The Wolf (29 page)

“The attacks can’t be more than a few days away,” Vladimir said. “I would wager he selected his targets long before he and I ever met. It’s been his plan all along, to go out in a religious blaze of glory.”

“What’s our plan?” Marni asked.

“Raza is to do what he does best,” Vladimir said. “The same holds true for us. Once the mission is completed, successful or not, he is to be eliminated along with anyone else that comprises what can be referred to as his inner circle. I don’t want anything that links him back to us. It is to be as if the first time we heard Raza’s name or saw his photo would be on the evening newscast.”

“We’ll still be suspected of funding his cause,” Marni said. “Especially if he succeeds.”

“Being suspected won’t do us harm,” Vladimir said, “and may even prove useful. But no one in law enforcement circles is to know for certain we were the central bank for this operation. I want our fingerprints nowhere near Raza.”

“We’ve kept the transactions between us as clean as possible,” Marni said. “I’ve secured every location whenever the two of you have met and had them swept again afterward. And the cell number he was given to initiate contact is registered in the name of a Belgian woman who passed away three months ago.”

Vladimir stood and walked toward a railing, gazing down at the swirling river below. “Give the phone to the first vagrant you find on the street,” he said, “and keep it active. The more dead ends the police have to run down, the better.”

“And what about the Wolf and the Strega?” Marni asked, stepping in alongside him. “They pose a larger threat to us than anyone with a badge.”

“They will need to keep their focus on Raza,” Vladimir said. “They are probably closing in on the two target sites by now. They have access to the same information we have, perhaps better.”

“We can monitor their activity as we keep track of Raza,” Marni said. “Sooner than later, they will all be in the same location.”

“Raza is the one we must be rid of,” Vladimir said. “But if in the exchange of fire, one or both mob bosses goes down? It would not be a tragedy.”

“They have so many men at their disposal, yet the Italians seem to be heading into this battle practically solo,” Marni said. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s for the other crime bosses to take note of,” Vladimir said. “They still need to be convinced the war the Wolf wishes to wage is one they need to fight. By taking Raza head on, he and the Strega are leading by example, and nothing impresses the other syndicates more than a show of leadership. It’s what the old school gangsters would have done. We may be in a new century, but the codes of conduct are firmly planted in the past.”

“They’re good enough to foil Raza’s plan,” Marni said. “We could help prevent that.”

“We remain invisible, until the last possible moment.”

“I’m not certain how it will play out,” Marni said, “but I believe it will be bloody and messy before a conclusion is reached.”

“No different than any other skirmish,” Vladimir said. “Granted, this is being fought on a larger scale with deadlier ramifications. The risks are higher, as are the rewards. But a battle is still a battle regardless of where it is waged. All that matters is that we are the ones left standing once the bodies and debris have been cleared. It is the only truth that has ever mattered.”

Chapter 49

Rome, Italy

I walked with Angela past the crowds gathered on the Spanish steps, Brunello and Manzo close behind us.

“Did you know these steps are not owned by Italy?” Angela asked.

“No, Professa, I didn’t.”

“The steps are property of the French government,” Angela said. “In fact, the Romans pay a small tax each year that is sent back to France.”

“I’m sure there’s a logical answer as to why they’re not called the French steps,” I said.

“Logical? In Italy?” Angela said. She pointed to her left, toward a long line of high-end clothing stores and a two-story house turned museum that had centuries earlier been the summer residence of Lord Byron. “One of the two Spanish embassies is located in the square.”

“And there are two Spanish embassies because …?”

“There are two embassies from every country in Rome,” Angela said. “One for the Italian government and the other for the Vatican.”

“You make a terrific tour guide,” I said after we moved from the steps, then passed Bernini’s Fountain and crossed the plaza.

“Speaking of tours, what is this you’re taking me on?” she asked.

“It’s an electric golf cart tour,” I told her. “Best way to see the city. The driver can take us down those narrow side streets that are hard to walk on and most cars can’t fit through. I asked for two carts. They’re going to meet us over by the bookstore.”

“What about the main streets?” Angela asked. “Are they allowed to drive on those?”

“Piece of cake,” I said. “They can go as fast as twenty-five kilometers an hour and they’re good for about ninety miles. It’ll give us a chance to talk.”

“Is there a problem?” Angela asked.

“There’s always a problem,” I said.

Angela and I sat in the backseat of a white electric golf cart, the driver steering his way through the throng surrounding the Trevi Fountain. We were in the lead cart, Brunello and Manzo in the second, somewhere behind us.

Our driver turned toward us. “You want the full tour or you want some time to yourselves?” he asked.

“Little bit of both,” I said. “For now, just focus on the drive.”

“You want scenic or you want to, you know, cuddle?” he asked.

“Your English is pretty good,” I said to him.

“You mean for a guy from Brooklyn?” the driver said, turning to look at us.

“You chased here or come on your own?” I asked.

“I married Italian,” the driver said. “Real Italian, like your lady. You fall in love with a Made in Italy woman, be prepared to live in Italy.”

I smiled. “Looks like you’ve made it work.”

“No complaints,
amico mio,
” he said. “She’s a good woman, the kids are great, and this business has been solid enough to get me a house and a full table every night.”

“Low overhead,” I said. “Smart. The only thing cuts into your profits are the batteries on these things. They can run a credit card.”

“You know the Pope mobile?” he asked. “The one they scoot the Pope around in two or three times a year?”

“What about it?”

“The battery in the Pope mobile has to be changed every three months whether he puts one mile on it or a thousand,” he said.

“Why?” Angela asked.

“Who the hell knows?” The driver shrugged. “But it works out great for me. I got a friend on the inside and he puts the batteries aside and sells them to me for a hundred euros each. Simple, no?”

I exchanged a look with Angela. “The Vatican has more scams going than we do,” she said.

The crowds parted to let us through, many people waving or pointing. The golf cart tours were still a novelty, in business less than a year, but the Italians seemed to have warmed to them.

“What do you think?” I asked Angela.

“It’s a fun idea,” she said. “Of course if we need to make a speedy getaway, we’re doomed.”

“We could always jump out and run,” I said.

“Good to see you have a backup plan,” she said, gazing at the passing shops.

“I know you came into this reluctantly,” I said, “and I can’t blame you. But I am glad you’re on my side.”

“It was a business decision,” Angela said. She turned to look at me. “And a personal one as well.”

“I can take it from here,” I said. “Burke and his team are on their way to Florence. They’ll deal with the target there. I’ll work the Vatican.”

“And I go back to Naples?” Angela asked.

“I’ve lost one friend already,” I said. “And a large chunk of my family, even before it began. I’m not quite ready to lose someone else I care about.”

“I appreciate your concern,
enzo mio,
” Angela said. “But when I decided to join you in this fight, it wasn’t to be your backup. I have my organization to consider as well, and these bastards are as much a threat to me as to you.”

The backseat was tight and we were snuggled against one another. I hadn’t been this close to her since we were teenagers, and I closed my eyes and allowed the warm memories of many years ago wash over me. Her left thigh was resting casually against my right, tanned skin exposed, and in those brief moments I forgot the mob boss by my side and instead looked at her as someone whom I had always loved and with whom I had always felt safe.

“This is the beginning of a long war,” I said. “And we can’t afford to lose our best people out of the gate. I think you should go back to Naples.”

“I have never left a fight,” Angela said, “and I won’t start—”

“If something
happens
to me,” I said, “it will fall on you to lead the fight from there. That’s a
business
decision.”

“We walked into this together, Enzo,” Angela said. “We’ll walk out of it together or we’ll fall together.”

“No one calls me Enzo,” I said.

“No one but me,” Angela said, smiling.

“I don’t want to lose you,”
I said, not meaning to blurt it out, taking a quick look at the driver as he navigated the golf cart down the Via Veneto.

“Then
don’t,
” Angela said. “Because, you know, you’ll have my father chasing you from one country to the next.”

“I can only imagine,” I said.

Angela turned away and looked out at the Piazza Navona. “You were right not to marry me,” she said. “It was the wrong time. It would have been done for the wrong reasons. I was angry at first. Who wouldn’t be? But you made the choice that needed to be made. You got lucky. You met someone you loved. I’m very sorry you lost that.”

“And now?”

“Now?” she said. “Now we have a war to fight.”

I said something then that I had felt for a long time but had never consciously thought. “You and me, Angie. We’re a story of bad timing.”

“We’ve known each other a long time,” Angela said, her voice lower. “We’re comfortable with each other. Perhaps we shouldn’t mistake that comfort for anything other than that.”

Something inside me spun the wrong way.

“Fair enough,” I said.

Angela leaned forward and rested a hand on the driver’s shoulder, getting his attention. “How long do these cart tours last?” she asked him.

“As long as you want,” the driver said cheerfully, veering the cart toward the Pantheon. “Forty-five minutes, seven hours—whatever you like!”

“Then stop the cart at the next corner,” she said.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“For a walk,” Angela said. “And don’t worry. I won’t be completely alone. Brunello and Manzo won’t let me stray from sight.”

The cart eased to a stop. Angela leaned over, kissed me on the cheek and let go of my hand. She stepped out and started a slow walk toward the Pantheon. Brunello and Manzo followed, keeping a respectful distance.

I sat there in that stupid golf cart and watched her until she disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter 50

Florence, Italy

David Lee Burke had his back to the statue of the
David,
looking at the crowd mingling around the work.

Jennifer Malasson was in one corner of the room, her back against a cool wall, a sketchbook cradled in her arms.

Robert Kinder was having a quiet chat with an elderly couple visiting for the first time from England, celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in the company of a Michelangelo masterpiece.

Franklin J. Pierce was at the entrance to the Galleria, a guidebook in his right hand, checking the faces of the visitors as they entered the large, well-lit room.

Carl Anderson was squeezed in between two art history students, a short distance away from the entrance to the Galleria, and had already spotted the two Russian shooters snaking on the same line, about a dozen feet from his back.

Beverly Weaver was inside an idling black van parked around the corner. She had six computer monitors running, three giving her visuals inside the Galleria and three outside. She also had audio transmission relays switched to green mode and could hear and see everyone on the team and alert them to any hot spots.

The Silent Six were in place.

Avrim had his head bowed in prayer, standing in the middle of the long line. It seemed to take a lifetime to move even one step. He was wearing a black T-shirt and an oversized New York Yankees jacket, a bit too heavy for the humid weather but a perfect buffer to shield the thin but burdensome device attached by leather straps to his chest.

The device had been delivered to him earlier that morning by an unknown courier, a young, fragile looking teenager he had never seen before who knocked on his apartment door and handed him a sealed Amazon box. He nodded his thanks when Avrim took it from him, jumped back on a rusty red bicycle and peddled up Via Pietro Maroncelli under the imposing shadows of the soccer stadium.

It took Avrim slightly less than an hour to cut open the package with a dull kitchen knife and stare at the device inside. It took him even longer to bathe and choose the proper clothing, since he was unable to ease the fear that was raging inside and calm his trembling body. He sat and prayed and drank a cup of lukewarm tea. He then stood, walked over to the Amazon box, lifted the device and held it in his hands. He was surprised at how light it felt and how crudely it was put together. But he was also aware of the damage such a device was meant to cause and the number of people it could leave dead in its wake.

Avrim had placed the device on his chest, his head barely fitting through the small opening, and snapped the leather straps in place, making it as tight as he could manage. He wiped his face and hands with a damp towel and then reached for the Yankees jacket, a final gift from his mentor and friend, Raza.

Now, he glanced at the two guards stationed near the Galleria entrance, their attention focused on faces farther down the line. He handed his entry ticket to a young woman in a blue jacket and matching skirt and waited as she tore off the top and handed the rest back to him, already reaching out a hand for the next visitor on the line. Avrim walked past her into a small vestibule, turned right and entered the Galleria.