Burke's Gamble

by William F. Brown

“The Army blood-types every recruit who comes in. But six or seven years ago, we also began recording DNA profiles on the blood samples of all of our special ops troops in case we ever needed to make post-mortem IDs. The blood on that door was a DNA match to Benson.”

  “Too bad Patsy didn’t aim a bit further right,” Bob told him.

  “No,” Stansky replied. “That would be too easy. I want him to answer for what he’s done.”

  At the same time, Dorothy waited while the ground crew topped off the Gulfstream G-550’s fuel tanks with some fresh Jet-A, and then taxied to the flight line at Atlantic City International Airport. After she finished her pre-flight check and filed her flight plan with the tower, she turned and looked back into the main cabin at Ernie. He had settled into one of the plush leather-upholstered swivel chairs and opened the morning’s Philadelphia Inquirer.

  “Hey, Ernie,” she called out. “Why don’t you come up here and sit with me?”

  “Isn’t there some FAA rule against pretending to be a co-pilot?”

  “Oh, maybe in the big commercial airliners,” she said as he came forward and wedged himself into the other seat. “Not one of these.”

  He looked down at the complicated array of screens and controls and said, “I hope you’re not expecting me to fly this thing.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be on autopilot. It flies itself. All you have to do is look out the windows for other airplanes and bring me coffee.”

  “That assumes I can ever get out of this seat again,” Ernie said as he buckled the harness and looked around the cockpit. “I’m 6’4” tall and 240 pounds. They don’t make machines like this for guys my size. I guess that’s why I went into the Army.”

  “You could have ended up in a tank, you know.”

  “Worse, I ended up an Army cop. I never liked small jail cells, either.”

  When they finished laughing, she got her clearance, rolled to the end of the taxiway, turned right, and stopped at the end of the runway. “They have an incoming flight. As soon as it lands, they’ll clear us to take off.” In less than a minute, another sleek long-range corporate jet touched down and rolled toward the terminal. “That’s a Dassault Falcon,” Dorothy told him as she pushed the stick forward. “It’s French. You don’t see too many of them over here.”

  The twin Rolls-Royce BR-710 turbo fan engines roared and pressed Ernie back in his padded chair. “Wow! That’s a kick in the chest” he said.

  As they raced down the runway, Ernie looked over at the Dassault. It had parked in a transient space at the side of the runway. As they passed, he saw that its stairs were down and the cargo compartment in its belly was open. Five men were unloading equipment bags and metal gun cases onto the tarmac. As they did, two black stretch limos drove in the airport's service gate and pulled up next to the airplane. On their doors, he saw the name “Bimini Bay” with the bright casino logo below.

  “Can you call the tower and find out where that airplane came from?” Ernie asked. “I’d like to know if it was New York or Philadelphia.”

  Dorothy keyed her chin mic and said, “ACA tower, this is Gulf Stream 795. That Dassault that just landed, can you tell me where it came from?”

  “Gulfstream 795, ACA tower. From the Middle East, I think. Yeah, make it Bahrain, via Alexandria, the Azores, and LaGuardia. Long trip.”

  “Thanks, ACA tower. See you later this afternoon,” Dorothy said, and signed off. “Why the question, Ernie?” she asked as the sleek Gulfstream continued to gain altitude and turned west.

  “Maybe nothing, but dark sunglasses, short hair, suntans, nylon equipment bags, and gun cases — none of those guys looked like duck hunters to me.”

  “And the two Bimini Bay limos? They drove right through the gate and never stopped, like they own the place.”

  “I ran the Chicago police detachment at O’Hare for four years,” Ernie told her, “and you can’t drive an unauthorized vehicle out onto one of our flight lines, by-passing TSA and customs without a lot of bells going off.”

  “Looks like this isn’t O’Hare.”

  “Neither is LaGuardia, I’m afraid.”

  “Want me to let the boat know?

  “Yeah. It might just be old cop nerves but it looks to me that they’re bringing in more reinforcements, and I think Bob and Ace should know about it.”

  “Roger that,” she said, reaching for her microphone again.

  Ernie was right when he said that New York’s LaGuardia Airport wasn’t like Chicago’s O’Hare. If you put enough money in a white envelope and handed it to the right people at LaGuardia’s small general aviation terminal, no one gave a damn who you were or what you were bringing in. As long as the right wise guy make the arrangements and you were in transit to another airport, they’d stamp your passport and clear you through customs while you and your luggage sat on the airplane. All in all, it was a most civilized system, Theo Van Gries thought, especially when you want to bring a number of highly specialized and unique pieces of equipment with you.

  Theo had lost track of how many hours they had been in the air since they took off from Bahrain the day before, or perhaps it was the day before that. All he did know was that they were on their third aircrew, and the six passengers in back had done little other than sleep, play cards, and clean their weapons since they took off. Three of the men were former Dutch Marines like him, one was a German from the Bundeswehr KSK, and one was a Brit who had spent nine years in the SAS. Like soldiers the world over, they were bored, randy, and more than ready to kick someone’s ass.

  When the Dassault took off from LaGuardia, Theo asked the pilot to call ahead to his brother. “Tell him we will be there at 8:30, and we would appreciate a van to pick us up.”

  He and his men had just come down the stairs from the plush passenger compartment and were unloading their luggage and equipment onto the tarmac when the automatic gate near the terminal rolled open and two long black cars raced in. As they screeched to a halt next to the Dassault, Theo’s right hand reached inside his jacket for the 9-millimeter Walther automatic he kept in a shoulder holster. The FBI? INS? But instead of trouble, the limo drivers alighted from the cars and quickly opened the rear doors. Out jumped six scantily clad casino cocktail waitresses, dancing and laughing. They held glasses and bottles of champagne in their hands and beckoned for Theo and his men to join them inside the cars. His men stood there, open mouthed, and then laughed. Over the years, there hadn’t been much they hadn’t seen when they arrived “in country” at some broken-down, third-world airport or jungle landing strip, but this was a first.

  “Our velcoming committee, Herr Leutnant?” Klaus Reimer, the German asked.

  “His brother is a fine Dutch gentleman,” Joost DeVries, one of his Dutch Marines replied.

  “Throw the gear in the car trunks, and let’s get going,” Eric Smit, his First Sergeant ordered. “And with all due respect, if he was that fine of a gentleman, the girls would’ve gotten on the airplane in Bahrain or Alexandria, not here for a ten-minute ride into town.”

  They all laughed, and Reggie MacGregor, the Brit said, “Well, from what I’ve seen out of you blokes, I’m not sure those tarts would have survived the experience.”

  “And from what I’ve seen,” another Dutchman, Joost DeVries, added, “I’m not sure they’ll survive the ride into town.”

  As they laughed and piled into the two limos, three per car, Theo warned, “Mind the bubbly. This may not look like Afghanistan but they brought us here for a reason.” He got into the front passenger seat of the lead limo, leaving two of his men in the back with the three cocktail waitresses. They didn’t seem to complain. On the other hand, the driver wasn’t used to customers who sat in front with him. He gave Theo an odd look until the Dutchman said, “What are you waiting for? Go.”

  It took less than fifteen minutes for the two big limos to navigate the Expressway and the city, and pull under the glittering front portico of the Bimini Bay Hotel and Casino. When the cars stopped, tw
o doormen dressed in tuxedos, top hats, and white gloves opened the side doors of the limo. His men piled out the back doors with champagne glasses and bimbos in hand, wondering what planet they had landed on. Theo slowly emerged from the front seat into the sensory assault of colorful flashing lights and loud music. He grimaced as he looked around, finally seeing his older brother Martijn push his way through the tall floor-to-ceiling glass doors.

  “Theo!” Martijn called to him. “Thank you so much for coming. I know it has been…”

  Theo gave him a cold stare. “It is a job, no more and no less.” He turned his eyes and saw four bellmen open the limo’s trunks. They began to unload the canvas overnight bags and “equipment” cases, and stack them on two luggage carts. “No!” he snapped. He turned toward his men and told them in Dutch, “Carry your own bags and don’t let them out of your sight.”

  “Let us get you inside and over to registration,” Martijn said as he put his arm around Theo’s shoulders. “I have some nice rooms reserved for you and your men.”

  “No registrations and no names,” Theo told him. “Just get the keys, if you please. I want the rooms to remain vacant on your inventory.”

  “I should have anticipated that. Unfortunately, we are in different lines of work, aren’t we, my brother?”

  “That is why you called me, isn’t it?” Theo said as he let Martijn lead them inside. “Because there are things you cannot do, or will not do.”

  “Of course.” Martijn laughed. “But Donatello needs to speak with you. He has a few issues to discuss.”

  “Have my other two men, Benson and Kowalski, arrived yet?” Theo asked, looking around suspiciously, always on guard.

  “Benson has, within the hour, but I have not seen a second man. Benson is in Donatello’s office waiting for you. Do you mind telling me who he is?”

  “The American officer I told you about. He served in their Rangers and Delta Force, so we shall see if he knows anything that can help us.”

  On the flying bridge of The Enchantress, Bob sat in the captain’s chair with his bare feet propped on the top of the yacht’s extensive control console and his laptop balanced on his legs. His eyes were glued to the laptop’s screen as he watched the rotating camera views switch from the casino’s front and rear doors. Ace was in the mate’s chair next to him, scanning the Bimini Bay’s entry road, the boat marina, and the rooftop through the binoculars.

  “You know,” Ace said. “I think Zeiss makes the best long-range optics this side of the Hubble telescope. You can count the hairs on an elephant’s ass at a thousand meters with these.”

  “Just don’t drop them. They also make the most expensive ones.”

  They’d been at this since 07:00, shortly after sunrise, and could already feel themselves going brain-dead. Two hours of this was the maximum anyone could take and still keep their focus, so they were due to rotate jobs in another fifteen minutes.

  “Want more coffee?” Ace asked.

  “No, that would make three, and I’m jumpy enough,” Bob replied as the screen switched back to the casino’s big front portico and he saw two black limos pull in and stop.

  “Check out the front entry,” he told Ace as he froze the camera rotation and watched the doormen and four bellmen with luggage carts come out and surround the two cars in an elaborate show of service. Ace focused the Zeiss binoculars on the doormen as they opened the car doors and a half dozen casino girls and casually dressed men piled out of the cars.

  “Heavy hitters,” Ace agreed. “They must be the characters Dorothy said she saw at the airport a little while ago. Look, the hotel even sent the bimbos to fetch them.”

  As Bob watched, he saw Martijn Van Gries come out and approach the lead car. “And Martijn Van Gries, too,” Bob quickly told him. “Check out the other five.” He watched them push the bellmen aside and unload the car trunks themselves. “Canvas gear bags, hard cases, the boots and casual clothes — they look just like us.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “Somebody brought in even more reinforcements, like Ernie said, but those aren’t Mafia. They look like Special Ops to me, maybe not American, but somebody’s.”

  Bob watched as Martijn Van Gries shook hands with the man who got out of the passenger seat of the lead car. They were smiling and talking. “Recognize any of them?” Bob asked.

  “Didn’t Van Gries tell you he had a brother?”

  Bob took the binoculars and looked for himself. “A lieutenant in the Black Devils. We may have met him in Iraq, but that was a long time ago, and I’m not sure.”

  “Well, if that’s him, it looks like he’s gone over to the ‘dark side,’ Obi-Wan.”

  “Really?” Bob laughed as they watched the six men go inside.

  As they entered the Bimini Bay lobby, Martijn Van Gries swung by the large, glitzy reception desk and had the front desk manager give him the keys to six empty rooms, which he quickly distributed as he led them to the casino’s back service corridor and the executive elevator to the penthouse.

  “Donatello has been under a lot of pressure from his New York superiors, who have sent some additional men down here, so kindly be on your best behavior.”

  A thin smile crossed Theo’s lips as his brother pushed open the hand-carved, decorative double doors to Carbonari’s penthouse suite and they all walked in. A large, olive-skinned Italian in a well-tailored suit and tie sat behind a wide antique desk. Benson sat alone in an overstuffed chair off to the side, looking bored, while four bulky middle-aged men in slacks and sports coats stood along the far wall, eyeing Theo and his men. They were obviously American Mafia, Theo thought, perhaps ten years older, twenty pounds heavier, and thirty IQ points fewer than his own professional soldiers. Including himself, there were now thirteen men in the penthouse office. Theo looked down and gave Benson a brief hard look as he turned back toward Carbonari.

  Carbonari stood, walked around the desk and extended a warm smile and his hand to Theo. “Martijn’s told me a lot of stories about you,” Donatello told him. Theo replied with a polite nod and a firm handshake, thinking that despite his size, Carbonari had the soft grip of a woman.

  “It appears you gentlemen are ready to get to work,” Carbonari went on. “But before you do, there’s some people I want you to meet. This is ‘Cheech’ Mazoulli, one of my associates from Brooklyn.” He nodded toward one of them. “I lost some security people, and Cheech’s boss was kind enough to loan him and some of his men to me for a few days. They'll work with my regular security guards and keep an eye on the hotel and casino for me.”

  Theo stared at Mazoulli and his men, noting the bulges under their arms, but he did not extend his hand to Mazoulli, any more than Mazoulli did to him. “My brother hired us to eliminate a specific problem Mister Carbonari has. I assume you and your men will handle the hotel and casino, and stay out of our hair, much as we will attend to his problem and stay out of yours. Since we are all armed, I believe that is essential. Is that agreeable?”

  Mazoulli stared back at him and then turned on Carbonari. “What’s this crap, Donnie? I thought Angelo put us in charge of security down here.”

  Theo watched Carbonari’s eyes. When Mazoulli used Carbonari’s nickname, he saw an imperceptible narrowing of Carbonari’s eyes. “I’m afraid that’s not quite right, Cheech. These guys are here doing some personal work for me,” Carbonari told him. “You and your crew will be in charge of hotel and casino security, especially around the table games and poker rooms. But there’s been some threats directed at me by some disgruntled customers, some Army types. That’s why Theo and his men are here, to deal with them for me. So, as he said, you do your job, and he’ll do his.”

  Mazoulli shrugged and motioned his men toward the door. “I got two more guys goin’ through the other two hotels. You want I should introduce you to them too?”

  “I think we shall recognize them,” Theo answered with a thin smile.

  Mazoulli looked at him and frowned. “I’ll
say one thing, dis guy’s got balls. He any freakin’ good?”

  “Let me worry about that, Cheech. I wanted us all to meet, but now he and I have some details we need to talk about, if you don’t mind.”

  Mazoulli nodded to his men and he led them out of the room.

  Carbonari closed the door behind them and said, “You won’t have any problem.”

  “I never have problems, merely interesting opportunities,” Theo told him, and then turned toward Benson. “How nice that you could finally join us, Captain. Do not run away; you and I need to talk.”

  Benson leaned back in the overstuffed chair and nodded, but he did not reply.

  Theo turned back toward Carbonari and said, “I understand this Major Burke has taken a dislike to you and some of your people?”

  “Yeah, well, some things got out of hand last week,” Donatello began as he walked back to his desk, and sat on the edge. “One of Burke’s former sergeants lost a lot of money in the casino. He climbed out a window as he attempted to get away from my security people, but he slipped and fell off a ledge. It was an accident. Even the local police and the coroner said so, but Burke doesn’t seem to agree. He holds me responsible.”

  Theo thought about it for a moment and asked, “Was it an accident?”

  “We’re a casino. Dead men don’t pay off their markers, so we’re the last ones who’d ever want to snuff the guy. We tried to explain that to Burke. He came here with the cash to pay off Pastorini’s debt, but after Pastorini took his swan dive into the parking lot, Burke wouldn’t give us the rest. Three of my men followed him back to Chicago to try to get him to change his mind.”

  “Really?” Benson looked up at Carbonari and chuckled. “How did that work out?”

  “Not very well,” Carbonari replied, visibly annoyed by Benson’s flippant tone. “They got the worst of it and ended up in jail, which is why I had to bring in some help from New York to fill in for them.”

  “So, he took out three of your security guards?” Benson asked. “How many men did Burke have?”