Final Justice, page 12
“How did you come to pick Mt. Holyoke as your college?” asked Peter, “especially since you went to such a restricted catholic high school.”
“Actually, it was my father’s idea, interestingly enough,” she answered with a broad smile, remembering their conversation. “He knew that I was thinking about an international service career.”
“Papa, I can’t believe that you’re encouraging me to go away to school,” laughed Angela. “You are so with it, so wonderful, so unlike some of your, what shall I call them, associates?”
“Well, this is 1995,” said Massimo, a warm smile on his face. “And times have changed. I want you to do it all—education, travel, whatever your little heart desires. No drudgery for you my princess. There’s time to settle down when you’re thirty. And by the way, no comments about business or my associates. Remember our deal”
“But I was only ten when you made me promise never to ask you about your “job” again,” she said, still laughing. “Just because I asked you if you.”
“Stop! I don’t even want to remember. And it doesn’t matter how old you were. A deal is a deal.” Then he walked over and gave his daughter a big hug and planted several kisses on her cheeks.
“You are truly the sunshine of my life. Just like the song says”
“Peter, I hope that you won’t think this sounds silly,” Angela went on, “but what I was thinking of was some sort of an international network of sanctuaries for women fleeing oppression. Whether it’s the abused child brides from India, those pitiful girls from Somalia and other Arab countries who have been genitally mutilated, or the young girls sold into brothels in Thailand, there could be a common denominator. Maybe something like the Red Cross that would spanracial and ethnic lines and serve the needs of women around the world.
“Mt. Holyoke, of all the ‘Seven Sisters’ schools, has the highest number of international students,” she went on, “and I think it will afford me the greatest opportunity to meet and network with girls who might one day form a part of this international shelter that I envision.”
“What about a personal life?” asked Peter. “What you’re describing requires someone who is prepared to be a modern day equivalent of Mother Theresa. Doesn’t home and family hold out any interest for you?”
“Of course they do,” she answered. “But I think it’s possible to have both.”
She noticed the cynical look that came on his face.
“Listen Peter, perhaps my dreams are just that, dreams,” she said. “But you asked, and I answered. Besides, I still have at least two more years before I have to face more serious decisions about where I’m going. And until then, I can put off having to choose between what is fantasy and what has the possibility of becoming reality.
“And, as to your unasked question,” she went on, her voice growing colder, “the answer is yes. I know who my father was, and who my brother is. I also know what their business was about…and that of your late father too, I might add.”
Guilty delusions thought Peter, remembering his conversation with his mother. You all laboured until guilty delusions.
“But that’s them,” Angela continued. “And who knows, maybe that’s you too. But it’s not me. And no, I do not feel guilty or bear any responsibility for the choices they made with their lives. I’m only responsible for my own.”
Then she leaned over and kissed him passionately. Peter pulled her closer, pushing his misgivings aside as desire overwhelmed him.
“Oh, there’s one other thing I forgot to tell you,” she murmured against his lips while her hands stopped his from slipping under her sweater.
“I’m still a virgin—and I intend to remain that way until I get married.”
“Okay Angela, I’ll tell you again,” said Peter as he stood facing her with his back to the slope.
“Keep your body still from your legs up. It’s easier to turn on the top of a mogil because it unweights your skis and does the work for you. Don’t wait until you’re half way into it before you start moving.
“Now, follow me down the hill. Keep your eyes on the back of my head. Do not look down, do not look to the side, and do not look at your skis. That way you won’t notice how steep the slope is.
“I’ll be right here in front of you. Okay, are you ready? Let’s go!”
As they skied into the base camp half an hour later, Angela was like a small child, whooping and laughing, and waving her ski poles in the air.
“I did it!” she yelped. “I really did it!”
She unlocked her skis, tossed down her poles, and threw her arms around Peter.
“That was the greatest high I’ve ever known,” she bubbled, kissing his cheeks on both sides over and over. “And you gave me the courage to try. I love you! I love you! I love you!”
Peter pulled off her goggles and held her by her arms as he leaned down and said, “don’t ever say anything to me that you don’t mean, even in a joke.”
She didn’t answer, just kept staring at him with her big saucer eyes.
“Okay, let’s get back up the hill,” he said, patting her gently on the back. “You’ve still got a lot more to learn.”
This girl is worming her way inside my heart, he thought as they pulled on their ski masks and lined up for the quad chair.
Think twice Peter, think twice.
“Mr. DeVillers, there’s an Elizabeth DeLuca on the phone for you. She says it’s personal.”
“Well, you finally got my messages,” he said, swivelling the chair around and putting his feet up on his desk as he looked out at the ocean. All calls to his New York office were being re-routed to Bermuda.
“I’ve had two conversations with your son since that wonderful dinner at your home last month. Where have you been?”
“Trying to get my head on straight,” she answered in a soft and purring voice. “I’ve been left with a veritable hodgepodge of things to try and organize. I’m not used to so many complications, and to tell you the truth, I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“Oh,” he said. “May I be of any help?”
She waited a few moments before answering.
“My first instinct is to shout yes, yes, and throw everything in your lap,” she said. “But then, when I think of how stupid you’d think I am, I resolve to try and work it out by myself”
“I’d never think you stupid Elizabeth,” he said, his voice warm and gentle. “And you mustn’t think of yourself that way either. You just need a little help, someone to take you through some of the paperwork to make it easier for you to understand. After all, you’ve been concentrating on your home and family all these years. And look how successful you’ve been at that”
“How kind and thoughtful of you,” she replied. “You’ve made me feel better already.”
“Elizabeth, do you ever come up to New York?” he asked.
“Not too often,” she answered. “The last time Santino and I were in New York was almost five years ago, for the opening of Les Miserables. What a wonderful show that was. I love to play the music from it whenever I’m feeling sad. It perks me up right away.”
“Are you planning to get away at all this winter?” he asked.
“Well, Matthew and I are flying up to Toronto tomorrow.” she answered. “We used to live there. Santino gave me a small artist’s studio across from Yorkville many years ago, and I think the time has come for me to try and sell it.”
There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, “how coincidental. I’ll be in Toronto myself, on business. Where will you be staying?
“At the Four Seasons, Yorkville,” she answered, starting to smile.
“Well, how do you like that?” he said, “Another coincidence. I maintain a suite there. This must be fate, don’t you think?”
“Oh, no doubt about it,” she answered, the smile now filling her face.
“May I call you, and will you join me for dinner Friday evening?” he asked.
There was silence.
“Elizabeth, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here,” she replied. “I was just thinking that I’ve never been asked out on a date before, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond.”
“Don’t you even think about it,” he said. “Just leave everything to me.”
I think he took the bait, thought Elizabeth as she hung up the phone, tossing her head back and laughing. Mmm. maybe I’ve got real talent in the flirting department.
As Michael DeVillers sat back in his chair and contemplated the conversation he’d just had with Elizabeth DeLuca, the thought crossed his mind that she was playing with him. Nothing certain, just a hint. He knew that she’d led a very sheltered life, despite being the wife of one of the country’s most powerful and ruthless crime bosses.
Can she really be as naive as she seems? Then he straightened up and put his hands on the desk. Who cares anyway? She’s gorgeous and soft and vulnerable. And she’ll never outmanoeuvre me.
“Philip,” he said into his intercom. “I need to be in Toronto tomorrow. Alert the plane, would you please. And reserve a suite for me at the Four Seasons, Yorkville.
“Then please book Rodney’s Oyster Bar for me. I want the restaurant empty by seven thirty. They can send me a bill for their biggest evening’s turnover in the last year to cover the cost.
“Then would you please call David Mirvish and ask him to book whoever’s in town that can sing, and sing well, the score of Les Miserables. Whoever he recommends is fine.
“Yes, I know there’s a four hour minimum. I’ll pay it. Let me know if there are any problems. Thanks Philip.”
So my lovely lady thought Michael as he walked over to the corner window and looked out at the seagulls circling the fishing boats in the harbour. You’ve never been asked out on a date. And I bet you’ve never been seduced either.
“Oh Rebecca, what perfect timing!” said Elizabeth when she answered the phone. “Matthew and I are just leaving for the airport to fly up to Toronto. Where are you?”
“In an exotic airport,” answered Rebecca, grimacing as she looked out into the crowded waiting room. “I think I’ve found the trail of what I’m looking for. Now I have to follow it.
“What’s happened back there since our last conversation?”
“Actually, it’s turned out to be quite interesting,” answered Elizabeth. “I got a call from Donna Brattini last week about a letter she’d found in one of Massimo’s briefcases. She hadn’t gotten around to going through all of his papers until after the New Year and there, right on top, was a letter addressed to me. The outside of the envelope is postmarked, Verona, Italy. I told her not to forward it, just to keep it until we could get together in person. She immediately invited me to come to Buffalo to spend a weekend at her new penthouse. The timing seemed right, especially given our last conversation, so I agreed. Then I called Ryan and he called Giancarlo. A meeting between the two of us has been arranged for mid February. So it’s all worked out perfectly.”
“What about DeVillers?” asked Rebecca, dropping more change into the pay phone.
Elizabeth couldn’t help giggling as she quickly recounted her conversation with him to Rebecca.
“You’re bad Elizabeth, so very bad,” laughed Rebecca in response. “But be careful. DeVillers is a shrewd and powerful man. Whatever happens, don’t let him lose face. Just maintain your ethereal presence. It will keep him off balance.
“I will certainly do my best,” said Elizabeth. “And you be careful too. I don’t think I can get through all this without your help. Take care.”
“I will. Now, you and Matthew have a good trip up to Toronto. I’ll call you again as soon as it’s safe.”
Chapter 13
Marseilles.
Rebecca hung up and looked around the airport’s crowded waiting room before venturing out of the phone booth. Her poncho and tattered backpack hid her unwashed designer jeans and her hair was tied back under a floppy canvas hat. The Minolta 600si camera that she’d borrowed from her daughter Lisa hung around her neck. She was trying to look like a middle-aged tourist interested in the sites and she hoped that no one would notice her manicured nails and unlined face. The phoney passport and papers she carried were the same ones, now updated, that she’d used the last time she’d had to sneak into Marseilles. But back then, she’d been with Santino, and he always kept her safe.
What a town Marseilles had once been—torrid, rough, and exciting. Founded by Greeks from Asia Minor in 600 B.C., it became their main Greek colony in the west. A superb setting surrounded by a wide bay and circled by barren limestone hills made it a haven for fugitives, international dealmakers, and lovers wanting to disappear for a while.
For Rebecca’s friends, the south of France often meant elegant vacations and high priced spas. For Rebecca, it meant something else: drugs. From Pakistan, where millions of poppies were grown in the north and from which morphine sulphate tablets were made, to
Odessa. Then, on to Izmir, Turkey, following the old Turkish-Marseilles trail to the very streets she bumped through now on her way from the airport into the old Greek quarter of town.
Dangerous as it was to let her attention wander, she couldn’t help remembering back to that balmy night so many years ago when she had listened to Santino and his associate, Pedro Villela, rant and rave about Massimo Brattini.
Another stupid conversation about their never-ending vendetta, thought Rebecca as she sipped her drink. The three of them were having cocktails on the terrace of the Hotel Triomphe and watching the sunset. Rebecca wished she and Santino could be alone. They’d arrived earlier that morning from Toronto, via Paris, and had spent most of the afternoon playing scrabble and making love in the king-size bed before joining Pedro for a late dinner. No matter how much time she spent with Santino, she always felt rushed. As though every hour might be their last.
Not that Pedro was boring company. Suave and charming despite his menacing looks, he virtually controlled the port of Marseilles; drug deals, arms sales, and lately, the business of ancient artefacts and artworks from the Middle East bound for collectors in the U.S. and South America. And Pedro Villela worked for Santino DeLuca.
“Mario Grazie is still in town,” Pedro told Santino in Italian. Rebecca knew that Grazie was Massimo Brattini’s right hand, his personal hit man.
“Where’s the goods Pedro?” asked Santino.
Rebecca loved the way Santino always got to the point; whether it was getting her into bed, handling a million dollars worth of stolen Persian statues or…worse.
Pedro looked over at Rebecca and back at Santino before he spoke in broken English.
“Do you realize that the lady understands what we’re talking about?”
Santino burst out laughing.
“Her eyes, they give her away,” said Pedro.
Rebecca willed herself to be silent. What a lot of nerve. Talking about me as if I wasn’t here.
“Don’t worry,” Santino went on. “I trust her with my life.
“Pedro, I put Sal Lata, one of my most trusted men, into Brattini’s drug operation two years ago. I haven’t heard from him in over a year.”
“That drug bust really pushed Brattini over the wall,” said Pedro, nibbling on a tiny cracker on which a slim shrimp was balanced. It looked absurd in his meaty hand.
“I heard that he threatened to personally cut off Grazie’s balls if he didn’t find the rat.”
Pedro then smiled sheepishly at Rebecca. She smiled back.
As the two men continued talking, Rebecca remembered Santino’s shout of triumph when the headlines had first flashed around the world.
“I’ve nailed him bella! Nailed him dead! A ten million dollar heroin bust—worth thirty-five million dollars on the street!”
It was the largest take in FBI history. It had been part of a larger shipment belonging to the Brattini/Salerno family that was bound for the U.S. through the port of Marseilles, one that had originated in Thailand, making its way along the Odessa/Turkey route.
Santino began rehashing the story again. “Brattini had arranged for the shipment to be split in half when it reached Marseilles, approximately nine kilos of pure heroin, or twenty pounds each. Both bundles were then placed in special vacuum packages and air sealed in heavy plastic, using a technique similar to freeze-drying.”
“It will keep forever,” boasted Brattini’s technician who had done the job. “In ten years, or fifty years, the stuff will be as good as it is now.”
“Each bundle had filled two thirds of a bushel basket and looked like flour,” Santino went on, his eyes flashing. “And that is what was marked on the bill of lading for the bundle that had been loaded onto a freighter bound for the U.S. But Sal Lata had a surprise for all of them.
“When U.S. Customs and the FBI boarded the ship just inside American waters after getting a tip, they went right to Hold #2 and found what they were looking for. The captain and crew were arrested protesting their innocence. Then they asked for asylum, which was denied, before they were shipped back to Turkey.
“That same day, back in Marseilles, an old warehouse blew up and burned down. Inside it was the other half of the original shipment; the one that Brattini had intended for his Middle East connection; or at least that’s what he had been led to believe.”
As Rebecca listened, she wished Santino wouldn’t tell her so much. How does that old expression go? What I don’t know can’t hurt me.
“Sal managed to get that bundle away during the confusion,” Pedro interjected as he devoured his stuffed trout and grilled eggplant.
“Since the goods had already been sealed, we hid it inside a statue of Mary Magdalene at the Cistercian abbey of le Thoronet, right near the Luberon hills. My brother-in-law is the caretaker there.”
