The Carducci Convergence

by Nicolas Olano

  The IOR had informed Interpol and they in turn had informed Special Agent Joseph Delany that Monsignor Testa had disappeared in the jungles of Brazil, where he had gone on a penitent’s pilgrimage. They would inform the police if and when the monsignor surfaced.

  Delany called Amiable Manning

  “That’s all I have, Detective. Our face recognition software has extended the search to hotels, CCTV, and traffic cameras, as well as ATMs all over the country. All the airports, bus stations, railway stations, and ports of entry are covered, but no hits at all have been registered.”

  “He’ll show up sooner or later. He’s a professional hit man or a serial killer; either way he won’t stop, we’ll get him.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” said Delany. “That bastard works for a very sick cardinal whose name I can’t give you; not yet at least.”

  Amiable made note of this in his case file and went back to his latest and more pressing cases.

  Ian Carlo called the heads of the other New York and Jersey families and asked for a council. Since Ian Carlo had been smart enough to share the wealth and let them all enjoy the benefits of his endeavor without telling them where it was coming from, his request was immediately accepted and the location chosen was a suite at the Trump Towers that had private access from the parking lot. It had been secured without the knowledge of the operator, who thought that Sir Elton John had rented the suite. The descendants of the Bonnano, Luccese, Colombo, and Gambino were present and accounted for. A little small talk was allowed for and after everyone’s favorite libation had been served and with the room cleared and checked for electronic eavesdropping for the third time, the windows equipped with small scramblers that attached with suction cups, and the elevator blocked, the meeting began. Ian Carlo went to the point. He didn’t recount the attempt because every one of these men had been fully briefed by Ian Carlo and by their own sources.

  “The autopsy report of one of the men that tried to kill me has identified him as Cosmo Fernandez, who we know worked directly for Ted Wilkins. He’s a made-man with the Chicago outfit and Fernandez has been one of his enforcers for a few years. He’s a Cuban exile who was with the Cuban Secret Service and defected to the CIA and was relocated to Chicago. Apparently he was good with an RPG, but then…”

  “And what do you want us to do about this, Ian Carlo? It looks like something you could take care of yourself,” said the Bonnano delegate.

  “Yes and no; I think this guy acted without the approval of the outfit because Toledano is not stupid and to do something like this he would have had your approval. That, I know, is not the case.”

  Ian Carlo was elegantly telling the delegates of the other four families that he had tabs on all of them.

  “What I respectfully request,” added Ian Carlo, “is that this commission invites Mr. Toledano to a conference and hears what he has to say.”

  “Okay by me,” said the Genovese delegate and so did the others. The invitation was issued and accepted within the day.

  Marco and Patricia arrived that same evening having stopped in Lima to drop off Francisco. They flew from Teterboro to Manhattan on a chartered chopper and the limo took them a few blocks to the Third Avenue home. They went to their room, showered changed and went down to meet with Helena, Ian Carlo’s wife, and his daughter Teresa for a late dinner.

  Ian Carlo and his people arrived a few minutes later and for the first time in a long time, they were all together. The conversation centered on the child’s school, Marco and Patricia’s vacation, and Helena’s art purchases, which was a new interest in her life. Luigi and Pete stayed at a nearby hotel and took turns with other security people at the house and the perimeter…together with about ten NYPD plainclothes cops. Now it was a waiting game until Toledano from the Chicago outfit set a date for the meeting. It would be very soon; this kind of invitation did not offer room for delay.

  Even though they were tired Marco and Patricia talked late into the night with Ian Carlo getting up to date with everything that had happened since they left. Some things they already knew but the days in Patagonia had made a parenthesis in regards to business.

  The following morning Marco went to Carducci Enterprises and spent the whole day with Leon Goddard and Ernie Goldman, discussing the progress of key projects such as the multimodal brokerage and expansion of financial investments, including a well-layered acquisition of one of America’s largest hedge funds and the venture capital firm that was rapidly taking positions with research companies that were working on practical application of graphene.

  By the time he got home, Ian Carlo had received news that Toledano and a couple of his people were coming to the meeting set for tomorrow at LGA VIP Club, outside the security zone but also patrolled to infinity by NYPD, The Port Authority, ICE, DEA, FBI, and more. It was not a place where a turf war could take place. The club was secured and closed for repairs so the meeting was as private as it could get. Area scramblers were set up and cell phone jammers were placed strategically. Ian Carlo with his bodyguard showed up for the meeting five minutes before scheduled, but found that Toledano was there already with one of his lieutenants and another man. Seconds later the family’s representative and two more men arrived. The meeting went straight to the point.

  “Mr. Toledano, a man named Cosmo Fernandez and a group of men tried to kill me two days ago as I was leaving my home for a meeting in New York. He was an enforcer that worked for Ted Wilkins who is associated with the Chicago Outfit.”

  “Are you sure that it was Fernandez who attacked you?” asked Toledano

  Ian Carlo passed him the autopsy results.

  Toledano read it and passed to one of his men, a lawyer or an advisor.

  “That’s Cosmo Fernandez,” said the man, returning the paper to Ian Carlo.

  “The Outfit had nothing to do with this. It will be taken care of, I guarantee it,” stated the Chicago boss

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Ian Carlo.

  “Likewise,” said the family’s delegate

  “I’ll keep you posted,” said Toledano.

  They all stood up, shook hands, and left the club. Toledano and his people were leaving for Chicago and had to go to the General Aviation terminal to their chartered Citation.

  “No wonder Wilkins didn’t show up. I told him to meet me before we left for NYC but the fucker didn’t show and now we know why. He might be in the wind but I gave my word to New York and I’m going to whack that son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Back in Chicago, Wilkins was doing his own planning and it didn’t include getting whacked for trying to do the same to De la Rosa. His crew, like many in the history of the Chicago Mob, was not Italian; they were mostly Puerto Ricans and Cubans who had no particular loyalty to the Cosa Nostra and didn’t give a shit about anyone above their immediate boss. Wilkins also had the loyalty of crews in Kansas City, Iowa, Wisconsin, and Minnesota who always felt that the bosses of the Chicago Outfit treated them like second-class citizens. Furthermore, some of them had been witness to Ian Carlo de la Rosa putting Wilkins in his place but still thought that they should be able to get their coke and heroine from their sources without the New York Mob getting in the middle of the deal, so while Toledano was in NYC several mobsters from those cities were on their way to enforce Wilkins and his crew.

  A turf war was brewing and chatter among these individuals and Wilkins was increasing by the minute. Since brains and sophistication didn’t prevail among them, little attention was paid to electronic surveillance of their calls and within minutes an eclectic cross-section of law enforcement agencies, Francisco Lujan’s listening post, and M&M had received the gist of the chatter.

  Francisco called Ian Carlo; Ian Carlo called Toledano who was sitting in his plane with at least an hour to go before La Guardia ground control allowed him to taxi to the active runway. Airliners were backed up about 45 minutes and his flight that had only now logged their IFR plan was not a priority.
In a few words Ian Carlo de la Rosa told the Chicago Outfit boss that Ted Wilkins had associated with others and planned to hit Toledano on his way from the airport.

  “I think the New York guys are pushing the envelope,” said Toledano to his guys. “Maybe they have doubts about what I’ll do. I don’t like to be pushed, so maybe I’ll give Wilkins the benefit of the doubt. Anyway how the hell would De la Rosa know about what Ted is doing if it was just happening?”

  Thus were the mobster’s thoughts when a call came in from a police lieutenant who was on his payroll telling him exactly the same thing. The FBI had an all-points warning on the probable conflict and details were coming in fast.

  “Holy shit! Fucking New York is faster than the Feds,” exclaimed Toledano as he hung up. Then his phone rang again and an informant of his from the Kansas City crew told him just about the same thing.

  Toledano went to the cockpit and told the pilot to change the flight plan from Midway to Chicago Executive and decided not to tell anyone in his crew what he was doing. They would find out soon enough. When he was walking back to his seat he saw that the lawyer was texting something. He took the phone from him before the man even realized what was happening and read the text. “Toledano knows” was all it said.

  Special Agent Joseph Delany and Kansas City homicide detective Amiable Manning were talking about a possible mob war in Chicago that could involve the local mobsters. Traditionally, since the days of Capone, Kansas City has been a satellite of the Chicago Mob and being prepared for a turf war that could extend to Kansas and Missouri was important information. Delany had called Amiable as a courtesy and they spent some time on various topics. Finally Amiable asked if Delany had anything else on their multi-identity suspect.

  “Nothing other than what I already told you. The man was in Brazil on the way to a mission deep in the Amazon and that was the last time the IOR heard of him. I don’t think they’re lying because the monsignor who I spoke with sounded honestly concerned. I tried to talk with Cardinal Dupree and got nowhere with that.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Manning.

  “He’s one of the executives at the Vatican Bank. He manages a lot of money for Catholic Charities…and guess who his principal benefactor was.”

  “Ana Meredith?”

  “Bingo!”

  “Then he must really be pissed off at the monsignor,” said Amiable.

  Delany had a hard time keeping the truth about that to himself, but getting the detective all riled up served no purpose.

  “Thanks for the heads up, Joe, I’ll let my captain in on this and he’ll talk to the commissioner, I’m sure they’ll be grateful.”

  “They should be grateful to you,” answered Joe. Then he said goodbye and hung up.

  The lawyer had pissed his pants and puked all over himself and the small cabin of the Citation smelled horrible. Toledano had punched the guy out so he would stop squealing and they had tied him up with his tie and belt and threw a couple of blankets on him to isolate the stink; not that it helped much. Then he and his lieutenant, Giorgio Calamateo, discussed the possibilities of what awaited them in Chicago.

  “If the guy’s smart and he knows that we know he might guess that we’ll go to Executive Airport. That could catch us with our pants around our knees. I don’t want to tell anybody because I don’t know who we can trust.”

  “Anywhere we go’s gotta be on the hush,” said Giorgio, “but we have to get a crew together or we’re really fucked.”

  “Any idea who we can trust?” Asked Toledano

  “I’d bet my balls on Danny Castellanos but it’s your call, boss.”

  “Call Danny when I tell you and ask him to get anybody he can trust together. We’ll tell him where to meet us later. Tell him he has to be heavy.”

  When they were twenty minutes away from touchdown in Chicago’s Executive Airport, Toledano went to the cockpit and told the pilot to change the plan to land at Gary International Airport. He called Enterprise and reserved a car in a name he used occasionally for which he carried a driver’s license and a credit card. It was his Hail Mary option but he had to use it. He also made a reservation at a Marriott Hotel nearby and discussed with Giorgio what to do with the fucking lawyer.

  “Let’s put a bean in him and dump him at the end of the runway,” proposed the right-hand man.

  “Nah,” said his boss, “chances are somebody will see us. How about calling a private ambulance and we can take him to the Everton place and there we can take care of him.”

  “OK, but let’s have the ambulance take him to Lomax Clinic. They work well with us and we can keep him on ice until its smooth.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Giorgio did the calls and Toledano told him to get the people together at the Hampton Inn, which was right across from the Marriott, and that way he could keep tabs on what was going on before he met with his crew. When they landed the ambulance was there and it approached the airplane without raising flags among the ubiquitous police and security officers. They loaded the unconscious lawyer onto a gurney that rapidly disappeared into the ambulance, which took off with its siren whooping away.

  Toledano and Giorgio walked to the FBO and waited for the Enterprise vehicle to pick them up, which just took a couple of minutes. In a few more they had their SUV and were on the way to the Marriott.

  Toledano checked in as Mr. Tobias Clark and went to his room, where Giorgio met him shortly. From their window they had a clear view of the Hampton Inn and saw their men arrive and park. Nobody left the vehicles and no suspicious activity was noticed. They waited a few minutes and, satisfied that all was copacetic, Giorgio called Castellanos and told him to come over to the Marriott by himself and have the men set up a perimeter guard around the hotel. They had ten men in all that Castellanos brought with him that were by his reckoning, trustworthy. They didn’t know how many men were with Wilkins but estimated a minimum of eight plus whatever he got from outside. Now they needed a plan.

  Some miles away, close to the intersection of Willow and Milwaukee Avenues, a not-too-clever ambush had been set up by Ted Wilkins. He had his men on the roof of a Burger King with an RPG and a 30 caliber machine gun with hard ammunition that could penetrate Class IV armor; more than enough to disable Toledano’s car and blow him away. He was waiting for news that the plane was on the ground and that the lawyer had taken a cab in a different direction. A few minutes later he got a text from the man, “Where are you?” and he answered automatically, “Milwaukee and Willow, did you get out?” The answer was “Not yet, some delay; one hour.”

  Ted Wilkins received a text about forty minutes from the last one. “They’re leaving.” So he gave his team a heads up; the car would be there to pick up Toledano in a few minutes. He saw the SUV go by and tension grew. It would only be a couple of minutes and he would be the boss of the Chicago Outfit. He needed to see this happen so he walked out of the Burger King and located himself in a place from where he could see it all. Just a few seconds more, he thought and…it was all he ever would think again. A garrote ripped through his throat so fast and violently that he had no room for thought, just pain and then blackness from where he would not come back. Giorgio had only taken a few seconds to do the job. He dropped the body out of sight around the corner and took off the bloodied plastic poncho and the mask that covered his face and threw them in the dumpster. He walked back to the rented SUV where Toledano waited for him.

  “Done,” said Giorgio.

  “OK, good. Now we have to deal with his men.”

  “That’s easy. Castellanos has been watching them. When they smelled something was wrong they scattered like rats. Most of them will drift and land up in some gang. Others might come hat in hand…who knows. What we do know is that not one of them has enough brains to organize and take over that crew.”

  “How do we deal with the people from Kansas, Iowa, and Minnesota?”

  “We don’t. I’m going to give de la Rosa a call and he can decide what
he wants. This shit party belongs to him; he’ll decide what to do.

  The house at Roslyn was sterile. No bugs, no possibility of eavesdropping. Ian Carlo de la Rosa, king-apparent of the Carducci family of greater New York and New Jersey, met with the only people he trusted in the world: Marco Carducci, his brilliant cousin who, God knows how, was the partner and soon to be husband to the widow of their uncle Salvatore di Dio Carducci, Patricia Lujan, daughter of his friend and partner in crime, Francisco Lujan. Also present were Attorney Ernest Goldman and his oldest son Samuel, his right hand and heir to the Carducci connection. The meeting had been called by Marco and after some preliminary discussions they were joined by Leon Goddard, who was president of Carducci Enterprises, the legitimate arm of the family. The meeting went about with recounts of the most recent events, including the clean-up of the Chicago, Kansas, Detroit, and Miami mob families orchestrated by Ian Carlo and Toledano through Special Agent Joseph Delany, Jr., the undisputed star of the FBI who, smart as he was, followed the script to the letter, arrested those who had to be arrested and let the others be. Proof beyond doubt of their nefarious deeds was in the hands of district attorneys in the respective jurisdictions. The message was loud and clear…you fuck with Ian Carlo de la Rosa and you fuck with the Feds. Oh my! Peace was restored and now there was solid business that had to be considered.