The Wolf: A Novel

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  It was no easy task and took three years to accomplish.

  I logged thousands of air miles and talked to hundreds of contacts—from deep cover intelligence operatives to mercenaries to some of the best assassins in the international organized crime universe. And before I contacted the six chosen for the job, I had extensive background checks done and psychological profiles drawn up. I left nothing to chance. I took the selection of my Silent Six as serious as any endeavor I had undertaken in my years as a crime boss.

  They are the best at what they do and they do it only for me.

  They operate in complete secrecy; no one is aware they exist. They are my invisible army, sent to make the impossible possible.

  That is why, on this night, they were situated inside the walls of a compound in northern Yemen, ready to take out forty combatants and bring me a man I needed for a hard conversation.

  The team was equipped with microscopic night-vision cameras, strapped to their backpacks and the sleeves of their jackets. They also had high-def audio equipment wrapped around their gun belts. This allowed me to see and hear what they did from a penthouse apartment thousands of miles away. It was like watching a video game of my own creation, played before my eyes.

  “We can make our move any time from here in.”

  It was the voice of team leader David Lee Burke. He was huddled in a corner of the outer perimeter of the compound, his muscular body coiled and braced.

  “You have confirmation our guy is in the house?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Burke responded. “Both from high-level intel and our own street informants. If he left here, he did it on a cloud. No one has seen him come out since he went in three days ago.”

  “When he does come out, I need him to be breathing,” I said. “Anything less and it’s a burnt mission.”

  “Can’t guarantee he won’t take a bullet,” Burke told me. “We’ll do our best not to hit him, but sometimes, well …”

  “A guy turns the wrong way,” I said.

  “Something along those lines,” he said.

  I liked David Lee Burke and always appreciated his candor and lack of airs. He was a decorated Green Beret, expert in hand-to-hand combat and as close to a ninja warrior as anyone this side of the Yakuza. He was also a husband who had lost a wife to cancer, and a father who had buried a teenage daughter. A man who sought his comfort in the day-to-day skirmishes of war.

  In my line of work we have associates we like and associates we pretend to like. We have more than our share of enemies and have forged alliances with factions from every part of the world. What we don’t have are many friends outside the life, and that is one mob rule that will never change. But there were a few I knew I could count on, and David was in that small circle.

  “It’s time,” I said to this man waiting at the other end of the world to kill as many people as he needed in order to bring back one man alive.

  One I knew would bring me closer to the identity of the person who murdered my wife and daughters.

  Chapter 16

  East Hampton, New York

  I sat in the brick-lined backyard of my uncle’s main house on a bench beneath a weeping willow. Jimmy was at my side, his electronic wheelchair equipped with more devices than I would find in an airline cockpit. I caught the look of concern on his face as the morning sun warmed his already tan features. “You understand why this needs to be done,” I said to him.

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Then you also understand how dangerous it will be,” I said. “But we don’t have a choice. Maybe we can put it off for a year or two, but what would be the point? We grow older and weaker and the other side bolder and stronger. The time is now. Win or lose.”

  There was no one I trusted more than Jimmy. I loved him as much as I did my own son. Jimmy, locked inside a silent world since birth, spoke to me in a way I could understand. As I said, if health had permitted, he would have been chosen to take the reins of the business. He had all the mental tools, and mettle.

  Jimmy was by my side through the funeral mass for my wife and daughters, then sealed himself away and refused to see anyone for a week. My daughters loved spending time with him, and he doted on them and was the only member of the family my wife allowed to spoil them. He was the first one I went to with my plan, and I knew he would be there to guide me through the difficult days that would follow. In many ways, I thought of Jimmy as my secret weapon—the one person I could count on to stand beside me no matter how dark the tide.

  “Is it the Strega?” I asked.

  Jimmy nodded.

  “You never trusted her,” I said, catching the tilt of his head and the rise of his eyebrows. “But she’s always come through for us when we needed her help. And we need her help now, Jimmy. This Raza is working out of her turf, and if we’re going to wipe his plate clean, we need her.”

  Jimmy leaned his head back against the thick black leather of his chair and looked up at a clear blue sky. I had been in his company for a long time and could pick up on every gesture he made.

  “Nobody rides with us for free,” I said. “She’ll want something in return. That doesn’t make her different than any of the other crews. Nobody is in this because he thinks it’s the right thing to do. They’re in it because of the damage the terrorists and Russians will do to their bottom line. No different than us.”

  Jimmy lifted his head and gave me a hard stare.

  “Right,” I said. “Maybe it is different for me. It may take a while to find the truth, but I’ll find it. I’ll do whatever I have to.”

  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.�
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  “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.”