Carbonari began to twist and squirm again on the floor, fighting the ropes, but that was a waste of energy. The knots were tight, and he wasn’t getting loose.
“What?” Angelo finally asked. “You want to know where we’re goin’? Oh, I think you already know, don’t you? You’re goin’ for a little swim out where you can say “Hi” to a bunch ’a our old pals — your father’s, mine, and I hear some ’a yours too.” The man looked at his watch. “Well, we should be down dere in… maybe another hour or so, dat’s plenty ’a time for us to talk, maybe even for you to talk. You see, us and da Genoveses, we gotta know where all dat money went, Donnie. Twenty-seven mil, dat’s a lotta somolians.”
Carbonari began to squirm again. Finally, Angelo bent over and removed Donatello’s gag. “You finally got somethin’ to say? Say it.”
Carbonari coughed and wheezed as he pleaded with him, “Angelo I swear I didn’t do it. I don’t have the money.”
“Ey, between you, me, and da lamppost, kid, nobody thinks you do. Da smart money’s on dat Dutch prick you hired. Von Christ? Von Grass? Or whatever da hell his name is.”
“Van Gries, it’s Van Gries. And maybe he did take it, I don’t know.”
“Well, nobody liked dat guy from day one. He was too slick. He wasn’t ‘our’ kind, either, and you know exactly what I mean! I gotta tell ya, kid, when I saw doze videos somebody sent me wit you and him doin' it like dat, I about puked. None 'a dat matters now. It’s all about da money, Donnie. You hired da guy. Da money’s gone. He’s gone. And it’s on your freakin’ head.”
“I know, I know, but if you cut me loose, maybe I can find him.”
“You had three weeks, Donnie. Time’s up. You know how dat goes; we can’t make no more excuses to da Genoveses.” He shrugged. “By the way, how big are you?”
“Me?” Carbonari frowned. “I don’t know, six foot three, 220 pounds. Why?”
Angelo turned and looked at the other two men. “Good thing you brought da chainsaw. It’s gonna be a bitch gettin’ him in dat drum, but we'll do it slow, one piece at a time. Maybe Donnie'll start rememberin' stuff by the time we're done.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Beneteau Oceanis 60 sailboat proved to be everything Martijn Van Gries hoped for, and more. Big, powerful, and fully automated, when he unfurled all 2,000 square feet of sails, she flew across the water. In every port they stopped, the sleek white hull and tall mast turned heads, and he loved it. Sailing this million-dollar yacht around the Caribbean was like walking on the moon for a poor boy who grew up in “council housing” in Rotterdam, where the walls were paper thin and he shared a tiny bedroom with his three brothers.
Two months before, when he jumped on board the Prancin’ and Dancin’ in the middle of the night, engaged its 150 hp Volvo Penta engine, and powered out of the Bimini Bay marina into the open Atlantic, he knew he needed to clear American waters, fast. He set course east to Bermuda, where the hired help knew how to treat wealthy visitors. He had been referred to a small marina on the seamier side of the island that specialized in giving boats a complete “makeover” by some similarly shady characters he grew up with in Holland. They painted the blue hull white, added several decorative bands around it, and bought new sets of sails with brightly colored panels and designs. With a rented high-end laser printer, he created a half-dozen new foreign registrations for the boat; and by the time he left Bermuda, any “footprints” he left behind in Atlantic City had blown away with the wind.
The first night out, he painted over Donatello’s poofy Prancin’ and Dancin’ and hung a new name plate on the stern that read the Michiel de Ruyter, in honor of the legendary seventeenth-century Dutch admiral who fought the Corsairs, the French, the British, and even Caribbean pirates in more than forty battles over sixty years. Anticipating the eventual need to disappear, he had a half-dozen other nameplates and hull decals prepared months before. He had been in a patriotic mood when he ordered them, so after the admiral, he might try the Hans Brinker, the Vincent van Gogh, the Arjin Robben, the Windmill, or the Pieter Bruegel, depending on how he felt.
Too bad about Donnie, Martijn thought. He saw a small news clip in the online edition of the New York Times that the “Don of Atlantic City” hadn’t been seen in a month and might have disappeared. With local, state, and federal police investigations still swirling about following the mob shoot-out in one of his casinos, that left many Manhattan pundits to wonder. Martijn didn’t. He had a pretty good idea exactly where Donatello was: in thirty feet of water off Brigantine. Not that he really missed the big pervert. Martijn had always been bi-sexual. He figured that came from sharing a tiny bedroom with a bunch of brothers, but what the hell. He still hurt thinking about the things he had to do to keep Carbonari happy. Sometimes the corporate ladder could be a bitch, and sometimes it made you one, as he well knew.
From Bermuda, he sailed a long, looping route around the west coast of Cuba, making several stops, until he eventually reached the Caymans to visit his bankers. Over the previous year or twos, he had carefully skimmed over eleven million dollars from the casino and hotel operating accounts, and from the Boardwalk Investment accounts, not counting the “traveling” money he brought in the briefcase. Fortunately, he had transferred the last of it to the secret bank accounts he established in the Caymans before everything went to hell. For a price, the bankers down there were masters at evading US currency and tax laws and redirecting money into a dozen even more opaque accounts in Switzerland, Russia, Macau, and other countries.
After a leisurely stay in the Caymans, he and Eva set sail again, heading for Haiti, the Turks and Caicos, and the Dominican Republic, carefully avoiding Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, or any other US territory. Eventually, they would “island hop” down the chain of Leeward and Windward Islands that stretched along the eastern Caribbean. With each stop, he would carefully change registration and brush away whatever new footprints he left behind.
Bob knew that it always took a few days to “come back down” after a quick but violent dust-up like they had in Atlantic City. His first task was to check on Dorothy and Lonzo in the joint hospital at Fort Dix and McGuire Air Force Base, where the general had arranged the medevac flight that night. They released Lonzo to the outpatient center at Fort Bragg a few days later, but the Air Force kept Dorothy in the surgery and post-op wing for almost three weeks, given the more serious nature of her wound and the fact that she was a decorated officer. With a “Three-Star” from JSOC making the arrangements, they were treated like foreign royalty and neither the Army nor the Air Force in New Jersey asked any questions.
Eventually, those two joined the rest of “The Ghost’s merry band of modern-day Robin Hoods” in the rolling, wooded hills north of Fort Bragg and Fayetteville, in North Carolina. Within a few days of arriving, Bob turned Linda and Patsy loose. They quickly found a 600-acre farm for rent which had been a corporate training center and retreat. It featured a marvelously renovated and expanded twelve-bedroom Victorian farmhouse and series of meeting rooms, barns, and other outbuildings, including an indoor pistol range. They named the place “Sherwood Forest,” and it offered perfect seclusion for the group. At Bob’s insistence, Linda hired the Fort Bragg Conference Center to provide housekeeping, property management, and occasional kitchen services for his growing group of friends.
They immediately flew Ellie down from her aunt’s in Chicago, buying both the little girl and Crookshanks the cat their own seats in First Class. Bob still had a business to run and was required to make frequent trips back to Arlington Heights to take care of ongoing Toler TeleCom business. Before long, he promoted his and Ed Toler’s Executive Assistant, Maryanne Simpson, to President, while he remained Chairman of the Board, freeing up an already impossible schedule.
Ernie Travers returned to the Chicago Police Department’s south side headquarters and his important job with their Organized Crime Task Force, while the remaining Deltas — Chester, Koz The Batman, and Bulldog — reluctan
tly reported back to the Unit. Bob set aside five rooms on the back of the building for Jimmy, Ronald, and Sasha, with Jimmy in charge, to set up their own “KGB Spymaster Data Center,” as Sasha called it, complete with its own lounge, bar, kitchen, and unlimited budget for equipment, subject only to Linda’s oversight. Bob finally told Sasha that "the general" had deactivated the explosive charge in his back. That, plus Jimmy's old laptop, made the shaggy Russian very, very happy.
Patsy never again set foot in the house she and Vinnie owned in Fayetteville, and put it for sale. Instead, she moved into what they now officially called “Sherwood Forest” with Jimmy, and Bob gave them the master suite in the data center.
Everyone and everything was gradually beginning to play to form, except Ace. He took some of the ton of leave he had coming and remained up at McGuire with Dorothy until she was released, and they moved in too. That was when he shocked Bob by telling him that he had put in his papers and was retiring, that he and Dorothy had quietly gotten married in the hospital chapel up at McGuire, and that they were pooling their money for a down-payment on a horse ranch in Montana.
“Whoa, don’t make any rash decisions,” Bob told him. “It would be a sin to waste all that Special Ops experience you have jammed inside your head. And you’re seriously underestimating the adrenaline rush you’re going to need as you slide into retirement. Trust me. Besides, I need a new executive officer, now that Gramps made himself unavailable.”
“A header off a five-story building will do that, you know.”
“True, but with Jimmy’s cyber magic, you can still raise horses, telecommute here, and enjoy the occasional gut-wrenching operation when you want to.”
Since Dorothy couldn’t fly for a few more weeks anyway, Bob persuaded them to stay at the “Forest” until the dust settled, after which time they might not have to worry about that horse farm down-payment.
Before they had even moved in, Bob brought down some of his tech people from Toler TeleCom in Arlington Heights to install a state-of-the-art internet and telecommunications system. He also got some high-tech security friends from Fort Bragg to help him design an “Embassy Level” defense system. With all technology in place after the first week, Bob caucused with Jimmy and set out a work program to go after the rest of Carbonari’s empire and track down Martijn Van Gries.
A month later, Bob threw an elaborate and very private dinner party at The Forest for “The Merry Band” as they had begun calling themselves. The group was now up to seventeen — Bob and Linda, Ace and Dorothy, Patsy and Jimmy, Ernie, Koz, Chester, Lonzo, The Batman, Bulldog, Ronald, Sasha, Dimitri Karides, who Ernie was able to track down in France, and by special invitation, Lieutenant General Stansky and Command Sergeant Major O’Connor. Wives were invited, where applicable, because Bob and Linda figured it wouldn’t prove practical not to. With the wait staff dismissed, the doors closed, and a lot of wine flowing, Bob finally stood and addressed the group.
“We began calling ourselves Robin Hood and his Merry Band, I guess that’s my fault or maybe Dimitri’s, because we’re getting pretty good at stealing from the bad guys and trying to do good things with it. Consider what I’m about to tell you as top-secret as anything we ever did in Delta. It has to be that way. I took the liberty of incorporating us as ‘The Merry Band of Sherwood Forest,’ and all seventeen of you are partners.”
“I bet that raised some eyebrows down at the secretary of state’s office in Raleigh,” Ace laughed.
“As a few of you know, so far we’ve ‘liberated’ over thirty million from the working capital of the Atlantic City and New York mobs; and if Jimmy and his guys get lucky, I don’t think we’re quite finished yet. That leaves us two problems. First, what we do with it? And second, how do we put a structure in place to protect ourselves, in case they ever figure out who did it, to be able to strike at any other ‘targets of opportunity’ that may pop up, or at anyone else who pisses us off and is in need of a little behavior modification.
“As we did last time, we’re donating half the money to various veterans’ charities from the DAV to AMVETS, Homes for Our Troops, the USO, Fisher House, and Thanks USA. We’ve had some expenses to pay out of the other half, plus the cost to set up this compound and establish some reserves; but we still have enough left for some profit sharing.”
He nodded to Linda, who stood and began walking around the table handing out envelopes. “There’s a check in there for each of you to augment your retirement accounts in the amount of $250,000, compliments of Lucchese and Genovese families in New York City. You all get the same amount, because you all came when needed and you all took the same risks. Linda and I aren’t taking any, for a variety of reasons, neither are Ellie or Crookshanks the cat, even though he probably played as critical of a role as anybody. We invited your wives, because they need to know that you didn’t rob a bank or win the Powerball Lottery.”
“Anyway,” he smiled, “this isn’t a democracy. It’s ‘The Golden Rule.’ I’m giving out the gold, and I make the rules. But, like I said before, we aren’t finished yet.”
When the evening was over and the Merry Band began to break up and head for home or to their beds, as the case may be, General Stansky and Pat O’Connor pulled Bob aside.
“This is damned nice of you, Ghost,” Stansky told him as he looked at the check. “You didn’t need to do this for us, but we appreciate it. It’ll help a couple of decrepit Army retirees find some land up on a lake in Tennessee and buy a couple of bass boats.”
“Oh, don’t worry, General,” Bob told him. I don’t think you’re finished earning that money yet.”
“I sure hope not.” Stansky winked. “It's hard to argue with having fun and doing some good at the same time. By the same token, don’t think I’m finished with you either. There’s no telling what might come up from time to time that could use a little ‘off book’ servicing.”
“As always, it would be my pleasure, sir,” Bob smiled.
It was a beautiful morning for sailing, Martijn thought to himself. The sun was bright, the boat handled marvelously, and the sea was just right, with gently rolling three-to five-foot swells. They could do thirteen or fourteen knots if the wind held; but it slowly backed off. Still, at 10 knots it provided enough interest to keep him busy at the helm as he continued east toward St. Martin.
Now tanned and thoroughly relaxed, he and Eva rarely wore clothes, except in port. That was her idea. “Marty, why put them on, when you’ll only have to take them off to make love to me,” she told him with an innocent smile that belied her thoroughly kinky sexual preferences. The girl was insatiable, and being alone with her on a big boat for the past month had allowed them to experiment with most of them.
He sat in the captain’s chair at the ship’s wheel in the cockpit while she went below and came back with another gin and tonic and a fresh bottle of suntan lotion for him to rub on her. Needless to say, he had only gotten her half covered when they were both sufficiently aroused for her to straddle him and begin making love right there in the bright sunshine on the boat’s double-wide helmsman’s bench. She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth on top of him, slow and easy, moving with the motion of the boat as the sweat began to pour off them. Almost in a trance, he knew she could continue at that pace for a long, long time if he let her.
Completely absorbed in each other, they were unaware that a small airplane had flown over them and come back around again. It was only when the airplane passed low overhead a second time that they became aware it was even there. Eva looked up, waved, and smiled, but she didn’t stop. In fact, the awareness that someone was up there watching turned her on even more, and Martijn immediately felt her move up and down on him, faster and faster.
Unfortunately, that was when his satellite phone rang on the cushion next to him.
“No, no,” she said. “Don’t even think about it.”
He looked down at the screen and saw it was his banker in the Caymans. “No choice, it’ll only take a mi
nute.”
“It better!” she said without breaking stride.
“Yes,” he quickly answered the phone.
“Herr Van den Dorp,” his banker began, addressing Martijn by the alias the bank knew him by, “glad I could catch you. Dennis here. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not me, but you are catching us in the middle of something, Dennis.”
“It better only be the beginning!” Eva said as she bit his ear.
“I see, but I thought I should give you a call,” Dennis continued. “I was checking my accounts, and I noticed that all of yours suddenly showed zero balances at midmorning today.”
Understandably, Martijn’s mind was elsewhere until Dennis said that. “What?” the Dutchman asked. “What do you mean at zero balances? I am not understanding.”
“Frankly, I didn’t either,” Dennis said. “I phoned several of the correspondent banks, and they all said that you transferred your funds out first thing this morning. Since we gave you a very attractive funds management and transfer rate, I was somewhat surprised that you had not worked those transactions back through us again.”
“Marty, you’re losing it!” Eva warned. “You’ve got to keep your head in the game, so to speak. You know how I hate to be disappointed.”
“Uh, look, Dennis, I need to get to my computer and check my screens,” Van Gries said as he broke into a cold sweat. “I’ll call you right back.” He rang off and stood up, completely ignoring Eva, but all too well aware that their moment had passed.
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