by James Burke
Dennis smiled. "Just somewhere with conditions more favorable to him than South Florida, sir. But where, I could only guess. I'm sure it will not be in the U.S."
"Why not?"
"With all that illegal blackmail money, he wants to be as far from the feds as he can. He'd figure we might even arrange to turn him in.,,
"And so, Dennis, we come to the nub of the situation. How would you propose to handle it from here on in?"
"Depends on your opinion of Santa's proposal and what kind of, uh, punishment you want him to get."
The old man chuckled, quietly at first, then louder, and finally slapping his thigh in glee. "Very good. I like your way of getting to the point, my boy. Let's have some food and we can talk about it."
It was small talk, sports, politics, weather, until the dishes were cleared away. Then they both sat back, each with a large snifter of some incredibly old and smooth brandy. Conners had again been amazed at the width and depth of the old man's knowledge. He was well informed, articulate, and interesting, and in addition, he seemed very willing to listen. Finally, he set his snifter on a small table and swiveled his chair to face Conners. It was obviously business time again.
"Oh yes, Dennis, you asked two questions - simple, good questions - and I'll try to answer them in kind. First: yes, as a proposal, this Santa man's offer appears reasonable. You might say a reasonable business exchange, assuming that the note books are the property of the late Dante Cappacino. But this Santa man does not know that Dante planned to use these books to harm us, his friends, his people. This changes the whole thing. So, Dennis, my answer is no! I do not like the proposal. I do not want this man to tell us what we can and cannot have of those things we must have to survive. I do not like his conceit, I do not like his style, and I will not agree to let him live happily on our money in return for a silence I can get more surely in other ways." The old man's voice was icy, his eyes like hot coals. "Dennis, I will not have this amateur piss on me to the tune of two or three million dollars, and then ask to wipe his cock on my face towel. I cannot have it. You understand?"
Conners nodded, then the old man sat back and seemed to relax a bit. "I suppose I have answered both your questions at once, have I not?"
"Yes sir, you have. Very clearly. And what of Mr. Latellier?"
"Oh, Frankie's problems are his own. You know his real name is Lavarelli and he's still under indictment in New York for murder one on those two feds - treasury men. With this and the aftermath of the Dante business, he's got more trouble than he can handle right now in the Corse. If this Santa man's date and place - that Paris business - refers to what I think it does, Frankie will consider one million to be a bargain, a very good - oh yes, and necessary - business investment. But in any event this is what I want and I can assure you that when I tell him so, Frankie will be happy to go along with us. Dennis, I want this fucking Santa man's head on one plate and the notebooks on another. The money if you can get it will be a sweetener, but it's secondary. I will insist that Frankie buy into the deal. I don't want his secret. We got enough problems without causing a Corse blowup along the way. We'll help Frankie save his ass and we'll give it to him as a present. Maybe that'll give us a couple more years of peace before some other asshole works out a plan to steal our operations. Okay?"
"Yes sir, I understand."
"So what would you propose to do, my boy?"
Conners swiveled his chair so that he looked out over the still, snow-covered grounds of the estate. Then he turned his head to meet the old man's gaze and started to talk.
16
Martine Vallin looked with critical satisfaction at the naked body in the floor-to-ceiling mirror of her bathroom. At age twenty-nine- and who was alive to question her arithmetic? she still had the gamine face that had appealed to men since she was twelve, and her slender frame still bulged in only the proper places. She was pleased. Martine's body was her fortune. The face was attractive - an anomaly with the blond hair and blue eyes of her French father and the dark golden brown complexion of her Arab mother - but it was her perfect body that had propelled her from the alleyways of the Marseilles waterfront to this mansion high on a hill overlooking the bustling Riviera. She had learned about men the hard way at age thirteen when she was brutally raped and sodomized by two drunken sailors in a waterfront hotel, and that day she had resolved that henceforth she would "use" men. She had kept this resolution. At twenty-five she had been one of Marseilles' most successful madames. That was when she met Francois. He was old enough to be her father, but he had young ideas and seemingly inexhaustible supplies of money, so when he proposed that she come to live with him in Nice, she had accepted with alacrity.
The arrangement was most attractive for her. She had her own suite of rooms in the huge house, and Francois had his. She came to his only when he asked for her, and he honored her privacy in the same fashion. But best of all, at last she had an acceptable status in the community. Francois was sexually demanding but financially generous; in return he asked just two things, her body and her loyalty. She had given both, willingly and exclusively, until four weeks ago.
Martine shivered slightly at the recollection. The handsome dark-haired young man had approached her in the greengrocers - she always picked out the ingredients for Francois's meals herself - and two nights later they had become lovers. Mon Dieu! What she had been missing these many years. Of course, to make love for love, not for money, that was the answer. Khaled was young and strong and passionate, and he treated her with a gentleness and respect that was totally new, but most of all he was expressing his love for her person, not just using her body to satisfy the bestial needs of his manhood.
Before the first week was up, Khaled had told her why he had sought her out and approached her, but he swore that the love that had sprung up between them was as real as it was unexpected. She believed him. He said he was a Palestinian patriot, but not, he assured her, a terrorist. Finally, he told Martine a bizarre tale of cross and double cross and explained his real objective. She trusted him implicitly, so when he told her what she must do to assist him, she agreed readily.
Martine turned from the mirror as her intercom buzzed. It was François. Could she visit him in fifteen minutes? She agreed. She sat there frowning. François with his coarse impatient hands, his often-limp organ, and his strange demands had begun to sicken her once she'd made love for love with Khaled. But she had to keep up the pretense. Khaled was returning tonight, then in a couple of days it would be all over. She made her face with the wet red mouth and darkened eyes that François preferred, slipped on a high-necked flannel robe, and began the familiar journey to the master suite.
François Latellier had just hung up the phone. He had been talking to Giacomo Malfalcone, or as he was known today, Albert Henry. Always bad news. He could not remember ever getting good news on the long distance. Always bad. And this call had been no exception. Latellier remembered most of the conversation word for word.
"Frankie, it's Jake from Jersey." He had laughed, as expected, at this old private joke.
"Jake, my friend, how are you? It's always good to hear your voice."
''I'm fine, Frankie." "And all the boys?"
"Great. Just great."
"And business?"
"Not bad, Frankie, not bad at all. But we do have a little problem, I guess you could call it a mutual problem, which is why I'm calling today."
Latellier strained hard to keep the coldness out of his voice. "A problem, Jake? What kind?"
"Well, Frankie, we had a heist some weeks ago. Some dirty fucking bagman hit us for a couple mil and some real hot records. The dough we could write off, of course, but the records, Frankie, they're another matter. The feds could kill us with’em"
"Yes, I see. Business records, huh?"
"Sort of, Frankie - but really more on the order of personnel records. You know, people secretly on our payroll."
Holy shit! François thought. That old bastard is talking ab
out Dante's courier system. Fer Chrissakes, why is he being so cozy? That's the stuff Dante wanted to sell us. Old Jake must be senile. Didn't he think Marcella would have told his old pal Frankie? Then, he realized he was running ahead without the facts. Jake was still talking. ". . . and this little asshole wants two point two mil in clean green to give us back our own records.''
"He sounds like a candidate for a long swim in a cement suit, Jake. Got a line on him yet?"
"Yeah, we're on his tail and got somebody inside, but still the guy is tricky. Don't worry, though, Frankie, we'll squash him like a bug."
"I’m sure a' that, Jake, but what is the 'mutual problem'?"
"Well, Frankie, it seems that this guy has another document, which he says is of interest to you fellows. No, as a matter of fact, Frankie, he didn't put it quite that way. He said it was of particular interest to you. "
"To me? What is it?" This time Latellier did not succeed in keeping the hardness out of his voice.
"We don't know, Frankie, but maybe you can figure it out. The blackmailer said to tell you that the key words were 'Quetta, Samir, Paris, and December '83.' We do know he was in touch with our late friend, Dante, and it is possible that he found this document in Dante's place, or even that Dante gave it to him; what it refers to, I cannot even hazard a guess."
François’s blood pressure was soaring. He could feel the pulse pounding in his temples and it seemed impossible that he would be able to speak, but finally he forced the words out in a surprisingly steady tone. "That's interesting, Jake, but I don't see what it is to me."
"I don't know either, Frankie, but this asshole bagman seemed pretty sure it would be important to you. In fact, he wants one million green for it. He said you'd consider that a bargain. What a nervy little bastard, huh?"
''I'm glad you plan to squash him, Jake. He's too smart to live." Latellier seemed to have his composure back at last.
Jake went on. "As I said, the story doesn't mean a thing to us, so we're certainly not interested in buying it at any price. Our only concern was to make sure it would not be harmful to you, so I'll leave the decision up to you. Frankie. Oh yeah, I forgot - the little bastard said he really didn't care who bought the document as long as he got his price."
Latellier was thoughtful. "How much time do we have, Jake?"
"At least a few weeks. We still gotta hear from the little asshole as to time and place for an exchange."
"Well, off hand it doesn't ring a bell, Jake, but since we've got time let me check around a bit and get back to you. And, Jake . . ."
"Yeah."
"I really appreciate your coming directly to me on this. Don't know if it's important, but thanks for handling it this way."
"No other way among old friends, Frankie."
"You're right, Jake, but sometimes our friends forget this."
"Sad but true, Frankie. Take care of yourself."
"Will do, my friend. Let me know when you hear from the blackmailer, and anything I can do to help - just ask."
"Right. G'bye."
"Bye and thanks again."
He sat there a moment just shaking his head. Of course he hadn't fooled Jake anymore than Jake had fooled him. The old bastard had probably figured out the bare bones of the situation, but he couldn't know how critical things really were. Jake knew about the Corse relations with the Palestinians and why they were necessary; what he didn't know was that the Quetta story could really blow old Frankie and the Corse out of the water. If that document was what he suspected it was, a million green was a bargain; in fact it was such a bargain that it was obvious the blackmailer didn't realize what he had. But then neither did Jake. In fact nobody but ole Frankie had all the facts, because only he knew about the plans of the half breed bitch and her long-cocked gook lover.
To think he'd almost taken that bug out of her bedroom. She'd been clean as a whistle for four years, played it his way, done everything he'd asked. He'd almost felt guilty about bugging her place and listening to the tapes every couple days or so. But something told him to leave it in; after all, it had brought him one bonus that had been terrific. A year or so ago, he'd listened to the methodical and artful seduction of a young housemaid by Martine. He'd almost got his rocks off just running the tape while the sounds and whispers went from shocked refusal to willing and compliant participation. Then it had become a steady thing, and he'd tired of this aural voyeurism; he'd almost decided to "discover" it and end it, although it hadn't seemed to affect in any way Martine's servicing of him. In fact it might just have enhanced it a bit, but he got a better idea. He did pretend to discover their affair, but instead of punitive action, he simply ordered them to provide personal performances for him when he so desired. The bitch hadn't liked this at all, but she had no choice. And the maid - hell, if the bitch said, "shit," she'd squat and strain like one of those fucking Russian dogs. It had ended a couple months ago when the girl ran off to another town and got married. He'd let her go. He was getting tired of that too, although at first he'd considered having her and her new husband killed just to tie down the loose end. He figured it was better this way anyhow. The little peasant had a fascinating body and Martine had taught her tricks you wouldn't believe. Hell, all he had to do was hint that he'd mail a few glossy prints to her new husband and she'd be on her back or knees, whatever he wanted, up in his bedroom. He'd relished the idea of having a backup whore whenever he needed her.
And then a month ago - bingo! He had hit the jackpot with his little bug. Mother of shit! He was so fucking mad the first night when he heard her moan and gasp and whimper for the gook's cock that he almost went down there and shot 'em both, but his good sense told him the gook was after something besides the bitch's pussy, so he hung in there and listened.
Good thing he had. In between having to listen to the love sick Arab bitch tell the gook how wonderful he was and how she'd do anything for him - and from some of the sounds that came over the mike, she really meant it - he heard at first hand the details of a very clever plot aimed at ridding the world of one François Latellier! This bothered him, of course, but he knew how to handle this kind of thing. Shit! Better people than this gook had been trying to kill him for years. What really shook him up was the reason. There was no doubt in Latellier's mind that the story the gook told the bitch was a reference to Quetta. That was really bad. It had to be that treacherous son of a bitch Samir. Goddamn those soldiers for letting him get away. Samir must be feeling the pangs of remorse and so he's told somebody about Quetta. If the Palestinian leaders ever got a whiff of that from anybody they believed, scratch one Frankie Latellier. That one, even he couldn't handle.
Latellier shrugged resignedly. He knew he had to go along with the blackmail. In fact he had to pick it up himself wherever the crazy guy wanted - unless, of course, he choose the U.S. Anyway, whatever happened, this was one that Frankie Latellier had to handle himself, and handle it he would.
He'd called the bitch and told her to come up. Might as well have one more ride before he killed the pony. It was all set for tonight when she and the gook crawled into the sack. Vicente would seal the windows and then pump the carbon monoxide in through the heat vent. They'd be found, probably still hooked up like a couple dogs, in the morning, and the flies would find the faulty heat unit. Vicente would have stripped the tape off the windows long before, and of course, the flies would understand why Monsieur wished a hushed-up affair and a quick burial: after all, cuckolded by a gook! They'd understand.
A knock at the door. Martine came in. She was so lovely. What a waste! What a body. Once inside the door, she automatically reached up and began to unbutton her robe. It had always been the rule that she wore nothing while she was in the master suite. Naked, she stood by the door; head bowed slightly, obeisantly awaiting an indication of his desires. There was such a variety, she thought, so many nights, so many pictures - she was disgusted remembering the albums and blowups in that horrid room off his bedroom - so many debasements, so many ri
tuals. He had to have the mind of the devil to think up all these things, but she had done them and taken his money in return. She disgusted herself. But soon, just a couple more days, and it would be over forever. Then she and Khaled would become real people - married, babies. Oh God, let it be. Please let it be!
The degenerate old man just sat there in his chair looking hungrily at her body, then finally he opened his robe and gestured expressively with his head. Martine Vallin walked slowly to him, knelt, and slowly began the ministrations he had commanded.
17
The harried stewardess envied the handsome honeymoon couple from Milan relaxing in their wide, tipped-back chairs in the front section of the huge jet. The plane was passing over the lush, river-veined jungles of the Ganges delta at 40,000 feet. It was a spectacular scene in the gray light of early dawn, but the couple seemed interested only in each other. The girl, curled in her seat so that her head could rest on the man's shoulder, was the picture of connubial contentment. No one had told the stewardess they were honeymooners. No one had to. It was obvious from the way they looked at each other, the way the woman openly admired and twisted those gorgeous rings, and then too by the way they always seemed to find reasons for touching. They'd been on the flight since Geneva, where the stewardess got on, and they, too, were going to Hong Kong. Oh, they were friendly enough if you asked them a question, but mostly they seemed to want to talk to, look at, and fondle each other. The man was very dark and handsome in a classical Mediterranean way, but the girl was something else. With that long straight hair, black and shining, and that perfect complexion, and those fabulous chiseled features. She was much too beautiful.
The "honeymooners" stayed three days and nights in Hong Kong. It was endlessly bustling and fascinating, a fairyland of sea, sky, islands, and mountains, each vista more compelling and spectacular than the one before it, and they crammed action into each moment. It was a reluctant couple who dragged themselves back out to Kai Tak Airport the last morning to board the flight to Sydney.
