Albania, and we know who has the greatest input.”
“The Russian Mafia.”
“Exactly, and as they are not
“When possible?”
“Of course. Look, I suspended all drug operations there years ago and not for moral reasons as you well know. If idiots want to kill themselves with heroin that’s their affair. We make more out of cigarette smuggling from Europe into Britain than we ever would have with drugs.”
“Still illegal.”
“Yes, but as you being an expert in English law know, a drug runner pulls ten or twelve years. Get done, as the English say, for cigarette smuggling and what would your client get?”
“Twelve months and out in six.” Marco Volpe smiled. “Still illegal, running cigarettes by the millions up the Thames, so where does that leave Sir Paul Chavasse?”
“Exactly as he is. A realist. We’re not destroying the lives of stupid teenagers. We aren’t harming the widows and orphans. He can live with that as long as we provide the expertise on Eastern Europe that he needs. You’ll see that we do.”
“Of course, Uncle.”
“Good boy.” The Don nodded. “You take care of things. Tell Sir Paul I’ll see him later for dinner at the Saddle Room. You’d better go now, you and Aldo, to make sure he gets here in one piece.”
“Uncle.”
Mario Volpe went out. Rain battering the window, Don Tino reached for his unfinished glass of champagne. Such a clever boy. All the virtues really and yet capable of such stupidity. He swallowed the champagne, got up and walked out leaning on his Malacca cane.
WHEN CHAVASSE EMERGED FROM THE PLAZA Hotel it was raining slightly. He wore a Burberry trenchcoat in dark blue and an old-fashioned rain hat slanted across his head. Inside, the Colt.22 rested in a special clip. Uncomfortable, but also comforting in its own way. Just a feeling, but that’s why he was still here after all these years. He declined the offer of a cab from the doorman, went down the steps and started along Fifth Avenue.
Waiting in a black Mercedes town car, Mario Volpe and Vinelli watched him.
“Let’s go, Aldo,” Volpe said, “and don’t lose him.” Not that there was much chance of that as they pulled away from the sidewalk. Not too many people as the rain increased.
Chavasse liked the rain. Somehow you could inhabit your own private world. It was what he called the cinema of the mind time. You considered the facts, tried to make sense, anticipate the other side’s next move, and there was certainly more to all this than met the eye. All his senses, the product of forty years of living on the edge, told him that.
Not that he distrusted Don Tino particularly. It was more that he didn’t trust anyone. His special kind of life had taught him that. The way Eastern Europe was, the Don could be useful, which was what his meeting with Rossi and Vinelli at the Dorchester Hotel in London had indicated. If a few favors in return was the price, it was worth it, always supposing the price wasn’t too high. So Rossi was a gangster. In essence, that was what Chavasse had been for years. You had to be a kind of gangster to be an intelligence agent. All that kept you alive really.
He paused, produced a silver case from an inside pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it in cupped hands. He was standing at the entrance of a darkened mall at the time and for the moment, the sidewalk was clear. As he started forward, a young man darted out of the mall and blocked his way.
“Heh, buddy, you got some change?”
At that moment, another one emerged, his twin, hard-faced in bomber jacket and jeans, only he was holding a Browning pistol.
“This one’s got more than change. Let’s get him in here.”
He rammed the barrel of the Browning against Chavasse’s spine and drove him into the darkness.
All this was seen from the Mercedes.
Volpe said, “Those bastards. Why the gun?”
There was the sound of a shot. Vinelli braked to a halt and got the door open.
IN THE MALL THE ONE WITH THE BROWNING rammed it even harder into Chavasse.
“A nice fat wallet here I’d say, so let’s stay friendly. You can call me Tommy.”
Chavasse raised his right elbow, struck backwards into the face, turned sideways, pushing the Browning away, grabbed for the barrel, twisted it free and had the gun in his hand.
“You should never get that close to anyone.”
He pivoted, rammed the barrel of the Browning into the back of Tommy’s right knee and pulled the trigger. Tommy staggered into the wall and fell down with a cry.
The other one backed away, hands raised.
“Heh, man, don’t do it.”
Vinelli arrived, a gun in his hand, Volpe behind him.
They looked at Tommy lying on the ground and Chavasse tendered the Browning to Vinelli.
“Not mine, his.” He looked down at the boy. “Terrible class of muggers these days. Not too competent.”
Volpe held out his hand. “Mario Volpe, Sir Paul. We were worried about you so I figured we’d check the hotel. Aldo recognized you from London, so we were following. I mean, scum like this, what can I say?”
“Not much, I expect. Can we go now?”
“Sure.” Volpe turned to Vinelli. “Take care of this, Aldo. I’ll drive Sir Paul to the Trump, you follow on foot.”
He took Chavasse by the arm and led him away. Aldo turned, reached for the youth who was standing and pulled him close.
“You were supposed to jump him and wait for us to come to the rescue and what do we get? A gun, for Christ’s sake.”
“It was Tommy. He’s on crack.”
“Really?” Vinelli headbutted him, breaking his nose, sending him staggering.
The youth started to weep, blood everywhere. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vinelli, but what do I do with Tommy?”
“You get an ambulance. Three very large black guys beat up on you, and no fairy stories for the cops or the Rossi family will see to you on a more permanent basis.” He opened his wallet and took out ten hundred-dollar bills. “I said a grand and I’m a man of my word.” He dropped the money on Tommy.
“I’ll do what you say, Mr Vinelli.”
“You better had, kid.”
Vinelli patted his face, turned his collar up against the rain and walked away.
IN THE SITTING ROOM OF THE TRUMP Tower apartment, Volpe helped Chavasse off with his Burberry and placed it on a chair. Chavasse removed the rain hat and put it on the coat carefully.
“Drink, Sir Paul? Martini? Champagne?”
“Irish whisky,” Chavasse told him, “Bushmills for preference.”
“Anything. We’ve got it all.”
“Good.” Chavasse took a cigarette from his silver case. “And then you can tell me exactly what it is you want.”
Vinelli came in and stood by the door, face impassive. Volpe got the whisky from the bar by the window and brought it over.
“I don’t really want anything, Sir Paul. My uncle and you laid it out pretty clear at your meeting in London at the Dorchester. I mean, even Aldo here met you but I didn’t, so I figured it was time. I handle all the family’s legal business on both sides of the Atlantic. This whole deal is very important. I wanted to familiarize myself with you.”
“And why would you want to do that?”
“Well, on occasions, we’ll be working together, but hell, no problem there. Your record in the intelligence business is amazing.”
“And how would you know that?”
