the Plan (1995)

by Stephen Cannell

  The film didn't seem ominous unless you knew who the players were. Cole recognized a few notorious figures. There was a shot of Meyer and Joe Colombo coming out of a Miami nightclub; shots of Meyer and Sam Giancana. They watched the ever-changing parade of Mafia princes and then, toward the end of the second tape, Cole jabbed the Pause button. The shot showed Meyer getting out of a taxicab with Joseph Alo. Lucinda saw her father as he was twenty-six years ago, and then, as they ran the tape farther, Mickey Alo got out of the cab. The camera zoomed in; Joseph could be seen talking. After a minute, the shot turned off and the monitoring federal agent held a slate in front of the lens that said: "July 5, 1970, Fontainebleau parking lot." That was the only film in which Mickey Alo appeared. But C. Wallace Litman made a surprise appearance in a shot taken in Las Vegas. An elevator camera in the Frontier Hotel photographed him talking briefly to Joseph Alo. They finished viewing the tapes, turned off the TV, and moved to the four seats that faced one another in the back of the cabin.

  "Strategy session," Cole said. "We got Meyer and C. Wallace Litman planning to use UBC to put a guy in the White House, saying Joe Alo is the quarterback. We got Meyer and Joseph Alo on film. And we got Joseph and Litman together in the Frontier elevator. We don't have anything to tie Haze Richards to Mickey Alo."

  "I overheard a telephone conversation between A. J. and Mickey talking about Bahamian funding for the Richards campaign," Ryan said.

  They sat in silence for a moment. They weren't sure it was enough.

  "If the federal government had Meyer Lansky on tape talking about gaining the presidency by using a TV network, why wouldn't they have done anything about it back then?" Lucinda asked.

  "Bunch a' reasons," Cole said. "In '71, network TV wasn't the huge political factor it is today. In '60, we had just begun to find out how powerful TV was when Nixon lost the presidency to Kennedy over a television debate. Second . . . these mob guys are always plotting ways to get back at the Justice Department. Most of it is just hot air. And third . . . you gotta remember these were illegal wiretaps. The government couldn't use them even if they wanted to. They might have wondered back then what he was talking about. The plan had a twenty-year timetable. That's too long for any fed I ever met. Kaz was the exception. They're looking for quick busts. As time passed and nothing happened, this stuff disappeared into a file and nobody gave a shit anymore; it was forgotten."

  Ryan nodded. "Let's say we've got enough proof here. How do we use it? If we put it in the wrong hands, it could get buried or discredited. We've already seen how dangerous Mickey is and how far he's willing to go to get this done."

  "We need to give that a lot of thought," Cole said, studiously. But he already knew what he wanted to do. "We don't have many options and I don't want to turn loose control of the story till it's in the right hands."

  Naomi knew exactly what Cole meant. They'd have to choose the outlet carefully. What they had was only the tip of the iceberg, but it was enough to attract official interest. Once the Justice Department started going through Litman's financial records, with special attention to Mary Carver Paints, she knew, it would all come out. But in the wrong hands, it could be distorted, the story altered. If they didn't spring it quickly, Litman and Mickey would have time to destroy the records before the Justice Department could move in.

  "We've only got two weeks," Cole continued. "In two weeks, Haze Richards is most likely going to be elected President and then it'll be too late. That means that in the next fourteen days we have to communicate this to the entire electorate and we have to pick somebody the public will believe."

  After half an hour's discussion, they chose Tom Brokaw at NBC because Cole used to play tennis with him and trusted him. He would contact Brokaw once they landed.

  Events changed everything.

  While the Hawker jet was still over the Atlantic, Mickey Alo pieced together what had happened in Israel.

  The Tel Aviv police had recovered Kaz's nine-millimeter automatic, which had been blown through the roof of the taxi and landed not two hundred feet from the site of the collision. The I. D. F.'s Special Investigations Section in Tel Aviv had been able to lift prints from the weapon and matched them to Solomon Kazorowski. The wire services reported that a gardener working next door to the Bach house had seen the taxi, presumably driven by Kazorowski, hit a blue sedan containing three unknown men. He had also seen two men and a woman hurrying down the Bachs' driveway. The gardener had given a fairly accurate set of descriptions. Mickey had called Silvio from a pay phone. Silvio said that they had better meet.

  They stood next to a noisy fountain in the park off Third Street near Little Italy.

  "I think he's dead," Silvio said, speaking of the Ghost. "How can you be sure?"

  "He told me if he fails to check in every noon, then he is gone. He has already missed one call." Silvio's shoulders were sagging. "I think he was in that explosion."

  "He got Kazorowski."

  "The others are alive; they got away." He looked at Mickey and wanted to get away from him. When he had set up the contract, he didn't know that Mickey Alo had ordered the death of his own sister. He couldn't conceive of the evil that would allow for that act.

  They met in the Rhode Island governor's mansion. Mickey had been told to park in the back, that a state trooper would meet him there. He was instructed to say that he was John Harrington. The trooper would ask no questions once he heard that name. Mickey would be escorted up a back elevator to the den in the governor's suite on the second floor. Haze had been assigned a Secret Service team as the Democratic nominee, but he could still shrug them off since he was being accorded that protection as a courtesy. His Secret Service contingent would be left at the airfield and his old troop of state police officers, who had covered him for two terms in the Rhode Island state house, would take care of the escort to the governor's mansion. It was all done without notifying the press and they swept into the underground garage four hours after Mickey had requested a meeting. Haze stepped out of the limo with A . J. Both men had circles under their eyes, but Haze, just back from Europe, managed to look presidential. His suit fit him perfectly. It was a deep blue with maroon tie and a perfectly folded pocket square. He shook hands with several of the troopers who had been friends over the years, and then used the "governor's lift" up to the family quarters. Once A . J. and Haze were alone in the elevator, Haze looked over at him.

  `This flicking guy. . . . You know what we had to go through to pull this off?"

  "Haze, don't. Mickey's a killer. Don't fuck around with Mickey."

  Haze looked at A. J. coldly, but said nothing. The door opened and they stepped into the governor's quarters. They found Mickey in the den. He turned as they walked into the room.

  "I don't have much time," Haze said. The little mobster reminded him of the low road that had brought him to this place of power. "I can only give you ten minutes."

  "Really? Only ten?"

  Haze missed the ominous sarcasm in the remark. "I have a schedule, I'm on thirty-minute intervals until Elec-

  tion Day. I've allotted two intervals for this meeting." "Then let me get right to it. You remember Ryan Bolt?"

  "Vaguely. He was doing that documentary that never happened."

  "He and a guy named Solomon Kazorowski, an ex-fed, and Cole Harris and, of all people, my own sister are trying to prove that I put you in this game and used the United Broadcasting Company to fuel your candidacy."

  "So . . . ?"

  "So, if they can prove that, it's gonna go down hard. The public is gonna rise up and you ain't gonna be President, chickie."

  "How do you know that's what they're trying to do?"

  "Forget how I know it. Kaz is dead, but they were messing around in Israel looking for something that could hurt us. I need to find out what exactly they're looking for and what they already have. I need you to call around in the JusticeDepartment and find out what a man named Gavriel Bach could have had that could hurt us. There's gotta be a f
ile down there someplace. I don't know where else to start."

  "We're getting our national security briefings from a guy named Gideon Black," A. J. said. "We could call him, see what he's got."

  Haze made the call but couldn't keep the impatience out of his voice. He resented Mickey's hold over him. He promised himself that once he was elected, he would find a way to break it.

  Gideon Black was at his desk, working late when he got the call. 'The head of the Middle Eastern section is a career diplomat named Abel McNair," he said. "I can hunt him up and have him call you, sir."

  "If that wouldn't be too much trouble," Haze said, knowing the man would kill himself to get the job done.

  Within five minutes, the phone rang and Abel McNair was on the line with the man he was pretty sure would be the next President of the United States. After Haze told him what he wanted, Abel McNair remembered the conversation he'd had with Kazorowski. He had just heard on CNN that Kaz had been murdered in Israel. He knew "the flag was up."

  "I think I can help you, sir," Abel said. "Kazorowski called me about two months ago trying to find out about a deal that was cut between the Justice Department and Gavriel Bach to keep Mr. Lansky out of Israel. Apparently, the department gave Bach some unspecified material. Wiretaps, I think, proving that Meyer had criminal connections. Kaz was looking for that material. I don't know what it could be, but I could try to find out."

  "That won't be necessary. Thank you." Haze hung up and reported to A. J. and Mickey what McNair had told him.

  "Wiretaps?" Mickey repeated, his heart beginning to sink. "Kaz was looking for something to tie Meyer to my father. Ryan was looking for a way to prove this election was rigged by our control of UBC. Meyer was in the plan from the beginning. He and my father hatched the plot in the early seventies. God knows how many times he and my dad might have talked about it. If the foils had any of that on tape, it could be explosive."

  "Was there anything else or can I get back to the airport?" Haze said, as if he really wasn't affected by any of this.

  "Yeah, there is ... I need to force Ryan and Cole Harris underground so if they have anything dangerous, they can't use ill need to discredit them so people won't believe them."

  "Howie we gonna do that?" Haze asked.

  "You're the Democratic nominee for the presidency of the United States. Ryan Bolt used to work for your campaign. He was hired to do a documentary, but he was a little nuts. A. J. had to fire him. Ryan promised that he was going to get even. Tonight, he and this outta work newsman, Cole Harris, called you up here in the governor's m ansion. They threatened your life. A . J. was on the extension and heard it all."

  "You gotta be kidding," Haze said.

  "If they threatened your life on top of being involved in that car bomb explosion in Israel, the Secret Service is gonna go ballistic. . . . It'll drive them underground."

  "It's a pretty good plan," A. J. said. "With a nationwide manhunt on, whatever they got is gonna be a lot harder to unload."

  By the time the Reuters jet touched down in New Jersey, their pictures were already on the ten o'clock news.

  Chapter 64.

  RUNNING

  IF THEY HAD LANDED AT NEW YORK'S KENNEDY AIRport, it would have been over, but they touched down at Levit Field in New Jersey, where the customs contingent consisted of two old men in a shed waiting out their retirement. Nobody had been into the fax room for hours t o l ook at recent transmittals. The customs officials boarde d t he private jet, steaming coffee mugs in hand, looked a t t he passports, asked a few routine questions, and stampe d e verybody's reentry forms. In ten minutes, the four of the m w ere in a taxicab, heading into Trenton.

  They pulled up at a Days Inn, and while Ryan held the cab, Cole went inside to make sure there was a vacancy. The big television in the lobby was on CNN. As Cole moved to the desk and told the clerk he needed two rooms, he heard Wolf Blitzer mention his name.

  ". . . fired news correspondent Cole Harris."

  Cole turned and saw an old UBC employee photograph of himself filling the screen. In the picture, he needed a shave and looked like an ax murderer.

  The clerk was trying not to register shock that the man being called a violent terrorist on TV was standing right in front of him.

  Wolf Blitzer continued: "Allegedly, Mr. Harris and an unemployed television producer named Ryan Bolt and the sister of New Jersey underworld kingpin Michael Alo are involved in a plot to assassinate presidential candidate Haze Richards."

  "Son of a bitch," Cole said and ran out of the lobby to where Ryan was standing next to the cabbie, talking.

  "They're full. Let's go." He all but pushed Ryan into the cab. Cole told the cabbie to get going and take them into Trenton. They pulled out of the parking lot and down the road. Ryan and Lucinda started to protest, but Cole grabbed Lucinda's arm and shook his head in silent warning. Naomi had been on enough dangerous stories to know enough to shut up and play along. A few miles farther on, they passed two New Jersey state police cars with red lights and sirens, speeding in the opposite direction.

  When they finally got to the outskirts of Trenton, it was almost eleven P. M. Cole pointed to a bus stop. "Pull up here. We can take the bus to Virginia," he said for the driver's benefit.

  They got out, taking their suitcases from the trunk while Ryan paid the fare.

  "The bus to Virginia? What's going on?" Ryan asked after the cab pulled away.

  "We're on the news . . . not Naomi, but the rest of us. They're saying we're trying to kill Haze Richards." "We're what?" Ryan said, astounded.

  "Yeah. There's an FBI manhunt or something. . . It sounds big. The clerk back there had his mouth fall so far open, I was counting fillings. I figured I'd better get outta there."

  "What'll we do?" Lucinda asked.

  "That cabbie will have the cops heading to Virginia and there's a hotel back up this street. Naomi can get us a room . . . make sure it's got a TV. We gotta find out how bad this is."

  The hotel was a woodsy, four-story fishing lodge on the outskirts of town called The Angler. Naomi checked herself into a suite under an assumed name, then went down the back stairs and let them in a side door.

  Ten minutes later, they were watching the whole, awful story on CNN. It was much worse than they expected.

  "Ryan had been very irrational for months," Marty Lanier was saying from the NBC boardroom where he was doing an interview with a glamorous CNN field correspondent. "He had become sort of . . . well, I hate to say it, but anti-Semitic. He attacked me in the screening room and security had to be called to remove him." Ryan thought he detected a slight smile under Marty's grave demeanor. The CNN correspondent turned to the camera.

  `The police in Los Angeles now suspect there may be a connection between Mr. Bolt's increasingly violent behavior and the shooting death of his former secretary. Elizabeth Applegate, just three days ago. Ms. Applegate was found in the bathtub of her apartment where she'd been shot in the head with a twenty-two-caliber dumdum bullet"

  Ryan dropped his head into his hands. When he looked up, his expression was a mask of agony. Then he went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  As they sat in silence, the TV shot switched back to Wolf Blitzer.

  "We now have a report from the U. S. Customs Service that the three fugitives arrived from Israel tonight on a private jet belonging to Reuters News Bureau. The pilots are currently being interviewed. They landed at a small airfield in New Jersey. Also aboard was Naomi Zur, a photographer for Reuters."

  "Welcome to the club," Cole said grimly as Naomi's picture hit the screen.

  Blitzer droned on. "This is all somehow linked to the explosion in Israel yesterday that claimed the life of ex-FBI agent Solomon Kazorowski and three unknown Israelis. Rental car records are being checked to ascertain the identities of the other parties. The three fugitives and Solomon Kazorowski had contacted the widow of the late Israeli prosecutor Gavriel Bach yesterday, lied to her, and told her that they were doing a story fo
r Time magazine, and needed to gain access to some old records Bach had apparently saved. They went to Mrs. Bach's house outside of Tel Aviv, where they broke in and were later involved in a shootout with the three Israelis. Justice Department sources close to the investigation say that this appears to be part of a very serious plot to kill the Democratic nominee for President of the United States."

  They channel-surfed. There were background stories on all of them, including Naomi and Lucinda.

  Ryan came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, sat on the bed, and said nothing. When the stories started to repeat themselves, Cole turned off the set.

  "Ain't this a bitch?" he said. "But I got an idea that could get us where we wanna go."

  "This I gotta hear," Naomi said.

  "I want you to hear this all the way out because I've been giving it a lot of thought. We kidnap the UBC feed. Put our story up on the satellite ourselves. Broadcast it the way we want it. We'll use C. Wallace Litman's own network to destroy his plan. We've got enough evidence and the know-how. . . . All we need is a little guts and Ingenuity."

  "What're you smoking?" Naomi said.

  "They were going to use the network to accomplish their plan. We'll use it to destroy them. We broadcast this, then the other networks are gonna have to pick up on it. They'll force Justice to trace Litman's records.

  "If we produce the right broadcast, we can bring them down. . . . It's not impossibly hard to kidnap a TV signal. It's doable."

  "I still think we should take it to Brokaw, Naomi said flatly.

  "Nobody is going to believe us now. We're crackpots. They're going to spend all their time indicting us. Nobody is going to look at what we have."

  "You don't know that," Lucinda said.

  "I know it. Come on. . . . I was one of those arrogant jackals for thirty years." He spun on Ryan.

  "And you gotta come to the party, Ryan. I know you just got a helluva shock, but snap out of it. I can't have you sitting there looking at your shoes."

  "Go fuck yourself, Cole."