Chapter 6: Greta

Greta lay in the dark feigning sleep. She loved Jose in her way, but their lovemaking was not why. He was too rough, too quick, too animal for her to find pleasure in his almost daily ritual. She knew he would not be fooled, unless he wanted to be, and she was right.

He came into the room, still fully clothed with only the removal of his heavy boots a concession to decorum. As he pulled back the covers to expose her nakedness, she shivered for a second then lay still and waited. He dropped his trousers around his ankles as he mounted her, strove home four or five times, then fell back as if in anguish. He was done.

No more than a minute later, Jose rose and left the room without a word. Greta knew he would be gone all night. Thank God.

The three of them met at the fish shop just after two in the morning. Frankie was the “owner” of this establishment during the day, but at night it was the campaign headquarters for Jose’s New York organization established here only two years before. Although still mainly an importer, Jose had soon realized that the real money in the business was in distribution. He already controlled the bulk product all the way from the mountains of Peru and Columbia, through Miami, and several other points on the east coast all the way up to Nova Scotia. His only territory left to conquer was the retail market on the streets of New York and San Francisco, and of Chicago and L.A., and these were the worlds of those damn wogs. The Cosa Nostra, the Sicilian mob, the Mafia, call them what you will, they controlled the streets of America’s cities.

“So how did it go today,” Jose asked, “Did you make the deal?” Yea, but you’re not going to like it.” Frankie did not quite cower as he spoke, but the inclination of his torso fractionally away from Jose conveyed the message of submission to authority which was still the underpinning of the relationship between the three. Jose was the undisputed Boss, Frankie the head of operations, and Alex the enforcer. Over the years since that little fracas in the mountains of Peru their organization had grown to include thousands of other members, but only these three had the total mutual trust which set them apart, gave them the power, and kept them alive.

“They screwed us as usual, but we cleared three mill.”

The only sign of Jose’s rage was a slight tightening of the tendons in his neck. “We’ve got to do something about this. That shipment should have grossed five, and on the street it will bring twenty five!” He did not say, nor did it even occur to him to mention, that his organization had paid the farmers who grew the coco leaves from which that shipment had been made less than twenty five thousand dollars.

Greta was in the kitchen when Jose awoke at noon. She was always there to serve him his lunch. She knew she had to be. When he appeared he had shaved and washed his face, but he still stank of stale sweat from a week of New York summer days. It seemed that even after his infrequent showers he still stank.

“You are early today, something important going on?” Greta did not really expect an answer because Jose only confided in her when he was insecure, and that occurred infrequently these days. She was therefore surprised when he answered, “Got to work out what to do about these wogs, they screw us all the time.” Greta knew what he was talking about having heard him rant to Alex and Frankie during countless meals together over the years. “You got to take them out,” she said simply.

Jose would never have admitted to anyone that he often listened to Greta’s advice, and this time, had he not been so incredulous, and just a little intrigued, he would have ignored her comment, “And how would we do that, they’ve got ten times the force, and twenty times the firepower that we have got?”

“Use the only forces that can beat them, themselves and the Feds! They are so paranoid they will kill their brothers if they think they are cheating on them, and the Feds, they want the Mafia so bad, they will take no heed of who is giving them their prize.” The audaciousness of what Greta had just said hit Jose like a stone. He knew she was right, she was always damn well right, which was why he so desperately needed to control her.

Alex waited quietly. He had always loved hunting, and hunting humans was an even greater thrill. Success was the sweeter because of the danger and the fear. His quarry today was The Weasel, and he had to get him before eleven.

Sergio Stromboli, alias Harry the Weasel was one of the most feared members of the Gambino family who controlled most of the east side of New York. Harry performed a function for the family much like Alex did for his organization, ensuring compliance. Harry’s girl lived in the apartment at the end of the cul-de-sac that Alex had staked out. Everyone knew that Harry would be there, he was there every evening until nine when he would leave to join the others at the restaurant. This evening would be different.

Right on time the door of the apartment opened, and the little man emerged. Perhaps his small size was why he was so cruel when he did his job. He was smiling as he sauntered down the sidewalk and turned the corner into the street. Alex hoped that the sex had been good, because If Harry heard anything before he died it was only the whistle of the bullet as it pierced his scull. The silencer on the Browning automatic made hardly a sound, and it took just enough steam off the slug so that it stayed inside his victim’s skull. Alex did not want blood and brains all over the passenger seat of the car into which the body was quickly pushed.

An hour later, on the other side of town, Alex was again in hiding. He had a clear view of the door of the bar just down the street. He also had a perfect escape route planned into a nearby sewer, across two blocks to his waiting car. He was waiting for Mario and his cronies who always showed up here at eleven. Mario who ran his distribution from here, was reputed to be trying to muscle in on Gambino territory on the east. Mario also had screwed Jose out of two million dollars last week, at least that is how Jose saw it.

Cradling the sub machine gun he had retrieved from Harry’s car, Alex waited patiently. He hated these crude weapons. No precision, no satisfaction. He tensed as he watched the limo slow, and waited till all the occupants had emerged. He cursed silently as the last of the five turned to retrieve something from the seat before he moved away from the cover of the limo. Mario was nearly at the door of the bar when the first shot sounded. He was hit in the shoulder, and fell forward into the doorway before crawling to the safety of the interior.

Alex smiled, he could have shot him anywhere he pleased, and had he done so Mario would not have moved again, but this was not to kill. This way Mario would probably lose the use of his right arm, but would not die. Alex continued to fire till he was sure they knew where he was, and until he was certain that their returning fire was near enough to him for them to believe he had been hit. Then, only making sure that one shot had struck home on the man he recognized as the one who had called him a dirty dago during the meeting last week, he carefully dropped the weapon next to the body at his feet and disappeared into the night.

The police did not frequent this part of town at this hour, and would not have been near enough to here the shots, had they not been called to a nearby bordello by an anonymous call just fifteen minutes before. It was strange that there was no trouble at the address that they had been given, at least no trouble that they were going to be concerned about. The gunfire down the street was a great excuse for them to leave abruptly.

The police found the body of Harry the Weasel, and they found his gun. They also found the body of a man who, according to the driver, had been the only one who had alighted from the limo. Witnesses at the bar all confirmed that Harry had fired first, that the man he killed had succeeded in returning fire, and with a lucky shot had killed his attacker before he died. None of these upstanding citizens could provide any reason why this gunman who no-one could recognize would have committed this unprovoked attack and killed this likable man who often came to the bar for a friendly drink. No they did not know his name either.

There was not much to more to investigate, and experience showed that the witnesses were unlikely to be more helpful. The police report read:

“A gunman recognized as Sergio Stromboli, alias Harry the Weasel, a well known member of the Gambino Family shot and killed a member of the west city branch of the organization, who alone or more probably, considering the number of shots heard, with others, returned fire killing the attacker. It is possible that at least one other person was injured, as blood stains were distributed more widely than would be expected with a single victim.

“As we have no evidence that Stromboli did not act alone, nor any useable evidence that any person not already dead was involved, the case is considered closed, however, we should expect major consequences to arise from this incident.”

The man who wrote the report was a young sergeant in the New York police department, who would later begin a crusade against the crime families of New York, Fred Hanson.

Later that night Mario Provenzana, known simply as Mario because almost no-one could pronounce his second name, sat up in his hospital bed. “So what the hell was that? Who sent Harry, and why?” The only person there to hear his question was his top lieutenant, Tony Giacalone, “Gotta be Gambino. He must have got wind of the deal we made with the guys in the Bronx. One of them must have run to Papa.”

“You realize where this leaves us, it’s either Papa or me, and you are right in-between.” Mario did not look at Tony as he spoke, but he could feel him stiffen. “If we don’t get them, it will be our wives attending funerals, not theirs.”

Tony got up to leave, “You get some sleep, I’ll take care of it.” As he walked from the room Tony mused at the situation. Papa Gambino was his uncle through his mother, and he had been at Papa side throughout the years that Papa’s self opinionated son was away at university and traveling Europe. He had been sure he was in line for becoming Boss till the cursed kid returned to be anointed by his ailing father. There was no love lost between them now, family or not. Maybe this was the time for revenge.

Papa Gambino was everybody’s idea of the perfect grandfather. He was in his late sixties, graying, with just enough weight around the midriff for his lap to be a comfortable spot for all his thirteen grandchildren. He loved those kids, and nearly every kid in the neighborhood. He was also popular amongst the older residents of the district on the lower east side where he had grown up and lived for most of his life, not only because he was a respected businessman, but because he would get things done for them. A loan here, a permit there, when all was said and done, Papa made life easier for all of them, so long as they were prepared to be grateful.

Early in the morning on the day after the shooting, Papa was eating his usual breakfast at the corner deli. “What got into Harry last night? Who set him up to it? Any word on how Mario is?”

“Do not know, do not know, and OK, he will live, but none of that is the point.” The speaker was Carla Junior, Gambino’s son, who ran most of the family business since Papa’s heart surgery. “Mario is going to think it was me sending him a message, which it was not, because he will suspect that I knew he was trying to get in to the Bronx, which I did. I was going to talk to him about that at Martha’s wedding on Saturday, now he will not believe that.”

He had not finished speaking when the man walked through the door and fired twice. The first shot hit Junior right on the breastbone, and he fell backwards, hitting the wall and the floor at just about the same instant. With a speed belying his age, Papa leapt over the counter and as he landed in a crouch, he pulled a small silver revolver from his pocket and fired at the intruder. His shot struck home, and the man staggered, but recovered quickly and ran back into the street, disappearing into the morning crowd.

Papa crawled round to his son and felt for his pulse. There was none, and it was clear from the gaping hole in Junior’s chest that there was no chance of revival. Papa bowed his head in pain, and knelt for a minute his lips mouthing a silent prayer. Then aloud, he said, “Damn that Harry, and damn Mario, now we will really have to send him a message.”

The war raged for almost three weeks, and the police could confirm thirty seven casualties. There were almost certainly more. Then Hanson received an anonymous call. “You want to stop this war, and get Gambino. Be at the corner of 10^th avenue and 37^th street at eleven tonight. Bring plenty of backup.”

It was almost a replay of the incident which started the war. The police had the area around the corner staked out well before eleven, and it was nearly a quarter after before anything happened. The silence of the night was shattered by sustained automatic gunfire not from where they were, but several blocks to the south. By the time the police got there, it was all over. several cars were burning, and several bodies were strewn in two areas, three on one side and two on the other. All but one were dead. The lone survivor was kneeling, dazed and clearly in pain from a shot through the right shoulder, his blood seeping over the sub machine gun on the ground between his knees.

Hanson immediately recognized the man as Tony Giacalone, longtime member of the Gambino family and lieutenant to Mario who it is believed had started the war. Tony’s gun proved to be the weapon which killed two of the three other men who also were members of the Gambino family.

Obviously nobody believed the story Tony told, even though he repeated it flawlessly every time he was questioned. According to him he had been walking his dog earlier that evening when he had been hit on the head. He woke up miles away in the middle of a gun fight. He had no idea how he got there. The evidence for murder was overwhelming, and even if he could get off, he was a dead man anyway. So when the FBI offered him a plea in return for testimony against his uncle, he took it.

It was the biggest break in the history of the war against organized crime. The “Boss” of the Gambino family and twenty of his senior aides were indicted with grand larceny, conspiracy and murder, as were a host of lesser members charged with a miscellany of crimes enough to keep the courts, the FBI and the local police busy for several years. Hanson himself was a hero, and he gratefully accepted a transfer to the FBI, at a considerable increase in pay.

“What’s today’s count?” Jose was seated as usual at one of the small tables in the fish house. “Another three organizations with one hundred and forty three dealers came across today meaning we have twenty five groups and a total of over three thousand dealers. There cant be too many more. It seems that there was not too much love lost between the street organizations and the Families.”

Jose laughed, “Damn, I’m glad Greta is on our side. That was a fiendish idea getting the Fed’s to nix the wogs and make room for us to take it all over . Got to give Alex his due though, that coup de grace implicating Giacalone was a work of art. Speak of the devil.”

Alex entered the shop followed by a short stout blonde man, “This is Sean O’Grady. He’s OK, I checked him out before I agreed to bring him here to meet you. He’s got an interesting proposition.”

They both sat at the small table, and were offered and accepted glasses to drink from the bottle of rum already open in front of them. “It’s like this. O’Grady spoke with a broad Irish accent, “I am with the longshoreman union, the general secretary actually, and we have a deal that may interest you, and be good for both of us.” His already florid face became almost flushed as he warmed to the plan, “We were working with Mr. Gambino, but he is a little occupied right now. It’s something the unions all over the country have been doing for years. It works like this. We have payroll preparation service companies set up in key locales, and each week we deliver the weekly wages to docks, warehouses, factories and plants all around the nation. Here in New York we control from Connecticut to Philadelphia, there are other organizations in Boston, Baltimore, and even Chicago. To do this we need a lot of cash money, notes and coins and things. We hear that you have a supply of such cash.

“What happens is this, you deliver the cash on a regular basis in an official looking security van, we lake a small cut to compensate us for our trouble, and we send you client cheques for the balance, cheques from the General Electrics and Ford Motor Companies of the world, accepted by any bank anywhere, no questions asked.” He sat there beaming, as if the idea had been all his own.

As usual Jose cut right to the chase, “How much can you handle, and how much is your cut?”

“Twenty, thirty mill a week, no problem, and we take only ten percent.” The slight sideways glance Sean made as he spoke, gave him away. There was plenty of wiggle room.

“We can do fifteen mill a week, and five percent.” Jose made it sound final.

“Seven and a half.”

“Six”

“Deal, when can we start?” Sean almost licked his lips as he spoke, and Jose realized he should have stuck at five percent. No matter, there would be the opportunity to fix that later.

“I suppose you already have the armored vehicle?” Seeing Sean nod his head, Jose continued, “How’s tomorrow.” The deal was done. As Sean left, Jose turned to Alex, speaking loud enough for it to be certain Sean could hear, “You know where to find him if we have any reason to?” The implication was quite clear, and the stiffening of Sean’s back signaled that it was not lost on him.

Chapter 5. Ariel

Ariel Rosenberg was just twenty-two when he arrived in New York. His life had been ripped apart by forces he could not understand. Only a year earlier he had been the proudest man in Mastok, a small village south of Uta just west of the Urals. After a seven year apprenticeship beginning when he was just thirteen years old, he had at last earned the prestigious right to call himself a journeyman tailor. With this new prestige, he won the love of his life, and married a pretty dark girl named Rachel. His parents were themselves of modest means, but on the occasion of this wedding they had, with considerable personal sacrifice, endowed him with his greatest treasure, a pedal sewing machine,.

Perhaps his happiness had blinded him to the danger approaching, so when the decree came that no non-Russians could own a business or a home, he was totally unprepared. Others had secretly moved to the big cities, and had hidden their Jewish heritage in the clutter of urban society, but in Mastok, there were only a dozen Jewish families, and all were well known. Within days of the decree, he, his young wife, and his aging parents set out on foot for the long journey to Warsaw where his Uncle lived. Their worldly goods were stacked high on a hand drawn cart, topped by the precious sewing machine. In Warsaw, he left Rachel, who unbeknownst to him was pregnant with their first child, and his parents, while he set out to voyage to America. He would send for them soon, he had promised, even as he fought back the fear that this may not be a promise he could keep.

It did not take the young man long to realize that the welcome in this new country full of promise was something he himself would have to make, as opportunity did not actually knock at all, by had to be sought out and seized upon. Unfortunately, the reality was that there were insufficient opportunities to go round, and sometimes one had to be snatched from someone else, someone less crafty and cunning than oneself.

Craft and cunning were skills Ariel found he had in good measure, and soon he established himself as a successful tailor on the corner of 10^th Avenue and 36^th Street. His greatest happiness was four years later when he welcomed the arrival of his wife and three year old son. His mother came too, but his father was too ill to travel, and indeed he died in Warsaw before the rest of the family completed their terrifying voyage across the stormy ocean.

The family settled down into their new life with gusto, with Rachel helping in the business, and mother running their home above the store. Their business flourished, and the shop became well known as a source of fine hand crafted apparel. The building was a three level sandstone, with an imposing façade, and grand entrance opening into a bright and airy showroom. In the back, hidden from the view of customers was a large room, this one with little ventilation, and even less natural light. During the day, the room was illuminated by stark electric lamps, and buzzed with the sound of twenty sewing machines operated mostly by women who had not been as lucky as Ariel. At night, as the hum of the machines subsided, and the lights extinguished, the women had nowhere else to go, and they crowded into an even smaller space a sort of mezzanine over the storage area at the back of the room. Here they cooked, ate, washed sometimes, slept, and not infrequently entertained male friends, most often as a supplement to their meager wages.

Ariel had initially resisted the use of the mezzanine as a living space but had succumbed to the pleas of early employees, who had promised to find an alternative. The separate entrance into the lane behind the store, allowed the girls to come and go, and soon both parties came to accept the arrangement as part of life.

Young Ariel Jr. grew up fast, and was the light of his parent’s life. When Rachel had delivered the boy in the spring of 1900, she had named him Ariel, so that even if he had never met his father, he would always know his name. Both she and Ariel Sr. knew they would never have another child, as the birth had not been easy, and they let no opportunity for his education pass them by. The boy learned fast and well. It was not his parents fault that there were also lessons to learn in his neighborhood and his world that were not taught in schools, and he learned these lessons well too. Nor could they predict that his blend of athleticism, good looks, and raw intelligence would propel him to a leading role in the world they knew existed, but had never really experienced, the street world.

The first signs of young Ariel’s preeminence in the street world were his clothes. There were fine styles more reminiscent of Paris than New York, shoes from Milan, and hats from London. His friends, who seemed to admire him immensely, were also well dressed, always with money. Ariel Sr. and Rachel, well-off themselves by almost any standards, could only watch with rising concern.

The twenties were great years for criminals. Prohibition was a godsend. No one in the mainstream of the population really believed that bootlegging was a crime, and even the police only bothered the gangs when they bothered them. By the time the party ended in 1933, Ariel Rosenberg Jr. had become a wealthy man, and he moved his family to Long Island and they settled in the small town of Far Rockaway. Here he married and took on the trappings of a successful businessman.

The move out of New York had not been entirely by choice. During the heady days of prohibition there was more than enough action for all the gangs of the area, but as the gravy train dried up, so the bigger families turned on the heat. The several Jewish and Irish gangs had been tolerated by the Italians mainly because they provided excellent logistic support to their operations, but the message was soon clear, “Retire gracefully, or you will be retired.” Apparently Ariel Jr. may not have accepted the full implications of the message because just a few years after the birth of his second son, he and his young wife died in a very suspicious auto accident while returning from an evening at the theater.

Raised by their grandparents, Ariel Sr. and Rachel, in the old brownstone in the city, the two boys lived a comfortable middle class life wanting for nothing. It was strange therefore that Jeff, the youngest of the two had several brushes with the law involving petty pilfering and shop lifting and were it not for his grandfather’s eminent position in the community, he would undoubtedly have become involved in the juvenile correctional system.

Once through college, and at last with the ability to earn his own income, the young Jeff began his career selling penny stocks on the telephone and watched with fascination how some would provide their purchasers with bountiful rewards while others, indeed most, would be a disaster. After his own first such disaster he vowed to never let it happen to him again. He very quickly learned what became his first law of eco-dynamics, “never buy any stock unless you have knowledge, preferably knowledge that very few others have.”

Applying this principle he amassed his first million by the time he was twenty seven and several more followed in quick succession. His second law of eco-dynamics was “It’s easier to make lots of money if you already have lots”.

By the beginning of the eighties the mutual fund “bug” had truly bitten the financial community. It was not lost on Jeff, nor indeed on a host of other financial guru’s, that this was a much easier way of getting his hands on other people’s money. Rewrite Jeff’s second law to read “It’s easy to make lots of money for yourself if you have lots of other peoples money to play with” and you have the matre by which the world of finance works. So Jeff launched the first of several mutual funds creating what would become Franklin Capital, eventually a stable of 22 such funds. His timing initially proved to be inopportune. The financial turmoil of 1982 when interest rates climbed to the mid twenties, and stocks plunged to historic lows was most stressful and while the Rosenberg fortune was never in any real danger Jeff emerged with the belief that there had to be a better way.

Watching the ticker one day, Jeff noticed the same stock pass by in three consecutive trades, each at a slightly higher price. Who, he wondered idly, was the first seller, and who was the last buyer. Then, germ of an idea came to him. At first Jeff tried the idea in his own family of funds with limited but definitive success. As he later explained it to a group of his friends in the industry when persuading them to join him in his program, “It all depends on statistics. The price people pay on the Stock Market is really the median of all the prices that the group of players would be prepared to pay on any one day. Now if you take out a section of that group and you artificially change that sub group’s median, even though you have had no effect on the rest of the group, you will push the median for the group as a whole to a new level. As long as you can adjust the subgroup’s median at no real cost you have achieved an effective change in the price on the market. The best part of the system is that it is entirely legal.”

In the highly competitive mutual fund market, success is measured in hundredths of a percentage point. Each quarter the funds performance is compared with the indices, and beating the Dow and all the other funds spells the difference between success and failure. Jeff was good, but not always good enough. The system made the difference. His funds began to regularly outpace the market just enough for him to attract more than his fair share of the new unit sales, but he knew that to be really successful he needed the cooperation of others in the industry also.

Very selectively he approached some colleagues in the industry. At first he was joined by just a few other fund managers but gradually this number grew. Most of the stocks selected for the process were so called small caps, companies with relatively low capitalization's, and by their nature often high tech. They were suitable candidates because it did not take enormous resources or risk to have a significant effect on the price, and because the companies were not actually making any money, profitability therefore did not cloud the issue. As more and more companies seemed to be making price advances, so the excitement grew, more and more cash was channeled to the mutuals, more and more pressure was exerted upon the managers, and the cycle spiraled on.

The part that all the participants did not expect was the effect their actions began to have on overall market sentiment. The historic growth of ten to twelve percentage points per year over the entire market turned into twelve to fourteen, then sixteen to eighteen. Where would it end, and how long could it last?

Chapter 4. Alex

Jose surveyed the hideout with growing impatience. “Hey, Alex, have you got nothing better to do with your time than throwing that knife.” Alex said nothing, he seemed only to add another degree of force to the throw. The hunting knife he threw had a seven inch blade, and an handcrafted bone handle. It glinted in the moonlight as it sank two inches into the trunk of the mahogany tree which grew in the center of the clearing which was their home. As he wrenched it from the tree he grunted with the effort, then stepped back the five paces to throw again. As he did so he wiped the blade with care and smiled at the beauty of the weapon.

“What’s the point in us having all this money we are making if we can’t do anything with it. Seems we got to change something.” Jose spoke as if not expecting any one to be listening when Frankie leant out of the hut that was their only shelter from the frequent rainstorms that pelted the area almost daily. “Yea, and we need to get some girls, you got Greta, me and Alex we got nothing.”

It was true. He certainly had Greta, and had claimed her the very night they had taken over this camp from the cadre’s, and he made certain she would remain his girl. He was not sure this was exactly what Greta wanted, but he found her resistance to his sexual advances truly exciting, and their lovemaking intensely satisfying, the more so the more she objected. Both knew she had nowhere else to go, and both knew nothing would change as long as he wanted it that way.

“You seemed to have no trouble satisfying your needs with that girl you picked up last month.” Jose was referring to a girl from the nearby village who had been encouraged to stay over at the camp when she had been discovered during a foraging expedition. Both Frankie and Alex had spent time with her before she had been released with a generous gift, and a warning that she would die if she made any trouble. The fact that she reappeared some days later with a friend suggested that she was not a totally unwilling participant even if it was out of fear and the lure of a few dollars, which was wealth beyond her comprehension

“Yea, but we need something more.” This time it was Alex, “and those shit’s on the plane really piss me off.” As out of context as the comment was, it seemed to strike a chord, as all three of the young men stiffened and looked at each other. Clearly they had all been having the same thoughts.

“Yea, we do all the hard work. and they pick up the prize.” It was Greta. “We should be doing their thing as well. Jose looked at his three compatriots and knew what they were urging him to do. “OK, if that is what you want, but it is risky, and we are only four.”

“We were only four before, and that didn’t stop us then.” Greta’s comment seemed to sum up the views of all, and there was nothing more to say.

They laid their plans carefully. When the plane arrived at the next full moon, Frankie, who had become more friendly with the crew, sidled up to the leader, “You guys in a hurry tonight. We got a couple of girls in the camp.”

“As a matter of fact, we can’t go on to our next stop anyway, “there is a big storm in the area. Let me ask the others.” There was little resistance to the idea, because in less than a minute the leader returned with the response that everyone except the pilot would be happy to spend the night at the camp.

This is exactly what Jose had expected, as it had appeared that the pilot was not an eager member of the gang. “Good. Alex will stay here with the plane, and the rest of us will have a party.” Alex feigned dismay, but accepted that he had an important job to do, as did the other three.

Back at the camp, the scene was set; the food was good, the liquor plentiful and the girls receptive. It was not long before tongues were wagging freely, and Frankie, unlike Jose, was an excellent conversationalist. In just a few hours they learned that this crew was part of a gang who were based in a small town on the banks of the Cauca river, near Medellin in the north of the country. Their leader had three other planes working other routes, and was able from his key location there to ship the drugs down the river via the Caribbean routes to the markets in the US. As the night progressed, Jose determined to his satisfaction that the leader of this group, whose name turned out to be Emanuel Costa, was sufficiently approachable, and that he was not overly loyal to his boss Sergio, who it seemed was excessively domineering and vicious. He also determined that another member of the party referred to by them as Segundo, was apparently the second in command but was somewhat separated from the others. He would find out later that Sergio, to ensure that everything went smoothly on the missions, planted Segundo as his “man”.

In the mean time, back at the landing strip, Alex wasted no time to befriend the pilot who prided himself in the fact that he was not a member of the gang, but simply a paid servant, as he said, were the other pilots as well. This it seems made the pilots feel superior to the others, or perhaps it salved their consciences of the dirty work that they were doing. By the time the party was ready to go on their way the following evening, Alex had secured himself a ride and had sufficiently wormed his way into the pilots confidence to be seated in the co-pilots seat, and to be being instructed on the operation of the plane.

As they left, Jose promised an even finer spread on the next trip, and secured a promise that they would all return to partake, and to bring Alex safely back. Alex for his part, said nothing, but watched and listened to everything. Although he had never previously left the area in which he was born, his innate sense of direction, and animal cunning quickly made him conversant with the routes they took and the area around the base. Given several opportunities to fly with his new friend whose name also turned out to be Alex, he even became a passable pilot, and felt quite confident that in an emergency, he would be able to handle the plane.

When, at the next full moon, Alex returned to Jose’s encampment, he felt they were ready. While Emanuel and the rest of his crew, were again enjoying the spread of wine women and abandon set before them at the camp, he and Jose exchanged ideas and put the final details of their plan in place. They would act at sunset the next day, just before the plane would be due to leave. Quietly, so as not to alert their guests, they confided the plan to Frankie and Greta, and as soon as the last of the visitors had fallen into a drunken sleep, they sent the local girls on their way with the usual mix of cash and threatened consequences to ensure they would cause no problems.

The next afternoon, the visitors were gathered in a group under the mahogany tree in the center of the clearing, preparing to make their departure, still totally unsuspecting. Jose appeared suddenly out of the hut, an AK47 hanging casually at his side. Alex stepped forward from behind the giant tree, and grabbed Segundo holding his hunting knife to his throat. Simultaneously Frankie and Greta, also carrying guns, moved into the clearing. Without a word, Alex motioned to Jose, who nodded. With a single smooth action, Alex drew the knife across Segundo’s protruding windpipe, and, as if without effort, slit his throat from left to right. As the column of blood squirted from his severed jugular, Jose calmly said, “Nobody move. This is a takeover. Emanuel, you have two choices, work with me and become rich as we kill Sergio and take over his operation, or die here now while the rest of us kill Sergio and take over his operation and become rich.”

Emanuel looked quickly at his comrades. Clearly there was no resistance there. “OK, put that way I guess we would be happy to work with you. You probably realized there is no love lost between us and Sergio, nor Segundo for that matter. But you must realize that Sergio is tough.”

“That is our problem. I assure you, if we fail you will be free to claim that we took you by force. Just remember this, I too am tough, fair but tough. If you come with us you stay with us, to do otherwise is to choose an end like Segundo. If you are not with us, you are against us, and I will not accept that.” There had been no expression in his voice but Jose’s meaning was very clear.

The party moved off towards the landing strip. Unobtrusively Jose paired himself with Emanuel, while Frankie and Greta stayed close to the other two members of Emanuel’s group. When they got to the plane Alex skirted carefully around to the other side so that Alex the pilot would not be encouraged to do anything stupid. The precaution proved unnecessary, as, when it was explained to him that Segundo would not be accompanying them as he had become permanently indisposed, Alex the pilot was unconcerned. He would just do his job, as always.

So it was set. Frankie was to return to the camp with one of Emanuel’s men, and they with the help of a couple of carefully chosen recruits from among their growers, would run the mountain operation until Frankie was confident the new crew was trustworthy. He was left with a large bag of cash with instructions that, should the plane not arrive the next month, he should disappear into the forest with the cash, and somehow distribute it to the families of the others, as they would certainly be dead. Frankie had objected to his assignment, but he was the largest of the four, and the small plane would already be heavily loaded with its six occupants, not to mention the cartons of crude cocaine already stashed in the cargo compartment.

When the plane took off and headed north towards Medellin, there was silence among the passengers, each being wrapped in their own thoughts and fears. Emanuel and his cohort were decidedly edgy, and even the normally unflappable pilot showed signs of unease. Only the always expressionless Jose, and steely Alex were unperturbed. As they neared the gangs home strip in the early hours of the morning, the tension was raised by the appearance of great flashes of lightening illuminating towering thunderheads. The plane began to bounce frantically in the turbulence, and Alex the pilot instructed them all to strap themselves in.

A relaxed Alex the pilot broke the silence, “If we had enough fuel I would try to divert to the main airport in Medellin, but we don’t, so we are going in.” His comment was punctuated with a great bang, and a flash so bright everyone was almost blinded. At the same time, the air under the plane seemed to disappear, and the small craft fell like a stone for what seemed like hundreds of feet, but was probably only seventy. When the fall ended, each occupant was ground down into their seats, reversing the travel of their internal organs very dramatically. “One more like that” said Alex the Pilot dryly, and the wings will break off.

This time it was Jose’s turn to break the tension, “This storm will ensure we have no welcoming party, so be grateful.”

Greta, who like Jose had never flown before, was heard to mumble through her clenched teeth, “I will remember that as I meet St Peter.” She was grateful that she was right at the rear of the plane, so no one could see the grip she maintained upon the seat.

Both Alex the pilot and the other Alex who occupied the two front seats, strained to pick up the lighter patch of black which was the landing strip from the darker black which was the forest surrounding it like an unending sea. Their task was aided by the frequent bolts of lightening, which if they did not blind them, gave just a second of illumination. Luckily the storm was moving just behind them, and the almost strobe effect of the flashes helped pick out the landmarks. “There”, Said Alex pointing, “the saddle hilltop, and there, the church spire.” “I see them,” responded Alex the pilot somewhat dismissively, although secretly he was happy to have someone along to confirm his observations. Then suddenly, right in front of them the forest fell away, and the strip was plain to see. Alex the pilot touched back on the steering column, simultaneously edging back on the throttle and the plane sank gratefully to the soaked earth in what, had the conditions been better, would have been a perfect three point landing. In these conditions, however, they hit the strip hard, bounced once, then hard down a second time, right into an enormous puddle of rainwater.

The water braked the plane violently, and it nearly catapulted nose over tail. As it righted itself, it slewed sharply to the left, leaving the short cropped strip, and careening into the untrimmed edge, coming eventually to rest almost submerged in tall grass just short of the forest line. The engine stalled being unused to the additional stress of beating the grass, and silence punctuated by thunder engulfed the plane.

Several minutes passed before Jose broke the spell. “That was a stroke of luck, no one could have heard us land, and we are completely hidden.” They all realized he was right. Serendipity out of chaos, that was Jose’s kind of luck.

Slowly the party emerged from the plane, “You stay here and don’t move till we come to fetch you,” Jose pointed to Alex the Pilot, “no need for you to get involved, but be quiet. One warning sound and you will regret it. Emanuel, you stay where I can see you, you double cross me I will kill you first.” With that they moved off towards the hut just visible at the far end of the strip. They stayed in the tall grass close to the forest which gave them the double benefit of shielding them from both the pouring rain and the illuminating effect of the lightening.

As they approached the hut, Alex whispered, “there should be one guard and he should be over there by the other planes, but I cant see him. Damn, he must have gone into the shack to get out of the storm. There is only one entrance, and if we make any noise killing the guard, it will arouse everyone.”

“Then we will have to kill everyone, not just Sergio,” said Jose quietly.

They slowly opened the door of the shack. It made no sound as it swung wide, and, there, sitting on a chair in front of a glowing fire was the guard with his rifle cradled on his lap. He was fast asleep. They left him as he was, and Greta took up her station at the door. On the wall facing the fire were two bunks, occupied by other cadre’s, also fast asleep. Just to the left of the fireplace was a door leading to the second room which was occupied by Sergio and his girl, a buxom somewhat aging sometime beauty. Luckily they did not sleep entwined with each other, so she did not stir when Alex’s blade plunged into Sergio’s bare chest and severed his aorta. He died without even a gurgle disturbing the sleep of the rest of the gang.

Jose motioned to Emanuel and his companion to sit in the corner near the fire, and within minutes both were asleep. Meanwhile Alex and Jose leant calmly against the wall watching and waiting. The small fire was enough to slowly dry their sodden clothes, and warm their chilled bodies.

It was an hour before the first cadre stirred, and when he did, Alex moved quickly to his bedside. The man’s first realization was that the long blade hanging five inches above his chest was a real threat, and not just a dream, and that the hand holding it was connected to the face that was staring him straight in the eye. He quickly opted for the obvious course and lay motionless while he was trussed like a chicken.

The next to stir was the guard, and after he briefly toyed with the concept of resistance, he too surrendered his weapon and allowed himself to be tied to the chair. He was secretly relieved that Sergio was already dead, as he had no doubt that his transgression as the night guard would have seen him dead instead.

Feeling no further threat, Jose woke the last sleeping cadre with a poke in the ribs from his rifle, while Greta slapped the bare buttocks of the girl to bring her to a sudden realization of her nakedness being exposed to several pairs of strange eyes. When all were safely tied, Alex wakened Emanuel, “Ok sleepy head, that’s enough rest. Now you stay here with Jose, Greta and I will take up positions outside. It is essential no one suspect anything until they are right near the door of the shack. As we bring in each group, you tie them and keep them quiet in the back room.”

The early dawn light was just permitting the outline of the forest to appear out of the gloom as Alex and Greta took up the positions which he had been scoped out during his stay over the previous month. From them one or the other could survey the only path of access to the shack, and keep an eye on the three planes parked on the edge of the strip nearby. From his observations, Alex knew that each of the three crews would arrive separately in groups, and they would probably pose no problem, but there were also four or five gang members who usually straggled in in pairs or alone. These were likely to be the bigger threat, as well as the source of major resistance, if there was to be any.

All was quiet and ready as the first group appeared on the path through the forest. They were laughing amongst themselves quite unconcerned. Jose waited until the first member was right at the door before he barked, “Not a movement if you choose to live. Only one of the group made as if to raise his weapon, but he fell dead with Alex’s knife protruding from between his shoulder blades before the weapon had even reached sixty degrees. The rest were quickly herded into the shack. Just in time, as the second group could be heard approaching.

All went well with the remaining two groups and until the fourth of the expected five cadres arrived just as the previous two were being subdued. He must have realized something was happening just as he cleared the trees, because he dropped to the ground and leveled his gun. He had time to get off one shot which whistled uncomfortably close to Jose’s head before Greta lined up her sights on his almost hidden forehead. Her shot was true, and the cadre’s head jerked back as the bullet struck home. He would not be a problem, but what of the last man. If he was close enough, he would certainly have heard the commotion, and may arrive prepared for a fight.

They waited quietly, ready for any eventuality. Five minutes, ten, nearly fifteen. Alex was on the brink of speaking when a voice emerged from the trees, “Don’t shoot, it’s me Alex, I have him covered.” Seconds later two figures emerged into the clearing, first the last cadre followed by Alex the pilot who held a small pistol trained at the man’s back. “I got lonely in the plane,” said Alex “ and was just there at the entrance path when I saw the other guy shoot at you. I hid in the trees and waited. If you can believe it, this guy who was creeping up and didn’t see me, moved right in front of me. I just stuck my pistol in his back and it was all over.”

“Good for you Alex” said Alex, and he thought that there was no longer any doubt whose side he was on.

With everyone now accounted for Jose had the group brought out into the sunlight. “OK, listen good. I am now in charge here. I need men, but I only need faithful men. Here is my deal. You stay, you work for me, you get twenty percent more than you were getting before. If you don’t like that you can leave and you had better never come back.”

At first nobody took up the offer, then one of the members of the first group to arrive rose slowly, and shuffled off towards the path. He had taken five steps when the shot rang out. A tiny red spot appeared at the base of his neck, but his chin and much of his cheek exploded. “Any one else want to leave?” Jose lowered his rifle as he spoke. Nobody else moved.

It was several months before Frankie was able to join the group in Medellin, and it was nearly a year before Jose felt he was sufficiently in charge to move against another operation that was based on the other side of the city. His reputation was by then widespread, so when he issued an invitation for a meeting with the leader of the other gang, it was accepted with apparent alacrity.

Yes, they could see the benefits of working together, and yes, a much smaller share of a bigger pie did seem a fair offer, particularly when compared to nothing and probable death. So they became the first of many of the small independent operations to join Jose. Most of his subsequent mergers were just as peaceful as this one, but regretfully some were not, to the everlasting regret of those targets as they lost both their livelihoods and their lives. By the time he was twenty five he controlled the majority of the cocaine traffic in that region. He was also one of the most feared and hated men in Columbia.

The evening of his birthday, Greta threw him a party at his new compound, a villa near the top of Saddleback Hill overlooking the airstrip from which he still operated. The villa would have impressed a Rockefeller, never mind the local villagers who were still nearly as poor as the rest of the population of this impoverished nation. As he basked in the many gifts and greetings he received, Jose was musing to Frankie, “We still only get a couple of nickels for every dollar of street value of our product in America.”

“Why should we bother,” replied Frankie, “We’re wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.”

“And anyway, America is controlled by the Italians, they will snuff us out in a flash if we try to muscle in on them.” Alex who still flew often with Alex the pilot who sometimes made delivery drops to Mexico and even Texas and New Mexico was the resident expert on the US scene.

“You got it wrong,” interjected Greta, “you don’t want to cross the Cosa Nostra, just get a little closer. Cut out the Mexicans, the Cubans, and the Haitians. Import directly into America from inside America, then sell direct to the Italians. They will love you for it, it cuts down their risk, and could even cut down their cost.”

Jose was pensive, “Import from inside, huh. Say Frankie, you want to live in New York. You speak the best English. Me and Alex can go to Miami where a guy can speak Spanish and still get by. Maybe we will reduce their price a little, at least at first till we get established - and just a very little. That will still almost double our take.” He sat silent for a few minutes looking up at the stars that were appearing in the darkening sky. Then, as if the decision had been made, “You think Emanuel can handle Colombia.”

“With Alex the pilot as our eyes and ears, yes. He I trust, Emanuel switched sides once, who says he won’t again.” Always the pragmatist, Alex’s comment sealed the deal, and the plan was set. It would not be long before it would be in effect, and many people in both countries, and on both sides of the law would have cause to regret this day.

Chapter 3: Brad.

Vanessa arrived in the office just before 6.30 am. She knew she would not be disturbed at this time because the only personnel in the office would be the overnight traders who would be ready to leave very soon and a few others who, just as she did, used the early arrival strategy to get themselves organized for the day. They certainly would not want to pass time with her.

She entered through the front door, and immediately climbed the stairs to the executive suite on the second floor. The boardroom was just across the hall. It was never locked, but the small room behind it was. Luckily, Vanessa had a master key, required for accessing offices of absentees if required. She entered and locked the door behind her, just because it seemed the prudent thing to do.

The computer was there, running in background mode, but as soon as she touched the space bar, the screen jumped into life. As soon as she had entered her secret password and opened the email file, she realized this was not going to be a trivial task. The messages were sorted by date, and it was obvious that some two hundred and fifty had been received since the night of Jeremy’s attack. Remembering her Dbase training she quickly resorted the file by recipient and date of receipt in descending order, and presto, there was the block of messages that Jeremy had received in the twenty four hours before his computer was stolen.

After eliminating the spam and messages from clients who she recognized, Vanessa was left with four, and she proceeded to open them. The first and second were just buy/sell orders from clients Jeremy must have added in the past few months, and they therefore had not been immediately recognizable, and the fourth was a registration of a new account, therefore unlikely to be of consequence. So it had to be the third, if she was on the right track at all. Quickly she printed it out, and then clicked on properties to find as much detail on the message as she could, and printed that out too.

Without being sure she had anything, she reset the sort parameters on the file, closed it, then closed up the cupboard in which the computer was stored, and returned to her office. The whole process had taken only twenty five minutes, so as the staff began to arrive, she was sitting at her desk as normal, and no one would suspect that she had been snooping.

The message she had printed was brief, just two lines. “ Brad, You must move that block of Microline stock. Mathis tells me they will miss their forecast. You have till four on Monday. Bill.” Microline was one of the highfliers on the NASDAQ Stock Exchange, a stock whose IPO at nine dollars was only six months ago and the latest price was a hefty sixty three fifty. Vanessa thought she recalled the CFO of Microline was a Fred Mathis! If this was the case, the message clearly showed a case of insider trading, and it could be the reason for the attack on Jeremy. But who on earth was Brad. There was no one in the firm with that name. The whole thing had nothing to do with Jeremy, she was sure of that, even though the message was clearly addressed to him at Baird@Fraser&fraser.com. He was doing too well with his business to get involved in something as questionable as this, but something had drawn him into this net! Brad! That was the name the blond man had referred to the previous night. Perhaps the email was not intended for Jeremy at all. Perhaps it was all the result of a misheard name, or perhaps Bill, whoever he was, was dyslexic. Certainly Baird and Brad could were close enough to be confused. If this was the case, the man who sent it certainly went to a lot of trouble to ensure that the wrong addressee never saw the message! A lot of trouble, which made the other big question, “Who is Bill?” an even bigger mystery.

When Vanessa had visited Jeremy in the hospital the previous night, she had found him still groggy from his surgery. His nose had been broken from a sharp blow to the face, and it had been reset. The deep purple bruises around his eyes, and the swelling of his cheeks made him almost unrecognizable. Added to that, his throat was very sore from the anesthetic, and his voice was hoarse, speaking being obviously difficult. She found herself surprisingly relieved that his injuries were not at all serious, and confined what little response she expected from him to trivialities. As a result the questions on her mind remained unvoiced.

This night, though, would be different. Almost before they had got through the usual “how are you feeling?”, Vanessa blurted out, “Who is Bill, and who is Brad?” Not that she expected it, Jeremy showed no surprise, or evasiveness at the question, which confirmed to Vanessa that he was in this situation by mistake. “Well I know three Bill’s in Chicago, and a couple more in New York, and that doesn't include the two in my family. But Brad’s, I only know of one, and I have never met him, just spoken on the phone with him.”

“Ever emailed him or any of the Bills‘?” As Vanessa persisted, Jeremy held up his hand, “Whoa, what's all this about, sit down, and how about a kiss?” So Vanessa sat on the edge of the bed, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, being careful to avoid the still bruised and swollen parts of his face, and explained what she had discovered that morning.

“OK, now the question makes sense. Yes the Brad I was talking to had asked if we would be prepared to improve our large trade brokerage fees for some large blocks of shares they wanted to move between several in house funds. He works with Merkel Capital, who manage a bunch of mutuals, and they didn’t want to pay even reduced bulk rates for inter group sales. I emailed him a proposal last week. And one of the Bill’s is at Merkel, Bill Fernstine, actually William Fernstine Jr, who I believe married a Merkel granddaughter. The old man, Kobus Merkel, was, of course the founder of the Merkel group.

“I believe this Bill Fernstine only became active in the business after he married the daughter of Kobus and Laurie Merkel. When the Kobus Merkel died in a questionable auto accident a few years ago, his wife inherited the bulk of the business and she brought in her son in law. Bit of a waster, they say, but who can argue with the son in law of the boss. The Merkel group has been very successful, and their new funds have been very aggressive, a distinct change from their policy under the old man.” Jeremy was amazing in his ability to recall people and how they interfaced and intertwined. One key and he could usually recall every detail he had ever heard or read about an individual, his family, and his firm. Perhaps this was one secret to his success as a broker.

“I can assure you none of our discussions I had with Bill Fernstine were about Microline”

“I know that,” said Vanessa, “but it seems entirely possible that these two are the ones involved in you getting your nose broken. Maybe they did you a favor, and you will look a bit better when you recover.” Jeremy interpreted the weak attempt a humor as a signal that the subject was changing and they moved on to work scandals, and hockey as subjects to while away the rest of the visiting hour.

As Vanessa drove home, she knew that the light hearted banter that the pair had engaged in did not disguise the concern they both shared that the affair they had been inadvertently drawn into was not going to go away, and would turn out to be bigger than either could imagine. She also knew that she was deeply relieved that Jeremy really was going to be alright.