The Devil's Dozen

Thirteen

The airline only took us as far as Spokane. Vera and I got on a chartered plane equipped with skis for another fifty-mile hop onto a glacial lake. There the plane left us, and we waited.

The air was frigid; the lake itself had been frozen for thousands of years. Directly up from the lake perimeter, jagged mountains rose in a ring of teeth up to the brilliant blue sky. Vera, wrapped in a wolfskin coat, looked warm and comfortable. I’d made a right guess about her sometime ago, that she was a skier. Hawk and I had made some wrong guesses, though. The Mafia was something we’d associated with the dirty business of drug running and the grimy streets of big cities. Here was Raki Senevres 10,000 feet up in the crisp, clean wilderness of the United States’s last untamed mountain range.

“You always wanted to know more about me,” she said, each word made visible by a puff of condensed air. “Now you will. To begin with, you will now call me Vera King.”

There was a shudder in the air before I could call her anything. Skimming low over the lake’s ice surface was a helicopter. As it approached, I could see it was no ordinary bush chopper. The slim, dartlike nose had a machine gun stinger. Slung under the nose was a grenade launcher, and on the sides of the copter’s lean fuselage were rocket pods. The copter was an AH-1 Huey Cobra and the last bird like it that I’d seen was outside Saigon. The Cobra was no civilian craft, but its markings — a light blue that made it nearly invisible against snow and high sky — were definitely not Army.

As the Cobra swung around us, its machine gun trained at our chests, Vera waved. The Cobra dipped and veered off.

Another copter appeared, apparently after some radio signal that the coast was clear. This bird was plumper, a sky-blue Huey Iroquois, a passenger carrier, a very special passenger carrier with modified Gatling guns jutting out the bays. It hovered over us and came down on the whirlwind of its rotors.

“Welcome aboard, Miss King,” the gunner gave Vera a hand as she climbed on. He and the other gunner, as well as the pilot and copilot, wore uniforms the same color as the copter. I got on board with no help.

“We’re on our way, Raki,” Vera held my hand.

The seats of the Iroquois were of contoured leather. The bays closed shut with plexiglass windows. At the touch of a button, a walnut bar slid open.

“The Snowman is an exclusive club,” Vera poured me a glass of brandy as the copter lifted smoothly backwards and up. “Here, get warm.”

Mountain after mountain, like an angry sea turned to stone, spread out in every direction. The reflection of sun on ice and snow made the peaks glint.

“Fabulous country, isn’t it,” Vera said. “To the south is Snowking Mountain. To the west are Despair, Redoubt, and Triumph. Devils Dome is to the East.”

“Where is Snowman?”

“Just keep your eyes sharp. You won’t miss it.”

We flew for another twenty minutes through the teeth of the ice peaks. The copter was rising steadily. The pilot radioed, and in back I could see the Cobra watching to see whether there were any followers. Our Iroquois rose faster, heading for one immense crest.

The copter shot over the crest. The top of the mountain had been leveled off as if with a knife. Instead of rock and ice, there was a modernistic stone mansion, an angular creation of glass — bulletproof without a doubt — and, jutting through the stone, cedar timbers. It looked like many other expensive resort hotels, with one great difference. Snowman had no advertising, not one billboard. And the whole thing must have been airlifted at incredible expense.

The glass pod of a roof gunner followed the copter’s flight. A shelf of ice split to reveal a landing pad. A second pad appeared for the Cobra, and, looking closely, I could see three other pads with connecting steps to the main building. Now I guessed where Snowman got its name. If all five pads were in use, the complex would look from the air like the outline of a man. Or of a corpse.

The Iroquois descended, humming, to the pad. Our bay window was yanked open by our gunner, and Vera stepped out first.

“Father!”

Two men stood on the pad waiting for us. One was a soldier in the Snowman uniform and carried an M-16 slung over his shoulder. The other man was older, broad-shouldered, and richly tanned, with silver hair, black eyes, and a Roman nose. He was one of the most impressive men I’d ever met. Intelligence and ruthlessness emanated from him like heat from the sun; and he was Vera’s father. He put his arm around her protectively and measured me with his eyes before giving me a firm handshake.

“Mr. King, I am Raki Senevres.”

“So I’ve been told,” he answered in Turkish. “I very rarely believe what I’m told. Don’t you think that’s the wisest course?” He kissed his daughter again and switched to English. In any language his voice resonated with Italian. Other Mafiosos tried to hide their accent, not this one. “I’ve had strange reports about you from my French friends. Vera, my dear, you have a lot to tell your father about yourself and your friend. Come on.”

As we walked up the steps, King caught me looking at the Cobra hovering overhead.

“You fly, Mr. Senevres?”

“Planes, not helicopters,” I lied. “I admit I was wondering how you got that.”

“In parts from the South Vietnamese. From wrecks, you understand. I rebuilt them at a tenth their original cost.”

“That would be $50,000, instead of $500,000?”

“That was no guess, was it, Mr. Senevres? You’re right. Vera, I think your Turkish friend has spent some time in the arms trade.”

I wondered whether King had. Strapped to his pants leg was a beautiful pre-war Luger, easily the match of the handgun I’d had to leave behind for the Astra. King ushered us into a cedar-paneled foyer and then into an enormous living room. Three fireplaces were going. Fur rugs covered the floor, along the walls was a small library, and, for the thirsty, there were two bars. We were the only people in the lodge living room. It seemed not at all abandoned but, rather, as if it belonged to a very profligate, wealthy man.

Picture windows created views of the Cascades and an occasional glimpse of a guard or a Cobra. At a nod from King, a waiter wheeled a mobile bar over to where we sat.

“Some raki for you?” King asked me. A bottle of the Turkish liquor was nestled between Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker.

“Vodka, please.”

King was looking for a slip, so I avoided being a stereotype. He and Vera had Camparis.

“You’ll enjoy yourself here,” she told me. “There are game rooms, saunas, a heated swimming pool, a shooting range.”

“Girls, if you want them,” King added.

“No, thank you. Skiing, too, I would think.”

“You ski? Perhaps we will take a ride to the slopes before the auction starts,” King remarked. “You see, I do plan to get to know you, Raki. You know, you are the first guest outside the families who has ever been invited here. My daughter is very strongwilled. Like her father. You impressed her greatly. You impressed the chiefs. Now you must impress me. You see, if you don’t, you will never leave here alive.”

“I assumed that.”

“You should. The chiefs are like children sometimes. They are willing to throw away all the networks that have been built up over so long in France on the chance you have a better system. They should have consulted me, as Vera should have consulted me, before committing themselves to you.”

“You say ‘children,’” I answered King. “Don’t you mean ‘peasants.’ In comparison to you.”

“What do you mean?” King asked, interested.

“The heirloom cameo Vera wears as a ring. It’s a portrait of a Borgia. You’re a Borgia, aren’t you?”

King sat back, smiling.

“Well, I must admit I am impressed. You are correct again. We do come from that noble line. And the chiefs are all descended from Sicilian peasants. This knowledge of yours only clouds your future more, however.”

“No,” I told King. “All that determines my future is my shipment. I produce it or I don’t. From then on, it doesn’t matter whether I know you’re the Pope.”

King stood and paced, stopping to say, “I am beginning to see how you got this far, Mr. Senevres. You have sufficient nerve, that is for sure.” He turned to Vera. “You have a sample of his candy?”

Vera gave him a gift-wrapped box of marzipan. King inspected the contents and handed it back to her.

“Clever. I never doubted your Mr. Senevres was clever. No wonder you made a fool of DeSantis. I will see you at supper.”

He left us alone. Vera kissed my cheek.

“You’re the first man who’s ever stood up to my father. Even the toughest chiefs are scared of him. But how did you know about the ring?”

“I was in the jewelry line once. I had to know what was worth stealing,” I said, although there were too many other give aways. His accent was anything but Sicilian, and I’d seen too many portraits of Borgias to miss the family resemblance. Also, the usual Mafia chief is happy just to get a daughter accepted in college. Vera had been born to finishing schools.

“Am I worth stealing from my father? That’s what he’s really afraid of.”

If the waiter hadn’t been standing at the bar I would have shown her my answer. Instead, I just touched her thigh.

A gun-toting servant led me to my room. I hadn’t been allowed to bring any luggage; there was a selection of clothes of all sizes in the closet. A complete toilet kit was provided in the private bathroom. From the room’s window was a sheer drop of a mile or so.

I shaved, using the electric razor provided. When I was done, having checked the bathroom for hidden cameras, I opened up the shaver and planted a magnetic, buttonsize transmitter in it. I left the shaver plugged, which, if Special Effects was right, turned the whole of Snowman’s electrical wiring into a low power transmitter. A Minos satellite orbited the day before would crisscross the space above North America until it picked up the signal and then self-adjust constantly until my position was absolutely defined.

From the well-stocked bureau I chose a fresh shirt. Borgias and the Mafia, that was enough for the mind to conjure with. Even today, centuries after the height of their power, the Borgias meant evil and omnipotence. No wonder Vera and her father were treated with such respect in Europe and America by men who would wipe their feet on history books. It also explained why King would be trusted as the guardian of Snowman, the Mafia’s neutral ground. As a Borgia, he had their esteem and fear, and at the same time he was not connected to any Mafia family. This was only part of the explanation — it didn’t take into account Kang’s personality, which was hardly that of a mere caretaker — but it said something about Vera.

I first really noticed her ring because it was a special land of cameo, the hollow kind that the Borgias first made popular for carrying discreet amounts of poison. That ring had been on Vera’s hand in our most intimate moments. Did it carry my death sentence?

The room phone rang to tell me supper was served.

King, Vera, and I ate in a glass-enclosed patio that overhung the mountain. The meal was Veal Milanese, the wine a white Frascati. Our entertainment was the Cascades themselves, their snow blazing like fire in the rays of the setting sun.

“Perhaps I was a little brusque for a host before,” King mentioned as the table was cleared for brandy and cigars. “You must have some questions about Snowman. Please ask them if you do.”

“I do. For instance, how do you manage to keep a place like Snowman out of public notice? I know this is about as out of the way a place could be, but still some private planes must venture nearby sometimes. How could they miss you?”

“They don’t. But, to begin with, we have invested some money in a few men at the local weather bureau. They are paid to report fog or air turbulence in this area at all times. Very rarely, a private pilot enters the area anyway and comes close enough to see Snowman. A Cobra is sent to shoot the intruder down. Naturally, the loss of life only reinforces the message that this is not a good area to fly through.”

“Doesn’t the pilot radio that he is under attack, and aren’t search parties sent out?”

“The very first thing we do is jam all radio transmission,” Vera answered. “As for search parties, we also have some men at the Civil Air Patrol to mislead planes far enough away.”

“That certainly sounds like complete protection.”

“Mr. Senevres,” King tapped some cigar ash into a silver tray, “that is only a small part of the protection. Weren’t you wondering how much the families of the Mafia pay for this sanctuary I provide?”

“I was. I thought it would be impolite to ask.”

“One hundred thousand a family, a year, plus expenses. The arrangement I have for intruders who come by plane is only the start of Snowman’s protective system. We have the most sophisticated system money can buy. Come with me. I think you’ll be interested. As a matter of fact,” King allowed himself some amusement, “I’m even interested.”