the Plan (1995) (37 page)

The reading of the judgment went on for almost an hour. The chief justice finally concluded that the minister of the interior had been right to deny Meyer Lansky citizenship. "If he were allowed to stay, the ugly phenomenon of organized crime, as it exists in America, might be transplanted to Israel."

Cole filed his story with his Paris bureau and pouched the videotape to his assignment editor there. UBC reported that evening that Meyer Lansky had been handed over to the United States embassy to be returned to Miami, where he would stand trial for tax evasion and casino skimming.

The trial never took place because of Meyer's health.

Two days before Christmas, that same year, Cole read in the London Times that twenty-five U
. S
. Phantom F-4 fighter-bombers had been delivered to Israel.

Cole closed his notebooks about two A
. M
. and sat alone in the empty coffee shop, thinking. His mind kept coming back to that suitcase sitting in front of Gavriel Bach on the prosecution table. What was in it? Why had it been in court that day? He finished his cold coffee and drove for five hours back to Washington, arriving just in time for his prearranged breakfast with Kaz. Now he sat, tired and grainy-eyed, and watched the gross fed shovel down eggs Florentine. Cole picked at the corners of his own plate, eating the whites only, leaving the high-cholesterol yolks.

"Where are we?" Cole finally asked.

"We're having breakfast at Rubio's, the finest eatery inside the Beltway."

"Where are we in the investigation, you asshole?"

"Well, I got Teddy Lansky's '72 tax return coming up from that dark Cavern of Greed known affectionately as the IRS basement. I should have it this morning."

"Lemme ask you something . . . could you get me any inside information from the Justice Department about a deal that might have been made between Gavriel Bach and somebody in the State Department in '71?"

"Who's Gavriel Bach?"

"He was the Israeli prosecutor defending the government against Meyer Lansky's right-of-return suit in 1971. So, how 'bout it?" Cole asked again.

"Yeah, maybe, but I'm running out of friends in that building. Why do you need it?"

"I got a hunch. I'll let you know if it turns into anything. Things can only get better."

But they didn't; they got worse.. .

Chapter
52.

BY TEN-THIRTY, KAZ WAS BACK IN THE JUSTICE DEPARTment waiting for Teddy Lansky's tax return. He sat in
a b
orrowed office with a visitor's tag clipped to his breas t p ocket. The small, gray, windowless office was the typ e a nd size generally assigned to a lowly GS-3. He bega n l eafing through the department's staff phone book, lookin g f or an old warhorse from the seventies named Abel McNair.

McNair had gone into foreign service after the war, and Kaz thought he'd had dealings with the Justice Department on Middle Eastern operations in the seventies. A. McNair was listed in the phone directory as assistant secretary of the Middle Eastern quadrant and Kaz dialed the interoffice exchange.

"Abel McNair's office," a man's voice said.

"Tell him Solly Kazorowski's calling."

There was a long moment while he was on hold, then the same voice came back on the line.

"I'm afraid Mr. McNair can't speak to you right now." "Can you give him a message?" Kaz said pleasantly. "Sure, go ahead."

"Will you tell him I'm going to go ahead and buy th
e r
ibbed Rough Rider condoms he suggested for tonight instead of the lambskin French ticklers and, if he'll just pick up the champagne, I'll meet him at Lance and Timmy's around six."

There was a long moment of silence. "Maybe you'd better tell him that. . . . Just a minute," the man said, and then McNair was on the phone.

"Kaz, I'm real busy this morning. I'm due to deliver a briefing in twenty minutes. Whatta you want?"

"I need to know if you ever heard of a guy named Gavriel Bach?"

"Sounds familiar. Can't place it. . . ."

"In the seventies, he was an Israeli prosecutor and he cut a deal with somebody in Justice on Meyer Lansky's lawsuit against the Israelis."

Again, there was a long pause. "Yeah, yeah, I remember. Tall, thin guy. . . . I think he died. Matter of fact, I'm pretty sure he did. Cancer I think. I got a mission fax on that."

"Who cut the deal?"

"Something like that would a' had to be under David Robb."

"Where is he? Is he still in the service?"

"Shit, Mr. Robb, he's gotta be eighty-five if he's still among us."

"Thanks, Abe."

"I heard you got fired."

"Yep."

"Too bad. Gotta go."

"When you gotta go you gotta go," Kaz said and hun
g u
p.

Ten minutes later, a mail boy hustled in with a rolling basket full of the business of state.

"You Kazorowski?"

"Yep"

"Gotta sign for this." He indicated an envelope on the to of his pile. "It can't leave the building. It has to be returned to the Intake slot by six-thirty."

Kaz signed and pulled the envelope open as the mail boy pushed his load of important world fuck-ups out of the office and down the hall.

Kaz looked at Teddy Lansky's tax return. It was mildly interesting in itself that Teddy didn't file jointly with Meyer . . . probably for reasons known only to the long-dead mob financial planner. He looked at the bottom of the federal form and, in the place reserved for the name of the accountant, there was a tight cramped signature.

In faded blue ink, it said: "Wallace Litman."

Ryan and Lucinda invited Jerry Paradise aboard their ketch just after one in the afternoon. Jerry helped Lucinda get Ryan out of the rubber Avon; then they all sat in the cockpit next to the big, shiny wheel and grinned at each other in the midday sun while they popped open cold beers. Just thirty yards away was a fifty-foot day-fishing boat with twenty men aboard. The Ghost realized the fishing boat was too close for him to "close the contract," so he sat drinking his beer, filling the air with pleasant nonsense.

"Y'all have a helluva nice little yawl," he drawled. "It's a ketch," Lucinda corrected him.

"Mind if I go below and take a look?" The Ghost wanted to get a look at the layout in case he had to come back after dark. "I love the way they set these things up. I'm a fisherman so I'm mostly on stinkpots. But I'd like t' get into sailing."

"Go on, show him around." Ryan smiled.

Jerry got up and followed Lucinda down into the forward cabin.

Something about Jerry Paradise bothered Ryan. Maybe it was the good old boy half-southern accent. Maybe it was the humorless grin under pig-mean eyes. Maybe it was how quick he moved on the dock as he swung the gaff at the Mexican. Then Ryan saw something on the seat beside him that must have fallen out of Jerry's back pocket. He reached down and picked it up. It was an airline ticket. H
e c ould hear Jerry and Lucinda still talking below; Ryan opened the folder. The name on the ticket was Harry Meeks. The ticket receipt said he had come in on United Flight 1628 from Atlantic City yesterday. The return flight was scheduled for six that night. So much for camping on the beach, Ryan thought. He closed the folder and put it back on the seat where Jerry had been sitting and scooted a few feet away so that it was out of his reach. Atlantic City was Mickey Alo's turf. Ryan was pretty sure Mickey had sent him.

"Boy, that's a honey of a layout." The Ghost came up the cabin stairs and interrupted Ryan's thoughts. He sat down, noticed his ticket on the seat, then looked over at Ryan, who was studiously looking off at the day fishers. The Ghost silently cursed his mistake, but it didn't seem that Ryan was close enough to reach it so he slipped the ticket back in his pocket and grinned at them.

"What kinda lures you use?" Ryan asked, turning back. "Huh?"

When you fish . ."

"Oh, mostly live bait. It's best for catching rock cod." "You oughta try some deep-water lures. I got a steel-head feather lure that's great for albacore."

"Really?" the Ghost said, looking at Ryan with pale, blue eyes.

"Yeah, those tuna damn near jump on the hook. It's got a vibrating thing on it so when you troll, it sets up a humming noise in the water that attracts 'em," Ryan said.

"I gotta get me one a' those." Jerry was looking at the fishing boat, which was pulling up anchor and getting ready to head off to a new position. Ryan was looking at it also.

"Honey, get my tackle box. It's forward in the Coast Guard locker, up in front of the V-berths. The green meta
l o
ne."

"That ain't necessary."

"No, you gotta see this lure." Lucinda sensed the urgency in his voice, couldn't understand it. "Go on, get it.

She nodded and moved forward. Ryan and the man who had been sent to kill him watched as the fishing boat started to pull away. The Ghost had already decided that he would kill them with his bare hands. He didn't want to leave any slugs behind, because it had to look like an accident. He figured that Ryan would be easy because he was almost immobile with the bum leg. After they were both dead, he would leak gas into the bilge from the engine and pull a spark plug wire loose. Then he would run a cable overboard and start the engine from the dinghy. That should blow the ketch into kindling. It would look, to the Coast Guard, like two weekend boaters forgot to air out the bilge before starting the engine. No crime, no investigation, no jeopardy.

The Ghost watched as Lucinda brought the green metal tackle box up from below and handed it to Ryan. As he opened the box, he angled it so that Jerry couldn't see inside. Under the tackle tray was an Army Colt .45. He had bought it in St. Thomas because of stories he'd heard about pirates in the Caribbean who boarded pleasure boats and killed the owners so they could strip out the electronics .

"This little baby is amazing." He pulled out the steel-head feather lure and offered it to Jerry.

The fishing boat was almost around the point. The Ghost knew now was the time to make his move, so he took the lure and smiled at Ryan and then, without warning, lunged across the open cockpit at him.

Ryan's hand snaked out of the tackle box and the gun was cocked and aimed at Jerry's face before he even got close. The Ghost froze, caught halfway between his target and eternity.

"Who the fuck are you, mister?"

"I told you . ."

"Mickey sent you down here . . . didn't he?"

"Who's Mickey?"

Lucinda didn't know why Jerry had tried to jump Ryan or why Ryan had the gun on him. It had all happened so fast.

"Ryan?" she said.

"This guy has a ticket from Atlantic City. He's set to go back tonight. He's not camping anywhere. I think your brother sent him."

"How would Mickey know we're here?"

"I don't know, but he sent this guy."

"I saved your life," the Ghost said.

"Did you? Or did you set us up and then attack that Mexican so we'd drop our guard? Now get off my boat!"

The Ghost looked at Ryan and tried to read his eyes. Should he charge him? Would he fire? Some guys are killers, some aren't. Still, the Ghost had a healthy respect for the large-bore automatic in Ryan's hand.

"I see you again," Ryan said, "and I'm gonna drop you."

"I'm just a fisherman. I come out here every year to fish, have been for fifteen years. . . ."

"Yeah? Then you oughts learn there's no rock cod on this coast. Get over the side, Jerry, or I swear I'll open you like a can of creamed corn."

Jerry finally moved back to the rail, gave Ryan a wild, loopy grin, and rolled backward over the side, splashing into the water. Ryan and Lucinda watched him swim away from the boat.

"Get the anchor up. I'll get the engine started."

Lucinda moved to the anchor winch at the bow and turned it on. She could see Jerry Paradise treading water about twenty feet off the port side watching them. The anchor chain snaked up out of the water and the anchor clanged into the metal cleats under the bowsprit.

Ryan had the engine going and they pulled out of Toyon Bay. As the boat swung around, she caught another glimpse of Jerry Paradise. He still had the same wide nightmarish grin on his face.

Lucinda moved back to Ryan and sat quietly in the cockpit.

"He's going to keep trying," Ryan said. "I just got lucky with that ticket falling out. I should have shot him." "Why didn't you?"

"Gun was empty. Took all the bullets out a year ago when I started thinking about solving my problems with it.

They sat in silence as the small engine pushed them away from the island.

"Even if it was loaded," Ryan continued, "I don't know if I could have done it. Your brother was right. . . . I need a game with rules."

Chapter
53.

THE CALIFORNIA PRIMARY WOULD PUT HAZE RICHARDS
over the top mathematically, but after Super Tuesday, ther
e w
as no way he could lose. All of the other Democrati c c andidates had pulled out.