The Wolf: A Novel Read online

  During that skirmish, Burke had shown a natural ability to lead and an unquenchable thirst for battle. He was also loyal and had proven trustworthy on enough occasions, to put that matter to rest. Soon after the dust had settled, the bodies buried, and a truce arranged, I asked him to come to New York and hired him. He was to put together a team, work under everyone’s radar, and report only to me. When the group wasn’t needed, they were free to live where they pleased, as long as they stayed clear of trouble, took no freelance work, and had a solid cover for how they earned their money. They were each paid high six-figure salaries, with Burke taking down one million a year plus expenses. I wanted each to be beyond reproach, not open to an easy bribe or tempted by better offers elsewhere. While I trusted Burke, he would need to recruit team members that he could hold to the same standard. He went out and filled the specific needs the group required, and so far they had never once failed me. This, however, would be their biggest challenge to date. I knew before I spoke a single word that not all of them might make it out of the hell I was about to send them into.

  It was a fact that would soon become apparent to everyone else at that table as well.

  I pushed the folders aside and watched as Burke took one off the top, then gave it to Weaver, the team member closest to him. I sipped some water and waited until all the folders had been passed before speaking.

  “Those are your targets,” I told them. “There is background information on each and you will get more from Big Mike and John before you leave. These are all kill-shot situations. We’re not looking for information. We don’t want to know who else is involved in their network. We just want them dead.”

  “Any concerns about collaterals?” Kinder asked.

  “That can’t be avoided,” I said. “When these guys are on the loose they like to hide in the company of women and children. I would prefer to keep the casualties to a minimum, but do what needs to be done to bring down the primary.”

  “You each have eighteen names spread out across a number of countries,” Burke said to the group. “I’ll work up a plan as to who goes where and when. Needless to say, expenses are not an issue. Getting the job done is the priority.”

  “We on a clock with this?” Malasson asked.

  “In a way,” I said. “You have a lot of ground to cover and a lot of targets to take down, and I understand all of that can be time-consuming. Under normal circumstances you would have three to four months to get the hits lined up.”

  “Under these circumstances?” Pierce asked.

  “Two to three weeks,” I said.

  “Some of the higher level targets will have extra layers of protection,” Burke told them. “I think we save the more difficult ones for last and knock off the easier hits first. That’s how I’ll map it out. But if you see an opening for one of the bigger names on your list, you catch a break somewhere down the line, do not be afraid to deviate from the plan and go after the hit. Understood?”

  Each member gave him a knowing nod, glancing at the names and the brief biographical sketches of their designated targets. I let them sit quietly for a few moments and then looked at Big Mike and John and gave them the green light.

  “You won’t be alone on this,” Big Mike told the group. “Some of you may know me or John by reputation. Which, at this point, is as it should be. But from today on, think of us as your best friends. Before you leave here you will have cell numbers on each of the faces in your folders. You will also have their last known addresses, their favorite restaurants, where they meet up with friends for a game of cards and where they meet when it’s time to plan a new terror attack.”

  “We have cloned all their existing numbers,” John Loo said. “But as each of you knows, these guys change numbers like we change shirts. That should not be a concern. When those numbers change, you will be sent the new ones as soon as we have them. The time lapse won’t be long.”

  “Terrorists keep at least five phones active at any one time,” David Lee Burke said. “How can we know the one you cloned is the one we should follow?”

  “Our crew monitors conversations on all the phones in Raza’s network,” Big Mike said. “We know everything that’s said on every call, but what we send to you is essential information only from the most prominent of the lines.”

  “Still, it’s not close to being an exact science,” Weaver said.

  “We’re not claiming it is,” John Loo said, not at all on the defensive. “We can get you in close, give you access to ongoing conversations, and narrow down location sites. The rest is up to you.”

  I glanced at Big Mike and nodded. He was as impressed as I was by John, who looked like a younger version of his uncle, Kodoma, the head of the Yakuza, and had many of the same mannerisms. He was tall, his dark hair kept long, strands occasionally covering a thin, handsome face highlighted by a set of charcoal eyes that took in everything but revealed little. He showed no emotion as he spoke, relaying the facts as he knew them, and was the only one at the table dressed in a suit.

  “The combination of the information that’s in the folders plus what’s being supplied to you through the cloned phones should be enough to get you within the target zone,” I said.

  “You want anyone brought back?” Anderson asked. “For information, leads to other cells?”

  “They all die,” I said. “Every name on that list.”

  “What about intel we might find from the kill site?” Burke asked. “Should we make the grab or leave it?”

  “If there’s time, take anything you think can help in any way,” I said. “Destroy anything you can’t carry out. The fewer footprints you leave behind, the better.”

  “How much firepower can we expect in return?” Malasson asked.

  “Raza is going to be expecting some heat,” I said, “just as we expect some from him. What I’m counting on is that he won’t look for it to be this big and this fast.”

  “What about the Russians?” Pierce asked. “They putting manpower into this along with their money?”

  “Nothing heavy as yet,” I said. “But Vladimir is not a sideline guy. He likes to control the action. If he sees Raza’s crew taking heavy casualties, he won’t hesitate. He’ll send in as many guns as he needs to slow it down.”

  “Sounds like we have ourselves a job to do,” Burke said. He patted his folders into a neat pile and watched as the other members began to do the same, ready to bolt the room and head out for a mission from which some of them might not return.

  “There is something I need you to bring me,” I said. I waited as they all eased back into their seats and focused their attention on me.

  “What?” Burke asked.

  “A name,” I said.

  “We pick up a lot of chatter on the cloned phones,” Big Mike said. “Three-quarters of it is useless bullshit. Sometimes they slip up and talk about a job being planned or a recruit coming in, stop chatting in code long enough for us to break it down and figure it out.”

  “So you want the name of a recruit?” Kinder asked.

  “No,” I said. “I want the name of a traitor.”

  “It’s still fresh information and we’re still trying to piece it together,” Big Mike said. “But we think there’s someone on our team doing business with Raza or Vladimir or both.”

  “From your crew?” Burke asked, turning to look at me.

  “Too soon to tell,” I said. “I also don’t know how deep into this they are, but the fact that the other side feels comfortable enough to talk about it on cells is a serious problem.”

  “Just general chatter or something deeper?” Burke asked.

  “What we’ve picked up so far is mostly location talk,” I said, “where we might be heading, where we might be staying. The only names mentioned have been Big Mike’s and mine.”

  “And if any of you are curious—and you should be,” John Loo said, “Mike and I have been checked and cleared.”

  “Anyone you suspect?” Burke asked me.

&
nbsp; “Until I know who it is,” I said, “I suspect everyone not in this room.”

  “If my team gets closer, I’ll make sure they pass it your way,” Big Mike said. “But I think the better shot is squeezing one of the higher-ups in your folder to get what you can out of him.”

  “If you do get a name,” I said, “don’t call it in. Bring it in. I don’t want to risk giving him a heads-up.”

  “Does he get put on our target list?” Malasson asked.

  “No,” I said. “He gets put on mine.”

  Chapter 33

  Florence, Italy

  Raza stood in the center of the large hall in the Galleria gazing up at the massive sculpture of Michelangelo’s David, completed when the artist was only twenty-six. The room was crowded with tourists taking photos, students taking detailed notes, children staring in wonder.

  “It is a work of beauty,” Avrim said.

  He was just to Raza’s left, nestled between a cluster of Asian students staring intently at the imposing sculpture and a well-dressed American woman in her mid-twenties leafing through a photo history of the David, a black Sharpie clutched between her teeth.

  “And in a few weeks time? Who knows?” Raza said. “It could end up as damaged as it began.”

  “But I thought—”

  “That this would be our decoy,” Raza said, quick to finish Avrim’s thought. “There still may be truth to that. It does make a certain sense to have anyone intercepting our calls—the police, other groups, Vladimir, the American—to have them think this is our target and deploy their resources here, leaving us free to do our damage elsewhere. But then, it might also make sense to ruin not one site but two at the same time. If that were to occur, then I would truly have left my mark.”

  Avrim looked up at the David and then in a lower voice said, “Do we have the resources for such an undertaking? Or for that matter, the manpower?”

  “What we lack, we will be given,” Raza said.

  “The job you have planned is massive, and on its own will make our enemies shiver,” Avrim said. “It is brilliant and will do for us in Europe what Osama did to America on September eleventh. Do you really see a need to expand the operation?”

  “Bin Laden brought down both towers,” Raza said, “though I’m sure one would have had the same emotional impact. We walk in his footsteps. This is a plan he would have embraced. It will bring fear to our enemies and leave them in such a state of confusion they will think we can attack at any time from any place. They will finally believe there isn’t anything of theirs we hold sacred.”

  “There are security cameras in every corner of the room,” Avrim said, walking now with Raza around the large statue. “And armed guards at the entrance.”

  “They can have as many cameras as they wish,” Raza said. “Once a bomber is in the Galleria, the mission is all but complete.”

  “And the guards at the front gate?”

  Raza shrugged. “All they see are long lines.”

  “So you would think of doing two attacks on the same day?”

  “Would be poetry, no?” Raza said. “Look around you. Look at the faces. They are left speechless by such a magnificent work of art. Think how they would feel if it were no longer here, taken from them forever, as if it never existed? They will never recover from such an emotional loss. Never.”

  “Have you anyone in mind, should you choose to go in that direction?” Avrim asked.

  “I knew who it would be before I envisioned the plan,” Raza said. “I also knew he would embrace the assignment because he will be doing something that will always be remembered.”

  “Has he been told yet?”

  Raza looked at his friend, smiled and rested an arm around his shoulders. “Not yet,” he said to Avrim.

  Chapter 34

  Naples, Italy

  Santos crossed against heavy traffic, heading for the small coffee shop, eager for a bitter espresso and two—maybe three—fresh pastries. There was a time when he had been in great physical shape and worked out daily, running five to seven miles regardless of weather or which city he happened to be in. But those days were firmly in the rearview mirror. Now, there was nothing he liked better than a good meal and the occasional romp with a high-end woman. Those things, and watching his portfolio grow into the mid-seven figure range. He slid a hand into the side pocket of his blue windbreaker and pulled out a twenty euro bill. He was less than ten feet from the café’s entrance; he could taste the harsh brew on his tongue.

  The years of steady success and the safety he felt working in Europe had rusted Santos’s street antenna. Otherwise he would have noticed the black sedan, engine idling, parked in front of the café. He would have seen the two men in leather jackets sitting at an outside table, pretending to read the morning papers. But Santos had made the biggest mistake a man in the business can make—he’d begun to think like a civilian.

  The sedan’s door swung open to block his path. The move startled him and caused him to drop the bill to the curb.

  “Get in and make it look like it’s something you want to do,” I said. I didn’t move from my seat in the back, but my voice was loud enough to be heard.

  Santos held his ground and peered in. “Sounds like a piss-poor idea to these ears,” he said.

  “You think dying on the street is a better one?” I said. “If so, I go on my way and the two at the table behind you take it from there. Your call, but make it now.”

  Santos looked at the two men in leather jackets, their newspapers now resting on the table.

  He took a deep breath and then slid into the backseat next to me.

  “Pick up your money and close the door,” I told him, nodding at the bill on the cab.

  He did as told, and I nodded to the driver. We eased into the early morning traffic.

  “You know who I am?” I asked.

  “You’re not looking to sell me a car, know that much,” Santos said, a trace of a Mexican accent still there, despite the years spent living in Europe.

  “You run guns and ammo,” I said.

  “If I could run, I wouldn’t be in this car,” Santos said. “But, yeah, somebody fed you right. I move arms. Move them to your side if you put up the cash.”

  “For the moment, I don’t care about any of the other terror outfits on your payroll,” I said. “I only care about one. Raza’s crew.”

  “They bought about five dozen crates and paid the freight in cash,” Santos said. “But you knew that before I got in the car, which, by the way, is a nice ride. You put four gold hubs on this piece and you got yourself a top-of-the-line skirt chaser.”

  “I’ll mention it to my mechanic,” I said.

  “You want me to stop selling to his crew?” he asked. “That why you breathin’ hard in my direction?”

  I sighed. “They don’t get their guns from you, there’s always somebody else ready to sell to them. You keep moving whatever it is they ask you to move. And the money you make from them stays where it is now—in your pockets.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “I want you to come work for me,” I said.

  We were off the side streets now, out on the autostrada, the driver, a handsome young man in his mid-twenties with thick dark hair and skin the color of leather, settling the sedan in at a steady ninety kilometers an hour, following the signs that lead to Salerno.

  “You know who Raza’s gunrunner was before he reached out for you?” I asked.

  Santos shook his head. “Mexicans never put their nose in somebody else’s soup. I’m like your army before they found religion—don’t ask, don’t tell,” he said. “I just take jobs as they come.”

  “He was a Colombian named Carlos Mendoza,” I said. “For a while he was pulling in big money working the terror circuit, Raza’s group included. They paid cash and the guns were costing him nothing. It seems he had a connection in Iraq, one of our soldiers looking to get more out of the war than a free ride home. So stolen guns made their way to Ra
za and others like him and thick wads of cash found its way to Mendoza and his bosses.”

  “Seems like a good deal for all hands on the deck,” Santos said.

  “It was,” I said, “and it could have stayed that way for as long as Mendoza had the guns and the terrorists had a need.”

  “So what happened?”

  “It seems guys who do business with terrorists—guys like you, Mendoza, others—have a short shelf life,” I said. “That’s because guys like Raza only trust people for so long, especially those not loyal to his particular cause.”

  “They killed him?”

  “They didn’t stop with him,” I said. “They cleared them all out—his transporter, his banker, the soldier in Iraq, Mendoza’s wife and two kids. Each shot dead at close range. That’s their way of letting you know the partnership no longer seems to be working.”

  “It’s harsh, give you that,” Santos said. “But we are in a harsh business. And what was bad for him turned out good for me. Everybody in my famiglia owes me too many pesos to count, so the more that get dirt-napped, the lighter my load.”

  “How much you taking in running weapons for Raza?”

  “Terrorists pay a higher freight than what somebody like you would be charged,” Santos said. “Risk factor is higher, more eyes on their movements, longer transport distance.”

  “Save it for your accountant,” I said. “All I want to know is how much?”

  “I clear about $175,000 if it’s a simple drop,” Santos said. “Nothing more than guns and ammo. Price climbs when they start to toss in explosives and high-end items.”

  “How long have you been feeding him?”

  “He came on my radar about a year, maybe fourteen months back. Figure five, maybe six shipments in all. One more on the way.”

  “You deal with him direct?”

  “Why you asking all this shit?” Santos said. “I mean, where you want to go with this? Don’t think an OC hombre big as you gets wrinkles worrying about whether a low-rider like me keeps breathing. That were true, then me coming in with you and double-dealing Raza ain’t exactly laying out a safety net under my Mexican ass.”