The Wolf: A Novel Read online

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  THE WOLF

  A Novel

  Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Ballantine Books

  This is an uncorrected eBook file.

  Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.

  Tentative On-Sale Date: July 29, 2014

  Tentative Publication Month: August 2014

  Tentative Print Price: $25.00

  Tentative eBook Price: $12.99

  Please note that books will not be available in stores until the above on-sale date.

  All reviews should be scheduled to run after that date.

  Publicity Contact:

  Ballantine Publicity

  (212) 782-8678

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Ballantine Books

  An imprint of Random House

  1745 Broadway • New York, NY • 10019

  Also by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  A Safe Place: The True Story of a Father, a Son, a Murder

  Sleepers

  Apaches

  Gangester

  Street Boys

  Paradise City

  Chasers

  Midnight Angels

  This is an uncorrected eBook file. Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.

  The Wolf is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-345-48394-2

  eBook ISBN 978-0-8041-7729-0

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Book design by Liz Cosgrove

  This one is for Susan Jill Toepfer.

  March 9, 1948–December 24, 2013

  A great wife. A great mom. A great friend.

  I will miss her the rest of my days.

  International Organized Crime Control Bureau

  MEMORANDUM

  RE: Internal Investigation

     Marelli Crime Syndicate/Russian Mafiya Terrorist Connections

  STATUS: Active File

  FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY

  Marelli Crime Syndicate

  1. VINCENT “THE WOLF” MARELLI. Head of the Marelli Crime Syndicate, leader of the Organized Crime Council. 32 years old.

  2. CARLO MARELLI. Retired head of the Marelli syndicate, passing the torch onto his nephew, Vincent. Still keeps tabs on day-to-day business and is a trusted and respected member of the International Crime Council.

  3. JIMMY MARELLI. Disabled since birth but a power within the Marelli syndicate. Vincent’s most trusted advisor and number two in the family command chain.

  Russian Mafiya

  1. VLADIMIR “THE IMPALER” KOSTOLOV. The youngest (37) and most powerful member of the Russian Mafiya and a willing banker to international terrorists.

  2. ALEXANDER ZAVERKO. Kostolov’s cousin and feared right hand. Weakened by lung cancer, but still a threat. Operates Kostolov’s sex trade and drug operations.

  3. KLAUS MARNI. One of Vladimir’s advisors, a trusted and dependable assassin.

  4. KLENSKO. Legendary leader of the Russian Mob. Organized a loose network of young thugs into one dangerous and profitable outfit.

  5. RUSLAN HOLT. Vladimir’s muscle man and major earner for the Russian Mob.

  International Crime Council

  1. VICTORIO “THE COBRA” JANNETTI. The leader of the Neapolitan end of the organized crime world—the Camorra.

  2. ANGELA “THE STREGA” JANNETTI. Victorio’s daughter and heir to the Camorra throne. She is the crime Queen of Naples and one of the most feared criminals in Europe.

  3. ALFREDO LAMBRETTO. Victorio Jannetti’s confidant and the muscle end of the Camorra. Has been a loyal capo for more than 30 years.

  4. LUIGI MANZO. Enforcer for the Camorra and one of the Strega’s two most trusted hitters.

  5. BARTOLO “BRUNELLO” VINOPIANNO. The Strega’s lead enforcer and hitter. He has been by her side since she was a teenager.

  6. ANTHONY ZAMBELLI. Head of the Sicilian branch of Organized Crime—the Mafia. Son of the legendary gangster FRANCISCO ZAMBELLI.

  7. KODOMA. The leader of the Japanese crime syndicate, the Yakuza.

  8. JOHN LOO. Yakuza leader Kodoma’s nephew. Expert computer hacker and tracker. Being groomed for top spot.

  6. QING. The Triad Dragon Head, ruler of all criminal enterprises in China.

  7. WEINER. Former Mossad agent and now the titular head of the Israeli Assassin Squad.

  8. CARBONE. The brutal and difficult-to-control head of the French crime syndicate.

  9. ORTO. The last link to the dreaded Gypsy Kings and the head of the Albanian syndicate.

  10. BIG MIKE PALEOKRASSAS. Ally to Vincent Marelli and Angela Jannetti, he runs the Greek syndicate.

  Loners

  1. SANTOS. High-level gunrunner and the liason between Raza and the Mexican drug and ammo gangs.

  2. CARLOS MENDOZA. Colombian gunrunner. Deceased. Rumored to have been a Raza target.

  Terrorists funded by Russian Mafiya

  1. ALI BEN BASHIR. Terrorist funded by Russian Crime Syndicate led by VLADIMIR “THE IMPALER” KOSTOLOV. Died in a 2012 terror attack in Florence, Italy.

  2. RAZA. The rising start of the terror world. At 36, he is wanted in connection to half a dozen attacks and is a suspect in at least half a dozen more. Considered dangerous, unstable and intelligent. Does not fit the profile of the average terrorist. Not to be trusted. Not to be denied.

  3. ALSHAIR AL-MADEL. Chemical engineer by training and terrorist by choice. Leads a group of 200 rabid followers, eager to die at his command.

  4. ANWAR AL-SABIR. The ranking number two in Raza’s terror organization.

  5. AVRIM. Loyal follower of Raza. Working closely with the terror leader as he plans his attacks.

  6. KAZMIR. Terrorist recruiter for Raza’s network.

  7. DAL. Bomb courier working for Raza.

  8. PANDI. Terrorist in Raza’s network. A person of interest in the attempted bombing of the port area of Margellina, Italy.

  Law Enforcement

  1. REMI FRANTONI. At 27, the youngest member of Italy’s feared and respected Anti-Terror Unit.

  2. FRANK TONELLI. Retired NYPD detective. Worked the OC Task Force. Both a friend and a foe to Carlo Marelli.

  3. LUCA FRANTONI. Member of Rome’s Anti-Terror Squad.

  The Silent Six

  1. DAVID LEE BURKE. Team leader. Decorated Green Beret. Reports only to Vincent Marelli.

  2. JENNIFER MALASSA. Lethal weapon with either knife or rope.

  3. ROBERT KINDER. Iraqi war veteran and proficient sniper.

  4. FRANKLIN J. PIERCE. Martial arts expert.

  5. CARL ANDERSON. Former US government chemist. Can poison an opponent in a dozen different ways.

  6. BEVERLY WEAVER. One-time member of the North Carolina bomb unit. Munitions expert of the team.

  Contents

  Cover

  eBook Information

  By Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Memorandum

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Cha
pter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part II

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Florence, Italy

  SUMMER, 2012

  It was not yet noon but already humid on this mid-August Sunday. Stalls and carts lined the Piazza Santa Croce as the statue of Dante glared down at hundreds of tourists and locals. Visitors wearing cameras like jewels around their necks ordered quarter kilos of prosciutto, salami, and fresh mozzarella, each slice laid evenly across the open face of bread just removed from small portable ovens. Others asked for pizzettas covered with toppings and wrapped in wax paper.

  The locals lingered, scanning the goods, preparing to buy enough to get through the early part of the week. Many had been to mass and now anticipated the family meal. Street clowns and mimes provided levity to the congested and boisterous setting.

  The young man was in his early twenties, clean-shaven, and dressed in casual Florentine attire: a tan jacket, cream-colored slacks, and white button-down shirt. One hand hid inside the left pocket of his jacket while the other held a chocolate gelato cone, the mound of cream melting in the heat. The man ate in the manner that he walked, slow and leisurely, and he wiped at thin veins of melting chocolate with a folded napkin. He studied the people around him and smiled. If many in the crowd were to die within the next several minutes, they had chosen a glorious day in a splendid setting.

  The man’s name was Ali Ben Bashir. He was the youngest son of an Iranian father and an Italian mother. His parents met when both were medical students at the university in Siena, then separated when Ali was six. After, his life was divided between two families, two cultures: summers in Italy with his mother, the rest of the year with Iranian relatives, none of whom had kind words for any Western nation, especially a Catholic one. He was encouraged to absorb the lessons of Islam and not fall prey to the easy temptations of a city like Florence, as his father’s family mocked any mention the boy made of the Renaissance or his excursions to museums and churches designed and built centuries earlier.

  Ali became a confused and angry young man, uncertain if the long looks he was given and questions he was asked each time he passed through Italian customs were routine or designed for him alone. His Italian relatives would poke fun at his concerns, dismissing them as paranoia planted by the ramblings of radicals. “They signal you out because you’re from a place where today’s terrorist comes from,” his uncle Aldo told him over coffee one afternoon. “When I was your age, they asked those same questions of us, Northern Italians, because of the Red Brigades and before that of the Germans because of their terrorist problems. It doesn’t mean you’re special and it doesn’t mean they hate you. It just means your time is now, until the next group of madmen come along.”

  Ali would listen, smile, nod as if in agreement, but remain unconvinced. He had caught too many looks of disdain, not only on the streets of Italy, but when he traveled to other cities as well—a student trip to New York, a vacation in Paris, a biking trip into northern Spain with friends—the same signal was delivered, the same message implied. He was not to be trusted and would never be welcomed. He was an outsider.

  To the fundamentalists among his father’s friends, Ali was a candidate ripe for radicalization. Over three years, they would visit Ali in small groups. During these meetings, hidden under the guise of dutiful prayer and worship, they would talk about all the ills Western society had placed upon Muslims. Ali grew agitated when told of the atrocities committed against women during the American invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq and of how their most religious book was held up to ridicule and in some cases burned, often by people who had never bothered to read even one word.

  The journey of Ali from child of divorce to young student to proud Muslim willing to die for a cause culminated with the death of his father in the spring of 2010. Ali had spent three weeks by his father’s bedside, leaving only to attend prayer services. He fed his father what little food he would eat and read to him in the back room of the small apartment. During that time, the two shared many moments and spoke as often as sickness allowed. Ali not only loved the man who had taught him how to read, lace his shoes, and say his prayers, he respected him. He knew his father in ways few sons took the time to know their own. But in that three-week period, when he watched the body of the man he most loved in this world surrender to the pain of a disease that could not be conquered, he came to understand why his father hated Western society and all it represented.

  “I am sorry to see you this way,” Ali said to his father during one of their final moments. “I hate to see you in such pain.”

  “The price one pays for living a long life,” his father said.

  Ali smiled and wiped his father’s sweaty forehead with a damp cloth. “So, no regrets?” he asked.

  “Just one,” his father said.

  “Does it have something to do with Mother?” Ali asked.

  His father shook his head. “No,” he said. “If I had not made your mother my wife, I would not have had you as my son. For me, our marriage remains a blessing.”

  “Then what is your regret?” Ali said.

  His father stared at him, laying still, barely catching breath, in the warm confines of a room filled with only a bed, a prayer mat, a nightstand, a bureau. “I wish I had the courage to do what so many others braver than I have done,” he finally said.

  “What is that?”

  “To give up my life,” his father said. “To surrender flesh in the name of Allah.”

  Fourteen months after his father’s death, Ali Ben Bashir stood facing a crowded piazza in one of the most beautiful and serene places in the world, across from a church where many of the giants of the Renaissance were buried. He unbuttoned the front of his starched white shirt, revealing an intricate series of wires, timers, and small explosives taped across his chest. He spread his arms out, a small black box with a red button in the center clutched in his right hand. “I do this for you, dear father,” Ali said. “I do this in your name.”

  Then, head lifted to a cloudless sky, Ali Ben Bashir pressed his thumb on the red button.

  Part I.

  “There is no crime of which I cannot conceive myself guilty.”

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  Chapter 1

  Los Angeles, California

  SPRING, 2013

  It should have been me.

  Not Lisa.

  And not my girls, that’s
for damn sure.

  And not anyone else, not when you take a hard look at it. It was me they targeted. Me they wanted. It’s me they’ve always wanted. But they couldn’t touch me. So they reached for the ones they could get. And I let them walk right into it.

  I wanted Lisa and the girls to fly on a private jet with bodyguards sitting in front and back and another team waiting on the ground. That was the way it was meant to happen. That’s the way it would have happened if I had held firm. But I let myself be talked out of it.

  Lisa didn’t want our three kids raised in a bubble. She wanted them to grow up as normal kids leading normal lives—or as normal as they could be when you consider who I am and what I do. She had always wanted that—a normal life. We both knew going in that normal was never going to be easy, not with me around. You want safe and secure, move to a small town and marry the local grocer. But when you fall in love with a guy like me, the unthinkable comes with the vows.

  I am a cautious man.

  I don’t trust strangers, am uneasy in large gatherings—from weddings to concerts to dinner parties of more than ten—and travel with a discreet security detail close enough to take action if the need arises. I have a carry permit and never venture out minus at least one loaded weapon. I don’t adhere to a regular schedule, instead I vary everything—from workouts to the times I eat my meals to the routes I take to work sites and meetings. I am not troubled by any of these habits and, in truth, I derive comfort from knowing I’m in control of my surroundings. It allows me freedom and enables me to focus on the tasks I need to accomplish.

  These habits help me excel at what I do. But they do not make me an ideal husband or father. I imposed these restrictions on my family, and while I see them as a necessary precaution, they chafed at their existence. My wife detested any security outside of a home alarm. The kids wanted to be able to have sleepovers minus background checks, go to parks and outdoor events without being in the company of armed men who made their presence known. The resentment was a cause for friction.

  “Why can’t we, just this one time, go on vacation like everyone else?” Lisa had asked me.

  “We are going on a vacation like everyone else,” I said. “Does it really matter how we get there?”