The pilot called on his handheld radio to one of the gauchos and indicated that a stag and three cows were about a mile west from where they were. They followed the lead of the guide and soon he told them to stop and dismount. About a thousand yards away they could see the animals profiled against the lighted slope. Unfortunately the wind was coming out of the east and if they approached any closer the deer would surely spook and run. The shot would have to be taken from here.
Only Patricia had the vision and pulse for a shot like this, as Francisco and Antonio did not trust their older eyes or the overall steadiness needed for such a task. The guide took Patricia a couple of hundred feet away from the rest of the party, walking behind the rise so they wouldn’t be seen by their quarry. They came up behind some sparse bushes and used them as camouflage. Patricia and her guide took turns with the spotting scope and estimated that the shot was about 850 yards and five degrees uphill. The wind was not a factor as it came straight from their six. Patricia was shooting a single-shot custom-made Gibbs Farquharson Style 600 North Eastern, armed with a hand-loaded 270-grain bullet with a dovetail point. She had used this same gun twice before and felt comfortable with it. The Zeiss Scope had a hunting turret and the 850 yards were just a neighborhood watch for the powerful optics. Calculating the shot with the help of the guide using a targeting scope took a few minutes because the wind speed had increased and from behind it could make the shot lower or higher depending on speed and humidity. Fortunately it was a dry day and a click down should compensate well. The shot resonated like thunder across the hills and the bullet flying at almost 3,000 fps reached its target in less than a second. The stag bolted and disappeared behind the hill.
“Tal vez la próxima vez, señorita,” said the guide, “maybe next time, miss.”
“Estás loco? Ese venado está muerto.”
The radio crackled and the guide listened then answered something she didn’t hear.
“Si, cayó al otro lado,” said the guide, “yes, it fell on the other side.”
Obviously the paraglider had seen the stag fall dead after a short run over the hill. The whole party went down the valley, crossed a creek and rode to where the animals had been. Then, on foot they followed the guide to where the stag had fallen. The shot had severed a major artery and the beast had lived only a couple of minutes after being struck, dropping dead at the other side of the ridge. The gauchos went to work dressing the stag, which, they estimated was 500 kilos or over a thousand pounds. The meat was for them and the household servers, the entrails and bones would feed the dogs, the skin would make a great rug in one of their homes. Antonio would only take tenderloin for the roast and a patch of belly skin for flies. The antlers would decorate the living room.
After lunch back at the estancia they all took a siesta. Later, Patricia and Marco, followed at a distance by the security people, walked along the river hand in hand, talking about everything as had become their custom. They were rarely apart and both were comfortable with this. For Marco it was the first love of his life and in Patricia’s mind each day fogged the difference of her life with Sal and now with Marco. It seemed like there had been no death but a metamorphosis of one man into the other. They had two more days of this holiday without being haunted by death and they were going to make the best of it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A few days earlier, Cardinal Jean Dupree and Monsignor Enrico Testa were enjoying a glass of fine port in the bar of the hotel. Dressed in civilian clothes, they conversed about the success that the necessary adjustments in the Meredith organization had produced. Edward Meredith was ecstatic with his new found authority and, guided by the cardinal, was seeing results in the actions taken. The coffers of the church in the dioceses of Kansas and other important cities were flush with cash. African missions and South American church charities were again active and fruitful. Pressure by the FBI taskforce had practically disappeared and the cash shipments to the IOR associate banks were getting there without problem.
The television above the bar was silently showing the news on a local NBC channel and suddenly Testa was looking at himself on the screen – not only his Pernambuco passport photo but that of Mr. Theodor Miles and, much to his disgust, Monsignor Enrico Testa in his latest passport portrait. To make things worse and cause the good cardinal to choke on his Portuguese libation, the talking but soundless face of FBI Special Agent Delany blabbed away in earnest with only the caption ribbon underneath the image showing what he said.
Apparently the FBI, in a joint effort with the police departments of Kansas City and Washington DC, sought this individual for suspicion of multiple murders in those two cities. Photos of Joseph Delany Sr., his wife Arlene, Congresswoman Tatiana Wells, and Ana Meredith appeared one after the other. Finally the torture was over and the anchor was talking about the Middle East with the usual car bomb carnage in some city where those Godforsaken people lived in mud within mud. As they were sitting there watching the last of the news, the cardinal’s phone rang and was advised by one of his assistants that Interpol was trying to locate him in regards to Monsignor Testa.
“Merde,” hissed the cardinal. “Now we are the target of this idiot Delany.”
As if his taskforce had not done enough damage, Delany was handicapping his most valuable associate. Testa had to disappear. He and Enrico, who was in his wounded-soldier disguise, spoke softly in Latin with occasional French phrases, hoping that if overheard nobody would understand them and create further problems. After a few minutes they retired to the cardinal’s suite and sat down to plan Testa’s disappearance and whatever further actions were necessary to secure his services to the cardinal. Testa wanted to terminate Marco Carducci and Patricia Lujan before he left the US but it was a logistical nightmare and the cardinal did not want to lose his sword to some cop’s lucky break.
They finally decided that Testa would fly to Bogotá, Colombia where a new passport and disguise would be available and then fly to Rio de Janeiro via Manaus on TAM. He could not fly directly to Brazil, because US citizens need a visa to enter that country but Colombians don’t. Rio was famous for facial reconstruction surgery and fingerprint obliteration techniques that, combined with a few tricks, could allow Testa to work for the cardinal again. In a few months a cleric from Minas de Gerais would be transferred to Rome to serve in some obscure department and be there for the greater glory of God…and of Cardinal Dupree, of course.
The Mafia in the United States is still the bastion of an Italo-Jewish collaboration that existed since Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky first sat down to discuss business. While the individuals as portrayed in the film Goodfellas do exist and make their living administrating petty crime in assigned territories, they are far removed from the true seat of power where the lives of all Americans are affected.
With his very successful venture into pipelines, Ian Carlo de la Rosa had reached the pinnacle of that organization. He and Ernie Goldman were moving billions of dollars and making immense profits. The Liguria and the Lorenzana had also emerged above others because of their association with the Carducci empire. Naturally this did not go unnoticed by other families across the US that, while also benefiting from services offered by Ian Carlo et al, felt that they were not getting their fair share and grew uneasy. Slowly an association of sorts was formed by a Genovese offshoot from Miami, a Chicago mobster named Ted Wilkins whose mom was Italian, and two California independents who worked as intermediaries between some of the Central American gangs and families in the West and Midwest. While there was no specific issue that they could adopt as reason for war, they created and shared grievances among themselves. Finally they concentrated their dissatisfaction with the Lorenzana family because they did not want to be involved in smuggling for these individuals between Honduras and Chicago via New Orleans. They believed that the Lorenzana were the ones doing all the smuggling for Ian Carlo de la Rosa and they wanted the same services for themselves.
None of them knew of the pipelines, i
ncluding Maurizio and Nicolo Lorenzana. So far the secret had been kept since no one outside the Carducci top tier knew about it. A delegation of mobsters descended on New Orleans and summoned Maurizio to a meeting. He went as requested but made sure he was well covered by choosing the location and having four of his most capable enforcers strategically located to avoid surprises. The lobby of the Hilton on St. Charles Avenue fit the bill perfectly and the delegates kept their hands visible and their voices down. But the message they brought was not so nice. Basically it was “play ball, or else.” Maurizio was becoming a good poker player and did not say anything to offend the visitors. He simply stated that he had to study the best manner in which he could accommodate them and for that he needed a day. He invited them to stay for the night at his expense and they would reconvene the following day. Immediately he called Ian Carlo and let him know what the mobster delegation wanted. Ian Carlo got on his plane and the following day when the ol’ boys got to the meeting, they met with Ian Carlo de la Rosa, an army of his men, and the two Lorenzana. Without intimidating anybody…at least not overtly, Ian Carlo asked them to be specific about their requests. He underlined the word “requests,” making it clear that demands wouldn’t be well received.
“We need for Maurizio to help us with a small problem,” said a man named Julio Rossini who hailed from Detroit.
“And that favor consists of…?” asked Ian Carlo.
“Maurizio already knows,” huffed the man.
“Humor me,” said Ian Carlo. “Tell me what you want.”
“The same you are getting from him. We need his help to import some merchandise our associates in Honduras and Nicaragua have for us, and then help us deliver the payment.”
“I’m sure Maurizio will accommodate you.” Ian Carlo gave the man a figure for the services.
“That’s outrageous,” shouted Rossini, standing up, but when he saw that Ian Carlo’s face changed slightly to less affable, he sat and listened.
“The figure I gave you, Mr. Rossini, covers Mr. Lorenzana’s service and it compensates me for the service I’ll forfeit in your favor; all in goodwill.”
“Why should you be compensated? It’s Mr. Lorenzana who will do the service.”
“Well, Mr. Lorenzana and I are partners and right now he has a full plate with my merchandise so he would have to render less to me in order to accept your requests.”
“I’ll have to consult with others. We’ll get back to Mr. Lorenzana…or should we talk to you?”
“Mr. Lorenzana will be waiting for your decision,” answered Ian Carlo, subtly putting them a rung below himself.
Maurizio and Ian Carlo stayed in the lobby with all their people in place until the delegation of mobsters had cleared the hotel and gone back to theirs.
“We haven’t seen the end of this,” said Maurizio.
“No, we haven’t,” answered Ian Carlo pensively.
Marco was naturally fit. He had practiced little disciplined exercise per se, but he was very active in the sense that he walked or ran upstairs when he could and enjoyed doing calisthenics every morning since he had been in school. As he was getting into his waders, he noticed that he felt stronger, fitter if you may, than he had felt since early college, when he had done some rowing. Marco had a flat stomach and strong legs, but could use some upper body beefing up. Patricia and Luigi had been including him in their martial arts practices and he had learned some basic defense moves of Krav Maga and Okinawan Karate. He enjoyed the repetitive moves of the punch, kick, fend, advance, retreat, duck and twist practiced every day for at least an hour before doing Katas and some sparring. At his age he would never acquire the lightning-fast moves that Patricia and Luigi demonstrated, but now he felt that the average thug with fists, a stick, or a knife would not find him an easy takedown. It was a small sense of satisfaction that brought a smile to his face. Even in this area Patricia changed his life. She had even taught him how to kick some ass; talking of which, she walked into the wader room in the skimpiest of underwear and Marco, who had just wadered up, thought that he had to get out of that Gore-Tex in a hurry…before they got stuck on something.
Fifteen minutes and a shared shower that almost derailed their plans later, Marco and Patricia rushed out to meet the others for a day of fishing on the Rio Collon Cura. It was going to be a hoot because with only two to a raft there was going to be a water parade. The anglers were Marco and Patricia in one raft and Antonio with Francisco in another, each one with a guide that did the rowing. Add to that four rafts with security people, two with food and drink for all and one more with Luigi and Pete, who were on duty but brought rods just in case.
The Collon Cura is a wide river born of the confluence of the Aluminé and the Chimehuin that eventually runs into the Limai, Patagonia’s largest river. On a good day huge brown trout can be caught casting streamers deep into holes and dugouts that the currents of spring create. Some of these are resident fish and some migrate down from the lakes. The river carries browns, rainbow, and Salevinus fontinalis, or brook trout. There is one native species called perca or perch, which looks a lot like a black bass and even has a largemouth and smallmouth variety. Some days you can catch all five species. This river, much like the Green River in Wyoming, is like a light switch: it’s either on or it’s off. When it’s off you can’t even catch a cold; but this day the Collon Cura was in the perfect mood. A partially overcast sky offered a plethora of light and shade against the banks and over the runs, riffles, and eddies, exciting the insects into hatches and the fish to feeding. Everybody caught fish for the first couple of hours. Nice-size trout were taking dries and nymphs on the bank and in drop-offs below riffles. Everyone had fun but no really big fish were taken.
Antonio, an old hand at this river, opted for a “chuck and duck” technique that sometimes produces richly. He changed to a very fast sinking line with a fifteen-foot tip; it’s a tough line to cast but the 7-weight rod that he employed carried it well. He used a short 20-pound leader tied directly to the fly – a large, black woolly bugger with rubber legs and green flash-a-boo.
The cast is mechanical and repetitive. Place the fly in the deeper holes close to the bank or behind big boulders, logjams, and major obstructions, let it sink a few seconds and then strip a couple of times, let it dead drift a bit and strip again until the fly is a few feet from the boat. Repeat until successful. About an hour into this, when the fly was in a deep hole behind a boulder Antonio felt something slam the fly…KABOOOM! The rod bent deep into the butt and the fight was on. His guide, a gaucho with whom he had fished for years, turned the raft to ease his retrieve, ferrying it to the shore to maintain a smooth drift with the fighting duo. The reel, an old Hardy Perfect, worked like the perfect machine it was. The drag was precise and the clicker screamed with the excitement of each run the lunker made. Others had seen the engagement and stopped fishing to watch. Minutes went by and neither adversary gave quarter; the rod was up and its deep curve resembled the profile of a dome. The line wrote messages of defiance on the surface of the nervous waters that roofed the battle.
Finally the profile of the fish was seen by the guide, who exclaimed “la puta!” in his surprise. He edged the raft towards shore because a beach just ahead was the best place to land this fish. Antonio jumped out and walked the tired trout like a dog to a hydrant, guiding it to the large net that awaited its surrender. Everybody came to see this fish. It was all one could want in a lifetime catch. Photos were taken, girth and length were measured, and with a solemn kiss from Antonio on its wet dark back the record-size brown trout was released back into its domain. Then there was a midday meal prepared with some anticipation by the gauchos.
A shore lunch on a float is an experience that every angler deserves and it is memorable if the cooks are good. Sometimes they will fry fresh trout but mostly in Argentina you get “asado de tira,” which are short ribs grilled on the bone to absolute perfection over embers of a hardwood fire. To accompany this there will be bread, wine,
and cheese – and maybe a nap under a tree.
Ian Carlo left his Roslyn estate early because he had a rare meeting with Leon Goddard. He had included Ernie Goldman in the meeting at Marco’s request and apparently it was to be a game changer. With Ian Carlo traveled eight men in two SUVs, and one more vehicle had gone ahead with another three men to scout the road and the destination. Ian Carlo liked to take a chopper to the city but today the pilot called in with a mechanical problem so he had to drive into Manhattan to Ernie’s office.
As they turned to go towards the Long Island Expressway an ambulance and an EMT truck passed them at full speed with sirens and lights engaged. One Tahoe SUV with two of his bodyguards was in front and one with four was behind him, which was the usual formation, but for some reason his driver suspected something, slowed down, and radioed the trailing unit to flank them. As they turned the corner they saw the two emergency vehicles obstructing the road and the EMTs were apparently assisting a prostrated individual in the middle of the street.
“Must be a hit-and-run, boss,” said one bodyguard. “I don’t see any crashed vehicles.”
“I don’t like this,” said the driver. “I’m getting us out of here.”
The Carducci Convergence Page 26