by James Burke
They all seemed to be waiting happily for something, but as a couple of minutes went by, their faces began to reflect concern. Then, suddenly, there was a distant boom, flat and dull, but distinct and powerful sounding. Conners smiled widely, raised two fingers toward his right eyebrow in a mock salute, and said in a psuedo-grave tone, "Merry Christmas to you, Santa man!"
The devil-man actually smiled, raised his glass to Conners, and sipped from it. The corners of the vampire's horizontal mouth twitched, and then turned up, just a bit. The three men finished their drinks and ordered another round. Again they seemed to be waiting for something. After about twenty minutes an athletic-looking young Polynesian dressed in white slacks and a brightly flowered shirt appeared in the doorway to the reception area. He spotted the three men at the table and walked toward them, his face breaking into a wide, white toothed smile. Then the young Polynesian looked directly at Conners and raised his right hand with the thumb and forefinger forming a circle. When the young man joined them, there was handshaking all around, more drinks and toasts, until the loudspeaker called them for check-in on their departing flight.
Ms. Leslie Cantrelle finished mixing a round of drinks for the passengers in the last row of first-class seats on Quantas's nonstop flight from Papeete to Acapulco. Those three blokes must either be scared or celebrating: they were quaffing the free whiskey as fast as she could mix 'em. On second thought, it had to be a celebration; they were laughing too much, as if they were sharing some huge joke. Except for the creepy old man with the weird hairdo! What a mean-lookin' bahstud he was. Always staring at her crotch like he could see right through the uniform. He made her feel crawly and dirty, and unfortunately the creep was going all the way to London. Oh well, as long as he didn't start groping when the lights went down she could stand the staring.
Her intercom station buzzed. It was the flight deck. "Les, would you come up here please. Captain would like to chat with you."
"Be right there." She delivered the drinks on the way, and the "creepy bahstud" stared at her crotch the whole time. She knocked at the flight deck door. It opened.
"Come in, Les."
She went to the space immediately behind the left seat and stood. The captain turned in his seat to address her. "Leslie, we've got a problem. It's minor in terms of safety but major in terms of passenger convenience, and I want you to brief the rest of the cabin crew so they 'll be prepared to handle any questions or difficulties that may arise. We have an overheating engine, number three, and while there is no immediate danger, I and home base feel it would be foolish to continue to Acapulco. In a few minutes we will reach the point on our course where we are closest to Hawaii, and I've been instructed to proceed to Honolulu for necessary repairs. Now there's nothing to be worried about and I want you to make sure all attendants understand that. When you've briefed them, buzz me and I'll make the announcement."
"Yes sir. Will do."
"Thanks, Les, we're counting on you to carry this off."
Stewardess Cantrelle had performed her tasks as assigned and was delivering another drink to the creep and his friends when the skipper made his announcement. My God! She thought the old fart was gonna have apoplexy or worse right there in his seat. He turned green, then white, spilled and sputtered his drink all over, and generally looked like he'd been kicked in the bloody groin by a kangaroo. (Not a bad idea come to think of it.) Was he upset! And for what? He didn't seem that scared of the mechanical threat. The good-looking, polite, blond fellow finally got him calmed down by telling him that the stop was just an unforeseen emergency that had nothing to do with him personally; but creepy was still three sheets and looked like he'd founder any minute. About that time Ms. Cantrelle got a call for assistance from another station and happily left that grouping.
An hour and a half later they touched down at Honolulu International. The creepy old bloke tried to stay on the plane during the repairs but left quietly when the second officer told him rather forcefully that this was against airline and airport regulations and was strictly enforced. Leslie was the last of the cabin crew to leave, and she was following behind the creep and his friends when they entered the transient lounge. She didn't notice how it happened - there was no unusual commotion - but suddenly seven or eight men surrounded the three passengers. One of the newcomers said something to the creep and showed him a paper and what looked like a passport or card case. Then a nice-looking, well-dressed man took a pair of handcuffs out of his waistband and proceeded to put them on the creep's wrists and lead him away. The other two got the same treatment, but without the handcuffs. It was all over inside a minute, and they were gone, with those American blokes carrying the little briefcases those passengers had been so careful with. They didn't even go through customs.
22
Within days of the arrest of Frank Lavarelli - a.k.a. François Latellier - at Honolulu International Airport a number of interesting, and to the Corporation, ominous, events began to occur. As the drama unfolded they realized that it was disastrous, maybe even terminal. The scoreboard looked like this:
There were fifty-seven arrests of customs, immigration, and police officials - middle-to-high-level in eleven different countries and rumor had it that Interpol, supported and pushed strongly by the U.S. government, was in the process of getting cooperation from eight other nations for similar crackdowns on their exit and entry procedures. No matter, actually, because once the arrests started, even the braver culprits among the as yet unarrested were neutralized; they didn't want to play anymore.
In the States, eighteen middle- to high-level customs and immigration officers, divided almost equally among New York, Miami, New Orleans, and Los Angeles, quietly resigned rather than face charges. Thirteen of them were subsequently indicted by grand juries in their respective areas. The charges, while possibly not provable because of the absence of some critical witnesses, were sufficiently solid to cause these officials grave concern and to insure that they would not rule on official matters again in this life.
Two New Jersey men, employees of a construction company identified in the press as a Corporation front, were arrested by the FBI and indicted by a federal grand jury for the brutal, fake-accident slaying of John Rayboldt, Jr., M.D., on the George Washington Parkway, a federal reservation area near Washington, D.C., on the night of February 17.
Two other men, employees of a Chicago warehousing firm, similarly identified by the press as a Corporation front organization, and Bruno Bamowicz, a former professor of chemistry at an Illinois state college, were arrested and rapidly indicted in Chicago on the charge of first degree murder for the February 18 auto-bomb slaying of alleged Corporation official James Matthewson and his secretary, Cassandra Porter.
But in terms of arrests, the most significant incident of all was that which occurred in New Jersey on May 5. Federal officers arrested Albert Henry, alias Alberto Henrici, Giacomo Malfalcone, et al., on thirteen counts of income tax evasion.
Lavarelli, ex-syndicate official in the U.S., known in France, where he has resided since 1977, as François Latellier, had been under indictment since 1977 for the first degree murder of two special agents of the U.S. Treasury Department. He was scheduled for trial on these charges beginning May 31 but was found dead in his New York jail cell on May 2, an apparent suicide. Noteworthy in regard to this development were two separate but related events: one, the government of France had formally requested extradition of Lavarelli/Latellier on April 30 to stand trial for a double murder that occurred at his home near the city of Nice in early April. The victims were identified as his mistress, French citizen Martine Vallin, and Lebanese/Palestinian citizen Khaled Jamata. Two, the Palestinian terrorist group "Black September," announced via the Libyan press that it had been responsible for Latellier's death in the New York jail. No details were given, and no statement was made by federal authorities in New York.
The U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency, in coordination with a variety of local and state police force
s, had in the first five days of May seized narcotics enroute into this country from abroad with a "street value" of more than eight hundred million dollars. One hundred twelve individuals had been arrested on charges emanating from these seizures.
The U.S. Coast Guard had seized and confiscated nine vessels of varying sizes and value, which had been used in the narcotics and other illicit trades between the Bahamas and several Florida ports and beaches.
U.S. Treasury agents had seized and confiscated over four teen hundred firearms of all descriptions and more than one and-a-half tons of traditional and sophisticated explosives in raids on two warehouses in the Jersey City area.
The French government announced the arrest of fourteen French citizens and the deportation of six aliens, reputed to be the top management of the new Corse crime organization throughout the Mediterranean area.
Eleven banking officials in three European countries resigned in the wake of rumors linking them with the widespread use of messenger services and credentials by organized crime in contravention of national laws and international banking agreements. Criminal prosecution was expected in most of these instances.
In Tripoli, Libya, one Samir al Faris, a Palestinian terrorist, sought by the governments of both France and West Germany for the hijacking-murder of seventy-seven Lufthansa Airline passengers in 1983, was killed when an explosive device on which he was reportedly working ignited prematurely. Friends of the victim said that he had been despondent recently over conditions within the Palestine Liberation movement but expressed doubt that he would have taken his own life. Libyan officials did not permit anyone to view the remains, which were cremated shortly after the tragedy.
The latest fallout took place in Bern, Switzerland, where a senior official of the Swiss government resigned in the wake of widespread European media allegations that he had for several years been circumventing various Swiss banking regulations on behalf of certain "foreign criminal organizations."
In Washington, D.C., Assistant Attorney General Byron Cawlfield, who had been put in charge of the Justice Department task force that was overseeing the nationwide prosecution of organized crime cases, told media interviewers that because of pending legal proceedings he could only comment generally at that time. Cawlfield went on to say that "current and projected arrests and indictments" should prove to be the "most serious setback" for organized crime in the last four decades. When questioned directly about the latest bombing in Chicago, Mr. Cawlfield stated that it was "relevant" to the overall Corporation case. The victims were reputed Corporation official Dennis Conners, alias David Kanarsky, and a woman identified only as Angela Mornay, Chicago resident.
23
The buildup of thunderheads over the island had raised the late afternoon humidity to its limit, but inside the hotel compressors and fans were winning their battle with the elements; it was cool and comfortable. In the lounge a young oriental man stood behind the bar stirring the ice in two glasses. He stopped, picked them up, and carried them toward a table where another man, a blond Occidental, sat watching and smiling. The Oriental delivered the drinks with an exaggerated bow. "Your Singapore Sling, tuan!"
"I ordered pink gin, you crazy Chinee!"
"I know, tuan, and I have bring same for you; but I prefer to call it 'Sling' so I can 'plactice' saying my ells! Besides, what's in a name? Just drink and enjoy, round eyes."
They both laughed as the young oriental sat down, then the blond man spoke. "Sammy, my boy, when the white tuan's labor unions arrive on Vera Ti to loosen your chains, you will no longer be able to wear four hats around here!"
"Four?"
"Yeah: bartender, room clerk, waiter, and comedian."
"Hey, thanks, old buddy, for that part about comedian. Most people don't appreciate that side of my many-talented personality.''
"Don't put words in my mouth, Sam. One hat a comedian doth not necessarily make. Now if I'd said scuba diver, then that'd be a different story."
Sam laughed unrestrainedly; the other man looked puzzled. "Oh, Patrick, it was so damn funny! I can't help laughing. You should have seen the look on the face of that fat Samoan bastard when the police boat picked him and his boatman up. Man, I thought he was gonna shit in his wet suit right there!"
"Maybe he did, Sam. How can you tell? Is he still in the town brig?"
"You bet your ass, friend. He's finally quit screaming for his lawyer, so now they'll let him cool down for a few days before they give him his hearing and sentencing."
''Sentencing? Really?''
"Hell yes, Patrick, I suspect he'll get six months or so on the road gang in the mountains. You can bet that's one hood who'll return to the land of habeas corpus a wiser, sadder, and thinner man. Maybe he'll even take up a legitimate business. Who knows?" Sam shook his head in wonderment. "Can you imagine that evil-eyed old turd, Lavarelli, giving you that dough in a waterproofed briefcase and thinking we wouldn't notice or figure out why? I'm amazed he stayed alive as long as he did! I thought that was a tougher league those guys played I.n."
"Don't kid yourself, friend, that league is tough all right. About the time you get to thinking it isn't, some soldier will stick a shiv in between your fourth and fifth ribs!"
"Uh-huh . . . Still, Pat, it was kind of a tip-off that they not only expected to get their dough back, but from a watery grave yet! Our grave, that is."
"I didn't say they were smart, Sam, just tough. Same with the bomb, right from the start."
"I know you were always convinced of it, but I never did figure out why you were so sure."
"Sam, it just had to be a boat bomb! Nothing else covered all the angles for them. You know, wiping us out with no mess or bodies or such. But there were two other factors that really convinced me. First, hoods love bombs! And remember we'd already identified their bomb expert, the Professor, in the area. Second, hoods hate strange and 'uncontrolled' territory. No way they were going to take us out with soldiers in our 'backyard,' not knowing the lay of the land or our plans and capabilities. They don't like short-odds operations even a little bit. Yeah, it had to be a bomb, Sammy."
"Not to mention that red herring of a limpet bomb on the hull."
"Which we were supposed to find."
"Of course. And then when we found the radio controlled device and learned at the same time that the stupid Samoan had been down to Harbor Control looking for depth charts . . . Not too smart, Patrick."
"Icing on the cake, indeed. At that point we could have written the scenario ourselves: no way but that blow-up point had to be past the populated areas of the harbor and the headlands but before we reached the deep of the channel."
"Like you said, Patrick, I'm glad we guessed right. You still think they think we're dead?"
"Yeah, I do. I don't think they'd've sent the Samoan out to dive if they didn't. . . . I don't think he'd have gone if he didn't. . . . Also, I don't think their man - I'm sure it was the Samoan - would have pushed the button that day if he hadn't thought those dummies with our clothes on were for real!"
"Uh-huh. I'll buy that."
Patrick smiled. "Unless the Samoan recognized you on that police boat! In which case we'll have to make sure he has an accident on that road gang."
"Not to worry. My own sweet mother wouldn't have recognized me on that boat. Besides, all Chinese coolies look alike or so you told me!" They both laughed. "Anyway, I had to go. Those cops aren't very dependable, laddie, even under the best of circumstances, and with a fast-talking American-Samoan and an obscure old French 'treasure trove' law to work with, there was only one way to make sure they didn't cave in, take a bribe, or screw the whole thing up in one of a thousand different ways, and that was to be there myself!"
"I know, I know." Patrick smiled wryly. "I still can't figure how you talked the law commissioner into enforcing that old colonial statute."
"It wasn't easy, friend, but then, not too hard either: he plays poker with my uncle every Thursday. Well, anyway we're home free with th
is." He patted the briefcase. "Lavarelli's burning, Savilli's in the slammer, Conners is dead, destination unknown, and the Samoan will have his own little hell - for a while."
Patrick nodded, pointing to the briefcase. "That's yours, Sammy: as we agreed, twenty-five percent off the top."
"A very generous arrangement, my good friend."
"One gets what one pays for. You want first class you pay first-class prices. Seriously, Sam, no way I could've pulled it off without you, so spend and enjoy."
"And no income tax problems? I can put this in my bank in Honolulu?"
"Yup, you sure can. The deposit will be noted and passed on to the Treasury Department, but there's a file number you ask the bank to attach and the whole thing never gets on IRS records. There's a note inside explaining the thing. That was, and is, the deal I made with the U.S.G. and it's guaranteed by the General!''
"Yeah. That's the part I like best, Pat. His word I accept. Besides, he's got more clout in D.C. than anybody else except the First Lady. If he says it's done, I believe it."
"Well, Sam, he says so."
Sam looked serious as he moved his glass back and forth on the table. "Can I ask a question, old buddy?"
"Sure."
"You never told me what was in those notebooks and documents. From what's happened around the world in the last couple of weeks I can figure out most of it, but some things aren't quite clear. I can figure why you wanted to make a deal with the U .S.G. and why they would be anxious to accept it, but where and how does old Lavarelli come in? Can you tell me?"
"Sure. Why not? l'd've told you before, but you didn't ask." He laughed. "Your old training, I suppose. Remember I told you how I got involved, innocently of course" - Pat smiled and Sammy raised his eyes to the ceiling - "in a syndicate worldwide courier operation and just happened to get my hands on those notebooks, which contained the whole setup, chapter and verse? At the same time I got some interesting documents - all from the same source-indicating that the syndicate guy I was working for was actually like an independent contractor, and although he had a long background in the brotherhood, was truly on his own in this courier operation."
