The Carducci Convergence

by Nicolas Olano

  The meeting of The Board convened early in the morning. It was the first time they had met since the horrifying events in the Toscana, but it was also the first meeting at which tangible results could be measured of the influence of Marco Carducci on their activities.

  “For the second time we meet with one board member missing. Now it is the irreparable loss of Sun E, or Sunny as we all called her.” It was Airy Takahashi who was speaking. “I know we will all miss her sharp intellect and her dedication to this group and the objectives that we pursue. To this effect, today I’m honored to present to you a candidate who will in our humble opinion fulfill those duties and contribute to the goals and aspirations that we stand for: Mr. Edmund Cartwright. Mr. Cartwright has been a longtime associate and head of a board of which Sunny was chairperson; he is the owner and director of Cartwright Geological Endeavors of Perth, Australia. His mining enterprises extend the globe and comprehend an ample variety of metals, common and rare. His Canadian company is now the second largest mining enterprise in South America with operations in Colombia, Brazil, Chile, Bolivia and Peru. You have all received and, I hope, read the extensive information on Edmund which was given to you when this meeting was called. I now formally present him and move to vote.”

  They all voted aye with a slight hesitation from Marco, which didn’t go unnoticed by Francisco, who caught Marco’s eye and raised one eyebrow.

  When Henri Leclerc walked into his office in the Port of New Orleans, he was very surprised and annoyed to find a man immaculately dressed in a white linen suit, canvas-and-leather shoes, and open sky blue shirt. He moved to call his secretary but the man was faster than the wind and Leclerc found himself being pushed into a seat. He was about to shout but an open-hand slap that made him see stars and left his ear ringing shut him up. All he could do was barely whisper,

  “What do you want? I have money in the safe; just don’t hurt me…”

  “I don’t want your money. I want you to listen very carefully at what I’m going to say. Mr. Meredith has given you some specific instructions about the transfer procedures from the barges to the ships, but you have chosen to do differently. So have you done with every directive you receive.”

  “But, his instructions were absurd…they would have cost us a lot more per ton and delayed each barge an extra four hours.”

  “Did you tell Mr. Meredith that?”

  “Well, no. I didn’t see the…”

  “I know you didn’t see, Mr. Leclerc,” Testa interrupted the man, “that’s precisely why I’m here. You might be right, but you also owe Mr. Meredith the courtesy of telling him why you consider his orders inadequate. Why did you not do that?”

  “I…” Leclerc was at loss for words.

  “Let me explain this to you once, and only once. Next time you see me, you will never see anybody again; not your wife, not your children and not that lovely Creole girl you visit so often. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes sir, I do. Please tell Mr. Meredith that…”

  “Tell him yourself. Write him a letter of apology and explain with detail your suggestions. It will be his decision but he’s not stupid. And copy of your letter should be sent to these people that I have listed here.”

  “Yes sir, I will do that.”

  “Today.”

  “Yes sir, immediately.”

  The man left Leclerc’s office without saying a word. Leclerc was sweating in spite of the ice cold AC that kept his office below seventy degrees but he sat down to his computer without taking off his jacket and wrote:

  “Dear Mr. Meredith…” Then he corrected it and began again. “Most Respected Sir…” yes, that sounded better…Leclerc began to breathe again.

  That same afternoon Testa was back in Chicago and prepared the package he needed for his second visit. Mr. Arthur Tallinn of Meredith Food industries, a holding company for chicken, beef and pork processing plants and feed manufacturers, would not be pleased. Testa wanted him very displeased so he went about acquiring the rest of what he needed for tomorrow’s early visit. He got into his rented Taurus and drove to Tallinn’s near north neighborhood where the house values were in the upper seven figures. He was back in his hotel by seven, had a light meal, and knelt to pray.

  The following morning Arthur Tallinn got into his Mercedes Benz 600S and headed out of his driveway. When he reached the intersection of N. Orleans and West Division he had to stop at the light. When he did so he felt a pinch in his neck and passed out. He was hauled into the back seat of his car and Testa took over the driver’s seat. The light changed and nobody bothered to see just what had happened. When Arthur Tallinn woke up with a headache and a metallic taste in his mouth, he was disoriented and had difficulty focusing. Testa waited patiently until the man got his wits back, and when he did he almost jumped out of his skin; the person sitting next to him in what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse was dressed totally in black and wore a black ski mask that only allowed the sight of cold eyes.

  “Look at this,” said Testa, passing Tallinn a manila envelope.

  Tallinn was too scared to say or do anything but obey. He took the envelope, opened and looked at its contents with ever-growing alarm. In each photo he had an image of his daughter, son and wife in their daily routine; going or coming from school, at the gym, shopping and so on.

  “How much do you want?” asked Tallinn, still looking at the photographs.

  “Not a cent, absolutely nothing.”

  “Then is this a kidnapping? I can pay…my company will pay, just don’t hurt us.”

  “I said I don’t want anything from you other than your undivided attention.”

  Arthur didn’t say a word; all he could do was look at the man who addressed him in a calm but compelling voice. His hands trembled and the photos in them began to fall to the floor of the car.

  “Who do you work for?” asked Testa.

  “Meredith Foods…but you know that,” said Arthur.

  “Wrong…try again.”

  “I swear to you, I work for Meredith Foods; I’ve been with them for eighteen years.”

  “Let me clarify this for you, Mr. Tallinn; you work for Mr. Edward Meredith”

  “That clown? He couldn’t…” Whack!

  The punch hit him dead center in the solar plexus and he almost passed out. It took a minute for him to catch his breath and another two before he could speak in barely audible whisper.

  “What the f…” Whack!

  This time the slap came from behind and hit the back of his head so hard that it bounced off the dashboard. He lost consciousness for a few seconds and when he came to he had a new frame of mind.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Mr. Meredith, Mr. Edward Meredith,” said Tallinn, rubbing his forehead and looking at his hand to confirm he wasn’t bleeding.

  “Look at me, Mr. Tallinn. I will not repeat this. You will show respect to Mr. Meredith, you will do as he says if it makes sense, or if you think it could be improved or changed for the benefit of the company, you will explain it to him in writing and worded with the utmost respect. You will never make him the butt of your jokes at the club with your foursome of golf buddies; yes, we know about that and about your snide comments at some of the company meetings. Against my better judgment, Mr. Meredith finds that you are a capable executive and ordered me to spare your life, but it won’t happen again. Am I clear, sir?”

  “Crystal,” mumbled Tallinn.

  Testa dropped Tallinn off at a bus stop and took his car. He drove to where he had left his own car at a 7-Eleven close to the Tallinn home. There he left the Mercedes with the keys under the floor mat and called Tallinn’s office to let them know where it was; no use wasting a good car.

  The next morning the Chicago Tribune, the newscast on ABC, CBS, and NBC all carried the story about the horrible murder of Alfredo Rojas, a Meredith Trading Executive director who was forcefully drowned in the commode of his private bathroom. He was found naked with his hands tied behind h
is back and his head in the toilette. There was a note next to the body that read, “Big turds don’t flush.” Fox News was more explicit and included details of the beating the man had received before he died; his testicles were crushed and most of his ribs were broken. He probably died before the water that managed to reach his lungs completed the job.

  A tweet went out from Alfredo’s own telephone and went viral within the company. It said, “I got what I bargained for; does anyone wish to join me?” Somehow the word got around really, really fast. Don’t fuck with Edward Meredith. Tallinn and Leclerc were particularly impressed.

  The next morning when Edward Meredith walked into his office he received more “Good Morning, Mr. Meredith” greetings than he had in all the time since his mother died. There was a hot cup of coffee waiting for him, a first, and twenty or more executives from different divisions wanted appointments at Mr. Meredith’s soonest convenience. Would Mr. Meredith approve this, would he consider that, would he accept such? All things that were a normal part of his mother’s day when she lived, but that had never, until today, been addressed to Edward. By noon the man was ten feet tall and had the cardinal been around he would have kissed his blessed ass rather than his ring.

  The discussions held by The Board included the usual reports from each of the members, which were really recaps of what had been distributed in the weekly reports. The principal theme was brought to the table by Marco Carducci

  “While we have been successful on many fronts, our opponents are capable people who cannot be underestimated. They have resilience and have been able to sustain land purchases in several key regions while they maintain a significant part of the asset conversion business in spite of a heavy toll on their endeavors in the US. If one thing has been achieved, it is that this activity has been divided between the Arab banks and the IOR with dissatisfaction of both parties. The Northern Europeans are dealing with Sheik Faruk Al-Enezi and the Americans are with the IOR’s group of banks. A significant number of clients have sought our help and moved a lot of their cash transactions to us; this is most noticeable in the United States, where we have particularly capable logistics for the movement of cash. As you well know the low denomination policy adopted by the United States makes cash bulky. Estimate that roughly one million dollars weighs ten kilos or about twenty two pounds; so one billion dollars weighs ten tons, assuming that it’s all in one hundred dollar bills. Reality establishes that it is about a third to half more when other denominations are present. For the more curious of you, it’s about 400 cubic feet, which fits comfortably in a container. Double that when lower denominations, twenties and fifties are included.”

  Francisco noticed that Marco was sticking to generalities and telling distracting stories, rather than touching on the major issues that concerned them. He was going to ask him about this during lunch. Coincidentally the same thought had crossed Ernie’s and Patricia’s minds, but knowing Marco they made no comment and let him go on with the fairytales.

  Marco continued. “We are moving about one billion dollars a day through Mexico and another billion through Caribbean and Adriatic destinations. We believe our opponents may be moving about the same or maybe a little less. Most of their cash originates in Canada and Europe but they are still players in the US. We cannot evaluate yet the effectiveness of Edward Meredith as head of his group or if others, maybe Senator Mason or Senator Caldwell, could take point. It’s still to be seen. Our clients are being credited with their money in layered money market and commodity accounts but soon we will need to find other vessels for these transactions attaching our accounts to arbitragers that are hedging against the dollar.”

  Francisco also noted that the figures were intentionally off and now he suspected that Marco was onto something that he didn’t know about and was being coy with the information. He and Ernie exchanged loaded glances but said nothing. When they broke for lunch there were a few minutes of personal time and Francisco, Ernie, and Patricia all converged on Marco, who was outside looking at the lunch set-up that was a work of art. A long wood-plank table was loaded down with cold cuts, salad, fruit, breads, and cheese of great variety. Jars of lemonade, ice tea, mate, herbal tea, and water were all over the place, a simple but exciting lunch.

  “OK, what’s up, Marco?” It was Ernie who broached the question.

  Marco looked around and took out a sheet of paper and passed it to Francisco, who showed it to Ernie and Patricia. In it was a list of companies and two of them were highlighted. He addressed mostly Patricia.

  “If you remember, among the things that Sal left me was a list of people and companies that he believed were opponents and of whom we should be wary? Well those that I highlighted belong, via a Tangiers holding, to our esteemed new board member Mr. Edmund Cartwright. When I saw all the documentation that Airy had sent us I knew that there was some information that resonated with me, so I opened the file from my tablet and did a search for several of the companies listed and these came up. I did not think it was enough to stop the voting but it was enough to fudge the figures a little for the time being.”

  In his room, Edmund Cartwright pulled out a satellite phone from his satchel, walked out to the balcony and sent a message that said “I’m in.”

  Joseph Delany Jr. had been promoted upwards and outwards away from the taskforce on money laundering and to a very visible and risky position. He was now head of Major Crimes, Eastern Seaboard. He was supposed to head priority investigations into crimes considered a threat to National Security as well as those that were politically charged or could be categorized as hate crimes. Any of these were high profile and Delany knew his butt was hanging out in the wind every time one such crime was adopted by the press. Among a ream of files on his desk, one caught his eye. It was labeled A. Meredith. Murder. K.C. He was very familiar with that name and also was aware that Ana Meredith had been murdered by some UNSUB a few months back. He had lost track of it among all his changes of office and reports but now he took the file and read it through. When he had finished he dialed the phone of the detective in charge of the case.

  “Manning,” answered a firm and hurried voice.

  “Detective, this is Special Agent Joseph Delany with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. A case you have been working on just crossed my desk and I wanted to know if there have been any further developments.

  “The case being…?” inquired Amiable.

  “The murder of Ana Meredith, about four months ago…”

  “Well, how far updated is your file?” asked the detective.

  “It ends with a search you issued on a man named Joao Pernambuco”

  “Well, there was some progress after that. We used a biometrics program at immigration and we came up with two identities in addition to Joao Pernambuco, the last of which was detected entering the United States via Miami a couple of weeks ago. It corresponds to a US citizen working at the Vatican, a Monsignor Enrico Testa. But we’ve lost track of him and I haven’t been able to get traction with the FBI to do a more robust search.”

  “Well Detective Manning…now you have. I need everything you have on this case as soon as possible. Once I read it I will get back to you.

  Delany was running hot and cold because he immediately linked this crime with the murder of his parents. There was no possible doubt. This was the assassin that had been at his father’s home when he and his mother were poisoned. Now all he had to do was catch him. He looked at the photo of Joao Pernambuco; this man had killed his father, he had killed his mother and who knew how many people more. He was the henchman for an untouchable scoundrel but he wasn’t untouchable. He would face the law. He would face it in the person of Joseph Delany Jr.

  Faruk Al-Enezi sat in his office overlooking the bay from the forty-fifth floor of the recently built Index sky scraper that housed his offices and apartments he used for himself, some select guests, and a few of his wives. Faruk was not a poor man. At this moment he was looking at his phone, where the short message on
the screen made him content. He owned Edmund Cartwright lock, stock and barrel since the mining magnate had bet and hedged his vast fortune on biofuel ventures in Brazil and Kenya. None of the two had panned out and he was vulnerable. In came Sheik Faruk Al-Enezi and salvages the man, only to keep him on a short leash that he yanked once in a while to keep him straight. In a recent conversation, Cartwright had mentioned that he was up as a candidate for a board of industrialists and financiers because an associate of his had perished in a yachting accident and he was to replace her. Now Cartwright was his Jack-in-the-box at The Board and he relished the possibilities it offered. He was going to treat himself to a weekend in Geneva. He called the prince and arranged for some fun and games with English girls that he loved because of their ultra-white complexion with just that touch of strawberry that made them irresistible to him. He called his PA and told him to have the plane ready for wheels up at 3:00 p.m.

  Heading…Geneva.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ian Carlo had been keeping an eye on Tommy Liguria since the killing of his father and then the liquidation of the two top Lorenzana in New Orleans, but Tommy had been business as usual and kept his side of the bargain in spite of the heightened volume of marijuana that came up. He had extended his market only within areas designated by Ian Carlo and had never tried to horse in on the Lorenzana or gone into California, the most tempting of markets. That did not mean that tons of the stuff wasn’t going there, but it was handled by his clients and that was not his problem.

  There was one particular strain of the weed that had wild demand called Sinú. It came from the Sinú River valley in Colombia and was much stronger than the legendary Colombia Gold that had reigned in the seventies and eighties. Those who practiced meditation were particularly fond of Sinú as it produced a sense of focus and purpose so highly sought by the “enlightened,” as they liked to think of themselves. As predicted, the mindset of the US and other countries was changing rapidly in relation to the criminality of using and selling marijuana. The only diehards were the federal government and they were under a lot of pressure from the states that either legalized the stuff or changed their laws to be ever more lenient about it.