THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1)

by Clifford Irving

  "All right, carry on," said the colonel. He turned. "What's this now?"

  Suvarov had broken down. For five hours, with the public looking on, he had contained his grief in a soldierly fashion, but now the sobs welled up in his chest, and before Marchenko could restrain him he had rushed across the room and stood staring down into the open casket.

  "Nedya," he groaned.

  Marchenko, beside him again, growled, "Stand at attention. You are still on duty."

  At a signal from Durin, two of the workmen began to lower the lid of the coffin.

  "Not yet," said Suvarov. "Please."

  He bent over the coffin and looked tenderly at the cold, stiff features of his wife. He was silent for a long moment; then he whispered something no one could hear, and leaned forward to press his lips on hers in a final farewell.

  Colonel Fist grunted impatiently, while Marchenko looked at his watch. Durin tried not to look amused.

  Suvarov straightened up, gasped, screamed once in a strangled voice, and fell stiffly to the floor.

  For the time of two heartbeats there was silence, and then the pounding of feet and hoarse voices calling out. Colonel Fist knelt at once beside the stricken man. With quick hands he checked for signs of life. He found none. He announced flatly, "You may call for a doctor, but he's dead."

  Durin stared down, horrified. "A heart attack. Is that pos­sible?"

  The colonel looked up at him, his lean face twisted with dis­gust. He pointed to Suvarov's lips, and the yellowish foam that covered them. "Does that look like a heart attack?"

  Durin said weakly, "But it has to be—he couldn't—there was—"

  "No sign of Borgneff." The colonel stood up. "Those were your words, weren't they? No sign of Borgneff."

  He drew back his clenched fist and hit Durin in the face. Durin kept his hands at his sides. The colonel hit him again, then spat at his gray uniform, turned, and strode away.

  The news crossed Moscow within an hour. Eddie heard it from the concierge at the Hotel Rossiya.

  "The official story will be a heart attack," the concierge con­fided. "But some people are saying that he died of a broken heart. Do you think that is possible?"

  "Anything's possible."

  "Do you really believe that? In your country do people die of broken hearts?"

  "Only at the racetrack," Eddie said. "Or sometimes during the football season."

  12

  Tell me about John Rakow, Eddie. Describe him for me in one word.

  One word? He's a criminal. Why are you smiling?

  Your choice of the word. How many of these people are law- abiding citizens?

  Rakow is different. The others are either military types or they have a political axe to grind. Rakow is a thug, a hood.

  Any prison record?

  He's been lucky. He got busted for boosting cars when he was a kid and did some state time, but as soon as he made the street he hooked up with Vinnie Galliano's people and then he was set. They take good care of their people in Boston. Rakow went up the ladder real quick. By the time he was twenty he was one of Vinnie's top hit men.

  No other prison record?

  Just once. The feds got him for extortion. It was a bum rap, but it was the best they could do. They socked him away for eighteen months in one of their country clubs out in Pennsylva­nia. Rakow used to tell us how he went out under the wire once a week to eat a pastrami sandwich and get laid. Those Boston people, they take real good care.

  How was he recruited?

  The feds again. They tied him into the hit on the Francusi brothers, and he was facing ten years for conspiracy at some tough joint like Lewisburg or Atlanta. That was when Parker stepped in. He made him the offer, and Rakow bought the pack­age. Now he works on the side of the angels. Full immunity, top pay, and all the fringe benefits. He even gets Blue Cross. You don't get Blue Cross working for Vinnie Galliano.

  Training?

  What are you talking about? Rakow was a top gun. He knew all the tricks before he came to the Agency. All they had to give him was one advanced course in heavy explosives at Fort Gulick down in the Canal Zone. After that he was operational.

  Next question, the usual. Women?

  Problems, but simple problems. He's got a wife in Boston who won't give him a divorce. He's got a girlfriend in Williamsburg, divorced, with a young kid. He usually spends the weekends with her. That's all—nothing kinky like Erikson.

  Mr. Rakow sounds like a dull boy. What are his interests?

  He keeps himself in shape lifting weights. He likes to gamble a bit, dice and cards. Things like that. Like you said, he's dull. Johnny Rakow's idea of a good time is to take his girlfriend and her kid out to Busch Gardens on Sunday afternoon.

  Indeed? And what is Busch Gardens?

  Boston Johnny Rakow wore an undershirt in all seasons. He also wore a hat the year around. To Rakow, an undershirt and a hat were two of the signs of being properly dressed. Without either, he would have felt like a bum. Bums went hatless. Bums wore their shirts next to their skins. Boston Johnny was many things, but he was not a bum. He even slept in his undershirt. Despite many rumors, however, no one had ever caught him sleeping with his hat on.

  On this Sunday morning he slipped from bed wearing under­shirt and shorts, moving carefully to avoid waking Helen. He padded across the carpeted floor to the closet and pulled a set of dumbbells from out of the litter of boots and shoes. He put the dumbbells aside and without giving himself time to think, did fifty push-ups and fifty sit-ups. He then did three sets of curls, ten reps each, increasing the weight ten pounds with each set. It was a good pump, and he felt the blood surge.

  Once showered and dressed, he went down to the kitchen in the Sunday-morning silence. Helen was good for at least several hours more of open-mouthed, snoring slumber, and seven-year- old Terry had learned early on not to make noise on the weekend mornings when Uncle Johnny had spent the night.

  Rakow took his first cup of instant coffee out onto the front porch and stood sipping at it as his hooded eyes swept up and down the street. He ignored the crisp, green lawns, the magnolia trees, and the twittering birds. He was interested only in the two cars parked at either end of the short street, both black late-model Fords. There had been a time, in the old days in Boston, when the sight of two strange cars parked that way would have sent his blood racing, but not now. Now he was immune. Even his old boss, Vinnie Galliano, had gotten the word: Hands off Boston Johnny Rakow. He's one of ours now.

  Besides, he knew the six men who sat in those cars. They were killers, all right, but they were Agency killers, additional troops sent down from Langley, and their one function right now was to keep John Rakow alive. The protective coverage had been Colo­nel Parker's idea, and had gone into effect directly after Erikson's death.

  "I'm changing the procedure," the colonel had said. "From now on, no more hiding. We stay out in the open, keep to normal routine. We make Mancuso come to us. When he does, we'll be ready for him."

  "Like Erikson was?" Romeo asked.

  "Erikson was careless," the colonel snapped. "He must have been to let Eddie get that close. It's not going to happen again. I've ordered blanket protection for all of us: three teams of six men each, twenty-four-hour coverage. All eighteen men have Eddie's photo and they've seen his film clips. If Mancuso comes within a mile of us, they'll take him out."

  "A mile isn't very much," Romeo observed.

  "Hey, I've got an idea," said Rakow. The other two looked at him strangely. Ideas rarely came from that quarter. "How's about we all take a little vacation? Like, I could go down to Miami, and Romeo could head out to the Coast, and the colonel could maybe go up north for a while. Mancuso can't follow all of us, can he?"

  "After what happened to Erikson I'm not sure what that little bastard can do." The colonel shook his head. "No, we play it my way—which happens to be the machine's way, too."

  "CYBER says so?" Romeo asked.

  "CYBER says," the colonel conf
irmed.

  That was good enough for Rakow. He had total respect for the powers of CYBER, the kind of respect that other men reserve for heroes and idols. Three times CYBER had intruded on his life, each time with a demonstration of awesome ability.

  The first time that CYBER affected his life had been just after the O Group had moved from Langley to Williamsburg. The move had not been a popular one with O Group staff. They saw it as a banishment, removing them by three hours from their favorite Washington playpens. Colonial Williamsburg, with its restored houses, its quaintly costumed residents, and its hordes of tourists, was a poor substitute for the excitements of the capi­tal.

  Rakow was the only one of the Group who did not see it that way. He took a long, hard look at Williamsburg through his angle-sharp eyes and toted up what he saw. He saw a tourist- laden town filled with easy spenders. He saw the second-oldest college in the country filled with well-heeled kids. He saw a coun­tryside around the town filled with prosperous farms. And he saw a business community that thrived on catering to the tourists, the students, and the farmers. Seeing all that, he put his nose to work to find out where the action was. It took him less than a week of street-wise searching.

  The Greeks and the blacks had the town carved up for gam­bling. Most of the Greeks operated with Baltimore connections, and they ran the plush joints out along the Interstate. The blacks were all local people, and their action was limited to servicing the brothers with numbers and dice, red dog and cooncan. There was no crossing over the line; any invasion of territory, by either side, was met quickly and violently. As a means of avoiding friction, the division was logical. It was also highly inefficient.

  Rakow saw this at once. Trained in the syndicate methods of Vinnie Galliano, he realized that a combined operation was bound to result in lower running costs, a bigger bank, and higher odds to attract the bettors. The problems of racial balance did not bother him at all. He knew that when profits are high enough, skin color becomes secondary. He also knew that it would take just one strong man, schooled in the system, to effect the combi­nation and make it run smoothly. From what he could see, there was no one of that caliber in Williamsburg. Only Boston Johnny Rakow.

  He thought about it. That's all, just thought about it. He didn't ask any questions around town, didn't seek any advice. He stayed away from the Vine Leaf Cafe, where the Greeks hung out eating avgolemono and feta-cheese strudel. He stayed away from Tiger Sam's, where the brothers held court over chittlins and grits. He kept his own counsel, and thought about it. That's all.

  Colonel Parker called him in a week later. His statement had been short and pointed. "You're a public employee on the public payroll," he said. "That means no outside business enterprises— none at all. Is that clear?"

  "No, sir, it isn't. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I'm talking about your bright idea to muscle in on the local gambling here. I can't allow it, Rakow, so forget it."

  "Colonel—"

  Rakow's protests were cut short as Parker flipped a computer printout across the desk. "Read it. It's all there."

  Rakow read it. The printout was a detailed report on the gam­bling situation in Williamsburg, an analysis of the weaknesses in the system, and an estimation that John Rakow would attempt a combination and takeover of the two groups within thirty days. The takeover had a success probability factor of 87.6%.

  "Well?" asked the colonel.

  "It's a bum rap. I was just thinking about it, that's all."

  "No more thinking," Parker said in dismissal, and Rakow left the office shaking his head.

  His respect for CYBER was born that day. It was augmented on a day several months later when the colonel again called him in for a private meeting. Again, a printout copy lay on the desk.

  The colonel read from it without preliminaries. "Mary Beth Ferguson, age twenty, a sophomore at William and Mary, mem­ber of Kappa Kappa Kappa sorority. On the seventh, twelfth, fifteenth, and twenty-second of this month. What about it?"

  Rakow felt himself grinning foolishly. "Well, you know how it is."

  "Yes, I imagine I do. These Virginia girls haven't met many Boston hotshots, have they?"

  "Maybe that's it," Rakow admitted. "They like the way I talk. Do you think I talk different, Colonel?"

  "No, I'm used to it, but I think you talk too much. The Fergu­son girl's father is a state senator with his eye on Washington. She's already told him that she's madly in love with a Yankee from Boston."

  "Where does she get that Yankee stuff? I've been a Red Sox fan all my life."

  Parker looked again at the printout. "And to complete the pic­ture, CYBER predicts that if this affair continues, in exactly seven weeks Miss Mary Beth Ferguson will announce her preg­nancy. First to you, and then to her father."

  "That's a bum rap," wailed Rakow. "She told me she's on the pill."

  "Then either she lied, or CYBER did, and you know what we say around here?"

  "Yeah."

  "CYBER doesn't lie. Break it off," said the colonel, dismiss­ing him, and again Rakow left the office shaking his head.

  Any doubts that he might have had left about the infallibility of CYBER were put to rest after he met Helen. Helen Wykowski was different from the other women he had known in recent years, different from the hard-edged girls who hung around with the mob guys, different from the curious Virginia coeds. Helen was his kind of woman, straight from his own background. She liked what he liked. She enjoyed bowling, beer, ten-cent pi­nochle, and simple, conventional sex. Her favorite meal was a well-done steak and a baked potato with sour cream dressing. She sang "Peg o' My Heart" in roadside taverns. She watched Kojak avidly, and the soaps religiously. She thought Archie Bunker was a philosopher. She cried when she saw Love Story. She was his kind of girl. She was, in fact, not too different from the wife he had left in Boston, but he would never have admitted that, not even to himself.

  The wife in Boston was named Lorene, and before Rakow met Helen she had been nothing more than an expensive irritant in his life. For the six years they had been separated it had been well worth a thousand dollars a month to keep her in Boston and out of his sight. But now, with Helen pushing him to get married, Lorene had grown from an irritant into the major obstacle to his happiness. For Rakow was basically a family man. He liked the idea of marrying Helen, just as he liked the idea of playing daddy to little Terry. He truly believed that he would be totally happy for the first time in his life if Lorene would give him a divorce. But the perverse bitch refused to hear of it. No matter how much he bullied her, no matter how much he offered in compensation, Lorene refused. No divorce.

  It was then that his little fantasy began to take shape. Thinking about it idly, he realized how easy it would be. A quiet trip to Boston once a week to map out her pattern, and set up the hit just the way he would have on a regular job. Then, with any one of the dozens of devices he had at his fingertips, he could elimi­nate his most pressing problem without a trace. And even if he made a slip—that could always happen—there was always the O Group to back him up and give him cover. The fantasy grew more elaborate every day, occupying more and more of his waking and thinking time until he knew that it was not just a fantasy but a very real possibility. He made a firm decision to put the idea into operation. That afternoon he received the usual summons from Colonel Parker.

  The usual computer printout was tossed across the desk at him, and there it was again, a detailed blueprint of his fantasy plan, up to and including a success probability factor of 93.0%.

  "Another bum rap?" the colonel asked acidly.

  Rakow mumbled, "It was just an idea I had. Sort of like prac­ticing for the real thing."

  "John, you are just about the dumbest man I have ever had in this squad."

  "I don't know about that, Colonel. That ninety-three percent makes me look pretty good."

  "That's what I mean by dumb. When are you going to realize that CYBER is way ahead of you? That ninety-three percent j
ust shrank to zero."

  "You mean you won't let me kill her?"

  The colonel winced. "I wish you wouldn't use language like that."

  "Okay. Extract."

  "Certainly not. What would this office be like if everybody used the Agency to settle their personal problems? Chaos! An­archy!"

  "Look, I never asked for any favors before—"

  "And don't start now. What makes you think you're so spe­cial? We've all wanted to get rid of our wives at one time or another."

  "But all I want is a normal life. Love and marriage, you know?"

  "Okay on the love, but no marriage," said the colonel in dis­missal. "CYBER says so."

  For the third time Rakow left the office shaking his head in wonderment, and it was the last time he ever tried to stay ahead of CYBER. The three incidents had given him an almost holy respect for the power of the machine, and now, standing on Helen's front porch in the Sunday-morning sunshine with the covering agents parked at both ends of the street, he nodded approvingly at the colonel's arrangements. Playing it out in the open this way, daring Mancuso to come to them, might seem like a high-risk proposition to most people, but CYBER had ordained it, and that was good enough for John Rakow.

  Two hours later, he sat at the breakfast table with Helen and the boy making plans for the day. The plans were not really necessary, since they did the same thing every Sunday: a ride out on the Interstate to the Busch Gardens amusement park. The Gardens was a complex of replicas of European villages, and it was Rakow's Sunday pleasure to sit in front of the cafe in the Bavarian Village, drink the dark German beer, eat Miinchner Weisswurst with potato dumplings, and listen to the music of the oompah band. The fact that he did this every Sunday without fail did not diminish the pleasure for him. Once, only once, Helen had suggested that they try the Italian Village, eat pasta and listen to Verdi, but when Rakow frowned she had quickly withdrawn the suggestion.