City of War (25 page)

There’s a story that the Soviets once filmed Carl in a Vienna hotel having a romantic liaison with a Bolshoi dancer, then invited Carl on a Danube cruise to screen his performance and try to “double” him. Carl, who’d been tipped, arrived in
ballerina drag accompanied by a camera crew and a dozen male prostitutes. He managed to get some terrific footage of ten KGB guys pulling their coats over their faces and running like hell. One poor fool panicked and threw himself over the side, where he was run over by a water taxi. All these years later, no Langley Christmas party is complete until they pipe Carl’s film through the in-house system. So much for the gravity of spook work.

I like Carl, but not Al. Al’s the guy who screwed up the Lisbon operation where some friends of mine died. Part of his problem is that he’s never been wrong. Just ask him. The other part is that he’s got a photographic memory, so he thinks he’s a genius. The joke about Al is that if he had lunch with a brain surgeon, he’d be ready to scrub up by 2:30.

He’s also big on cloak-and-dagger crap, which makes my ass tired because I know he beat feet in Lisbon like a fuckin’ schoolgirl, and probably some other places too. He’s what we call a RIFALO—a guy who reads Ian Fleming with all the lights on.

Carl knows how I feel about Al, so I thought maybe he wouldn’t bring him. But there he was. I walked to their table against the wall of windows.

Al stood and put out his hand. “Hey, how’s my favorite member of the lucky sperm club?”

I stepped almost against him and grabbed his testicles in my right hand, squeezed medium-hard and held. I heard the wind go out of him and watched the color drain from his plastic-surgery-sculpted cheeks. He went almost limp.

“What the fuck…,” he gasped.

“I didn’t come here to talk to you, Al, so just sit down and keep your mouth shut, or I might decide to even the score for those who can’t be here to speak for themselves.”

I released his crotch, and he sank into a chair, looking smaller than he had a minute earlier.

“Do I need to stand, or can we just shake hands?” deadpanned Carl.

I smiled. “Nice to see you, Carl.”

“Same,” he said.

Too much waitress packed into too little dress came by with a strange look on her face that said she’d seen what happened. I ordered a beer, and she almost ran to get it.

Carl looked at me. “Since we’re obviously not here to socialize, what do you need, Rail?”

I looked out the window. A Singapore Airlines 747 was on final approach. I nodded toward it. “You worked the airlines, didn’t you?”

Carl looked at the 747, then back at me. “Best gig we ever had. People forget how it was before 9/11. Hell, you could still smoke on most overseas carriers. And the food was terrific—at least in first class.” He winked. “But don’t mention that to the inspector general.”

“And every airline had its own personality,” I offered.

Carl looked wistful. “Swissair ran just like you’d expect. Compulsive precision. If you needed to be somewhere on time and with no bullshit, they were it. Remember the old line about why Hitler didn’t take Switzerland? He didn’t want to be
that
efficient.”

The waitress brought my Heineken, and Carl waited until she was gone. “And then there was Alitalia. Best food in the air served on the dirtiest planes, creaking and groaning all the way to Rome. But, boy, was it a party. I remember one pilot who came out, poured himself a glass of Chianti and strolled the aisles singing opera.

“And El Al? Jesus, you couldn’t smuggle a hatpin aboard, and the stews all had their smiles surgically removed.”

I added, “That’s because they were Mossad or army. ‘Would you like dinner, sir, or should I just shove it up your ass?’”

After we laughed together for minute, I said, “So what about Egypt Air?”

“Then or now?”

“Let’s start with now.”

“Wouldn’t go near them. The only thing the terrorists hate more than us is the guy in Ras el-Tin Palace.”

“And before 9/11?”

“I was a regular. We all were. Good maintenance, professional pilots, and as long as you weren’t carrying drugs, they didn’t much care. One of the best bridge and drop airlines.”

“Meaning?”

“No rough stuff. You needed to meet somebody you couldn’t be seen with, you booked a seat, took a ride, did business and were home for dinner. A bridge.

“Drops, you left your baggage checks in the seatback and just got off. You never saw the other guy. Or vice versa. Sometimes, your pickup might be under the sink in the first-class john. Then you’d have one of those keys the service guys use, and just before landing, you went in and got it.”

“What happened on Flight 990?”

I saw a slight flicker in his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly. “That’s a bullshit question to ask an old friend. Especially after only one beer.”

I gestured to the waitress for another round, and she nodded.

Carl looked at me. “I can’t be much help. I wasn’t around.”

“Yeah, but there’s always talk.”

“The fuckin’ pilot did it.”

“No shit. But why?”

“Pick your poison. Some people think it was a dress rehearsal for what came later. I don’t. You can’t do that kind of operation more than once. Too easy to fuck up. And it’s counterproductive for planning purposes. Shows too much of your hand.

“If the pilot wasn’t completely nuts, then it was about the military guys onboard. Under ordinary circumstances, you might be able to get one or two at a time, but thirty-four on one flight is a planner’s wet dream. And if that’s what happened, then the guy who got on without paperwork would have been Target Numero Uno.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment while I thought about what he said.

The beers came, and Carl took a long swig. “You into this big?”

“Not the way you’re thinking. I’m interested in a courier who was on the plane. Just a victim, I think. But can you find out if he was carrying something official?”

“Probably, but first tell me if the guy was an operator.”

“I don’t think so. He was a schmuck, but not one of you.”

“I don’t care how many medals the fucking queen pinned on you, Black, you’re still an asshole. So what’s this schmuck’s name?”

“Truman York. Used to be an airplane driver.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“And while you’re at it, see if anyone’s ever heard of something called the City of War.”

“What the fuck’s that?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

As I got up to leave, I said, “One more. Balkan Airlines.”

“Ah, the Assassin Express. Everybody clanked when they walked, and nobody ever took off their coat. You know, except for the flight attendants, who all looked like Dick Butkus, I don’t think I ever saw a broad aboard.”

“At least not one without five o’clock shadow,” I added.

“I’ll call you,” said Carl.

“Good-bye, Al,” I said.

Al didn’t respond.

I paid the check on my way out, and as I was waiting for the too-small elevator, Eddie burst through the emergency exit door, out of breath from the stairs.

“I’ve been trying to call Liz, and there’s no answer. Same for Jimmy.”

I took out my cell phone and dialed Archer. It was ringing when the elevator came, and it was still ringing when we got out.

20

Handcuffs and Deep Water

It was the first time I’d ever ridden in a boat with Eddie when I hoped he’d go faster. As it was, he incurred the wrath of every boat owner in Avalon Harbor after opening up the GTX as soon as we pulled away from the dock. Turning my head, I saw our wide, deep wake almost capsize two small outboards.

We made it to Last Tycoon Cove in fourteen minutes. The
Sanrevelle
was still riding at anchor the way she had been when we’d left. It was then that I noticed the dilapidated twenty-five-foot Chris-Craft cruiser sitting dark a hundred yards to the south. The two other boats that had been there overnight were gone. The cruiser was at least thirty years old, with peeling paint and one side of its windshield broken out. It might just have been somebody taking a nap or getting laid or hiking onshore, but it didn’t feel right. And then I noticed there was a dive line over the transom. Not a good sign. Too late to be underwater.

The sun was getting low in the sky, but I didn’t need light. No one had come out on the
Sanrevelle
’s deck despite the noise we made coming in. Eddie feathered the GTX up to
the stern, and I threw out the fenders then jumped aboard with a line. He brought
Zydeco
alongside, and I tied it off on the
Sanrevelle
’s starboard side.

Eddie clambered aboard, and I motioned for him to go up top. I went inside.

The first pool of blood was on the teak floor just inside the door. I knelt and felt it. It had congealed considerably. Probably at least three hours old. I listened. Other than Eddie’s quiet footsteps above me, nothing.

There was more blood in the salon, sprayed, like someone had stood in the middle of the room and squeezed it out of a ketchup bottle. Some of the furniture had been overturned, and the flatscreen Philips had a hole through it. There were also several bullet holes in the walls, like Jimmy had been trying to hit a moving target.

There was another possibility. He’d been badly wounded and was firing wildly. I pushed that thought out of my mind.

Suddenly, Eddie called out. “I got a dead guy up here. On the flybridge. Never saw him before. Everything else is clear.”

“Stay there,” I yelled back. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

I checked the galley. More things scattered, the microwave ripped out of the wall…blood. I could picture two men, locked in a deadly embrace.

I followed the trail down the center passageway and into my stateroom, where a shot had pierced the ceiling and another had found another of my Vettrianos over the bed. The blood was extremely heavy here, almost too much for even two people.

Jimmy’s body was in the master bathroom, half in, half out of the shower stall. Not unusual. Mortally wounded people sometimes try to get to water. Maybe to try to wash it all away.

Unless the guy upstairs was big too, Jimmy must have been dead on his feet by the time he got to where he died. I knelt over him and checked his wounds. They were legion.
He’d been cut at least fifty times on his hands, arms, back, sides and chest. One eye was pulp and both ears were just barely hanging on. What had killed him, though, were a pair of incisions on each side of his neck, each about four inches long. One had taken out the jugular, probably the first major hit—then a coup de grace to the carotid.

He still had his Glock in his hand. The slide was locked in the open and empty position. A guy this big and who knew how to use a gun, had fired at least fifteen rounds and still died. Jesus, who the fuck was the other guy?

“Oh, God. Jimmy.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw Eddie. He was going to see him sooner or later anyway, so I got up and left him alone with his brother.

I made my way up to the flybridge and found Jimmy’s killer crumpled facedown under the control console. He was a slightly built guy, and when I dragged him out, he was caked in blood, head to foot. But except for some scratches on his bare back, I didn’t see any open wounds.

I turned him over, and a knife clattered onto the deck. It wasn’t like the one I’d seen at Jackie Benveniste’s or that Tino had flashed on the freeway. This was a dive knife with a wide, tapered blade, honed to scalpel sharpness with teeth at its bottom edge. He was also wearing a handcuff on his left wrist, the other cuff open and dangling.

I pushed his long, still-wet hair off his face and got my second jolt of the last few minutes. It was the kid who’d shot me at Tacitus. Seventeen at the most, maybe younger. And just in case I thought I was imagining things, there was the one-legged spider on his left forearm. He was probably waiting until he got back to Corsica to add Kim’s.

I looked into his face. He could have been Kiki Videz’s brother, confirming my suspicion that Marta’s youngest son’s only connection to the Corsicans had been his resemblance to the real killer. He had an earring in his right ear with a tiny interlocking
D
and
N
dangling from it.

I jerked it through the lobe, pocketed it then checked the body for the decisive wound. It didn’t take long. His windpipe had been crushed. Either under the hands of Jimmy Buffalo, or maybe the butt of his gun. Fifteen shots and not one had connected. The kid had died of asphyxiation.

Suddenly, I heard a boat engine. I stood up and looked toward the cove entrance. Harbor Patrol. Three officers. It had to be about the dozen or so laws we violated when we roared out of Avalon. I left the body and hurried downstairs. Eddie was just coming out of the main cabin. He looked pale and shaken, but his focus was on the patrol boat, same as mine. I shook my head almost imperceptibly, and he nodded.

“Is that your GTX, Buffalo?” The uniformed officer on the bridge was using a bullhorn, and his voice had an edge to it.

“Hey there, Henry,” shouted Eddie. “You know it is. Hold on, I’ll be right there.” He moved quickly to the
Zydeco
and untied it.

“Stay where you are,” the bullhorn commanded.

But Eddie was already in the boat and had it started. Fenders flapping, he drove straight at the patrol vessel, then at the last second veered off and cut his engines to idle. His momentum caused him to drift past the cops so that they had to make a U-turn, which took their line of sight and, hopefully, their attention off the
Sanrevelle
.

I heard the bullhorn again, and the officer wasn’t happy. “Goddamn it, Eddie, I said, stay put.”

“Sorry, Henry,” Eddie shouted back to him, “I know I was wrong, driving so fast in the harbor, and all. But I paid four hundred large for this sucker, and sometimes I just can’t help myself. You know how it is.”

“Eddie, shut the hell up!” Officer Henry shouted through his bullhorn. “And prepare to be boarded.”

“Oh shit, Henry, give the badge a rest. How long have we known each other? I’m already late picking up Liz, so why
don’t you just follow me back to Avalon, and we’ll straighten this out there. That way, if I end up in jail, Liz can take care of the boat.”