Catch a Falling Knife by Frank Foster Book Excerpt by Library Tales Publishing

PRAISE FOR FRANK FOSTER

“…Frank Foster demonstrates…a quirky instinct for character that will leave readers looking forward to his next novel.” Randy Wayne White New York Times bestselling author of Dead Silence “…a gripping novel of suspense…” Winston Groom bestselling author of Forest Gump “…Put down your James Patterson and pick up Frank Foster.” Ace Atkins bestselling author of Devil’s Garden “…Frank Foster returns with a fast moving thriller…the man can write.” Stuart M. Kaminsky Edgar winner and Mystery Writers of America Grand Master “…Sly humor and fast suspense…a great sinister sense…” Lawrence Light bestselling author of Taming the Beast “…Frank Foster has written a page turner, plain and simple.” Josh Conviser bestselling author of Empyre “…Unconventional characters conclusion thrilling.” Mysterious Reviews

appealing…narrative

fast

paced…

ALSO BY FRANK FOSTER

NOVELS Boca Moon Boca

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SHORT STORIES The Lookdown

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Published by: Empire State Publishing A division of Library Tales Publishing, Inc. 244 5th Avenue, Suite Q222 New York, NY 10001 www.EmpireStatePublishing.com Copyright ÂŠ 2011 by Tight Loops, LLC. Published by Empire State Publishing, Inc., New York, New York No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the Publisher. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Legal Department, Library Tales Publishing, Inc., 244 5th Avenue, Suite Q222,New York, NY, 10001, 1-800-754-5016, fax 917-463-0892. Trademarks: Empire State Publishing, Library Tales, the Library Tales Publishing logo, Catch a Falling Knife, and related trade dress are trademarks or registered trademarks of Library Tales Publishing, Inc. and/or its affiliates in the United States and other countries, and may not be used without written permission. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners. For general information on our other products and services, please contact our Customer Care Department at 1-800-754-5016, or fax 917-463-0892. For technical support, please visit www.EmpireStatePublishing.com Empire State Publishing also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Every content that appears in print is available in electronic books. ISBN-13: 978-0615568232 ISBN-10: 0615568238

Printed in the United State

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This book is for my best fly fishing buddy who has also been my roommate for over forty years â&#x20AC;&#x201C; sweet wife Patti, a saintly woman who has suffered for me, fussed over me, and spoiled me undeservedly. I am blessed among men.

AUTHORâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S NOTE Jacksonville, Florida, and its outstanding port are real. So are such edifices as the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stately bridges, gleaming stadium, and stellar organizations such as the Jacksonville Jaguars and the Jacksonville Symphony. Along with certain actual First Coast business establishments, they are used fictitiously in this book. I once invested in a company in Jacksonville and during that time, traveled there every month. I currently own industrial buildings in Jacksonville and am therefore a participant in the global supply chain, which is prominent in this book. I have dear friends and partners in Jacksonville and, given my great affection for the city, hope I have described it fairly and accurately. In any event, this is a work of pure fiction and totally the product of the authorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

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“Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from a religious conviction.” Blaise Pascal

“The man who throws a bomb is an artist because he prefers a great moment to everything.” G.K. Chesterton

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Chapter One VENICE, ITALY

incent Fabrizio and Maria Caravanis had splurged on a languid lunch at Antico Martini across from the opera house, washing down their John Dory with fennel sauce with two bottles of an excellent Soave. The result was rambunctious sex the moment they reached Vinny’s rented apartment, a stately old place with eighteen-foot ceilings. Now, as Maria slept beside Vinny, who was awake, the sunlight streaming around the gently billowing draperies reflected softly off her shiny black hair. Long and slightly curly, it tumbled across the pillow and moved in the faint breeze. Although he admired the image, Vinny thought he should wake Maria soon. She had slept into the hour of the day when most tourists were thinking about having cocktails. Though she had an able young assistant, Vinny knew Maria would want to get back to her thriving glass shop which was only a block from St. Mark’s Square. Vinny picked up the remote and lit up the television, thoughtfully keeping the volume low. He had bribed a technician to extend the cable TV feed from the hotel adjacent to his apartment. That meant he could get CNN in English and, although it was the international version, get at least some news from the States. But Vinny often watched the local channels as a way to work on his Italian. He gazed at the screen in a detached way, savoring the shank of his reverie produced by the afternoon’s sensual pleasures. Then, there it was for the umpteenth time on the television screen: A dashing young couple, the woman’s auburn hair horizontal in an ocean breeze that was sweeping the deck

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of a cruise ship. The image was followed by shore scenes changing rapidly from sparkling beaches to breathtaking waterfalls. At that moment Vinny concluded that he had seen the commercial one too many times and he made his decision. Maria stretched herself awake and the sheet fell away from her young, smooth nakedness. Vinny gazed in admiration then leaned over and kissed her. “Look at that,” he said, nudging her and nodding toward the TV. She blinked a few times and sat straight up in bed, her magnificent breasts now illuminated in the streaming sunlight. “What?” “Croatia,” Vinny answered. “What about it?” Maria asked. “Let’s go,” Vinny said brightly, looking at her. “A three-night cruise. I’ve watched one too many of these commercials. Besides, maybe they won’t have these goddamned pigeons over there.” She laughed. “Croatia’s beautiful, but I’ve been several times, and—” “Yeah, but not with me,” he said in a low, soft voice. He looked in her eyes with a pleading expression. She returned his gaze, her head shyly cocked, and smiled, clearly charmed. “You’re right, I haven’t.”

Chapter Two Vincent Fabrizio. Not Fasano, Vinny reminded himself. Yes, Fabrizio somehow sounded more elegant. He had figured romantic, old-world Venice was the perfect spot for a brand-new man to start a brand-new life. Vinny hoped the mob didn’t know his new last name, but he was aware of his new nickname: “The Singing Rat.” He’d had nothing to lose and everything to gain by spilling his guts to the FBI. His transgression against his “family” had made his life worthless anyway. It cost him three and half years on the inside and time in witness protection. When his freedom came he retrieved a wad of money he’d stashed in the Cayman Islands and headed for Europe. Part of the money went for major, painful plastic surgery to achieve what the witness protection program’s surgery had not. His Roman nose was now far less pronounced. When he visited an aunt in Queens he was thrilled when she didn’t recognize him. But after six months the novelty of Venice had worn off. He’d eaten enough gnocchi to choke himself and drunk enough Amarone to have the DTs. A couple of gondola rides were all he’d needed and he was so sick of the pigeons he was about to start shooting them. He had met Maria in her glass shop when he was buying something to send his aunt for her birthday. They started with coffee, followed by a couple of lunches, then dinners. Although she was great company and a thoroughbred in the sack, he didn’t see anything long-term with Maria. Or with any woman, really, except that he still wanted to have a son. A little Vinny to carry on the line. A kid he could teach to be just as tough as himself. His wife had never given him

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that, but that wasn’t why he’d killed her. It was her loose lips, an unforgivable sin in the family. He’d had no choice. So-called retirement from a career of crime was driving him batty. Besides, his stash of money wouldn’t sustain him indefinitely. But where to go to get back in? In Italy he didn’t have the connections to weave his way through the inherent corruption so he figured the logical choice was back to America. But going back to the States was a foregone conclusion anyway, because there was something else that kept calling him there. Something he thought about every day of his life.

Chapter Three Queens, New York

Abdul was fourteen when he first visited America with his parents and saw the technique used in a cable television replay of one of the first James Bond films. The scene never left his memory—Sean Connery plucking a hair from his head and sticking it to a closet door with his saliva so that it bridged the gap between the door and its jamb. It was the perfect, simple trap to confirm whether an intruder had entered his room to search it. On a warm, early evening in his apartment, Abdul deftly installed his own reengineered version of the trap on his laptop computer. He bought micro-diameter bunny hair and, instead of saliva, he used clear epoxy glue, which dried invisible. It was light and suitably brittle so that if the lid on his laptop computer were opened, the glue would silently yield to the bunny hair. Then he would have confirmation of what he now only suspected. He inspected his work and smiled with satisfaction as he looked at his watch. Only a few minutes until his visitor would knock on the door. Bashaar Mohammed parked the black Lincoln Town Car two blocks from the apartment and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his wool jacket. It was a warm September day—the air had not yet cooled with the approach of fall. Bashaar hadn’t had time to change out of the uniform required by the car service he worked for. No matter, he thought. He smelled grilling lamb as he passed groups of men speaking Farsi. He felt his pulse quicken as he approached the apartment door and he

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knew it wasn’t only from climbing three flights of stairs. Before he knocked, Bashaar heard television voices behind the apartment door. It opened to reveal a slight, bearded man with large, dark, inscrutable eyes. The man waved him in, closed the door, then administered the customary embrace and kiss on each cheek. The apartment was shabbily furnished with the barest of essentials purchased at auction from defunct motels: a tattered, cream Naugahyde sofa, a wobbly-looking wooden table with four plastic patio chairs, and scuffed linoleum floor. There was a laptop computer on the table with the lid closed. An air conditioner wheezed laboriously in the window. Abdul waved at the cheap, synthetic sofa. “Sit down, Bashaar,” he said in Arabic. “I tried to reach you. I have something pressing to attend to, but I will return in perhaps thirty minutes.” His eyes lingered on the laptop but he gestured toward the television. “You can watch the news while I am gone.” Bashaar waited a few minutes, then got up and propped one of the chairs against the front door knob. If his host returned too soon, he would explain that he thought he heard gunshots. He walked over to the kitchen table, gingerly opened the lid of the laptop, and powered the machine on. This is it, he realized as he scanned the screens, wiping his damp palms on his trousers. Bashaar knew his time was short. He looked at the chair he had propped against the door and made his decision. It took him only twelve minutes to copy the data files he selected onto a USB drive and return it to a hidden pocket in his suit coat. He looked at his watch and figured he had some minutes to spare. Bashaar quickly shut down the computer and carefully wiped all the keys and the casing. He was also careful to leave the position of everything in the room exactly as he had noted it, including restoring the chair he had propped

against the door to its original position. Then he reached for his cell phone. It was the phone call he’d dreamed of making for weeks. “Yes,” said a voice after the second ring “It’s me,” said Bashaar. “Where are you?” “My time is short so listen.” He spoke a few words. There was a pause. “You’re sure.” “Totally.” “Excellent. How and when?” “We’ll find out when we review the USB drive.” “Good going, my man.” There was jubilation in the voice at the other end. “When are you coming in?” Bashaar paused. “Not sure. I must be careful. Could be a few days.” “Roger that. Can we arrange a drop and get that drive out of your hands?” “I’ll try to work that out and let you know when and where.” Bashaar broke the connection then removed the battery from his phone so there would be no record of any numbers he had called. Exactly thirty-six minutes after he had left, Bashaar’s host returned to the apartment. Bashaar felt his guts twist as he heard feet approaching the door. He reclined on the couch in assumed nonchalance and forced his eyes on the television as Wolf Blitzer reported on a small plane with engine failure crashing into a residential area in Los Angeles. Abdul-Azeem Haboud didn’t look at Bashaar, but went right to the kitchen table and the laptop. “I must quickly check my email, then we will go and have something to eat,” Abdul said. He sat with his back to Bashaar, carefully opened the laptop, paused for a few moments, and tapped on the keyboard a few times. Then he closed the lid and stood. “Are you ready?” The two men walked down the three flights of stairs to the lobby of the apartment building and emerged on the

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sidewalk. “Where are we going?” asked Bashaar. “Shall I drive?” Abdul glanced at him with an expression Bashaar could not read. “Where exactly did you park?” Bashaar told him. Abdul seemed to deliberate for a moment before saying, “It is not as hot as earlier, let us walk.” They strolled in silence for four blocks until Abdul spoke. “Hassan told me about a new place we must try.” He bobbed his head toward an alley. “We will take a shortcut.” Bashaar followed obediently, but he sensed something. Somehow the molecules in the air had been rearranged. It was as if a sensory electrical charge was pervading the atmosphere, but when he glanced up he saw nothing resembling thunderclouds. His senses sharpened further as they walked through the alley and came to the rear entrance of a Moroccan restaurant. Then he wondered if they were simply going in the back entrance under the purview of a friendly restaurant owner, and he began to relax. But in an instant his heart thumped with terror as two members of their group stepped out of the restaurant door. Normally they would have greeted Bashaar with some degree of cordiality, but now their dark eyes stared at him in stark confrontation. Preoccupied with his colleagues, Bashaar failed to notice that Abdul had slipped around behind him. Bashaar felt a quick, sharp pain on his neck as though he had cut himself shaving. He put his hand on the spot, took it off, and when he saw blood spurting on and through his fingers, realized that Abdul had slit his throat. He tried to speak but no words would form. He clutched his hands to his neck as if it would stop the blood, which gushed as if from a fire hydrant. It was his last thought before he became lightheaded and crumpled to the alley in a heap. “Search him carefully,” Abdul ordered, and in a matter of seconds was handed Bashaar’s USB drive, cell phone,

and car keys. “Did you bring it?” Abdul asked his minions. One of them nodded, then retrieved a machete from behind a garbage can in the alley. At Abdul’s signal he raised the machete high above his head and administered savage, slashing strokes to Bashaar’s neck until his head was no longer attached to his body. Abdul nodded his satisfaction and instructed his men to place Bashaar’s severed head in a black plastic garbage bag. They tied the bag securely and handed it to Abdul, who had put on gloves. In return, Abdul handed one of them the knife he had used to slit Bashaar’s throat. “Remember,” Abdul told them. “Burn your bloody clothes and shoes and throw these blades as far into the river as you can.” They nodded. “And make sure you have enough concrete in the body bag to keep it on the bottom.” With garbage bag in hand, Abdul turned and walked briskly to where Bashaar had told him he had parked the Lincoln. He unlocked it and placed the garbage bag on the front seat. He rubbed the keys carefully with his gloves to remove any fingerprint traces and heaved them onto the front seat. His lip curled in amusement as he pictured a car thief picking the Town Car as a target and finding the garbage bag on the front seat. He closed the door and walked deliberately to a pay phone. He had the number memorized. When a voice answered he disguised his voice. “I believe one of your people may be in some difficulty.” He gave them the location of the black Lincoln and felt himself smirk as he said, “Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

Chapter Four Three weeks after Vinny and Maria’s afternoon assignation, they rode a water taxi in the Grand Canal heading for Venice’s cruise line terminal. As was often the case, the boat was stuffed with passengers and Vinny and Maria were sitting on their luggage. It was warm and windy and Maria’s right hand constantly fought to keep her long black hair from whipping in front of her face. An occasional toss of her head was of little help. Anticipating the salty sensuality of being at sea, Vinny found the entire process alluring. The Grand Canal was in its usual state: chockablock with an assortment of boats, many of which were touristladen gondolas, their striped-shirted gondoliers rowing and occasionally bursting into rousing arias, sung fortissimo. Vinny had booked the three-night cruise to Croatia on the Adriatic Queen. As the water taxi cleared the Gritti Palace Hotel and passed the Guggenheim Museum, the huge, white cruise ship came into view. Vinny felt Maria shiver with excitement. She looked up at him, eyes shining. “Vincent, I have a confession,” she said. He rolled his eyes. “You’re having your period.” She made a fist and feigned hitting him on the arm with it. “No, you oaf. I was just going to say I’ve never been on a cruise before. I’m so excited.” Vinny had booked a suite that featured a living room with its own bath, and a king-sized bedroom. The master bath was grand, the woodwork in the suite exquisite, and there was a small refrigerator and wet bar. When Maria saw it she melted in his arms with appreciation before

quickly withdrawing and opening the sliding door to their private balcony. She stepped out and looked over Venice. Vinny followed and moved behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. He negotiated his way around her large, dangly earrings to nuzzle her neck. She turned her back to Venice, circled him with her arms and looked up at him dreamily. “Did I see a bottle of Champagne in there?” she asked. Vinny grinned. The signal was clear and he wondered if he really wanted to go to Croatia or just be at sea with this hot-blooded Venetian. Vinny rolled over and grabbed his watch from the bedside table. “Hey, we have to get dressed.” “Why?” she asked, lazily snuggling closer to him under the sheet. He looked at her with a half smirk. “Because, my dear, we sail in ten minutes. Do you want to miss it?” “No,” she said, suddenly scrambling from beneath the sheet. “And I want to go out on deck. I like to peoplewatch.” As the ship left Venice, most passengers stood on the port side, which offered a spectacular view of the old city. People-watching opportunities were plentiful and Vinny found his eyes drawn to a young couple holding each hand of a boy perhaps five years of age. He felt a tinge of envy as he gazed at the handsome young boy and wondered if Maria could do what his wife never could—produce such a fine specimen for him. Vinny also noticed two odd-looking Middle Eastern men dressed in brightly colored Hawaiian-style shirts. Both had beards. Both were small men. Twice Vinny caught them looking at him and then averting their glances. Vinny was fine with people-watching—he just didn’t like to be the watchee. Vinny decided to try something. He took Maria by the

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arm and suggested they cross to the starboard side of the ship. “But Vincent, we can’t see the city,” she protested. “Just humor me a minute.” There were substantially fewer passengers on the starboard side, the group probably limited to those who preferred the fresher breeze there to the view of Venice. Vinny led Maria to the railing and looked down at a particularly ornate water taxi passing by. It had luxurious wood—probably teak, Vinny figured—and shiny brass hardware. Vinny sensed a larger group of passengers approaching from his right. He suddenly looked up and found himself meeting the eyes of one of the Middle Eastern–looking men. The man quickly walked away.

Chapter Five Vinny had always had a dashing “Italian Stallion” look, but surgery had refined his features and given his rather full face a more professional, patrician look. Now, instead of looking like a gangster, he could pass for, say, an investment banker, or the owner of a fine Italian restaurant. His dark eyes were very large and he had a disarming way of narrowing them as he flashed his killer smile. As a suite holder, Vinny’s request for a table for two at dinner had been granted, and as he and Maria nursed their post-dinner grappas, Vinny narrowed his dark, penetrating eyes as he gazed at Maria with his trademark smile. He wasn’t putting anything on—he was genuinely smitten with this pure example of Venetian pulchritude. But smitten was all. To Vinny, his “relationship” with Maria was a simple quid pro quo: I give you nice cruise in suite, you give me gorgeous sex machine woman on my arm. Eventually, Vinny knew Maria might get emotionally involved, but that would only mean he would end it. Love and commitment were phenomena of which Vinny had a vague awareness, but he only used them when he instinctively knew it would be to his advantage. With Maria curled into a dreamy, post dinner, post grappa, cuddly ball under the Egyptian cotton sheets, Vinny eased out of bed and dressed. When he slipped out of the cabin he noticed a cabin steward walking briskly away from his door. Vinny gently closed his door with an audible click and the steward turned and came back to him. “Good evening, Mr. Fabrizio. Is there anything I can

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get you?” he asked. Vinny’s eyes narrowed as he felt his neck hair bristle. “How do you know my name?” The steward smiled politely and pointed to Vinny’s door. “Suite number thirty-two. Mr. Fabrizio. I have a list. May I get you anything, sir?” Vinny hesitated before saying, “No. No, I’m fine.” He and the steward went in opposite directions. Vinny began exploring the luxury ship. The bars were occupied, as was the casino. A few passengers strolled along the decks, some leaning on the ship’s railing and looking down at the foamy wake the huge craft was plowing in the Adriatic. Still full from dinner, and feeling the lingering effects of the grappa, Vinny opted to stroll the deck himself and draw some fresh sea air. But it wasn’t only salt air on his mind. It was two men in tropical shirts, one a rather small man with a wiry, black beard and black-looking eyes that had locked onto his twice already in the few hours he had been aboard the ship. Vinny had been told there were over two thousand passengers and almost seven hundred crew members on the gigantic ship, which spanned the length of two football fields. So this little stroll would be interesting, he thought. If the pair shows up again, it might mean something. But what? They didn’t look anything like his old Mafioso crowd, more like a couple of lost rabbis. Perhaps trying to convert him to Judaism? He chuckled at the absurdity of the thought. He made his way to the forward area of the ship, where its beam had begun to narrow, and ambled past a little area with a basketball court. By then the passengers had thinned out and Vinny caught a glimpse of the pair behind him. That made it clear to Vinny that the cabin steward was temporarily on the payroll of the two men on his trail. Vinny turned and continued walking until he reached a darker, deserted part of the ship, which appeared to be

more of crew work area, with several large bulkheads. He made the turn around the first bulkhead and stopped. As he waited for the pair, he reached into his pocket and fingered the handle of the steak knife he had pilfered from the dinner table while Maria was in the ladies’ room. One beneficial result of Vinny serving time in the big house was that he had finally done something about his physical fitness. In prison guys either read or worked out, and Vinny wasn’t a big reader. He’d slacked off his training since getting out, and Venice had not been kind to his waistline, but he still had most of the strength and quickness he’d picked up behind bars. Vinny used it when the two men came around the bulkhead.

Chapter Six Vinny deftly stepped behind the first man, collared him with his left forearm, and held the steak knife tight to his neck with his right hand. “Who the fuck are you and what do you want? I suggest you tell me before I start shaving this beard off, because I’ve been drinking and my hand’s not very steady.” Vinny didn’t yell it and he wasn’t particularly agitated. He just wanted to know what was up, and if it meant slitting a throat to overcome a little cat-got-your-tongue, so be it. The smaller of the two men, the one with the very black beard and eyes to match, was currently enjoying the luxury of not having a steak knife held to his throat. He spoke. “We just wish to speak with you, Mr. Fasano.” Now Vinny was agitated. How did they know his former name? This was not good. “You know,” Vinny said, spitting the words like they were bitter coffee grounds. In one motion, Vinny took the knife away from the man’s throat and spun him around to face him. In the next motion he thrust the knife into the man’s abdomen just below the rib cage, withdrew it, and thrust it twice more, the last time leaving it buried in the man’s flesh. Then, using the implanted knife for leverage, he half walked, half carried the slumping man to the nearby ship’s railing, looked both ways, and lifted him up and over the railing, flipping him in a final cartwheel into the Adriatic Sea below, withdrawing the steak knife in the process. Vinny then walked back to the other man, who had

remained motionless and had not drawn a weapon of any kind. The man showed no reaction to what had just happened; instead he simply gazed at Vinny as though he had been watching him unload a suitcase from the trunk of a car. “You know who I am, therefore your life is now over too,” Vinny said, advancing on the small man with the bloody steak knife in his hand. There was just enough time for the bearded one to speak. “Jack Rivers,” the man said calmly. Vinny froze. “What did you say?” “Jack Rivers.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” Vinny asked, the knife now at his side. “How do you know Jack Rivers?” “Actually, I don’t know him,” the man said. “But I know a lot about him. Just as I know a lot about you, Mr. Fasano, or…Fabrizio. I must say, your second round of surgery really…how would you Americans phrase it… put it over the top? I am sure your family would not even recognize you now, should you ever encounter any of them. Neither would your former prison mates. Yes, it is quite good. We have pictures of you before and after.” Now Vinny held the knife hard against the man’s neck and said, “I saw an old movie one time. It was called The Man Who Knew Too Much. That describes you, mister, and like I said, your life needs to end.” The man struggled against the tip of the blade. “Before you kill me, don’t you want to know how I know what I know? And perhaps if others in my group have the same knowledge?” “You’d better talk fast,” Vinny said. The man’s hands fell to his sides and he stopped struggling. He seemed calm, almost serene, and his voice, thick with dialect, was steady. “I do not believe you will want to kill me because I have two things I am sure you will want. And I must remain

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alive for you to get them.” “And what might those things be, Mr. …” “I am Abdul. That is all you need to know and all you will ever know.” “So spit it out. What are these two things?” “An easy chance to kill Jack Rivers, and ten million U.S. dollars.” Vinny took a deep breath. He released the man, but kept the knife poised. “Turn around and raise your arms as high as you can get them,” he said. When Abdul complied, he searched him for weapons. When he found none, he turned Abdul around to face him, then reached back and hurled the knife overboard as far as he could heave it. “Maybe we ought to have a drink and talk,” Vinny said. Abdul said nothing, just bowed slightly, briefly closing his black eyes in the process. Vinny spoke again. “Uh…sorry about your friend, but…I really had no choice.” He said it but didn’t really mean it. In fact, he knew he might still kill Abdul. “Ah,” said Abdul. “Apology accepted. We did go back a ways, actually. He was my brother. But we were in business together and sometimes the cost of doing business can escalate when you least expect it.” Even Vinny was taken aback by that and didn’t know what to say. But he had a feeling he would soon know what Abdul’s business was. It heightened his interest in whatever this strange, small man with the formal syntax was about to propose. He said, “Not sure where the nearest bar is, probably aft of here.” He nodded his head toward the stern of the ship. “I wonder if you would mind if we stopped by my cabin for my briefcase. I will be ill equipped to talk further without it.”

Chapter Seven Abdul’s cabin was three decks down; they took the stairs instead of an elevator. Vinny was wary of going in the cabin and refused the invitation to enter first. He followed Abdul inside, alert and trying to look everywhere at once. The cabin was one bedroom and a bath, not a suite, and Vinny quickly opened the bathroom door, the closet door, then dropped to his feet and looked under the bed to find only life preservers. They were alone. Abdul turned away from Vinny to open a drawer, saying, “Let me just get this briefcase and we’ll go the nearest bar.” Vinny swiftly took advantage of the opportunity and horse collared Abdul, threw him down on the bed and began savagely pulling the tropical shirt off Abdul’s body, ripping it in the process. Seeing nothing but the skin of Abdul’s upper body, he ordered him to stand. “Take off the rest of your clothes,” Vinny ordered. “I am disappointed in my thoroughness,” Abdul said. “There was nothing in our research which indicated any such tendencies.” Vinny frowned for moment, struggling to understand the comment. Then he got it. “You fool,” he said. “I’m no fag, I just want to make sure you’re not wearing some kind of wire.” While Abdul undressed, Vinny peered into the drawer Abdul had opened. He saw no weapon of any kind, only a briefcase. Convinced that his new companion was not wearing any kind of recording device, he said, “Guess I owe you another apology. These days you never know

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who you’re talking to.” Vinny extended his hand. Abdul looked Vinny in the eye as he refused the handshake. “I do not want to be your friend. I just want to be your partner.”

Chapter Eight After Abdul dressed in a fresh tropical shirt and retrieved his briefcase, they chose a remote round table in one of the ship’s quieter bars, one that offered no entertainment, just recorded background music. The night was still young and the place was better than half full, mostly with couples seeking nightcaps and conversation unencumbered by piano players or combos. A large saltwater aquarium had been built into a bulkhead wall a few feet from their table. Vinny tried to study the man across from him but was distracted by two aggressive fish in the tank. One fish was larger and more dominant but the other was smaller and cleverer—it knew to dart behind a rock each time the larger fish charged. Then, when the larger fish was distracted, the smaller one would zoom out from behind the rock and scare it. Vinny began to wonder how similar was the game he and Abdul were playing to the one being conducted by the fish. “Whiskey or something?” Vinny asked. “I’m buying. Least I can do after…you know.” He immediately felt idiotic for suggesting that buying a man a drink might even partially atone for murdering his brother. “Just mineral water, please,” said Abdul “Yeah, me too,” said Vinny. Vinny studied the man across from him. He already felt respect for him after his amazing display of stoic behavior while watching Vinny dispatch his brother into the heaving Adriatic Sea. Vinny figured Abdul’s small stature was probably misleading and that, if their circumstances on deck had been reversed, Abdul might have killed with

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as little hesitation as he did. Encountering such a man as this was the last thing Vinny had expected when he booked this cruise. Vinny was impatient for their drinks to arrive. He couldn’t decide which was more exciting—the prospect of exacting his vengeance on Jack Rivers or collecting ten million dollars which, with the hidden money he’d already retrieved, would end any financial worries. Finally, the San Pellegrino arrived and the decks seemed cleared for their discussion. But Vinny’s first question had nothing to do with Jack Rivers or money. “How do you know who I am and how did you know I’d be on this cruise?” Abdul shrugged. “In my business knowing such things is not really a problem. It is one of the things we do.” “And your business is?” The small man shrugged again. “I represent…certain people and groups who… want certain things done.” Vinny almost laughed out loud. “The fuck does that mean? Talk sense, man.” “I am,” Abdul deadpanned, the black eyes steady and unwavering. Then Vinny got it. Or thought so. “Look, Omar—” “Abdul.” “—Abdul. I’m not interested in becoming a hit man for you ragheads. I may have done some things in the past, but it was for my family and it was business.” Abdul’s gaze was unwavering. “I have not followed you to the middle of the Adriatic Sea to recruit you as a contract killer. We have an ample supply of those.” Vinny studied this strange man as his perception of his formidability grew. “Then what do you want from me?” Abdul took a long drink of his sparkling water and wiped his lips with the napkin the waitress had brought. Then he studied Vinny for an extended moment before replying.

“I have a project I would like to engage you to complete.” “I figured that, but where does Jack Rivers come in?” As Vinny asked the question, his mind raced. Jack Rivers. Vinny had spent many an evening in prison just writing the name over and over, imagining the cruelty with which he planned to end Rivers’s life. Vinny considered various options and he would sometimes settle on one for a week at time and fantasize about it. The one he kept returning to was simple: tie Rivers down naked and carve his body up with a sharp knife until he capitulated from either pain or loss of blood. Yes, that would be quite satisfactory, Vinny thought, and would settle his score with Rivers in fine Sicilian fashion. “Jack Rivers is simply a part of the package.” “Package?” “Your compensation package. The Rivers part is a bonus for you in addition to the ten million dollars I am offering you for this little project.” “A little project? For ten million smacks it can’t be all that little.” One of Abdul’s eyebrows shot up. “Hmmm,” he said. “Perhaps I am offering too much.” Vinny didn’t know whether this very serious man was using humor or just toying with him. He used his forefinger to make a rotating motion. “Get to the point, we’ll save the negotiating for later.” “Actually, I stand corrected. There is indeed nothing little about this project. It is important, challenging, and far above the scope of a mere…contract to take care of someone. And you will receive more than ten million dollars. The ten million is for you, but you will receive another half million for some expenses I expect you will incur.” “So what is this project?” Vinny asked, his curiosity now considerably piqued. “We will get to that presently. But first, you should know that, while this is not, as you Americans might say,

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putting out a contract on someone, it is very likely that loss of life and property might occur. Are you…comfortable with that?” Now Vinny was both curious and confused. “How many lives and how much property?” “For ten million dollars and a shot at Jack Rivers, does it matter?” Vinny thought for a few long moments but then wasn’t sure why, because he already knew the answer to Abdul’s question. Of course it didn’t matter. Just so long as one of the lives wasn’t his. “Look, Omar—” “I told you. My name is Abdul.” The tone was stern for the first time. “I know, I know. You did. Sorry about that. Look, Abdul. I gotta tell you. I can’t fly an airplane, I don’t like ’em, and I’m not interested in learning. And I’m sure as hell not into that suicide stuff you ragheads believe in. I got all the virgins I want right here on this big ball we live on. Well, not too many of them are virgins anymore, but…you get the point.” “I am not asking you to commit suicide, Mr. Fasano. After all, the ten million dollars would do you little good in such an event.” They had been speaking in low tones but now Vinny leaned forward and lowered his voice even further. “Now I need to correct you, Mr. Abdul. Name’s Fabrizio. Vincent Fabrizio. Is that clear?” “Consider it done, Mr. Fabrizio. My apologies.” Vinny leaned back and looked around the room to make sure no one was paying any attention to them. Satisfied, he took a long drink of his San Pellegrino. “It’s starting to sound like you’re some kind of terrorist and you want me to be one too.” “I told you. I am a businessman. I arrange certain things for certain…clients.”

“Look. Not only can I not fly a plane—of course, I guess that’s out if I don’t have to kill myself—but I don’t know jack shit about explosives.” “You are getting ahead of yourself, Mr. Fabrizio. May I call you Vincent?” “Hell no. But you can call me Vinny.” He flashed his grin, then wondered why. “All right, Vinny. Let me ask you a very important question. How do you feel about some loss of life and property in your homeland of America in exchange for what I am offering? Does that concept bother you, patriotically speaking?” Vinny looked down at the table for few moments, moved his glass six inches to the left then back where it had been, then looked up at Abdul. “Truth is, I’m not too crazy about my country right now. In fact if it was the fucking FBI you wanted me to go after I’d probably do it for nothing.” Then a small grin. “Not really. Maybe five million instead of ten if it was the FBI.” Vinny watched Abdul’s face and thought he detected the corner of his mouth turning up in amusement, but he couldn’t be sure. Abdul spoke. “That is an excellent answer, Vinny. It makes me hopeful that you and I can work together.” Vinny drained his mineral water and began watching the two fish again. The small fish was terrorizing the large one. “Abdul,” Vinny said, pausing with satisfaction after getting the name right. “Let me ask you this. Why do we need to work together? Why can’t you and your people just do whatever this…project is? “The answer is simple, Vinny. Your government has made it very difficult for us to conduct certain…operations in your country. There seems to be an ebb in the political correctness tide against profiling, and people from my part of the world are coming under ever increasing scrutiny.

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We need…an inside job, as it were.” Vinny looked at his watch. “Well, it’s my bedtime and you still haven’t told me exactly what you want done.” “Fair enough,” Abdul said. “I want you to head up a very important operation in the U.S. You will have certain resources available to you, which we will arrange for.” “Resources?” “Yes. Personnel and other things. One of the things will be a special laptop computer and your instructions will be sent via computer disc. If we come to an arrangement I can give you the laptop and the overview disc first thing in the morning.” “What do we have to do to…come to an arrangement?” “Well, first, you must say yes.” Vinny reached for the small bottle of San Pellegrino and poured a few inches of it into his glass. He didn’t ask Abdul if he wanted any. “Sounds like we’re talking blowing up a building and killing some people for ten million and a shot at Rivers.” Abdul shook his head. “I am talking about destruction of a much greater magnitude than just a building and a few souls. That is why I am offering you the ten million dollars. A million would be up front, the rest on completion. A hundred thousand of the expense money up front, the rest as needed throughout the project.” He tapped his briefcase. “I have signature cards from a Swiss bank.” Vinny looked right into the black eyes. “I wouldn’t even look at the CD for only ten percent of the amount. Five million up front and the rest when I do whatever it is you want done. And I want some kind of bonus arrangement if I do things exactly like you want them.” “Your bonus is Jack Rivers, Vinny. And I won’t give you half the money up front. Three million is all I will do, the other seven million on completion.” Vinny tossed off the mineral water he had poured and thought hard about it. He was getting bored in Venice.

Maria was certainly replaceable. Although he had some money, it was starting to run out. And if he planned to make a big hit like this, he wasn’t getting any younger. It actually sounded exciting, maybe bigger than anything he’d ever done. And three million bucks up front? The whole thing depended upon this strange little man who he assumed was a Muslim from somewhere in the Middle East. He didn’t even know which country. Not that it mattered. They all ran together in Vinny’s mind anyway. This Abdul—he didn’t even know the guy’s last name—seemed very competent and professional. Maybe it was because he was so articulate and spoke so formally. Although Vinny could come off as the gangster he was when the situation called for it, he could also put on a modicum of sophistication and polish. Those were the times he introduced himself as Vincent Fabrizio and there were some people who only knew him as Vincent. Among those were Maria and all the other women in his life. The more he thought about it, the more he warmed up to the idea. There was a hell of a lot he didn’t know, but he could always back out after looking at the CD. So long as he hadn’t banked the three million. It wasn’t that he was above stiffing Abdul for the three million. It was just that there was something about this man that deterred Vinny from being his adversary, not the least of which was the fact that he had killed Abdul’s brother, or at least a man he claimed was his brother. Vinny decided he’d come too far to make his next gig some garden-variety drug trafficking, becoming a hit man, or running some kind of con. Yes, this little Croatia trip might have turned out to be a good decision. Finally he said, “All right, why not?” Abdul actually smiled. He extended his hand. “Now we will shake hands.” Vinny took his hand and said, “Aren’t you concerned I’ll take the three million and run?”

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The smile disappeared. The black eyes narrowed. â&#x20AC;&#x153;No. I am not the only one who constantly knows your whereabouts.â&#x20AC;?