The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 6

  “I won’t. It’s too bad about the Jews and the Arabs. They’re just like the junkie kids buying dope on the street corner. If they don’t get what they need from you, they’ll get it from someone else. They want to kill each other so badly that nothing else matters to them.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do the right thing,” Maltisse said, peering one last time at the face of death before being struck with the realization that he had already overstayed his welcome.

  Chapter 16

  A dip in the jet stream had poured cool dry air on the southeastern peninsula. The result was crystal clear skies and temperatures in the high seventies. The humidity, so common to southern Florida, was conspicuously absent.

  Gaetano Abate wasted no time enjoying the more favorable weather conditions. It was the first day in months that the aging don had ventured beyond the interior of his Palm Beach estate before sunset. Abate settled back in a lawn chair, took a sip of iced tea, and took a moment to marvel at his surroundings.

  He had purchased the land in 1953, edging out his dear friend Joe Kennedy for the prized location that bordered the Atlantic. There had been lavish parties at his estate in the early days. In the days of the Rat Pack, Sinatra and Lawford had been frequent visitors. The suite located at the northeast corner of the estate on the upper level was papered in emerald velvet and to this day was still fondly referred to as Marilyn’s Room.

  Massive concrete walls bordered the ten-acre estate on all sides. Olive and cypress trees that had been brought over from Abate’s native Sicily inhabited much of the property, with the exception of the great lawn, which served as a display for marble statuary. Beyond the eastern wall was the Atlantic Ocean. The house itself was ten thousand square feet. Although not extravagant by today’s standards, the two-level estate was immense for what was supposed to be a vacation home when Abate built it in the fifties.

  He had done well for an immigrant from the Sicilian town of Gangi and had grown personally and professionally on the basis of his intelligence and cunning. The fact that he had survived in the Cosa Nostra to such a lofty age was in itself testament to his savvy and competence.

  Abate reveled a moment longer and continued to recall the glory days. Life, it seemed, had been so much better back then. In those days, Florida had been an Eden. He enjoyed life, and his business ran smoothly and grew stronger each year. Aided by a young and ruthless enforcer named Anthony Silvestri, the family’s business grew to unparalleled size.

  Silvestri had been a major asset to him in those days. Dead Eyes, as he came to be known, was so feared that ambitious men soon found their place and learned to accept lesser stations in life. Silvestri was, as Abate once put it, “the perfect killer.” He could still remember the chill that ran through him the first time he met the man. That face, that haunting sardonic face, faccia de morte. It was the name that he had given to Silvestri. He had titled the man just so. It was the name that others were searching for but couldn’t put their finger on. There was no right or wrong with Silvestri and absolutely no fear or regard for the law. The only thing that mattered was his orders, which he would follow without hesitation. Abate’s role was that of judge and jury. Silvestri’s was that of executioner. In those days, the public authorities had conspicuously little involvement in the family’s business.

  A particularly disturbing event took place one day that forever changed Abate’s perception of Silvestri. Upon returning home from a Sunday morning golf outing with Joe Kennedy, Abate paused before entering the kitchen. Tradition dictated that his men join him for dinner each Sunday afternoon. While standing at the kitchen door, Abate overheard the other men discussing the Colombian drug cartels with Silvestri, conferring with him and seeking his advice. The men had meant no disrespect to Abate, yet the conversation caused him great distress. In that moment he understood that he had relied on Silvestri too heavily, and as a result, Silvestri had become the symbol of authority Abate had once been. Abate knew that Silvestri was a predator and that it was just a matter of time before he took advantage of the new power he controlled.

  From then on he looked at Silvestri differently. Simple actions, no matter how innocent, seemed treasonous and ambitious. Abate wondered how long it would take Silvestri to figure it out. How long would it be before Silvestri realized that he had the power to take over?

  Abate had recently begun to battle with the Gugliami family over the Carolinas, the territory that served as the dividing line between Abate’s territory in the southeast and Gugliami’s in the north. The Carolinas had never been considered a great prospect and was defined by a difficult if not failing agricultural economy, but there was talk of construction by Hilton on an island just off the Carolina coast. Hotels were a business the mob understood. Bugsy Siegel’s investment in Las Vegas had already paid off big time. With or without gambling, there was money to be made at Hilton Head, drugs and prostitution being at the top of Abate’s list.

  Abate struck preemptively, sending Silvestri north to secure the Carolinas before Gugliami could stake a claim. He made Silvestri the regional authority in the Hilton Head project, in effect banishing him from southern Florida forever. But Silvestri became bored with the Carolinas when attempts to bring in gambling failed. He began pushing north, building a powerful organization as he advanced. It wasn’t long before Silvestri had wrestled control of New York away from Gugliami.

  Abate’s masterstroke came at a price. President Kennedy’s failure at the Bay of Pigs sent a clear message from Havana to Bogota. The US was no longer considered an absolute power. Colombian farmers came to understand the prosperity the drug business was capable of providing and traded their rakes for machine guns. Within a few years they had grown into strong cartels with money and power to rival that of an army.

  The Colombians were ruthless killers and did not subscribe to Cosa Nostra rules. Compared to them, the Italian mob seemed civilized. Abate had once been as hungry for money and power as the Colombians, but he had grown old and complacent. To hold his own with the Colombians, he would have to relearn the old ways, and that, he knew, would be most difficult.

  Abate was gravely disappointed by the way Florida had changed over the years. South American influence had seemingly turned his beloved home into a foreign country. The gay times of the fifties and sixties had evolved into somber days of police-like vigil, and he was continually forced to look over his shoulder. In a way, he felt as if he had been left with the spoils while Silvestri had taken over the most lucrative territory for himself.

  The Miami Herald printed the horrible story about the woman’s torso, which had been found in the waters off Shinnecock Long Island. Abate was immediately suspicious when he read about the fisherman who had carried the torso to shore along with his harvest of illegal clams. A woman butchered in that way? And in Silvestri’s own backyard? He had little doubt that his old enforcer was the one who had this woman executed.

  The newspaper mentioned the possibility of a psychopath’s involvement in the crime, but Abate dismissed that theory out of hand. This is the work of a sloppy assassin, he theorized. This body was not meant to be found. Making matters worse, the story mentioned that the body had been identified. The victim’s identity had been withheld pending investigation, but Abate smiled nonetheless. He could feel things heating up for Silvestri. In his mind the murder had Silvestri’s signature all over it.

  He’d had a lot to do with his old enforcer in the past week, almost too much by his reckoning. There was the introduction to the gun smuggler Carlo Maltisse and the prearranged agreement between him and Silvestri in which the percentages and terms of the deal had been hammered out. More importantly, Abate had stood up for Maltisse, verifying that the man was an acceptable business associate. The actual meeting between Maltisse and Silvestri was nothing more than window dressing. The actual deal had been consummated on the phone with Abate and Silvestri days in advance.

  A gentle breeze tantalized the aging gangster, and his eyelids began to feel heavy.
Silvestri. The name filled his head once more. He began to envision himself back in New York, trading places with his old enforcer and taking back what was rightfully his. A smile curled his lips upward just before he fell asleep.

  Chapter 17

  The tranquility of the Swiss countryside was shattered by the sound of a screaming engine and the squealing tires as a Ruf Porsche Turbo exploded over the crest of a hill. The supercar took flight as the three-thousand-pound rocket leapt skyward and then slammed back to earth. The driver pushed the car into a hairpin turn and then slammed on the gas. The tachometer shot past six thousand RPM, and the rear tires broke loose, throwing the rear-engine vehicle into a violent spin. Ahmed Kasab Gul had the car back under control in less than a second. As the car snapped back into position, he could feel his heart pound and his arteries fill with adrenaline. The streaking vehicle accelerated like a charging bull. Within three seconds the car had achieved 230 km/h, and there were still inches of accelerator travel left under his foot. The car was nowhere close to its terminal velocity—it was just getting warmed up.

  The puny Swiss road was not meant for speed, but Gul was driving a vehicle of seemingly limitless potential, and was determined to explore every last inch of it. The road suddenly dropped off, turning to the right at a ninety-degree angle. He mashed the accelerator halfway through the turn, draining every last ounce of performance from the seven hundred horsepower engine. The immense tires gripped the pavement and pushed the runaway back on course. Whew! The road opened up before him. As he pressed the accelerator flush against the floorboard, trees whipped by and thousands of leaves exploded in a cloud behind him. The tachometer needle slipped past the red line. The speedometer read 315 km/h. The engine screamed, sounding as if it had been pushed beyond its considerable limits. Gul was sacrificing the machine for the sake of all-out performance. He continued to hold down the accelerator. The speedometer dial slowly inched its way toward 325 km/h.

  Off in the distance an old tractor turned slowly onto the road. A mere kilometer separated the two vehicles as the dial on the Porsche’s speedometer crossed 323 km/h. Gul kept the accelerator pinned to the floorboard. The engine was whining now, virtually pleading with the driver to lift his foot. A large, red warning light flashed on the instrument panel. 324. Six hundred feet separated the Porsche and the tractor from obliteration. For Gul, this did not nearly begin to spell excitement, 325. Gul looked down at the speedometer as the needle disappeared past the 325 km/hr. marker. With just three hundred feet separating the two vehicles and the tractor looming deadly, Gul pushed down on the brake pedal with every ounce of his strength. He had the brake pedal in the carpet, and the tractor was still coming up at him like a missile. He yanked on the emergency brake. The tires screeched, and the car skidded in an ABS-controlled straight line. The torpedo finally slammed to a stop just three feet from the rear end of the crawling tractor. Gul recoiled in his seat and screamed at the top of his lungs. It was his first time behind the wheel of the new car.

  Gul slowly maneuvered the screaming yellow Porsche around the tractor and turned off onto the road to Basel, Switzerland.

  Basel was the watch capital of the world, and the town was crammed from one end to the other with cash-rich tourists. Gul was not in town for a new timepiece. An Arab living in Switzerland under an assumed identity does so for only one reason, sanctuary.

  After doing business in a small shop Gul pulled the door closed and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He had examined the activity of the outside street carefully before exiting, painstakingly sizing up each passerby and vehicle. There was only one way for Gul to live. Even within the confines of the nonpolitical Swiss State, he knew that they were always out there, patiently and hopefully waiting to put a bullet between his eyes. He tucked his package under his arm and quickly returned to his car. He placed the package beside a basket of groceries and a copy of the New York Times before pulling away from the curb.

  Gul lifted his sunglasses, revealing dark brown eyes. His wavy black hair was closely cropped and held down with a generous amount of product. He was ruggedly handsome with a powerful square jaw divided by a cleft. The swarthy Middle Easterner was dressed in a caustic orange Spandex shirt and black bicycle pants. The tight-fitting garb clung to his athletic form, revealing a decidedly muscular body. Surprisingly, he had not attracted attention when he ventured through the town that morning.

  Gul drove home at more pedestrian speeds. Under normal driving conditions, he was able to lower the window and enjoy the invigorating fresh air. The sun was no longer overhead, and the mountainous oaks bathed the road in shadow.

  Gul’s Porsche crawled down a gravel path for at least two kilometers without passing any homes or townspeople. He finally came to a stop in front of a traditional Swiss cottage nestled at the edge of an oak forest. A bird of prey streaked in the sky above him, its cry shattering the silence of the Swiss countryside. Solitude and tranquility returned to the forest a moment later. Gul surveyed the terrain closely before entering the cottage.

  The remnants of a fire were still burning in the fireplace; small flames hovering over well-spent logs provided more atmosphere than heat. The house was furnished in the old-world tradition. A requisite cuckoo clock adorned the wall above a side table, adding to the cabin’s charm.

  Gul placed his package on the kitchen table. He opened the box and looked at his 9mm Glock, which had been freshly polished and machined by the Austrian factory. So-called nuclear aiming marks had been added to the sights. The three small dots, when aligned horizontally, made the gun perfect for use at night. Unlike the radium used on watch dials, the nuclear material painted on the Glock’s sights would shine for hundreds of years and was not dependent upon external light for recharging. Additionally they allowed for greater stealth than a laser sight, which better suited his purposes. A transparent membrane impregnated with lead protected the shooter from radiation. Gul placed a loaded clip into the Glock and chambered the first round. He felt the gun’s power in his hands as he wheeled around, depositing a slug into the door on the cuckoo clock. Satisfied with its accuracy, he placed the weapon into his shoulder holster. For a fleeting moment Ahmed Kasab Gul felt happy and secure. It was not a feeling he often enjoyed.

  Gul walked quickly into the study with a look of urgency on his face. He manipulated the touchpad on his laptop computer. He clicked the touchpad a few times, and a screen appeared with the logo of the HSBC Bank. Gul entered his delegate number, password, and session password. A moment later the screen flashed a message: Accepted, which gave Gul a new session password to be used the next time he logged onto the system. Gul brought up Current Accounts. Under a subheading called U.S. Dollar Accounts, the current balance of $5,000,000 was listed. Upon reading the amount, he became visually jubilant and quickly entered the keystrokes necessary to transfer the funds. Within seconds the new deposit had been safely transferred to a numbered Swiss account, joining the rest of his ill-gotten gains.

  Gul picked up the phone. Speaking in German, he ordered a first-class plane ticket to New York via Montreal, Canada. He had been paid his deposit, and it was now time to go back to work.

  ~~~

  A two-man Aman surveillance team watched Gul’s cabin. The Israeli intelligence team would remain in position until nightfall, at which time a fresh two-man team would relieve them. A high-powered infrared telescope provided visual access to the cabin. They had remained in place during Gul’s trip into town. Gul’s trail had been picked up by helicopter, which had followed Gul’s yellow Porsche via transponder signal from a distance of one mile, far enough behind that he would not hear the beating of the helicopter’s blades. Upon turning off on to the road for Basel, the Porsche’s position was relayed to a third team already in position in town. Had any member of the team lost Gul, the Porsche’s position could have been retrieved via the transponder hidden within the Porsche’s superstructure. Fortunately for the team, Gul was doing routine business. Had he been looking to get away, he cou
ld have ditched the car and easily eluded the surveillance teams over such a large area with so many geographic options.

  The surveillance team had an easy day. Their report would state that Gul had driven from his cabin to Basel, Switzerland, unaccompanied. The report would further state that he returned home at approximately 6:00 p.m. and remained within his cabin for the duration of their shift.

  They watched as Gul exited the cabin at 7:50 a.m. the next morning. He wore a crimson wool blazer, black turtleneck, and gray flannel slacks. Gul stowed two black leather tote bags on the Porsche’s passenger seat, placed his Revo sunglasses in position, and took off. The surveillance team radioed ahead to a backup team located at a local airstrip. A chopper was airborne in minutes. The transponder hidden in the Porsche was sending out a strong signal, and the chopper had no problem picking up Gul’s position.

  The Porsche was deposited at the Basel train station. Gul was easily identified as he boarded the train to Geneva. Likewise, a man wearing the same attire was seen leaving the Geneva train station and taking a taxi to the airport. A member of the surveillance team boarded the Lufthansa flight to Montreal. The surveillance agent sat in coach but had no trouble spotting the passenger wearing the crimson blazer in the first-class cabin.

  Gul was followed by cab to the Royalton Hotel in Manhattan. A Con Edison maintenance van positioned across from the hotel concealed a joint-forces surveillance team made up of Israeli Aman intelligence agents and their FBI counterparts.

  Ahmed Kasab Gul remained in his room for the evening. He received no phone calls, nor were any made. At 6:00 a.m. the next morning, the Aman surveillance team sent an encrypted e-mail message directly back to Israel. The message was decoded, reviewed, re-encrypted, and forwarded to Shaul Tasker.