The Wolf (12 page)

Jimmy pushed his wheelchair closer to me, rested a hand on top of mine and squeezed it hard enough to hurt.

“You’ll be with me, Jimmy,” I said, “every step. Like always. I can’t win without your help. That’s why I want you on board with the Strega. When we move against Raza’s crew, we need to be all in.”

Jimmy made two clenched fists and rested one on top of the other.

“We won’t let the Russian out of our sight,” I said, “just like he won’t let us out of his. Vladimir has everything the terrorists need—money, the network, the weapons. He’ll lay all that gold in front of Raza and demand loyalty.”

Jimmy spread his fingers and placed them together as if he were in the middle of a prayer.

“That’s right,” I told him, standing and walking to the back of his wheelchair, my hands on the thick grips. “They’ll play nice for a while, so long as Raza’s crew comes through with some major hits. But it won’t last. We’ll see to that.”

I turned Jimmy’s chair around and wheeled him toward the main house. “We have to pick our spots with Raza,” I told him. “When his missions start to go south, we need him thinking Vladimir might be the one botching up the works. That’s where the Strega will help. Having an enemy she hates more than she hates us will make her willing to join our fight.”

Jimmy shrugged and gave me a smile warm as the day.

“Fine, she doesn’t
hate
me,” I said, returning the smile. “She’s angry at me. I spurned her—or at least she thinks I did, and with that temper of hers, that’s all you need. But she despises Vladimir. And that’s the card I’m betting on.”

Jimmy looked away and up toward the house, his thick dark hair against the headrest. I could tell he still had doubts about getting involved with the Strega but I had his blessing.

I had doubts, too, but it was time to leave them behind.

Chapter 17

Rome, Italy

Raza and a rail-thin young man with a nervous laugh stood across the street from the entrance to Termini railway station, ignoring a heavy rain.

“You think he will go through with it?” the young man, Avrim, asked. “He was so anxious the other night I wondered if he was having second thoughts.”

“He would be a fool not to have second thoughts,” Raza said. “And it wasn’t the notion of death that made him anxious, it was concern about whether we would send the money we promised his family in Pakistan.”

“Why should he be concerned about that?” Avrim asked.

“Because sometimes I don’t send the money to the families,” Raza said.

This came as a surprise to Avrim and he didn’t bother to hide that fact. “That is part of the holy bargain,” he stammered. “It is why many of these men agree to surrender their lives.”

“Are they choosing to die for our cause or to ensure their families will have plenty to eat and a place to live?” Raza asked. “A martyr, a true martyr, doesn’t care about personal gain, either for himself or those he leaves behind. We have fed into this nonsense that giving up one’s life for money is something to be admired, something noble. It is why so many of our missions end in failure. We send out the desperate, the mad, and the destitute to do our work. We should be sending out the determined and the inspired. They are the ones who will lead us to victory.”

“You can be inspired and still have a family in need of money,” Avrim said, reeling from the conversation. “Poverty doesn’t make anyone less of a martyr. In fact, it is a driving force.”

“If that is indeed the case,” Raza said, “we have chosen the perfect martyr for this mission. He arrived at camp as penniless as an infant, not even a pair of sandals to protect his feet. We put in months training him, educating him in preparation for this moment. It will be the one time in his bleak existence where he might attain a degree of notoriety. I am the one who is giving him that opportunity. Now I ask you, what price would you place on such a precious gift?”

“I cannot place a price on the life of a martyr,” Avrim answered. “That is for the martyr and his family to decide.”

Raza nodded and checked the time on his BlackBerry. “Less than three minutes,” he said, “before our lamb leads the innocents to slaughter.”

“I left the car across from the park,” Avrim said. “A nearby road will lead straight into the Via Veneto. From there we can be on the outskirts of the city long before the police arrive.”

“You go if you wish,” Raza said, eyes focused on the train station, Track 15 in particular. “Wait for me in the car. I’ll be there soon after the explosion hits.”

“You can hear it from the car,” Avrim assured him. “The smoke alone will be strong enough to follow us for miles.”

“I don’t want to hear or smell it,” Raza said. “I want to see it. See the blast go off, then wait for the screams and the panic. It will be in that moment that our enemy will understand what it means to live and suffer as our families have lived and suffered. That is what I need to see and why I will linger among them. I wish to feel the weight of their pain.”

“You run the risk of being recognized,” Avrim warned.

“I certainly hope so,” Raza said, flashing a smile and walking several steps deeper into the main terminal.

Chapter 18

Naples, Italy

I stood on a large wraparound balcony staring at the serene waters of the Bay of Naples. Angela stepped in beside me to take in the view. She rested a glass of red wine on the marble countertop. “I’ve been looking at that bay since I was a child,” she said, “and still I find comfort in its beauty.”

“Not many places are meant to last forever,” I said. “This might be one of them. I’ve always felt at home here. That’s why I come back.”

“Most people are afraid of Naples,” Angela said. “But you never were.”

I turned to her. “It was easy,” I said. “I had a good friend teach me all about it.”

Angela was a beautiful woman. She had long brown hair streaked blond by the summer sun. Her body was tan, sleek, and toned. She swam for an hour every day, either in the waters of the bay or in the heated pool of her villa. She had olive-shaped eyes and a smile that radiated feelings of warmth and comfort. She was educated and had a thirst for travel and adventure. She was the kind of woman some men spend their lives hoping to find. A woman beyond the imaginations of lesser men.

But to me, there was a part of her that would always be that pretty teenage girl who loved taking quiet walks on the beach, laughed at Terence Hill and Bud Spencer movies, and could prepare a feast of a meal out of a handful of tomatoes, red onions, and clumps of fresh basil. She was a terrible dancer but that didn’t stop her from dragging me onto the floor of a local club to move to the beat of her favorite Italian bands. She taught me how to drive a motorcycle, putting me at the controls of her Ducati 999 and slapping the back of my helmet each time I grinded a gear shift. We went to our first opera together and we both fell asleep early in the first act and stayed that way until the standing ovation roused us. I stood next to her, gripping her hand in mine, as we both stared down at her grandmother as she took her final breaths. It was the first time I saw her cry—and the last.

I cared for Angela and maybe even loved her. And while she had earned my respect and that special place in my heart, I had always been hesitant to take our relationship to the next level. And, truth be told, I wasn’t sure if she would have wanted me to move in that direction.

There was another part of Angela I had also grown to know well, and it was one that would give any man a reason to hold in check the affection he might feel.

Apart from her father, Angela was the most vicious gangster in Italy and one of the most powerful in Europe.

Vittorio Jannetti still held the reins of the Camorra, the Neapolitan branch of organized crime, but to those who did business with the outfit on a daily basis, it was common knowledge that his daughter was in the mix. Her voice was not only heard at council meetings, it was heeded.

Angela was in charge of recruitment and had a hand in investing the billions of dollars the Camorra earned each year through the sale of drugs, stolen high-end fashion, and the transportation and dispensation of toxic goods. Under her iron-fisted domain the Camorra controlled the European black market, an enterprise that netted the outfit a clean $200 million a month. Not too shabby a haul for a group first organized in the thirteenth century to protest the abuses of the working poor.

The Camorra recruit their personnel from children as young as six.

They exploit Naples to full advantage, thriving off the entrenched poverty of the poorest city in Europe, one with an unemployment rate over forty percent. They take boys from the homes of families who owe them money that can never be repaid. Many times, desperate parents seeing little hope for themselves and less for their sons bring them to the door of a Camorra captain and beg him to take in their child.

Over many decades, these children helped shape the foundation of Camorra power.

They are sent to the best schools, each chosen for the particular skill of the child. Down the years, this method has allowed the Camorra to raise a network of contacts unmatched by any crew in the international arena. They have insiders placed in any profession of note, able to supply them with whatever information is needed. To my way of thinking, this is the most powerful weapon a crime organization can possess.

Angela had degrees in world history and economics. She could speak with comfort and knowledge on a wide range of topics and was able to do so in any of four languages.

She also had a dark and sinister side that mirrored mine.

She was ruthless against any enemy, perceived or real. She would order hits on a whim, had a volatile temper, and was a proponent of the Camorra’s preferred method of ridding themselves of opponents—strangulation.

I glanced at her now. She looked radiant, late afternoon sun highlighting her unlined face and a body that would quench any man’s desires. I was also aware that beneath that beauty beat the heart of the most lethal woman I have ever known.

“How long has it been?” she asked. “Two years? Three?”

“Four,” I said, aware that we both knew the year of my last visit to Naples, and the reasons behind it. “I came in for a meeting with government officials to secure cable operations. You were a big help.”

“In Italy, a pretty face and a bag full of money will take you a long way,” Angela said.

“What I need now … it’s much more complicated,” I said.

“This terrorist,” Angela said, “was he involved in the incident with your wife and daughters?”

The question caught me off guard, which I’m sure was her intent. “Too soon to tell,” I said. “But they live and work in a community, like us. If it wasn’t him, he’s in a position to know who it was.”

“And is this why you want him taken out?”

“A piece of it,” I said. “The major reason is to send a signal—to the terror groups and to the Russians.”

“Why his group in particular?” Angela asked. “There are dozens of crews as big as his if not bigger working every city in Europe. We have our eye on four of them in Naples alone. Why does this Raza stand above them?”

“He’s you and me fifteen years ago,” I told her. “Ruthless. Willing to do what it takes. He’s the one other terrorist crews look to, to see how far he will take the battle, how much damage he is prepared to do. If we wipe him clean, end him and his crew, it will tell the others we’re all in and are going to stay all in.”

“Vladimir lined his pockets,” Angela said, “and gave him marching orders. We both know the Russian well. He doesn’t let others spend his money foolishly. He’ll watch every penny. If I agree to go head-to-head against Raza, then that will put the Camorra in the front of the line against Vladimir.”

“Is that a problem?”

“I have 2,500 active in my crew,” Angela said. “And I’m spread thin with that. Raza’s numbers are hard to pin down but he can always find a fool willing to strap on a bomb. The Mexicans have more guns in one overseas shipment than you can find in all Naples. And Vladimir has ten times the active members we have and doesn’t care how many die fighting for him. So, yes, I think we can refer to Vladimir as a problem.”

“You’re not alone on this,” I said. “Every one of my guys, best I have, will be made available to you. I’ll fund the entire operation and toss in an additional five million as a bonus. And let’s not forget that you’ll be fighting on home turf and no one knows this city like you do. That alone is worth a few million Vladimir dollars.”

“I’ll need more than money and manpower,” Angela said, her voice still warm, but stiffening.

“Name it,” I said.

“It’s foolish to track a terrorist on foot,” she said. “They do their planning by cell phone and rotate seven to ten different numbers. The best method to track Raza is with a digital GPS computerized system to monitor those cell numbers, tell me where they are, who they’re talking to and about what. I’ll need a system that can pinpoint time, location, and date and give me visual confirmation. I would like that system set up in a secure location and run by the best computer people you can find. If you can do that for me, you have a partner.”

“I’ll get you a system that can handle a dozen cell phones at the same time,” I said. “And it will allow you to laser in on locations of as many as four people at once. It can be set up anyplace you choose in less than a week.”

“How many techs to run it?” she asked. “It goes without saying, the fewer in on this, the more comfortable I feel.”

“I’ll leave that to the Greek,” I said. “My guess would be no more than three rotating around the clock. Maybe a fourth on stand-by in case something happens. Big Mike will handpick the techs.”

“I’ll need your files and data on Raza,” Angela said. “Everything, no matter how trivial—hobbies, favorite movie, what ice cream he likes.”

“He’s lactose intolerant,” I said, giving her a smile, “so I wouldn’t sweat the ice cream. But he likes licorice, black not red. With that tidbit alone you should be able to pin him down.”

Angela gazed out at the city, a place she not only lived in but held sway over. She sipped her drink and stayed silent for a few moments. “What do you want, Vincent?” she asked. “I don’t mean getting rid of Raza. That helps us all, and I’m with you on that. But when it’s all over. What happens to you then?”