blade and that he tried to keep out of sight but she saw by chance. That’s a common tattoo among members of that elite group and of whom only a couple of hundred are believed to be working as soldiers for hire. But then she kind of insists that the man did not appear to be a mercenary. He was out of character for that. He spent all the time that he was not training the group locked in his cabin, but one of the others had seen him on his knees praying in there. That is all we have.”

  “Thank you, Agent Delany, I can see that this may be of help to the inspector but I fail to see where we can be of any service in this matter,” said Marcus MacKenzie.

  “Well, Mr. MacKenzie, this was, I confess a bit of a ruse to meet you. The truth is that I’m trying to get in touch with a man called Marco Carducci and I have reason to believe that the owners of the Toscana or you may know where I can find him.”

  The one who answered, surprisingly, was Mrs. MacKenzie.

  “And the reason for this is…” she asked?

  “I believe that the attempt on the Toscana had nothing to do with you or your group of friends. We have determined that the Toscana had been at dock for some time in a house in Sarasota, Florida that was owned by Salvatore di Dio Carducci who passed recently and we believe that Marco Carducci could have been on that boat because the other possible heir is Ian Carlo de la Rosa, and he is in NYC as we speak and was there when the Toscana was destroyed. So that leaves me with few alternatives. The last we saw of Mr. Carducci was in Florida a few weeks ago.”

  Joe Delany put his briefcase on his lap and pulled out a tablet, turned it on and hit a few icons. Satisfied, he showed a photo of Marco Carducci as he got off the Lear in Sarasota what now seemed to Marco a lifetime ago. He looked at the man in the photo and realized how different he looked now. He was twenty pounds lighter, had a beard, his hair was now long, lighter and combed by Patricia in a very European style. He was pale compared to his deep tan at present and the clothes he wore then were such a far cry from what he was wearing today. This, plus the well-documented persona of Marcus MacKenzie, rich businessman from Wales, made it impossible to think they were one and the same.

  “There is one more thing. It is very private and personal and I must speak
this only with Mr. Carducci himself. As a matter of fact his life may well depend upon what I have to tell him.”

  “Well, Agent Delany, as much as I would like to help you, our trip on the Toscana was improvised and we chartered the boat through an agency in London. Our stay here at the villa is by courtesy of some friends, the Parkers, who looked kindly upon our circumstances. We can give you all the details if you like, but I doubt they could help you. But now I suggest we enjoy this dessert that my wife created. It’s homemade coconut ice cream with starfruit slices and Chantilly cream. It’s my favorite and you cannot leave without trying it.”

  A most elegant dismissal if there ever was one.

  On the trip back Delany was telling the inspector what a delightful couple the MacKenzie were and how much he would have loved to meet them under different circumstances. He asked how long did the inspector think they were going to be there.

  “They have the villa booked till Sunday week and at the price they pay for that place I doubt they would leave before.”

  “Well, I cannot thank you enough for your help and even though I’m booked for the night, I’m going to Puerto Rico because I want a crack at the survivor from the assault group before she’s transferred to Florida, which has the jurisdiction on this case.”

  By five that afternoon Delany was on a flight to San Juan and had arranged a meeting with a local agent to see Dionisia Iragorri at Veterans Hospital in San Juan. When he got there he was surprised at how young the girl was, barely out of her teens, yet he knew she was an international terrorist. After two hours of questioning he got little more than what he already knew. The mission was to allow for their leader time to terminate one or two targets and then destroy the vessel. They were to activate their beacons when back in the water and run as far as the scooters would take them with what battery was left and wait for a shell boat to pick them up. She would not say a word as to where they came from.

  Dupree received Ana Meredith and her son at his Holy See office that had the trappings of the Vatican, which was not the case with his office at the bank that was Spartan and functional. Here the proximity of the Holy Father always impressed and intimidated powerful visitors.

  “God be with you,” Dupree greeted his visitors.

  “And with your spirit,” they answered in unison.

  He indicated that they should take a seat in the small but elegant sitting room attached to his office and asked if they would like something to drink. Getting the negative, he went straight to the point.

  “Other than the nominal ownership of land by monarchs, I believe you now own more land than any single individual or corporation in the world. Am I right?”

  “One point two billion acres at last count,” said Ana. “Not that anyone knows that except for a couple of people, you included.”

  “Well, let it be for the greater glory of God,” answered the cardinal. “I’m aware that a good portion of that is in dispute right now?”

  “About a third of it; almost everything we own in South America and that we owe to very poor management of our assets by your banks,” said Edward Meredith with a huff of disgust.

  “Not a time to point fingers…yet,” said his mother who turned to the cardinal and said, “I believe His Eminence is doing all that is possible to secure our holdings, we would just want some reassurance.”

  “And you have it, my dear Ana. Every diocese in the region is working hard to appease the conscience of some politicians, who edged on by the liberal, godless press acted hastily. We know that apart from a lot of noise, nothing will happen in Colombia, Brazil, or Uruguay. We are working hard in Argentina but they have a conflict of interest as the president does not want to show preference for the Church for obvious reasons. But rest assured that God’s will be done.”

  “In that case our support of your work in that region will continue,” said Ana with the implied threat that those words carried.

  “And God will bless you for it,” said the cardinal, “and how is your effort in Africa and Russia progressing?” He asked knowing full well that the Meredith had just bought about 400,000 acres in Russia through a local billionaire who needed to hold money outside of the country. He trusted Putin only as far as he could throw him, though they were fishing and hunting buddies.

  Once finished with the formalities of the blessing and a private audience with the pope the Meredith departed for their villa in Tuscany and a meeting with someone special, as they were not going to wait for the cardinal to pull his blessed finger out of his most holy ass. The sheik would be there soon and they needed to be sure that nothing in the house would offend his Muslim sensibilities. It was time to negotiate with the Arabs because the cardinal was showing signs of incapacity. Delany had managed a good deal with the Saudis; why couldn’t they get an even better one from the Emirates?

  M&M was getting ready to leave for three days of tarpon fishing in Los Jardines de la Reina off the southern coast of Cuba where the abundance and wildness of the fish were legendary. He had packed two four-piece Loomis 12-weight fly rods with Able reels, the only ones in his opinion that could take the beating a large tarpon can hand out; two Sage rods, one 11-weight and one 9-weight, also with Able reels; a dozen extra lines and some extra backing; about four dozen tarpon flies of his own creation, half of them already tied to 100-pound hard mono shock tippets connected with a slim beauty knot to 16-pound class leaders complete with Bimini twist butts; and thirty more pounds of paraphernalia needed or better yet, wanted, for this adventure. He was knotting the last of his leaders when his very private line buzzed for his attention. He listened for a couple of minutes, thanked the caller, and leaned back in his chair to think about what shenanigans the Meredith were up to. The caller, his friend the prince, would surely fill him in as soon as the sheik was back from Italy. This thing got better and better every day. Before he finished packing he sent Francisco Lujan a short heads up. He would appreciate it.

  The Meredith organization exported and imported grain, soy, fertilizer, salt, nitrate, pork, beef from several countries, and now lamb, wool, and lanolin from Australia, New Zealand, and Argentina. They had ships and trains and trucks to move their multibillion dollar business, but not enough. They also depended on multimodal companies to do their growing trade with China and Russia, Brazil, and Argentina. With such a huge business the Meredith had a communications center rivaling the CIA…or Francisco Lujan’s Bogotá operation. By coincidence, that very day Francisco Lujan’s people had managed to break down the last firewall of Meredith’s mainframe and had started leaching out information that, for over half a century, had remained secret. A six-month effort by one of the world’s greatest hackers had paid off. The young Indian girl was going to be rich for life and her family would be able to move out of India. They would like Bogotá. It was crowded and crazy like Bombay but had a much better climate.

  Marco and Patricia decided that it was time to leave Tortola behind and head for New York. He and Ian Carlo had much to discuss and Patricia wanted to stick around to be part of the plan to take on the cardinal. In her mind she thought that it was the logical thing to do. In her heart it was also the thing she wanted to do. She did not want to be away from Marco, but she didn’t really know why or maybe she didn’t want to know why. Not just yet anyway.

  All the security personnel that had been on the Toscana got a cash bonus of $10,000; those on land got $5,000 as did the staff at the villa. This was a way to say thank you but mostly to say, “Keep your mouth shut.” The MacKenzie would stay on till Friday to quench local curiosity. The inspector was summoned to the villa and was given all the information he needed to contact the MacKenzie at a recuperation clinic in Barbados and then at their home in Wales. He was discreetly given a week at the villa, all expenses paid by the MacKenzie, who were so very grateful for his help in such terrible circumstances. He ran back to ask for his vacation days. Oh, wouldn’t Betty just love this and so would the kids.

  MacKenzie and company took a spe
edboat to St. Tomas where they passed through US Customs & Immigration and met their chartered G3 to fly them directly to New York. Only Luigi, Pete, and José went with them. The flight was uncomfortable for Marco who still suffered a lot of pain but did not touch painkillers except at night when he needed to sleep. He was not going to get hooked on that shit.

  They landed in Teterboro and limoed into Manhattan directly to the Third Avenue house. Ian Carlo was there to meet him and as of that moment, life accelerated. Ian Carlo and Tommy Lee had traced the introduction of Birko into the Liguria family via a recommendation from a small capo of the Esposito family from San Francisco. Upon further research it was obvious that the placement of Birko had been intentional but he doubted that it was about Marco. That had been a convenient coincidence. The truth was that the church had come into a large inheritance from an Italian American who had interests in Las Vegas and surroundings. Joe Tellez and Mario Esposito had met in Vegas and had hit it off. Esposito had asked Joe if he had a job for a friend of his who had a pulmonary problem and needed to move to a very dry place; thus Birko in Vegas. The coincidence was that the dead Italian-American who left the church all that dough was old man Esposito; and the family wanted it back so they placed someone in Vegas who could connect with the local Catholic Church and see what could be done. It backfired though because Birko was a wacko and became part of the problem. The Esposito were about to whack him when Tommy Lee took him to New York. The use of Birko by Testa had been just dumb luck.

  But that was not all. A couple of days ago every local news broadcast led with the story of a man who had been found by fishermen somewhere near Montauk Point floating in a slick of garbage holding on to an empty Costco brand five gallon detergent bottle. He was dehydrated, hypothermic and starving but had miraculously survived for several days. The man had a story to tell. Satan, in the body of a Mafia capo who had died several weeks back, had thrown him into the ocean and he was alive only because every morning and every evening he was visited by the Archangel Gabriel who brought him food and water. The man was taken to Bellevue where he praised God nonstop and told whoever listened that he was now an angel of God and was here to save the pope. Thorazine was administered in ample doses and now he lived in happy lala-land. End of story. It was the first time in weeks that Ian Carlo, Marco and Patricia had had a good laugh.