The Wolf: A Novel Page 8

  It made perfect sense for me to adapt the theory to our criminal undertakings. Gangsters like to keep rules simple, and when it comes to that there is nothing better. The most basic rule and also the most effective: deviate from the strategy of your opponent and you’ll walk away with a win.

  In recent years I’ve taken advantage of the anonymity of the Internet to stay sharp. I joined an online group where aspects of the methods are discussed and broken down. We seek each other’s advice, make comments on another member’s maneuvers, and attempt to solve potential challenges. In this company of seventy members, I am not Vincent. I am not the Wolf. I am not a crime boss. I am a faceless player in a group made up of investment bankers, housewives, attorneys, painters, and carpenters. I seek their guidance and they look to me to offer mine. In the safety of such a unique community I can be myself.

  Face-to-face, however, there is no better partner than Jimmy. I speak to him every day, and while he can’t respond, I can tell by his facial expressions if he agrees or is dismayed by my decisions. He is my anchor and I never finalize a deal or make a judgment without running it past him first. I am aware that if Jimmy, two years older than me, were able to function at full capacity, he would have been chosen to run our criminal organization into the twenty-first century.

  “The threat is real,” I said, looking back at Uncle Carlo. “Not just for the immediate but for the long haul.”

  “It’s a good war to fight, I give you that,” Uncle Carlo said. “Going to miss being part of it.”

  “You’re in this,” I said, “as long as I am.”

  “What did Jimmy think?” Uncle Carlo asked.

  “Left a bio of George Patton on my desk with a note,” I said, smiling.

  “What’d it say?”

  “Don’t lose,” I said.

  Uncle Carlo chuckled as he pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket. He reached for a gold-tinted lighter with his initials engraved on the side and lit it, taking in a deep breath, ignoring the pain it caused his lungs. I had long ago given up any attempt to get him to quit his habits. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.

  “First, in the event things don’t go my way I need you to take care of Jack,” I said, “the same way you took care of me.”

  “No worries there,” Uncle Carlo said. “What else?”

  “Talk to Jannetti,” I said.

  “About the Strega?” he asked.

  I nodded. “He might balk at first,” I said. “But once he gives it thought, he’ll figure she’s our best option against Raza.”

  “She’s his daughter,” Uncle Carlo said. “It might not sit well you asking to risk her life and his syndicate for a terrorist.”

  “He’s never been shy about putting her in the way of a bullet.”

  “That was him sending her on those jobs,” Uncle Carlo said. “Now it’s you.”

  “Any more to it than that?” I asked.

  Uncle Carlo rested the cigar against an ashtray and looked across the room at me. It was a look I knew, a staunch reminder that the wheezing, shaking old man was still one of the most powerful Dons in the country.

  “Cut the shit, Vincent,” he said. “When it comes to you and the Strega, there’s always more to it.”

  I nodded and gazed out the bay window that looked down on the plush gardens of my uncle’s Hamptons estate. “That was a long time ago,” I said.

  He laughed. “Jannetti and his crew are old-school Camorristas. To them, we might as well still be in the seventeenth century. Their rules, their ways, they never change. You would think all these years later, especially in light of what happened, that would rest where it belongs—in the past. But on that, dear nephew, you would be wrong. Potentially dead wrong.”

  “Jannetti’s been grooming her to take his place as head of the Camorra,” I said. “He’s been out in the open with that from the start. One day soon, Angela will be the only woman with a seat on the council. She comes through big in this fight that will go a long way to making her acceptable to the others at the table.”

  “He may want more than that for her,” Uncle Carlo said.

  I looked at Uncle Carlo. “My seat,” I said.

  He nodded. “I’ve known him for too many years,” Uncle Carlo said. “Jannetti sets his mind to something, he never lets go of it, like a dog with a bone. Angela’s his legacy. Everything he does, every move he makes, is done with her future in mind.”

  Three years after my father died, Uncle Carlo sent Jimmy and me to Italy for a summer to meet the Dons on the other side of the ocean. It was there I first met Angela. We were the same age, and while I spoke a broken version of Italian and she managed a garbled form of English, we became fast friends and the three of us—me, Angela, and Jimmy—went everywhere together. Her father couldn’t help but notice the affection she and I held for one another, but I was too naive to notice what signals I was sending the Don’s way.

  But Jimmy noticed, and one morning while we were having breakfast in the room we shared, he passed his notebook across the table. On the thin white sheet he had written a list of all the families he could think of—both royal and criminal—who had linked themselves together down the centuries through marriage.

  “Why are you showing me this?” I asked.

  He motioned for me to turn the page. When I did, I saw he had written down my name and Angela, linking our family with the Jannetti crew. “You’re serious?”

  From his look I realized it didn’t matter if Jimmy was serious or not—what mattered was that Angela’s father was likely very serious.

  “Me and Angela talked about this, Jim,” I said. “There’s plenty of time for that. But right now we’re just having fun. Nothing more to it than that.”

  Jimmy stared at me, watching as I finished my breakfast. He never mentioned marriage or Angela again.

  We both knew I was in love with her. She was a teenager, as was I, but the woman she would become had already begun to take form. She had long golden brown hair and matching eyes and a smile like a camera flash. She had a quick temper and was not afraid to expose it, but she also was deeply generous to those she loved, and had a dark sense of humor. The attraction was instant—and, if I’m being honest with myself, eternal.

  She was more at ease around boys and men than girls her own age. Even then, she was the daughter of a Don and understood the power such a designation held.

  During that long, hot summer, the three of us spent our days and most of our nights together. We began our mornings at the beach, meeting friends, sunning ourselves on the rocky coast.

  In the afternoons, while most of the town slept and the shops were closed, we ventured into the hills, cooled by the shade of pine trees and damp red dirt, staring at the various villas hidden from the city streets below us. The evenings were always the most fun. We danced in many of the local clubs, Jimmy at our table, watching as the two of us tried to break moves on a crowded floor.

  Many of our nights ended with a gelato at a front table in an all night bar overlooking the bay, music playing somewhere, fishing boats rocking against the tide.

  When I got back to the States, Angela and I wrote often, each trying in vain to perfect the other’s language. She also corresponded with Jimmy, whose command of Italian was superior to mine. It had been made clear to me by Jimmy and Uncle Carlo that Angela was being groomed to succeed her father. Maybe it was that reason that kept me from turning friendship into something more.

  At that time, I still had doubts—which I kept to myself, didn’t even share them with Jimmy—that the life of a crime boss was for me. Without feeling sure, I didn’t believe I could move forward with anything serious, regardless of how I felt about Angela. And there was one other factor holding me back. Angela was a creature of Naples; she had no interest in making a move to America. And while I loved Italy and would always want to spend as much time there as I could, America was where I would work.

  So I decided the best approach was for us to wait. And given our yo
ung ages, neither of us was in a rush to get married.

  The senior members of the families were another issue.

  They were eager for us to get going. Nothing makes old Dons happier than a merger. It would guarantee complete rule on both sides of the ocean for decades, consolidate power, and accumulate larger shares of the profits being generated.

  It was Jimmy who pointed out one issue I had ignored.

  If I married Angela and unified the families, only one of us would eventually be Don—there was no such thing as shared power. Many of the international syndicates would never put a woman in such a position. But the Camorra had no such qualms, making for a potentially uncomfortable situation.

  It’s not easy being a teenager in love, even in the best of circumstances. It is even more difficult when you put the pressures of organized crime into the mix.

  “Why do you think she never married?” I asked Uncle Carlo, turning away from the window and walking toward him. “She’s a beautiful woman and I couldn’t have been the only one to take notice. She’s got Gypsy eyes, and my father used to say a Gypsy could steal your heart, soul, and wallet all in the same day.”

  “She’s powerful and deadly,” Uncle Carlo said. “Most men shit their pants when they come across somebody like that. They can’t handle the heat that comes with having her by their side. Toss in the drop-dead looks and for many guys a dream woman like Angela becomes a nightmare.”

  “Did you expect me to marry her?” I asked. “Would it have made it easier if we combined the families?”

  Uncle Carlo took a deep breath. “You married who you were meant to be with,” he said. “What it means for me doesn’t matter. Not now, not then. I’ve never been one for arranged marriages. More often than not, they’re more trouble than they’re worth—easy as hell to get into, tough as shit to get out of. You and me have both been lucky and unlucky with the women we married. Lucky we found somebody we were crazy about and unlucky in that we lost both before their time.”

  I stared at my uncle. “I need her to go against Raza,” I said. “There are other ways in, but she’s the best option. She can get the information we need about his operation and then help me burn it to the ground.”

  “Let me talk to Jannetti,” Uncle Carlo said. “He might be open to the notion of the two of you working together more than he might have been back a year or two.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Uncle Carlo shrugged. “You’re single now. He might figure to play that card again. See if it comes up aces. Meantime, you get your ass on a plane and go see the Strega.”

  “It’s a business deal,” I said. “Nothing more.”

  Uncle Carlo shrugged. “Either way, she’ll be good for you. Help get your mind straight and keep you on your game. And you can leave with no worries about Jack. Between me and Jimmy, we got him covered at every base.”

  I leaned over and kissed my uncle on the cheek and started to walk out of the room. “You know how she got that name?” I asked, turning back to face him, hand on the doorknob.

  “She made sure everyone heard,” Uncle Carlo said. “Invited half a dozen rival crime bosses over for a sit-down. She had a feast prepared, from baked clams to pasta with artichokes to steak pizziaola. And they ate it up like they were just let out of the state pen, every one of them.”

  “And they all died, right there at that table,” I said, shaking my head, still amazed by the story. “Rat poison. Angela sitting at the head, sipping red wine, watching them drop one at a time. Overnight, with one meal, she helped her father take over the streets of Naples.”

  Uncle Carlo smiled. “Do yourself a favor when you’re over there, would you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Eat alone,” Uncle Carlo said. “You’ll live longer.”

  Chapter 14

  Paris, France

  Raza and Vladimir sat with their backs to a setting sun, each holding a bottle of mineral water. They ignored the noise of the early evening traffic, the blared horns, the shouts from frustrated drivers.

  “This should be the only time you and I meet,” the Russian said. “It’s how I conduct business.”

  “You’ve never done business with me,” Raza said, his voice cool. “I like to know who my partners are before I complete a mission.”

  Vladimir gazed at Raza. He was impressed by the young man’s confidence and manner but put off by his disrespect. Someone like Raza lacked the skill needed to reach the heights of the Russian syndicate. He might be a rising young power in terrorist circles, but in the bare-knuckle world of international organized crime he would be a low-end operator at best, a hired hand and nothing more.

  Vladimir had gone over Raza’s background with care, paying close attention to how he planned and executed his attacks. The young man was meticulous and trusted as few as possible. He had no entourage or circle of advisors. Raza worked with a small and efficient team, was brutal beyond measure, could be counted on to pull off daring attacks, and never showed remorse.

  “I am not your partner,” Vladimir said. “I have deposited $25 million in clean money into your accounts. And there will be an additional $25 million deposited three weeks from today. Since the money is coming from me to you, I believe it safe to consider you my employee.”

  “Is an employee entitled to ask questions?” Raza asked.

  Vladimir shrugged. “I need these operations to go off without glitches. It was one of many reasons I chose you. I want each mission to make a statement, and you don’t do that by putting bombs in a man’s shoe or his underwear.”

  “Yet you seek no credit for the attacks,” Raza said. “These will be high-end operations with hundreds if not thousands of casualties. That puts a bull’s-eye on my back, one not even $50 million can erase. Now, I don’t take issue with the bull’s-eye. I wouldn’t be doing what I do if I were concerned with such matters.”

  “What then?”

  “The attention. These jobs will bring with them increased police presence and surveillance,” Raza said. “That will make subsequent jobs more difficult.”

  “Are you up to this or not?” Vladimir said, growing impatient with the conversation. “Anyone can be a headline terrorist. It takes nothing more than dynamite and a ticking clock. I’m giving you an opportunity to be immortal. Isn’t that what you want?”

  Raza stood and glared out at the traffic. “And what is it you want?” he asked.

  Vladimir stood and tossed his water bottle into a receptacle. “You have work to do and money to do it,” he said. “Focus on that. But know this—if you fail me in any way, then that death you are so eager to embrace will be upon you in a most unpleasant way.”

  Vladimir walked off toward the center of the city.

  Raza watched the Russian disappear into the crowd. He sat down, closed his eyes, and tilted his head toward a darkening sky.

  Chapter 15

  Northeast Yemen

  The compound was well-lit and guarded, armed men and women walking the upper and lower perimeters, dressed in fatigues designed to blend with the bland landscape. All wore scarves or bandanas and had been in hard skirmishes since they were old enough to raise a weapon. There were forty guards in all, trained to fight to the death.

  The compound—four small houses and one two-story structure—was the headquarters of Anwar Al-Sabir, the number two in Raza’s terrorist organization and its main operator. He considered a bomb in a town square a waste of an explosive, preferring missions that called for catastrophic destruction.

  Al-Sabir was also the man the group turned to when the goal involved a takeover of a passenger airline or cruise ship. It was said he wept with joy when he heard the news of the 9/11 attacks.

  I needed to speak to Al-Sabir and find out what he knew of the flight that killed my wife and daughters. I needed to know if his prints were on the plan.

  In order to do that, I had to get him out of the compound alive. Which would require killing the majority of his guards, c
apturing him and getting him through hostile terrain. It was a job that required very little chatter; the fewer who knew, the better its chance to succeed.

  That meant the plan had to be kept hidden from any of the organizations that signed on in the war against the Russians and the terrorists. I couldn’t even bring it to the members of my own crew. My people were good, but they didn’t have the skills such a mission would require. Besides, this job had to be done under mob radar, since I had gone to such lengths to tell all involved that the war was not a vendetta but a business move.

  I was about to wage a war on two fronts and for two reasons.

  If you know your history, you know such plans often end in defeat. From the Romans to Civil War generals to the Nazis, battles fought on dual fronts have low rates of success. But none of those undertakings had been waged for personal reasons. In none of those wars was there a single leader who went into battle because he had lost a family member. They went in because they were told to go in, or to further a cause, or some other vague purpose. At no time was any of it personal.

  It is my strength and my weakness.

  Which is why I called in my own group of assassins—four men and two women who had been part of my private team for nearly a decade. I recruited each myself, choosing them from the elite ranks of the military and intelligence arenas. I went looking for those who had seen heavy combat, hand-to-hand, street-level. I also went for those with a combination of academic excellence and street-smarts. I didn’t want anyone eager to do the work only for the impressive salary and benefits I offered. I prize loyalty above all else and wanted these six to be beyond reproach in that regard. I needed them to be color-blind when it came to politics or patriotism. The work I had in mind would call into account neither. They had spent years training to do as they were told, and I was relying on that discipline. I also needed them to be a group of stone-cold killers bound by honor who would never betray me, no matter how seductive the offer.