The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Chapter 52

  It was one of the ugliest days of the year. Huge pellets of hail fell upon those who had come to mourn the death of Anthony Silvestri. They bounced off the casket and ricocheted everywhere—it was as if heaven was speaking its mind. Anthony Silvestri had angered God himself.

  Those who had associated with Silvestri professionally had come to show their support for Silvestri’s widow and daughter. In truth, they were all looking forward to a future without Dead Eyes. A power struggle would surely ensue as rivals scrambled to grab a piece of Silvestri’s turf. They all began to gossip excitedly when Gaetano Abate unexpectedly arrived.

  Carolyn Abate wore a brand-new Chanel suit, which her tailor had reduced to the tiniest proportions possible. Standing fully dressed before the mirror that morning, she felt delight over her appearance. The tightly tailored suit gave her an entirely new appeal. She was provocative and chic in a way her cut-down shorts and string bikinis could never have afforded. The ensemble made her look like a Lolita for Wall Street. Carolyn’s shell-thin trench coat was tightly stretched around her and belted to accentuate her twenty-inch waist. The chauffeurs were indeed fortunate, each sitting comfortably within heated limousines with their faces pressed against the windows, hoping for a better look at Carolyn’s sumptuous rear end.

  Malaina Silvestri alone led dignity to the proceeding. She had come to mourn the passing of her father and had no other agenda. She alone was saddened by his death and bore the tragedy of his murder.

  Malaina’s left arm was hooked around her mother’s. Nikki Silvestri seemed unaffected by the awful weather. She was counting the moments until her late husband was laid to rest. With his passing, she’d make a fresh start. Decades of disgrace and embarrassment were finally coming to an end. She could already feel the crushing weight of their marriage lifting from her shoulders.

  Ari Rabin was a stranger to all but a few of the mourners. He hid behind large dark sunglasses. Standing just a few feet from the grave, he counted the seconds until the blasphemous ceremony was over and he could race from the gravesite.

  The mortician had inserted prosthetic eyes into Silvestri’s eye sockets to improve his appearance for the viewing. Ari pictured the bastard lying in his coffin and could almost feel his black eyes burning a hole right through him. He thought about the animal violating his sister, forcing himself upon her, taking her life and her dignity. He was in a torturous position and could feel the arteries on his temples throb. Had he been alone at the cemetery, he would have leapt into the grave and cut Silvestri’s throat a second time.

  The other underworld figures gossiped about who Ari might be. Had they known of his deed, they would’ve all lined up to shake his hand.

  Ever vigilant, Gaetano Abate studied each of the mourners, opining privately on their motives and knowing he had the might to drive each of them into the ground.

  Abate turned to Orzani. “Mike, who’s the movie star in the dark glasses standing next to my goddaughter?”

  “Malaina knocked this guy off of his bicycle the other day. I think a little romance is blossoming. You know how the kid drives, vroom, vroom. She flew off the estate and knocked the guy right on his keister. She turned his racer into a pretzel. Let me tell you, the guy’s lucky to be alive.”

  “You know anything about him?”

  “He speaks in a real thick tongue, like a camel jockey.”

  Abate furrowed his brow. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “He talks like an Arab or something. I understand that his father was stationed overseas.”

  “This Arab have a name?”

  “He calls himself Cash. He’s a good-looking guy. Malaina took one look at him in his spandex bike shorts and wet her little panties.”

  Abate’s hand shot up in front of Orzani’s face, silencing him for his vulgarity. A moment passed before he spoke again. “Do you see anyone giving us trouble?”

  “No one who can stand the test of time, Gaetano.”

  “Good,” Abate whispered. “Because with Silvestri out of the way, I’m advancing my timetable. I’ve got a few things to work out, and then I’ll march in and take over.”

  Orzani nodded with approval. “Sounds good to me.”

  Carolyn had heard every word spoken between her husband and his new enforcer, and it piqued her interest. She wet her lips and strained to get a better look at the dark stranger. She stretched imperceptibly, invigorated by a fresh wave of sexual energy. The fact that Malaina was smitten with him made Carolyn want him all the more. The old codger has a full plate, she mused. The hope for a fresh liaison brought her a smile.

  In a strange way the nasty weather invigorated Abate. It was a welcome change from Florida’s punishing heat. He glanced off at the surrounding pines. The mountainous trees were so much more majestic than the palms he was accustomed to. He had spent his youth in New York and now felt as if he had done himself a disservice by leaving his home those many years before. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air. It’s good to be back.

  ~~~

  Hidden in the forest of trees some two hundred yards away, a special operations agent clicked off digital photos by the dozen. He focused on Abate and then switched to an ultrahigh UV telephoto lens, which improved the gangster’s image considerably. A second agent monitored conversation through a complex array of sensitive audio surveillance equipment. The sonic collector was aimed at Abate and Orzani. It picked up every word of their conversation.

  Chapter 53

  To the younger field operatives, Joshua Yatov was considered something of an anachronism. During his lengthy tenure, half a dozen Aman leaders had come and gone. He was in the field the day Israel took the Golan Heights. He had lived to see the assassination of Anwar Sadat and had preemptively warned his superiors to intensify the level of security afforded Yitzhak Rabin. Sadly his advice had not been heeded. His strength and agility had long since peaked, but his mind contained the wisdom of ages, and it made him invaluable to the Israeli intelligence effort.

  Yatov had masterminded the plan to capture Ahmed Kasab Gul. Gul did not kill in the name of Allah, nor was he a member of a religious jihad. He killed for money, and his greed had betrayed him. Gul had amassed substantial wealth and enjoyed the fruits of his labor. He moved around the globe frequently and always left a trail of discarded toys and lavish spending that was easily traced.

  Yatov had known of Gul’s presence in Switzerland for more than a week. The question was not if he could be taken, as much as when. The electronic trail of wire transfers into and out of his accounts produced a historical legend that he was able to trace back to acts of terrorism. Gul routinely collected fees in the hundreds of thousands, but it was the dramatic bump to five million that got Yatov excited. The prospect dangled like a plum before him. Who could pay that price? he wondered. Why should he settle for Gul alone when he could have so much more?

  Yatov used long-range photography and surveillance microphones to build a composite of a man few had ever seen. Gul had stayed in Switzerland just long enough for him to locate a double and get him into position. Ari Rabin arrived in New York on the same day as Gul, ready to take his place when the moment was right.

  Rabin was two inches taller than Gul and generally more muscular, but dressed alike and wearing dark glasses, they were virtually indistinguishable. They shared the same wavy black hair and olive complexion. Although their features were not the same, they were remarkably similar. They were close enough to pass for twins, one good and one evil.

  Rabin had been given less than twenty-four hours of instruction. He had been given the account numbers and passwords for all of Gul’s bank accounts as well as instructions on how to operate them.

  Yatov had taken instruction from Malik and Stein, the Mossad agents who had captured Adolph Eichmann and quarantined him in Buenos Aires. He had learned from the best of the best. He had picked a perfect location to isolate Gul after they had picked him up. The wheels were in motio
n when Gul rappelled out the window of his hotel suite and disappeared.

  Or had he?

  Yatov relied on age-old wisdom: a man has to eat. With the cooperation of the FBI, the phone lines, fax lines, and e-mail addresses of all the fine Mediterranean restaurants in the tri-state area were tapped and monitored. Field agents were swapped for delivery boys in an effort to find Gul. In the process, undercover agents had delivered hundreds of take-out meals without success.

  Yatov had his eye on Shalezeh, a well-reviewed establishment on the Upper East Side, and was checking on deliveries to local hotels. His hunch finally paid off.

  ~~~

  Gul rarely left the Marriott on 92nd Street but routinely took a swim in the hotel’s indoor lap pool.

  I waited in the room opposite Gul’s, dressed as a chambermaid, waiting for him to take the Do Not Disturb sign off the doorknob and leave for his mid-morning swim. I keyed my concealed microphone the moment Gul was in the elevator and the doors closed. “Coyote is on the prowl.” I was the one who had picked Gul’s code name, but I guess that wasn’t hard to figure out.

  “Copy, Mather,” Cabrera answered back. “Call you back as soon as I have eyes on him.”

  “Roger that.” I took the vacuum off the service cart, plugged it in, and switched it on. I slipped on a pair of clean gloves and began to search Gul’s room. He had a small amount of casual items in the closet and scattered about the room. I found what I was looking for in the base of his armoire, a large lockbox. My eyes grew wide when I discovered it.

  “Coyote is wet,” Cabrera reported. “Find anything?”

  “Yes.” I checked to make sure that it was locked and then began to photograph it from every angle. “We’ve got a large lockbox, big enough to conceal an automatic weapon and hundreds of rounds. I’m snapping pictures now.”

  “Anything we can X-ray?”

  “I’m not sure. The case doesn’t seem to be made of metal. I’m not sure if it’s lead-lined or not.”

  “I’ll call Wallace for instructions,” Cabrera said.

  “Is Coyote still wet?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Good. I’m going to try to pick the lock.”

  I slipped a case of lock picks out of my uniform pocket and selected the one I thought would fit. I was about to insert it into the lock when Cabrera called back.

  “Mather. Stop! The box could be booby-trapped. Pull out now.”

  “But I think I can open it.”

  “Negative, Mather. Get out of there now. Wallace’s orders.”

  “But—” Shit! I replaced the picks in the case, slipped it back into my pocket, and closed the armoire.

  “Are we good, Mather?”

  “Yeah,” I grumbled. “I’ll make the scumbag’s bed and change his dirty towels. He’s still wet?”

  “Coyote is still wet.”

  “Good,” I snapped. “I hope he fucking drowns.”

  Chapter 54

  Stan Crayne had his eyes pinned to the road as he maneuvered his taxi off Florida 112 W at the NW 36th W exit and continued toward the area west of Miami International Airport where the freight terminals were located. His passenger had hardly spoken since being picked up at the luxury car showroom in Fort Lauderdale. He occasionally checked him in the rearview mirror. His passenger had a briefcase next to him on the rear seat. He had placed his hand on top of it the moment he had entered the cab. His hand was still in the same place.

  The terminal lay ahead of them on SW 18th W, a long one-story building almost three football fields long with commercial jet aircraft parked behind it. The office of Worldwide Southeast, Limited, was almost dead center in the middle of the complex. The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the building. Crayne looked over his shoulder after stopping the meter. “That’ll be—”

  “Keep the change.”

  Crayne’s eyes widened as Soto handed him the fare. Wow! A crisp Benjamin. “That’s really generous. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” Soto pulled the door release and slid out.

  Crayne got out of the taxi to take his passenger’s carry-on suitcase out of the trunk. He pulled out the extended handle and wheeled it up to Soto. “Let me give you my business card in case—”

  Soto cut him off. “No need. I’m on my way out of the country.”

  “No problem. Whereabouts are you heading?” Crayne asked in a congenial manner.

  Where am I going? “Rio. I have family there.”

  “Rio, huh? Well, enjoy.” Crayne got back into his cab and drove off, watching Soto in his rearview mirror.

  Access to the Worldwide office was restricted. Before Soto was a steel security door and a sliding glass reception window. He peeked through the window and saw that the reception desk was unoccupied. “Hello,” Soto called. He waited a moment and then called again.

  A woman holding a telephone in her hand poked her head out of an office. “Be right with you.”

  Soto waited patiently in the four-by-eight alcove for someone to help him. He waited a full five minutes before the woman he had seen slid the glass panel to the side.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Alvarez, Pedro Alvarez.”

  “And you are?”

  “My name is Soto,” he said politely. “I was sent by Carlo Maltisse.”

  “Who’s that?” she asked impatiently.

  “A mutual friend. Please tell him. He’ll understand.”

  “If you say so. Wait here.”

  “No. I’ll wait in my cabana at the Fontainebleau,” he grumbled in a whisper. “Where else would I wait?”

  He jumped when the door latch clicked. A tall man in a pale yellow Polo golf shirt cracked the door and motioned for Soto to follow him. He held the door open until Soto had wheeled his bag through the doorway and then pulled it shut.

  Soto followed in silence.

  The tall man showed him into an office and closed the door. He turned and looked at Soto unhappily. “Where’s Carlo?”

  Oh, thank God. He doesn’t know. “He was detained in New York. He sent me to handle the rest of the details. I’m in charge now,” Soto said, knowing that Maltisse was dead and in no position to challenge his story.

  “Sorry, pal, I don’t know you, and I don’t do business with strangers. Have Carlo call me when he gets back to Miami.”

  “That may be unwise. Carlo won’t be back for quite a while, and he’s afraid the authorities may come looking for his freight.”

  “Oh shit!” Pedro covered his eyes with the palm of his hand. “What’s in the shipment? I know it’s not drugs. I’ve got my own dogs, and they’d be going nuts if those cases were filled with meth or oxy.”

  “No,” Soto said, expressing absurdity. “No drugs.”

  ~~~

  “Then what’s in them?” Alvarez’s demanding question came over the speaker in the FBI surveillance truck.

  “Loud and clear,” Basalt said. “Where’d you hide the bug?”

  “I stuck it to the underside of his suitcase when I took it from him at the car dealership.” Crayne said. “Nothing to it.”

  Basalt winked at Crayne with approval. “Everyone in position?”

  Earl Johnson sat in front of a radio console at the other end of the van, calling his operatives. He responded to Basalt by giving him a thumbs-up.

  “Cross your fingers, men,” Basalt said. “Let’s hope Soto is smooth enough to seal the deal.”

  ~~~

  “What’s in the cases is unimportant,” Soto replied. “It’s better that you don’t know.”

  “That’s it!” Alvarez exploded. “I want that shit out of my warehouse today. You’d better have a truck at my loading dock in an hour.”

  “But—”

  “Never mind but.” Alvarez punched commands into his computer keyboard and then picked up a handheld radio. “Gonzalo. Gonzalo!” he barked.

  Gonzalo’s voice crackled over the radio. “¿Qué pasa?”

  “Gonzo, g
et a forklift over to location P-81 right now. It’s a forty-case consignment of office furniture for CM Enterprises. I want it stacked and waiting at the loading dock in the next half hour, comprendo?” He clicked off the radio. When he looked up, he saw that Soto was placing two stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills on his desk.

  Soto grinned. “Perhaps we can come to an understanding.” He reached into his briefcase and handed Alvarez a legal-size envelope. “Like yourself, I am a licensed freight forwarder. I’ve completed all the paperwork in the name of Transglobal Freight Forwarders, my own company. You can stay completely anonymous, Mr. Alvarez. All you have to do is look the other way and have my shipment loaded onto the correct airliner.”

  A shriek filled the air. Alvarez glared at Soto with fury. His door flew open, and his receptionist burst in. “Pedro. Pedro. They just charged into the warehouse. I couldn’t stop them.”

  Before Pedro could react to the news, he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He placed his hands in the air as FBI Agents Johnson, Crayne, and Basalt filed into his office and took Soto into custody.

  Chapter 55

  “Coyote is wet.”

  I pictured Cabrera dressed in his white uniform posing as the pool attendant, and it brought a smile to my face. “Roger that, Cabrera.” I turned to Eric Stuart, an FBI special ops technician, and nodded. “Gul is in the water, Eric. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes before he returns. Make them count.”

  Stuart was dressed as the hotel’s maintenance man. “Walk in the park,” he said. He set his toolbox on the floor, opened it, and removed an OR Technologies portable X-ray camera, which was configured and linked to a tablet display. At the same time it was transmitting images back to FBI headquarters in Lower Manhattan.

  Wallace was in the operations center as the image came up on the monitor. His impatient voice bled though our earpieces, “Let’s go, Stuart. Make it snappy. What’s in the box?”