“How did he get back?” Kolchinsky asked.
“He phoned the duty officer, requesting a car to pick him up. It’s amazing he doesn’t have double pneumonia by now.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s using the identograph in the Command Center to try and put a name to the man he saw paying off Killen last night.”
“What have you got on this Killen?”
“He’s clean. No previous record.”
“And his henchmen?”
“Randolph Woods and Thomas Natchett. Natchett’s the only one with a record. Five years for armed robbery.”
“And what about the dead man?” Kolchinsky asked.
“Billy Peterson. He’d been an inveterate gambler since his teens. He owed almost four thousand dollars to bookies in Milford and New York. He could have wiped the slate clean with the money we were going to pay him.”
“Where’s the money now?” Kolchinsky asked suspiciously.
“At the bottom of Milford harbor,” Whitlock replied.
“Wonderful,” Kolchinsky said, shaking his head slowly to himself. “It’s going to look great on our expense sheet.”
“We’ll recover the money when the car’s brought to the surface.”
The door behind Whitlock slid open and Paluzzi entered the room from the Command Center. The door slid closed again.
“Ah, just in time,” Kolchinsky said.
For a moment Whitlock thought Kolchinsky was going to raise the issue of the missing money. It would be typical of him. Whitlock knew only too well from first-hand experience how pedantic Kolchinsky could be in his approach to the field operatives’ expense accounts.
“I was just on my way out. Any luck with the identograph?” Kolchinsky asked, much to Whitlock’s relief.
Paluzzi gave Kolchinsky the computer printout he was carrying. “That’s the man I saw paying off Killen last night.”
Kolchinsky stared at the face for some time before skimming through the accompanying text. “Well, this is interesting.”
“Who is he?” Whitlock said, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice.
“Anthony Varese,” Kolchinsky said, handing the printout to Whitlock. “Martin Navarro’s right-hand man.”
“Navarro’s one of the senior lieutenants in the Germino family,” Whitlock replied, looking at the picture.
“Which ties the New York Mafia in with Billy Peterson’s murder,” Paluzzi concluded.
“It ties Varese in with his murder,” Kolchinsky corrected him. “That’s all. We don’t have enough evidence at the moment to have Navarro arrested. And he’s the one I really want, especially if it turns out that he was behind the arms shipment bound for Ireland.”
“So how do we get that evidence?” Paluzzi asked.
“We don’t,” Kolchinsky replied. “At least not for the time being. If we pulled any of them in now for questioning it could seriously damage the case. You’re supposed to be dead, remember that. If you start poking your nose around Navarro and Varese it’ll only complicate matters. I’ll detail one of the other Strike Force teams to keep tabs on them.”
“What do you want me to do?” Paluzzi asked.
“Baby-sit,” Kolchinsky replied, getting to his feet.
“Who?”
“Jack Scoby,” Kolchinsky said as he crossed to the door. “He’s officially your responsibility from now on. C.W., let me out, will you? I’m due at the Secretary-General’s office in ten minutes.”
“Sergei?” Paluzzi called out as the door slid open. “Does Scoby know about this?”
“Not yet,” Kolchinsky replied with a quick smile.
Whitlock activated the transmitter on his desk to close the door after Kolchinsky had left. “I’ll call Scoby and arrange a time for you to meet with him.”
Paluzzi stifled a yawn and grinned sheepishly at Whitlock. “Sorry, I only got to bed at four this morning.”
“I’ll arrange for you to meet him later this afternoon,” Whitlock said. “Go home and get some sleep.”
“I’ll be OK,” Paluzzi assured him. “A couple of cups of coffee–”
“Go home,” Whitlock cut in. “That’s an order. I’ll expect you back here at three o’clock. I want you sharp and alert when you meet Scoby. It’s important that you make a good impression on our new senator.”
Martin Navarro was a tall, commanding figure in his early forties with a penchant for designer suits and expensive jewelry. He sat behind a large oak desk in his office on the top floor of West Side Electronics, one of the many legitimate businesses which had been set up in New York to launder the proceeds of the multimillion-dollar drug network which had helped to make Carmine Germino one of the most powerful and respected Capos in the country. But Germino had paid a bitter personal price for his power. His eldest son had been ambushed and killed by a Hispanic gang four years earlier. Then, two years later, his youngest son had tried to seize control of the family in a bloody gun-battle in a restaurant on Rhode Island. Navarro had saved the Capo’s life and his loyalty had been rewarded with an honorary position within the family itself. And with it came the position as head of the syndicate’s ever expanding drug network. He had become, in effect, second only to Carmine Germino in the family hierarchy.
The intercom buzzed and he flicked a switch on the console. “Yes, Marsha?”
“Mr. Varese’s here to see you, sir.”
“Send him in.”
Navarro switched off the intercom, instinctively glancing at the framed photograph beside the telephone on his desk. His seven-year-old daughter, Angela. She was the spitting image of her mother. And Julia was a beautiful woman. They had been married for eleven years but his infidelities had finally become too much for her and she had walked out on him, taking Angela with her. They now lived in Florida where she had gone back to work as a croupier. She had never asked him for money and only allowed him access to Angela during the school recesses. But, despite the fact that she had enough on him to put him away for life, she had always refused to help the authorities in their attempts to bring him to justice.
“Morning.”
Navarro looked up at Varese who was standing by the door. He replaced the photograph on the desk and beckoned Varese into the room. “Well?”
“We won’t be having any more trouble from Signor Pasconi,” Varese replied.
“He seems to be doing a good job down there,” Navarro said when Varese had finished describing Killen’s handiwork. “He’s loyal and reliable. I admire those qualities in a man.”
“You pay him the sort of money that ensures loyalty and reliability.”
Navarro smiled sadly. “You can be very cynical at times, Tony.”
“It comes with the job.” Varese got to his feet and helped himself to a coffee from the percolator on the sideboard. “You want one?”
“No.” Navarro sat back and clasped his hands together. He formed a steeple with his index fingers and tapped them thoughtfully against his chin. “Now that’s out of the way, we can concentrate our attention fully on the next little problem. Or perhaps I should say our next big problem? Senator Jack Scoby.”
Varese took a sip of coffee then placed the cup on the table beside the chair. “Are you going to confront him personally?”
Navarro shook his head. “I’ll call his lackey, Tillman, and arrange to meet him before they fly out to London tomorrow morning.”
“What are you going to say to him?” Varese asked, sitting forward, his arms resting on his knees.
A knowing smile spread across Navarro’s tanned face. “Enough to worry him, but not enough to give the game away.”
“Come,” Eastman called out in response to the sharp rap on his office door.
Marsh entered the office, acknowledged Graham and Sabrina with a nod, then looked across at Eastman and shook his head. “Nothing, guy. It’s clean.”