“So we’re going tactical at 7:00 p.m., and beat feet at 9:15?” Koz asked.
“That’s right. We’re hitting their computers and bank accounts as soon as the Geeks tell me the Trojan horses are uploaded, that we’ve taken control of their systems. We should start downloading the files we want by 8:00. There’s an FBI office over in Northfield, on the mainland. The SAC is a guy named Philip Henderson who’s getting an early Christmas present. Ernie, you do the same with your pal Carmine Bonafacio with the New Jersey State Police. We’re sending them all of Carbonari’s financial records. As soon as that’s done, we’ll hit Boardwalk Investment’s bank accounts. We’ll clean them out, plus all the money that’s supposed to be going to the Gambinos and Luccheses in New York and to the other mob families across the country. That’s going to simply vanish.”
“Well, that should start the pot boiling,” Koz chuckled.
“Ah, the beauty of paperless, electronic banking,” Ace added.
“We should have the accounts cleaned out by 9:00, and the boat underway, out of the harbor and crossing through Absecon Inlet by 9:15. That’s when you guys pull out, get in your cars, and head south for the pier at Ventnor, where we’ll pick you up. It’s high above the water but you can rappel down, which you said you always wanted to do anyway.”
“It’s not going to take Van Gries or Carbonari long to figure out they have a big problem,” Ernie warned. “They can’t lose that much mob money and expect anyone to believe that it’s not their fault.”
“I’m sure they’ll lash out at anyone they can get their hands on,” Bob agreed. “Which is why we need to be long gone by then. When they come up empty-handed, they’re going to run as far and as fast as they can away from here.”
“We can put a couple of rounds into the engine of that helicopter,” Ace suggested. “That’ll slow them down and change their travel plans, but what if we get a shot at Carbonari or Van Gries? Should we take it?”
“Not unless things blow up. My preference is to sail quietly away with no one even knowing we were there. We can let the New York mob do the heavy lifting for us later, and there will be less chance of blow back.”
“And where are you going to be until then?” Ernie asked.
“Right here with you, the girls, and the Geeks… unless I’m not.” Bob smiled.
“Until it hits the fan, you mean?” Koz asked.
“It wouldn’t be a Bob Burke operation unless it did,” Ace laughed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At 7:00 p.m., Cheech Mazoulli made his mandatory daily phone call to Brooklyn to his boss, Angelo Roselli. Mazoulli knew this would not be pleasant. He wasn’t happy with what was going on in Atlantic City and he knew damn well that Angelo would be even less happy. Cheech left the Bimini Bay early and drove the side streets down to Caesars on the Boardwalk, where there was an old-fashioned pay phone inside near the restrooms that he could use. “Old-fashioned?” he spat out the window. When he was growing up in Queens, the neighborhood telephone was in the laundromat on the first floor of the firetrap apartment building where he and his family lived. Hell, it was the only freakin’ phone anybody had, except the bookies in the back room of the barbershop on the corner, and everyone was glad to have it. Today, try to find a pay phone that wasn’t all beat to hell, had a phone book, and was still working, he thought. There weren’t any! That was why Cheech thought all this crap Angelo made him go through with pay phones and the carefully circumscribed language was a bunch of nonsense. If the FBI’s gonna get you, they’re gonna get you. Period! End of story. Then again, he wasn’t the boss and nobody asked him what he thought. So, if Angelo wanted him to talk Pig-Latin through a tin can on a string, he guessed that was what he’d do.
At exactly 6:59, Cheech stood at the pay phone, dialed the number and began dropping quarters into the slot. When Barbara answered, he mumbled, “It’s me. Da Baker in?”
Barbara had done this a million times before and needed no introduction. “Hang on. He’s in the kitchen, up to his elbows in cannoli, but he said he wants to talk to you.”
Barbara put him on hold, leaving Cheech to wonder. Angelo wants to talk to him? That was never good. The best time to talk to a boss was when you weren’t even on his radar, and the only reason he picked up the phone was ’cause he didn’t have nuthin’ better to do.
Cheech kept feeding the pay phone, wondering how long his quarters would last, when Angelo suddenly picked up at the other end. “What the hell’s going on down dere?”
“Uh, nuttin’ dat’s any good,” Cheech answered. “You know, it’s dat guy. He don’t listen to nuttin’ I say. And that Dutch freak! Tell me I can cap his sorry ass. I swear, I’ll do it for free,” he began his rant.
“We never got dat money da prick was supposed to send up here today by 5:00. Da eight and a quarter, it never showed up. I want you to go rattle that bastard’s cage, and rattle it good, you hear me? Take Eddie and Petey wit you. And if dat Dutch prick gives you any trouble, you send him to the freakin’ dentist. Bust ’im up good, you hear me?” Angelo shouted into the phone.
Cheech wanted to tell him about the other foreigners Carbonari had brought in, those Dutch and German mercenaries who worked with the Dutchman’s brother. He also wanted to tell Angelo how Marco Bianchi and Selmo Lombardi had their pockets picked right on the floor of the goddamned Bimini Bay casino, for Chris’ sake! Unfortunately, he never got the chance to tell him any of that. Angelo had hung up and Cheech found himself staring at the pay phone. Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the wall. He’d send dat Dutch clown to the freakin’ dentist, all right. Angelo could take dat to the bank!
Sunset had always been Martijn Van Gries’s favorite time of the day. After he finally managed to pry himself away from the office that afternoon, and before he would adjourn to one of the city’s finer restaurants for dinner, he enjoyed retreating to the aft deck of “his” sailboat in the marina for a bottle or two of the finer wines from the Bimini Bay’s collection. He found the cool ocean breeze, the sounds of the seagulls, and an hour below deck with the ever-eager and always inventive Eva Pender the perfect way to end any day.
The sailboat wasn’t “his,” of course. It was a luxurious oceangoing sailing yacht that belonged to Boardwalk Investments, but Donatello never used it. He could get sick in a bathtub and almost never left dry land. The same was true for most of their New York City partners. Those bozos couldn’t even swim, which was astonishing to someone from a country where every child learned to swim before the age of two. When the New York crowd came to town, it was for the gambling and the women, not for a blue-water cruise. The boat was virtually his now, and that was just fine with Martijn. It was the newest, state-of-the-art Beneteau Oceanis sixty-foot long, single-masted sailboat, which Donatello named the Prancin’ and Dancin’. Designed for the open ocean, this gorgeous blue-water yacht had a short, wide aft deck and long, triangular bow. With a 150 horse power Volvo Penta engine, it had power when it needed it, and B&G electronics throughout. It was fully automated; one person could control its 2,000 square feet of sail from the helm station.
Martijn kept it in the end slip of the furthest pier in the Bimini Bay marina, as far away from the hotel, casino, and other boats as he could get, with the bow pointed toward the casino and the open stern facing the harbor. Eva was an excitable and very vocal lover, who got off doing it in unusual places all over the boat, any time, day or night, and then walking around naked afterward. Consequently, Martijn opted for privacy. He wasn’t worried about Donatello finding out about him and the woman. Donatello already knew. As long as Martijn did not entertain other men there, and as long as he occasionally allowed Donatello to watch and join in for a threesome, the big Italian couldn’t care less.
That evening, Eva was below deck singing in the shower as Martijn poured himself another glass of wine and leaned back on one of the soft cushioned chairs on the aft deck. It faced south, toward the smaller boat marinas across the open harbor. He leaned forwar
d and pressed his eyes into the dual apertures of his tripod-mounted Oberwerk BT-100-45 long-range binoculars to see what was going on. The precision optical instrument was more like a dual-lensed telescope than a pair of binoculars, and the finest and the most powerful of its kind. In fact, the precision lenses and aluminum frame were so heavy that they came mounted on a heavy tripod base for stability.
Ever since he was ten years old, Martijn had been an unabashed voyeur. He loved watching people who did not know they were being watched, especially when they were doing things they didn’t want other people to know they were doing. He found that the bigger the house and the bigger the boat, the bigger the egos and the bigger the secrets that were kept inside. And just because the house or the boat was big did not mean that they afforded their owners any privacy, not that any of them seemed to care. With its 70x to 180x magnification, the Oberwerk was powerful enough to let him see exactly what was happening on most of the boats in the harbor. He could see through their portholes, down through their gangways, and count the freckles on the naked guests sunbathing on deck.
With everything going on at the casino right now, Martijn hadn’t been able to get away to the sailboat and Eva for several days now, and he was still enjoying the warm glow of the expensive wine, the red and gold sunset, and her. He could smell her all over him. He raised his hand to his face and could smell her and taste her on his fingers. Feeling quite pleased with himself, Martijn slowly scanned the Bimini Bay marina, rotating the binoculars from boat to boat. He then turned them on the rest of the harbor, eventually focusing on the public marina across the wide boat channel from the Bimini Bay. To his surprise, he saw that someone had docked a spectacular Ferrenti power yacht in one of the transient slips. He smiled. “His” Bowman was a beautiful, oceangoing sailboat, but the Ferrenti was in another class altogether. Even used, they must cost at least two million dollars on the open market, especially one that appeared to be in as good shape is that one.
He wondered who owned it? Maybe some billionaire on his way south to Fort Lauderdale or Fort Myers for the winter? Maybe it was headed for the regatta at Antigua, or it was swinging by St. Barts on the way to Monte Carlo? Or maybe it was another of those damned Arab princes with their entourage of arrogant men and pouty women. They usually drop a bundle in the casino and pay handsomely for the disruptions and damages they invariably create in the restaurants, hotels, and gambling tables, but sometimes they aren’t worth it. He would make a few telephone calls, find out who they were, and tell Theo and his men to keep a close eye on them. No, better still, he would turn that task over to that moron Cheech Mazoulli and his Brooklyn boys. Yes, that would be perfect! When Mazoulli screwed it up, as he surely would, the Arabs would storm out and Martijn could get Donatello to complain to Angelo and blame it all on Mazoulli.
Martijn focused the binoculars on the Ferrenti. At first, there wasn’t much to see. The big powerboat was parked bow-on to the Bowman and directly across the harbor from him. The bow of the Ferrenti was illuminated by the full light of the setting sun, but its portholes and windows were fitted with darkened glass, and there wasn’t a damned thing for Martijn to see inside. “Damn,” he swore. He did see two men standing on the open bridge. One of them was big and had a can of beer in his hand. Martijn saw his face, but did not recognize him. The other man had a large pair of binoculars of his own, and was using them to scan the Bimini Bay marina and the waterside of the hotel and casino. Unfortunately, his pair covered most of his face. Cheeky bastard, Martijn thought. This marina is only big enough for one voyeur at a time. If you’re looking for something interesting to gawk at, why don’t you confine your attentions to your side of the water.
He re-focused on the man with the binoculars. The Dutchman blinked. It might be his overactive imagination, but he swore the fellow was looking at the Prancin’ and Dancin’, looking directly at him! But what could he see? While the big Ferrenti was docked in the bright sun, it was setting directly behind Martijn’s sailboat, casting him and his aft deck in deep shadow. Martijn extended the Oberwerk’s lenses to their maximum magnification. The water in the harbor was very calm, but at this distance and magnification, even the slightest motion would blur the image. To their left, behind the two men, he swore he saw several more heads on the aft deck, but that was all he could see. Refocusing back on the bridge, three women in bikinis join the two men in the wheelhouse. He focused on the two men again, but still could not get a clear view of the one with binoculars. One thing for certain though, none of those people looked like Arabs.
As he focused on the smallest of the three women, a slight breeze came up. The sailboat began to gently rock, and she refused to stop moving in his lens. Still, there was something faintly familiar about her. Finally, she turned her face toward him and paused long enough for him to see it was Patsy Evans, the young woman who came to the casino with Pastorini, the soldier who took the swan dive off the fifth story ledge of the hotel tower. No doubt about it, he thought. It was her, and that could only mean one thing. The Dutchman turned the big lenses of the Oberwerk back on the man with the binoculars and waited. Thirty seconds, and then a minute later, his patience finally paid off. The man lowered them long enough for Martijn to get a good look at his face. A cold shiver ran down Van Gries’s spine. It was Burke! No doubt about it, it was that bastard Burke.
Van Gries was sitting in a deepening shadow and his face was completely screened by the tripod and body of his own binoculars, but he ducked even lower anyway. He reached into his pants pocket, fumbled with his cell phone, and speed-dialed his brother.
“Theo,” he said, “get Benson and come down here to the sailboat as quickly as you can… Yes, now! I have something you must see, both of you; but put on your hats, and try to stay out of sight from the harbor. Now hurry!”
Five minutes later, the other two men remained in the shadows as they approached the sailboat and slipped aboard through the forward hatch, hidden from the harbor by the bridge and the wheelhouse, and joined Martijn in the galley. “Benson,” he motioned for the American to come closer and pointed at the big pair of binoculars on the tripod on the aft deck. “Go up there and take a look. They are focused on a big yacht across the harbor. Look up on the flying bridge and tell me if you recognize anyone.”
Benson gave him an odd look, but he did what he was told. He crept up the stairs, slipped into the deck chair behind the tripod, and put his eyes to the twin apertures.
“You can use the dials on each side to adjust them,” Martijn told him.
Benson turned his head and glared at him with barely disguised contempt. “I know how to use one. It’s like a spotter scope. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve…?”
“Look at the damned boat!” Martijn snapped. “While they are still there, if you please!”
Benson shook his head and pressed his eyes to the apertures again. He could tolerate Theo, but some days, like today, when they got together, the Van Gries brothers reminded him of an old drinking song from his college days at Indiana. “There’s the highland Dutch, and the lowland Dutch,” he began to sing softly under his breath, “the Rotterdam Dutch, and the Goddamned Dutch! Singing, glorious, glorious, one keg of beer for the four of us…” and so it went. That was them, he thought, the Goddamned Dutch! He focused the big binoculars again. But Martijn was right about one thing, you can see a gnat’s ass at a thousand meters with these things. First, he lessened the magnification to get a wider view of the yacht. Then, he slowly focused in on the flying bridge and the people standing there.
“Do you see them?” Martijn asked impatiently. “The two men and the women?”
Benson immediately recognized his old CO, Robert T. Burke, in the flesh. The second man appeared to be bigger and heavier, but Benson didn’t recognize him. For certain, he wasn’t one of Burke’s Deltas. To his surprise, seeing Burke for the first time in several years reminded Benson of better days, when he was a better man. He and Burke had worked and fought the good fight toge
ther against a lot of bad guys. Then he met Theo Van Gries and his band of CIA contractors in Mosul. Now, those good days were gone forever.
“Yes, it’s Burke,” Benson finally confirmed. “No doubt about it.”
“Who is the other man with him? Martijn asked.
“I have no idea, but he isn’t one of the Deltas, at least none that I know.
Theo Van Gries had crept up the stairs behind him and elbowed his way behind the binoculars for a quick look. “He is right. It is Burke, and I do not know the other man either.”
“Why are you surprised?” Benson asked Martijn. “We knew they were coming; it’s why you and Carbonari brought us here,” Benson reminded him as he got behind the binoculars again. “Now the mystery’s over. We know they are here, and we know where they are. That’s a big advantage, and we need to use it.”
“Benson is right,” Theo said. “We must take them out before they come for you.”
“Agreed,” Benson said. “We need to hit their boat, and we need to do it before they get any more organized than they probably already are. How fast can you get your men assembled?” he asked as he continued to scan at the big Ferrenti through the long lenses.
Theo looked at his watch and picked up his phone. “Give me five minutes. We’ll meet in the hotel lobby. Our cars are in the garage.”
“By the way, do you know who the women are?” Martijn asked Benson.
“I’m pretty sure the one in the middle is Burke’s new wife. I saw their wedding photograph online a few months ago, but I have no idea who the other two are,” Benson lied, as he focused the binoculars on Patsy Evans. He knew exactly who she was. As he continued to stare at her through Martijn’s powerful binoculars, the rays of the setting sun caught the unmistakably warm, deep-yellow glint of 24-karat gold hanging around the young woman’s neck. Benson already knew what he was going to do. He had sold his soul to the Devil back in Mosul a year before, and now he wanted what the Devil promised him. All that was necessary was for him to get the girl alone for a few moments. He would make her talk.
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