Remi tossed the box to the ground, pulled his gun and aimed it at the overweight man in the blue smock.
He never got a chance to fire off a round.
The explosion was powerful, shattering glass and bodies as one, bringing an end to hundreds of lives on a sun-drenched day in Rome.
Chapter 11
Bridgehampton, New York
I walked with my son Jack along the shoreline of a quiet beach, the two of us lost in thought, ocean waves lapping at our bare feet. He was still reeling from the loss we had suffered together, and he would for years, I knew. Even so, he did his best to hide his pain.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these last few days,” I said. “There were a few things I had to do.”
Jack nodded, eyes gazing at the rocks that dotted the shoreline. “Are you going to get them?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
I placed an arm around his shoulder and felt him ease in closer to me. “As many of them as I can,” I said.
“Do you know who did it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I need time to narrow it down.”
“I miss them, Dad,” he said, his voice walking the rope that separated childhood and puberty. “The other day, I thought I smelled Mom’s sauce. I ran into the kitchen—”
“I miss them, too,” I said, the words barely there.
I hadn’t yet been able to allow my emotions to show, but I was close now to cracking. Exhausted as I was, I could not even think of sleep and played the pictures of what I imagined their final moments to be over and over in my mind, a torturous unending loop. I felt myself spiraling downward at a time when I needed to be at my best. I shunned my security detail, much to my uncle’s dismay, spending time alone, planning a war and mourning a loss too unbearable to contemplate.
Yet at the same time, I had to ensure Jack’s safety. As much disregard as I had for my own life, I made doubly sure to place my son in as contained and secure an environment as possible. He lived at the compound, which was manned by high-tech security cameras and armed personnel situated throughout the nine-acre property. He spent the bulk of his time with Uncle Carlo, still the most feared mob boss in the country. They ate meals together, played board games, went sailing on the Sound and fishing in the deep ocean, a small armada of bodyguards always nearby.
“Do you think it’s your fault?” Jack asked.
I never hid who I was or what I did from my family. I didn’t advertise it or go to lengths to explain it, but I didn’t need to. They saw the guards stationed outside the house and on the perimeter of the property. They took note of my long absences and knew I was not a businessman out on the road. They didn’t need to grasp the full weight of my work to figure it was outside the norm. Their understanding of my way of life was not based on anything I said or any action they witnessed. They just knew.
“Yes, “I said. “But I would feel that way no matter who I was or what I did for a living. Just like any husband or father. It’s not my job that causes me guilt. It’s that I wasn’t there to prevent it.”
Jack was twelve and tall for his age. He was a good student, a better athlete. He loved sports of all kind except for golf. He was a fanatical baseball fan, absorbed in the most mundane statistical details, able to recite the hitting and pitching numbers of any player in either major league, from star to spot starter. He liked to read and it pleased me to see him go beyond class requirements and seek out the books I absorbed as a child, finding in them as much pleasure as I once had. He also loved chess, as I did.
“Mom always worried about you,” Jack said. “She never said anything, but I could tell.”
That casual comment caught me off guard. I stopped and turned to face the ocean, waves still roiling from a storm. I was so focused on survival, on maintaining a criminal empire and pushing it to its furthest point of profit, mindful of the deceit and treachery around me, that I failed to detect the burden of fear I placed on those I most loved. My wife never voiced her concerns to me. I took it for granted that she not only was aware of the world I lived in but understood my position in it and was comfortable with both.
Again, I was wrong.
I turned to face Jack, who was now by my side staring out at the angry waves. “I didn’t know,” I told him.
“I didn’t tell you to make you feel bad,” Jack said. “I told you because I thought it was something you needed to know.”
We stayed quiet for a few minutes, father and son. I wanted to tell him how badly I felt for both of us. That my biggest fear was I would lose him as well. Jack was the blade the enemy held over my neck, and I feared the worst.
That fear? It was both my sword and my Achilles’ heel. My strength and my weakness.
“I think we’ve had enough ocean for one morning,” I said. “You ready to head back?”
“You need to do some work?” he asked.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I was actually thinking of finding someone foolish enough to challenge me to a game of chess. Can you think of anyone?”
“Depends on the stakes,” Jack said.
“Cheeseburger, fries, and a shake to the winner,” I said.
“Grilled onions and bacon toppings?” Jack asked.
“And extra pickles,” I said.
“Game on, Dad,” Jack said.
We turned from the slapping ocean waves and made our way up a sloping hill.
“Game on,” I said.
Chapter 12
His name was Raza and he was my first target.
Some in the group thought I was taking a too cautious approach. They preferred sending out a small army of shooters to take down any terrorist working on their turf. But while that machine gun approach would get our blood flowing, it wouldn’t win us anything. We needed to focus on one powerful terrorist cell, work bottom up, to not only eliminate it but to learn how it functioned—how they move their money, make use of contacts, recruit suicide bombers, stay hidden from law enforcement. The more I knew about their operations, the more I could bring myself to think as a terrorist leader, the better equipped I would be to wage this war.
Raza was thirty-six and Ivy League educated. Born in Pakistan, raised in Iran, schooled in India and the United States. He spoke three languages, was fully funded by the Russians, and had more than three hundred followers, each willing to give his life at Raza’s command. He moved often, though when he stayed in one place for longer than a week it was Rome, where he kept two apartments. He was armed with semiautomatic weapons and drove a bulletproof car.
Raza first surfaced in 1996 when he joined a group of disaffected Middle Eastern men, frustrated by what they believed was a breakdown of their way of life coupled with Western scorn for their religion. It was Raza who, over time, convinced dozens of angry young members that the only actions the West would respect would be violent ones.
He organized his first terror attack later that year, bombing a clothing store in London. That initial bomb was poorly constructed and did minimal damage, but Raza had made his first move and knew that with experience he would grow more proficient.
On the surface there seemed little reason for Raza to turn militant. He had degrees in both physics and art history and would have no trouble finding work if he desired. Young men with his educational background were always in high demand. The job offers included six-figure salaries and high-end perks. Raza also came from a family with money, and I found nothing in his profile to suggest he was a target of Muslim hate groups or had suffered in some similar fashion. While a student, he kept to himself. He seldom went to parties, preferring hours of quiet. He read hungrily, mostly nonfiction books dealing with spiritual healing and worship. He spent hours in museums absorbing the works of the masters, reading detailed biographies of each. Caravaggio was a favorite.
Raza was at once intrigued by Western culture and repulsed by it. He admired the work of Renaissance painters and sculptors, yet despised how art he considered to be precious had been turned into fodder for
tourists, scoffing at the notion of the handiwork of the masters reduced to illustrations on bookmarks, notepads, calendars, and coffee mugs. He felt it better to destroy such works than to see them treated as trinkets.
It wasn’t long before disdain turned into full-blown hatred. Raza believed he would never be fully accepted by Western countries. His appearance, his religion, his very name would keep him at a respectable distance, perceived at best as an unwanted stranger and at worst a threat to their safety. He had too often caught harsh looks when he ventured into a restaurant or café and was well aware of the concerns voiced by Europeans that young men like him were the reason there was such economic unrest in their countries, unacceptable levels of crime, and no jobs for their grown children.
They were surrounded by so much beauty, so many reasons to cherish their lives, but were too consumed by hate to enjoy the precious gifts that had been left them. So Raza grew to believe he had no other choice. He would give them even more reason to hate and would strip them of the wonders that graced their cities.
Raza moved quickly from that first bombing.
He placed progressively more lethal explosives in London, Madrid, Lyons, Bologna, and Budapest. He made use of everyday objects, from interiors of garbage bins to exteriors of church poor boxes.
And always, without exception, he struck on a weekend.
His death total numbered in the hundreds and he was soon on every antiterrorist watch list.
It was in the spring of 2008, outside a Madrid soccer stadium, that Raza was first approached by members of the Russian mob. The Russians were eager to expand the scope of his exploits and increase the frequency of his destruction. And they were willing to fund the damage, regardless of cost. The success of his operations over the next several years landed his name on Vladimir’s watch list.
Initially, I didn’t figure Vladimir to make a move in the direction of any terrorist, soliciting a bomber’s help to bring about global chaos. He was a major crime boss operating on a level few gangsters get to see and there would be no need for him to bottom-feed and cut a deal with a terrorist.
But if such a move needed to be made, then Raza would be Vladimir’s best choice—a man who kills neither for religious motive nor patriotic zeal, but for the sheer pleasure of bringing horror to the lives of others. And in the event Raza’s goal was to accumulate wealth through death, to be a global player on an international scale—that would also be acceptable to the Russian crime boss.
Regardless of motive, Raza took advantage of Vladimir’s largesse and was soon entrenched as one of the five most feared terrorists in the world.
He’d been marked for death by Israel’s agency, the Mossad, and in the scope of the American CIA and British MI-5 for nearly a decade. Yet every attempt to capture or kill him had failed. Each foiled assassination added to the legend Raza had carefully built, while his network of sleeper cellmates became more difficult to infiltrate.
And now Raza was ready to play on center stage.
His series of successful bombings—as well as the difficulty agencies had in detaining or eliminating him—demanded large-scale brazen attacks. It would need to be a multitiered effort that would destroy major structures and leave thousands buried beneath the rubble.
Raza was primed for such a moment.
Vladimir’s money and the terrorist’s ego would demand it.
And I was counting on neither one to let me down.
I had no intention of having anyone infiltrate Raza’s crew.
I had my reasons. Such an operation would take too long to set up, and once it was running the flow of information could never be trusted. Second, I didn’t know anyone I thought could pull off this type of undercover plan.
And anyone I don’t know, I don’t trust.
My goal was to destroy Raza’s network, leave it a smoking pile of dust. Everyone in his crew—from top down—would die. The move would announce the start of a war and make my intentions clear. Organized crime was an all-in business, and when we make a play, nobody walks and nobody talks.
So, for Raza I would need Angela.
I would need the Strega.
Chapter 13
Uncle Carlo took a sip of iced espresso.
“I gave my blessings on this war,” he said, his once-strong voice weakened by age and illness. “But don’t take that to mean I’d bet on it. Who knows how many council members will sit still for heavy losses over a long period of time? We’re in the profit business, and if this war gets in the way, sooner than later those at the table will walk.”
Carlo Marelli was the last of the great old-school Dons.
He was a ruthless killer, a threat to anyone who challenged his rule. He ran a criminal organization that brought in $100 million a year in activities both legal and illegal. He was proud of what he had accomplished, building an empire from the ground up, having started out as a runner for the Chairman of the Board himself, Frank Costello, while still in his teens.
He had raised me as if I were his son, taking me into his home after my dad’s death. He was a young widower then with two children—a daughter, Carla, and a son, Jimmy. Carla was fifteen when we met and made it clear she wanted as little to do with me as she did with the family business, a position that hasn’t changed in the years since. Jimmy, on the other hand, was someone I grew to love. He is my brother and a trusted friend.
He was born with a degenerative muscular disease that confined him to a wheelchair and stripped him of the ability to talk and forced him to breathe through a small tube attached to an air purifier. But he was smart and stubborn and didn’t allow his handicaps to speak for him. He read all the books in his father’s library, earned degrees in music and art history, and along with my father and uncle, taught me what he knew about chess—how to play it and how to apply it to my work.
Jimmy urged me to read a series of books and articles that exposed me to the useful skills taught by game theory. Nothing I’ve learned in life has helped me more. It has made it easier to think as an adversary would think, and has shown me how to outmaneuver my opponent by anticipating his next step.
Game theory also helps keep my father’s memory alive.
My father loved to play cards and excelled at the Italian games of scoppa and sette bello. He enjoyed bocci, a game of chance, and chess, a game of skill. When I was very young my father would take me to watch him play with his friends. He would sit me up high—on a corner of a hutch or on a stool just above the players—hand me a prosciutto and mozzarella panini and give me a warm hug. “Watch and learn,” he would whisper in my ear. “And try and guess the moves each player makes before he makes them.”
Over time I mastered the games from my silent perch.
I learned you could minimize the risks in sette bello, similar to blackjack, by studying the habits of opposing players. In a game where any total above seven and a half means elimination, the more cautious route is often the safest. It is not, however, the clearest path to victory. I took note that players with the most aggressive reputations were the ones who took home the bulk of the winnings. They made it clear to the others they did not fear risk. Once that had been established, their need to take risks was minimized. They actually won the bulk of their hands by adopting a more cautious approach. It was the threat of a bold call that kept their opponents in check.
While I enjoyed watching the card games and took away many lessons from my hours spent in the company of my father and his friends, it was chess that intrigued me. There, across that board, a player had to consider three angles at once in order to enjoy success. He needed to be fearless and make a number of risky moves. He had to be able to gauge his opponent, anticipate not only his next move but, at the very least, his next two. And he had to know when best to play it safe, hold a position and stave off a strike until the moment was secure. It was a game of strategy that required skill and patience to ensure victory.
It was life played out across a checkered board.
Due
to my father’s work schedule, which kept him away from home for several days at a time, our chess games were played over the span of weeks. I would spend hours staring at the board, our pieces crossing over into the other’s territory as I anticipated his next move as well as mine. My father was an excellent player but he was an even better teacher and he helped turn me into an unbeatable opponent.
After his death, Uncle Carlo took his place.
To him, chess was more than a game. It was a road map to how to run a crime organization—know your enemy, gauge his strengths and weaknesses, attack without mercy and retreat only when absolutely necessary. Both brothers loved the game for entirely different reasons. My father played for pleasure. My uncle played to hone his instincts and keep them sharp, one more tool to help him stay on top of the vicious world he ruled. Over the years, I came to value the game for both reasons.
It wasn’t a big leap to make the jump from chess to game theory.
It was Jimmy who first introduced me to the works of Emile Borel, the Godfather of Game Theory. By the time I was in college, I graduated to the lessons taught by Oskar Morgenstern and John von Neumann and spent a great deal of time devouring books and articles in the school library, usually late in the evening, a warm cup of coffee the only company I required. I learned how a significant number of world leaders grew adept at game theory and used its methods to maintain their power bases. In addition to offering all the benefits learned from chess—chiefly, how to read an opponent in order to propel him to eventual defeat—game theory extolled the zero-sum benefits of guile, deceit, and manipulation to help achieve the ultimate goal. Among our Presidents, no one was more practiced in the art than James Madison, who anticipated a friend’s betrayal even before the first move had been attempted. The game plans of football coach Vince Lombardi and the mathematical genius of John Nash were nourished by game theory. In my world, Charles “Lucky” Luciano was said to be a proponent of game theory, as was the brilliant Meyer Lansky, the first certified genius ever labeled a gangster.
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