Permanent Interests (7 page)

"You guineas are all alike. Think you can bust in here, do business without going through the union."

Ricky coughed into his handkerchief. "What're you talking about? What union?"

Fatso pulled a billfold from his inside jacket pocket, opened it and shoved it into Ricky's face. It displayed an I.D.

"Brotherhood of Teamsters, pal! You do anything on this pier, you gotta go t'rough the Teamsters."

"What the fuck you talking about?"

"Hey, keep talkin' like that, and I'll have to invite the Longshoremen in too. I'm sure they'd be real interested in what kinda deals are goin' down in their warehouses. Let's get down to business fast. No tellin' who else is goin' to stumble in here. All these lychee nut cans. I hear that junkies are really getting off shootin' up lychee nut juice.

We know that you have a nice cozy relationship with customs here. We know that some of our finest customs officers get a nice share of the pie. Since the Teamsters transport everything in these warehouses to the distributors, 56 JAMES

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the Teamsters gotta have their cut too. Just look at it as your contribution to the pension fund."

"Does Al Malandrino mean anything to you, buddy?"

Ricky demanded as he regained his composure.

Fatso rubbed his chin in mock contemplation. He pointed a finger upward and raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "Malandrino…Oh yeah, ain't he that dumb guinea who just barely escaped serious time in the joint? Ooh, yeah. Sure. Real smart guy. I t'ink I have actually heard of him. Seems to me he's got this t'ing against unions.

Can't stand 'em. Locks 'em outta all his businesses. Not a guy for the working man."

"Who do you work for?" Ricky demanded. "Bellomo?

Persico? Who? I think we're going to have to talk with whoever is supposed to keep you under control."

"Listen you ginzo greaseball piece of shit. I work for me and the Teamsters. Max Chesny. That's who I am, you got it?"

Chesny backed up two steps. Without taking his eyes off Ricky, he began to reach for a two-foot metal pipe that sat on the warehouse floor.

Ricky prepared to lunge at him and his two cronies.

Every muscle tensed. His eyes bored in on the intruder.

As if in defensive response, the obese Teamster stood up instantly. He stiffened and shivered.

"Come on, blubberball. I'll take you and your buddies on," Ricky yelled.

Chesny's eyes rolled upward. His fingers straightened.

His legs trembled. Blood flowed from his mouth and nose.

He seemed to be rising from the ground.

The goon holding O'Meara fell onto his hands and knees, eyes bulged to the point of popping out of his head.

His tongue protruded from his mouth. The man's head appeared ready to explode. Ghastly moans emitted from PERMANENT INTERESTS

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deep inside his shaking body. Blood-tinged foam gushed over his chin and down his throat, wetting the lapels of his overcoat.

Ricky heard a "Chump!" then a "Crack!" The third goon crashed to the floor. His neck began spraying blood in all directions. A fire ax was planted squarely down his right ear and into his jaw.

Ricky moved fast. He grabbed the pipe from the floor and zonked Chesny smack on the side of the head. But Chesny gave no reaction as bloody vomit oozed from both sides of his mouth. There was the sound of cracking ribs from behind.

Suddenly, there appeared none other than Dimitrov from a stack of crates containing Swedish refrigerators. The Russian had a sickly contented grin on his face as he visibly struggled against Chesny's weight. He was yanking a large knife up the dying man's rear rib cage.

Two of Dimitrov's mates were attending to the other Teamsters, one garroting the big man; the other admiring the handiwork of a quick ax to the head of the third Teamster.

From the rear of the warehouse ran Bags and Herman

"The German" Metzger, like Bags, a life-long and loyal employee of the Malandrino clan.

"What the hell…is this?" Ricky demanded.

"We are aborting a contract with Teamsters," Dimitrov huffed as he reached Chesny's shoulder blade.

"Holy Christ!" Ricky shouted.

Dimitrov ignored Ricky. He wasn't quite finished yet.

He let Chesny's corpulence drop to the floor. He then methodically commenced to eviscerate his victim. A geyser of blood gushed in several directions, covering the floor quickly in a sticky scarlet mess.

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Ricky grabbed Dimitrov's shoulder to yank him backward. The Russian bolted around and flashed a foot-long chromium blade to within a half-inch of Ricky's eyes.

He backed off, holding his hands outward from his sides.

The other two Russians held Bags and the German at bay.

"You see this?" Dimitrov asked calmly. Menace and madness radiated from his eyes.

"When I was boy in Murmansk, I work in fish factory.

Every day, I clean sturgeon, take out eggs to make caviar. I become like surgeon. Cut quickly and expertly. I do it with eyes closed. Sturgeon knife you can use to shave with." Dimitrov scraped Ricky's three-day growth, instinctively causing him to flinch. "Sturgeon knife cut bones like other knives cut cheese." The Russian broke his trance-like gaze and backed off slightly.

"Ricky, breathing hard, was half bent over, with his hands on his knees. "Next time I have some people over for a cozy massacre, I'll know who to call."

"I will tell you something, dear Mr. Ricky," the Russian said, resuming a distant glower. "We learn in Afghanistan how to kill properly. We, as soldiers, killed with gun --

clean, simple, quick. But enemy kept coming to kill us.

When
mujahideen
kill us, they take time. Sometimes they cut off ears, take out eye or cut off nose. Next day, they cut off balls. Maybe they take five days to kill Russian. They slice off skin and tie body to big rock in desert so his comrades can see. Whole companies of Russian soldiers refuse to fight when they see this. They kill commander rather than fight such people. Some desert to enemy, become Muslim. We learn lesson from Afghanistan. We lose war because enemy kills better than us. Now we
Afghantsi
kill skillfully. Teamsters never again bother us.

I guarantee you this."

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"Let's just get the fuck out of here."

Dimitrov eyed O'Meara, who was slumped against the crates crying uncontrollably. He had vomited all over the duffle bag.

Ricky stiffened. "Don't even think of it. He's useful.

You don't know how useful. Without him, we're finished.

He's not going to breathe a word about this. Are you Eddie?"

The customs man whimpered. He held his knees tightly and rocked back and forth.

"He knows that if he talks or welches, he's next. Leave him alone," Ricky commanded.

"Okay. But if he betrays us, I fillet him like sturgeon.

And his family also."

O'Meara burbled that he understood.

"Bags, Herman. Load this stuff fast. Take Eddie home.

Give him a couple stiff drinks first, so his wife'll think he's like this because he's plastered." Ricky locked his eyes onto Dimitrov's. "Okay, Jack the Ripper. Let's leave the talking to Uncle Al and Yakov." Ricky spat, then about-faced and sprinted out.

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CHAPTER SIX

Bernard J. Scher was put in charge of the government-wide effort to investigate Mortimer's death. He headed an Interagency Working Group, or IWG for short, comprising State, NSC, FBI, CIA, Defense, Homeland Security and the Secret Service. The IWG met twice a week to compare notes and seek ways to advance the investigation.

The national chairman of the President's party personally phoned daily for updates. Mortimer was a key supporter of the party and President. The party would miss the hundreds of thousands Mortimer raised through the PACs.

Secretary of State Dennison, seen by most Americans issuing sound-bites from breezy links at warm resorts, also wanted to know every detail, any clues that might lead somewhere. Mortimer had made Dennison, as chairman of the Committee to Re-elect the President, look good. In the coming race, he wouldn't have it so easy without Mortimer's golden geyser.

The press was merciless in commentaries on the government's mishandling of the investigation. The
Washington Post
questioned Scher's abilities as an investigator, noting that his hum-drum performance as a PERMANENT INTERESTS

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corporate attorney at his old law firm ill-equipped him as the government's chief diplomatic lawyer. The
Post
, the
New York Times
and the Sunday morning talking heads questioned the administration's assumption that terrorists did Mortimer in.

While this was distinctly an inside-the-beltway hullaballoo which held virtually zero interest for the average American, at election time, political opponents of the administration on the Hill and critics in the media would be slavering to turn it into ammunition to undercut the electoral chances of the President and his party.

Innes tried mentally and emotionally to remove himself from the whole affair. He had learned long ago to keep as much distance as possible from fools and their shenanigans inside the government. Sycophantic office directors and Deputy Assistant Secretaries pursued with unquestioning vigor the line laid down by Scher and his ass-kissing staff.

All manner of hyper-ambitious bureaucrats came out of the woodwork to weasel their way onto the investigation team.

The word around the corridor water fountains was that this could be "career enhancing" -- governmentese for fast promotions. His obligatory attendance at Scher's brainless IWG meetings, however, made Innes a captive. There to sit against a wall and take notes and report back to his bosses in the Department's Secretariat, Innes was in on most things. What he didn't learn at the meetings he usually could easily obtain through a secure phone call or an office visit. At the last meeting, he found himself unconsciously shaking his head in disgust. He caught himself before anyone could notice.

"What do you mean the CIA has nothing recent on the Patriotic Front for the Liberation of All Children of Islam?"

Scher thundered at the CIA's Deputy Director for Operations.

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"We don't even know if the PFLCI still exists. At most it had a dozen members, all hotheads at the University of Cairo. But they've all graduated. One is working in New York with Prudential Securities. The others we're still trying to track down. The Cairo Station believes one was tortured to death by the Egyptian police--"

"I want the low-down on the Prudential guy by tomorrow afternoon," Scher shot back. "Now, what's this latest report about the Kurdish Workers Patriotic Brigade threatening to blow up the embassies of imperialist governments who give aid to Turkey…?"

Innes couldn't believe his ears. He looked at his watch impatiently every six or seven minutes.

"We're demarching the Egyptians," intoned the gray-suited Deputy Assistant Secretary for Near East Affairs.

During a coffee break, Innes cornered Claire Norton, Scher's deputy on the interagency group.

"Claire, can you tell me what's going on?"

"'Going

on',

Bob?"

"I can't believe it's just me who sees we're barking up the wrong trees."

"Whatever do you mean?" Claire replied in astonishment.

"Why are we committing the formidable resources of the U.S. government in chasing after phantom terrorist suspects? We all know Mortimer's reputation. Though no one has the gumption to raise it."

"Ambassador Mortimer's personal life may have not been saintly, but it's irrelevant to this investigation," Claire answered officiously. "Besides, why sidetrack a serious investigation by getting the media into a feeding frenzy on marginal issues like Mortimer's personal foibles?"

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"When I told Scher about what I found out before I left Rome, it was like I was giving him my mother's recipe for blueberry muffins. He turned off completely."

Claire Norton was the same rank as Innes. She, like most of her female thirty-something peers in the Foreign Service, was immaculately burnished and behaved, and unmarried. Every hair always in place; her outfits were replications of the Brooks Brothers and Nordstrom suits of her male counterparts. She reminded Innes of female Coldwell-Banker agents who sold homes only in certain elite neighborhoods in the northwest quadrant of the capital. Claire punched all the right tickets. She was on the threshold of promotion to the senior ranks. Her positioning herself to be selected as Scher's deputy on a major task force was a strategic move.

"Do you really think Mortimer was zapped by some raghead zealot?" Innes asked almost in desperation.

With a plastic smile and a practiced upbeat delivery, Norton responded in measured tones, "We believe that there are enough indications to lead us to suspect strongly that terrorist elements are behind the assassination of Ambassador Mortimer." She sounded like a junior press spokeswoman reciting the party line, Innes thought.

Scher reconvened the meeting.

"The Strike Force for Bosnian Salvation," Scher began in a dramatic, paced presentation that would have the participants think that this Balkan splinter group had just gotten hold of the bomb. "DIA tells me that they have threatened to carry their message, quote, 'to wherever necessary and by whatever means,' endquote. I can't understand why they haven't been entered on Interpol's watch list."

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"We're demarching the Swiss," chimed a Deputy Assistant Secretary for European Affairs with no explanation.

"Islamic crazies are crawling all over Italy," Scher continued. "The Italians are so gummed up in Government of the Month antics, they can't be trusted to investigate a parking ticket." A wan smile unfolded across Scher's pale face.

As if on cue, all attendees in the conference room broke into a collective chuckle. Also as if on cue, they stopped.

Innes excused himself.