Any U.S. District Attorney would sell his soul to get his hands on the data reel on the Mafia families and Syndicate members that had been compiled.
Only Gregorius or myself could authorize a printout from this special reel.
Gregorius finally finished eating. He pushed away his tray and leaned back in his armchair, dabbing at his lips with the linen napkin.
“The problem is Carmine Stocelli,” he said abruptly. “You know who he is?”
I nodded. “That’s like asking me who owns Getty Oil. Carmine runs the biggest Mafia family in New York. Numbers and dope are his specialty. How are you mixed up with him?”
Gregorius frowned. “Stocelli’s trying to muscle in on one of my new enterprises. I want no part of him.”
“Give me the details.”
Tin in the middle of building a number of resorts. One in each of six countries. Imagine an enclave consisting of a luxury hotel, several low-rise condominium apartment buildings adjacent to the hotel, and some thirty to forty private villas surrounding the entire package.”
“And restricted to millionaires, right?” I grinned at him.
“Right.”
I did a quick estimate in my head. “That’s an investment of some eight hundred million dollars,” I remarked. “Who’s financing it?”
“I am,” said Gregorius, “Every penny going into it is my own money.”
“That’s a mistake. You’ve always used borrowed money. How come it’s your own this time?”
“Because I’ve borrowed to my limit on a couple of ventures in oil,” Gregorius said. “North Sea drilling is goddamned expensive.”
“Eight hundred million.” I thought about it for a minute. “Knowing how you operate, Gregorius, I’d say you expect a return on your investment of about five to seven times that amount when you’re finished.”
Gregorius looked at me sharply. “Very close to it, Carter. I see you haven’t lost your touch. The trouble is that until these projects are completed, I can’t collect a penny.”
“And Stocelli wants his fingers in your pie?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“How?”
“Stocelli wants to put a gambling casino in each of these resorts. His gambling casino. I’d have no part of it.”
“Tell him to go to hell.”
Gregorius shook his head. “It could cost my life.”
I cocked my head and questioned him with a lifted eyebrow.
“He can do it,” said Gregorius. “He’s got the men.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“At the time he outlined his proposition to me.”
“And you expect me to get Stocelli off your back?”
Gregorius nodded. “Exactly.”
“By killing him?”
He shook his head. “That would be the easy way. But Stocelli told me point-blank that if I tried anything so foolish, his men had orders to get me at any cost. There’s got to be another way.”
“And it’s up to me to find it, is that it?” I smiled cynically.
“If anyone can, you can,” Gregorius said. “That’s why I asked Hawk for you again.”
For a moment, I wondered what could have made Hawk lend me out. AXE doesn’t work for private individuals. AXE works for no one but the American government — even if ninety-nine percent of the American government was ignorant of its existence.
“You really have that much confidence in my ability?” I asked.
“Hawk does,” said Gregorius, and that was the end of that.
I stood up. My head almost touched the ceiling of the Learjet cabin.
“Is that all, Gregorius?”
Gregorius looked up at me. “Every one else says Mr. Gregorius,” he commented.
“Is that all?” I asked again. I looked down on him. The chill I felt, the dislike came out in my voice.
“I should think that would be enough of a task even for you.”
I made my way out of the Learjet, down the steps to the desert floor, feeling the sudden heat of the day strike me, a heat almost as intense as the anger that was beginning to build up inside me.
What the hell was Hawk doing to me? N3, killmaster, forbidden to kill? Carter to go up against a top Mafia boss who was surrounded with button men— and when I got to him, I wasn’t supposed to touch him?
Christ, was Hawk trying to get me killed?
CHAPTER THREE
By the time I flew the Cessna 210 back to the EI Paso airport, turned in the key, and paid my bill, it was midafternoon. I had to walk about two hundred yards from the flight shack to the main airport terminal building.
In the lobby, I headed directly for the bank of telephones. I stepped into a booth, closed the door of the booth behind me, and emptied a pocketful of coins onto the small, stainless steel shelf. I put a dime in the slot, dialed zero and then direct-dialed the rest of the Denver number.
The operator came on.
“Collect call,” I told her. “My name is Carter.” I had to spell it out for her.
I waited impatiently while the chimes pulsed in my ear until I heard the telephone ringing. After the third ring someone answered.
“International Data.”
The operator said, “This is the El Paso operator. I have a collect call from a Mr. Carter. Will you accept?”
“One moment, please.” There was a click and in a moment a man’s voice came on.
“Well accept,” he said
“Go ahead, sir.” I waited until I heard the operator disconnect
“Carter here,” I said. “Have you heard from Gregorius yet?”
“Welcome back,” said Denver. “We got the word.”
“Am I switched on?”
“You’re switched on and being recorded. Go ahead.”
“I want a printout on Carmine Stocelli,” I said. “Everything you’ve got on him and his organization. Personal data first, including a telephone number I can reach him at.”
“Coming up,” said Denver. There was another short pause. “Ready to copy?”
“Go ahead.”
Denver gave me the telephone number. “There’s also a code you have to use to get him,” said Denver, and explained it to me.
I hung up on Denver, then dialed the New York number.
The telephone rang only once before it was picked up.
“Yeah?”
“My name is Carter. I want to talk to Stocelli.”
“You got the wrong number, feller. There ain’t nobody here by that name.”
“Tell him I can be reached at this number,” I said, ignoring the voice. I read off the El Paso phone booth number. “It’s a pay phone. I want to hear from him in ten minutes.”
“Bug off, Charlie,” growled the voice. “I told you, you got the wrong number.” He hung up.
I put the telephone back on the hook and sat back, trying to make myself comfortable in the cramped enclosure. I took out one of my gold-tipped cigarettes and lit it Time seemed to creep by. I played with the coins on the shelf. I smoked the cigarette almost down to the filter before I dropped it on the floor and crushed it out with my shoe.
The telephone rang. I looked at my watch and saw that only eight minutes had gone by from the time I had hung up. I picked up the receiver and immediately put it back on the hook without saying a word. I watched the second hand of my wristwatch tick around in spasmodic jerks. Exactly two minutes went by before the phone rang again. Ten minutes from the time I’d hung up on New York.
I picked up the receiver and said, “Carter here.”
“All right,” said the heavy, rasping voice that I recognized as Stocelli’s. “I got your message.”