The Mark of Cosa Nostra

Four

Hawk stood in the middle of the grassy field and pulled another cigar from his pocket. His eyes locked with Tanya’s in a look I didn’t quite understand. He gave her a curt nod.

She smiled at me. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have an appointment.”

“Of course,” I said.

We watched her walk away, and it was more of a strut than a walk. I wondered if it was for my benefit, or if she always strutted like that. It didn’t really make much difference, my being over thirty and probably over the hill.

“Delightful young lady,” Hawk said. “Brilliant mind. She will be an asset to you on this assignment, Carter.”

“Yes, sir.” I was still wondering what my assignment might be. “She seems very young, though.”

“By necessity, Carter. Have you had breakfast?”

“No, sir.”

He put his hand on my arm. “Let’s go to the commissary then, and see what they can rustle up for us.”

We started walking across the grass. He had the cigar clenched between his teeth, unlit. The dark clouds above had completely blocked the sun. The bite in the air had become worse. Both of us turned up the collars of our coats as we reached the sidewalk.

At the door of the commissary, Hawk left instructions that Tanya was to be notified where we were. We picked up trays and walked through the line loading the trays with scrambled eggs, hash brown potatoes, sausage, and a pot of black coffee.

As we sat to eat, Hawk poured a cup of coffee. “Where was I?” he said suddenly.

I had to think. “Rozano Nicoli.” He started buttering toast. “While the Cosa Nostra was expanding all over America, Rozano Nicoli remained in Palermo. He prospered also, but he never made his peace with Carlo Gaddino. Things went well for a number of years, and then two weeks ago something happened.”

“Nicoli came back to America?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Carlo Gaddino was very mysteriously found in the sauna bath of his private club. There were nineteen bullet holes in his head. Of course no one heard any shots. There was a large, lavish funeral nine days ago.”

The food was good. It didn’t take me long to devour it. “Sounds like Nicoli is trying to clear a path for his return,” I said.

“Very possibly.” He held a fork toward me. “Carter, we already have eight dead agents. I don’t want you to be number nine. I’ll tell you what those eight agents gave us before they were killed.”

I sat back sipping coffee.

“As I said, Nicoli commutes between Palermo and Istanbul. And he has picked up some interesting friends. While in Istanbul he has been keeping company with a known Turkish Communist named Konya. He also has a constant companion wherever he goes, an Oriental called Tai Sheng, who is a high-ranking member of the People’s Republic in China. In fact he is one of their ace pilots and has earned the nickname, The Winged Tiger. We think he has a great deal of influence over Nicoli, and besides Acasano, whom you are now impersonating, he is Nicoli’s closest friend.”

We had finished eating. There were two lovely young ladies in the place besides us. They were in a far corner, heads together in whispered conversation. The commissary was like all the others at AXE training schools. Pea-green walls surgically clean, well-polished tile floors, small round tables with wrought-iron chairs. Girls and women selected for training all had to put in their time as waitresses, cooks, and dishwashers. It was part of the discipline.

Hawk and I leaned back sipping coffee. He pulled out yet a third cigar and stuck it between his teeth. This one he fit. I pulled out one of my gold-tipped cigarettes.

When we were smoking, I said, “Do we know anything about this Tai Sheng: his background, why he’s such a high-ranking member of the People’s Republic?”

The leathery face remained passive. “We know several things. It is believed that he organized the Chinese Communist Air Force which helped drive Chiang Kai-shek out of mainland China to Taiwan. Supposedly he speaks often with none other than Mao Tse-tung himself.”

A whistle escaped from my lips. Tai Sheng was beginning to impress me.

“After receiving Red China’s highest medal from Mao Tse-tung, Sheng helped organize factory production of fighter planes and in later years, missiles.” Hawk blew a puff of cigar smoke toward the ceiling. “Like Nicoli, he is in his early to middle fifties, and he has a great deal of ambition. We think he personally arranged the path of heroin from Istanbul to Saigon. Nicoli provided the capital and has reaped most of the benefits.”

I studied him with a frown. “With heroin selling at three dollars a vial in Saigon, Nicoli’s profit margin can’t be all that great. It must bother him to know he could get one hundred times that amount in the States.”

“Believe me,” Hawk replied, “it bothers him. But even at three dollars a vial he is making a one hundred per cent profit.”

My frown of disbelief seemed to amuse him a little. The report on heroin came back to mind as he spoke again.

“In America one ounce of heroin will bring seven thousand dollars. Most of the heroin shipments coming in here are sent from Turkey, either direct or by way of Mexico and Canada. Compared to what is paid for the stuff in Turkey, it can be sold in the U.S. at a three thousand per cent profit. Which is the main reason why dope smuggling is so lucrative to so many.”

It had all been in the report. Hawk made a minor ritual of using the ash-tray edge to push an ash off the end of his cigar. He seemed in deep thought.

“Eight agents, Carter,” he said softly, looking at the ash tray. “Their lives paid for your assignment. I’ll tell you what information was gained at that cost. We believe that La Cosa Nostra in America is now without leadership. There has been little activity from organized crime lately; everything seems silent. We further think it was Rozano Nicoli who gave the hit order on Carlo Gaddino, and that order was carried out by someone connected with the Chinese Communist Party in the U.S., under the orders of Tai Sheng. AXE also thinks that Rozano Nicoli intends to take over organized crime in the States, and has already put out feelers to find who will back him and who will oppose him. Tai Sheng would use American Chicoms from large-city Chinatowns to deal with anyone opposing Nicoli. Nicoli is short-sighted; he can only see as far as the huge profits from smuggling heroin into the U.S. He actually believes that he is using Tai Sheng and the Chicoms to help him take over in the States, as well as providing the route for heroin from Istanbul to Saigon. But what will actually happen is that Nicoli will become a Chinese Communist puppet, if he isn’t already. It is obvious that the Chicoms want to demoralize American troops in Vietnam, but to take over organized crime in the U.S., using Nicoli as a front, would be like the power in Peking taking over General Motors.”

“Then my assignment is to stop it from happening,” I said.

“Partly. You must get close to Nicoli, to stop him by killing him if necessary, and the flow of heroin from Istanbul to Saigon must cease.”

I nodded. “So why the disguise? Who is this Thomas Acasano I’m impersonating? How did he die?”

“Your impersonation of Acasano is our only chance,” Hawk said, studying the glowing end of his cigar. “Thomas Acasano was Nicoli’s trusted ally on the East Coast. He carried a lot of weight with Nicoli, which is something Tai Sheng does not like. As far as both of them are concerned, Acasano is still very much alive.”

“I see. And how did he die?”

This was what Hawk unfolded.

AXE had had agents watching everyone even vaguely connected with Nicoli ever since Gaddino was gunned down in that sauna. The agent assigned to Acasano was a good man named Al Emmet. Al intended to do more than just follow his man. He wanted a pipeline to Nicoli, and he figured Acasano was it. So he pushed a little too close.

Many things must have gone through his mind at that time. He probably went back over the last few days and tried to find out where he made his mistake. Then there was a decision to be made. Should he tell AXE headquarters he had been found out? To do so would mean he’d be yanked from the case and another agent would take over. And just when he was so damned close.

Al Emmet was good. What separated American agents from those of the Communist world was independent action. Agents like Al didn’t follow any book. Each case was individual, and he handled it as he saw it. So he didn’t tell headquarters he had been discovered. He kept tailing Acasano.

When Thomas Acasano found out he was being tailed, he immediately sent out a coded telegram to Palermo asking what should be done about it. The answer came back in one sentence. The AXE agent was to be hit.

Normally, when a man had reached the stature of Acasano, the procedure would be simple. A button man would be contacted and issued a contract. But these were not normal times. Gaddino was dead, and not even cold in his grave yet. Organized crime, temporarily at least, was without leadership. There would undoubtedly be power struggles within the families to see who would end up on top. As a result no button men could really be trusted. Gaddino himself had started as a button man from Las Vegas, and everyone in the organization knew it. There were many ambitious young men who thought they could step into leadership shoes exactly as he had.

Acasano knew that Nicoli had worked too hard, made too many plans, and was just about ready to come back to the States. No lousy AXE agent was going to blow the whole thing wide open. And since no one else could be trusted, Acasano would have to handle the hit by himself.

Al Emmet knew when the telegram had come ordering his own execution. And he knew what it had said. But his main concern was for the code. If AXE headquarters had both the telegram sent by Acasano, and the one returned by Nicoli, the code might be broken, which would be helpful in the future when messages were sent between gangland leaders.

Three nights after Acasano received the telegram from Palermo, Al drove out to Long Island. Acasano had a huge house out there, as well as a swanky apartment in New York that he maintained for his girl. So Al drove out there at night. He was going to get that telegram ordering his own execution, as well as Acasano’s copy of the one he sent.

It had been snowing that night. He parked a block from the house and walked, listening to the crunch of his shoes in the snow. He had brought some rope with a three-pronged hook on the end. With that it was easy to scale the twelve-foot-high concrete wall Acasano had built around the mansion.

As Al ran in a crouch across the big yard, he knew he was leaving footprints in the snow. They would be discovered later. It worried him all the way to the back door of the house. Then he was relieved to see that it began to snow once more. The fresh snowflakes would cover his tracks.

He got in the house and made his way to the den with a pencil flash. Finding the two telegrams was easy. Too easy. They had been in the third drawer of the desk, right there on top. It wasn’t until Al had shoved them in his overcoat pocket that he knew he had been caught.

Acasano, of course, had been expecting him. He had been waiting in the adjoining library. When Al shoved the telegrams in his pocket and started for the door, Acasano stepped through the connecting door and turned on the light.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked.

Al smiled. “Made it easy for me, didn’t you?”

Acasano was holding a.38 Smith and Wesson. He motioned Al toward the door. “My car is in the garage, pal. You’ll do the driving.”

“Afraid of messing up the house?”

“Could be. Let’s go.”

The two men went outside and across to the heated garage where the shiny, new Lincoln Continental was parked. Acasano kept the.38 on Al and handed him the keys.

“Where to?” Al asked as the Continental warmed up. Acasano was sitting in the back seat, the.38 close to the back of the agent’s neck.

“We’ll make it a classical kind of hit, pal. Drive out along the New Jersey coast. I’ll stick the silencer on this rod so we won’t disturb the neighbors. It’ll be a bullet through the temple, some weight, and the chilly Atlantic.”

Al drove the Continental. So far Acasano hadn’t made any attempt to get the telegrams back. Maybe he wanted them to go into the Atlantic with Al.

When they had reached a dark, deserted spot along the New Jersey coast, Acasano ordered Al to pull over.

“There are some concrete blocks in the trunk,” he said. “And a roll of wire. You’ll find the key on the same ring as the ignition key.”

Al got the trunk open. Acasano was standing close to the fender, the.38 still trained on the agent. Only one thing was running through Al’s mind then. How could he get the telegrams to AXE headquarters? It was vital that AXE have that code. And Acasano couldn’t be left alive to tell Nicoli about it either. If that happened, the code would simply be changed.

As Al lifted the trunk lid, a light came on. He saw five concrete blocks and the roll of wire. He knew Acasano wouldn’t be easy. He reached inside and got one hand on a concrete block.

“The wire first, pal,” Acasano said.

In a quick movement, Al swung the block out of the trunk and toward Acasano’s head. Acasano bobbed to the side. The block glanced off his head. But he managed to squeeze off two shots with the silenced.38. The shots sounded like the air pop of a BB gun. The concrete block struck with enough force to knock Acasano off his feet.

But the shots were well placed. Al Emmet doubled over as both slugs slammed into his stomach. He grabbed the fender of the Continental for support.

Acasano had hit the snow hard. He was trying to sit up now. Al, with both hands clutching his bleeding stomach, stumbled to the gangster and fell on top of him. His hands groped along the overcoat-covered arm until he found the gun wrist.

Acasano suddenly came alive with strength. They struggled and rolled in the snow. Al was trying to get the gun away. Acasano was trying to knee the agent in his wounded stomach.

Again and again Al struck the gangster in the face and neck. But he was growing weak; there was no strength in his punches. He concentrated on the gun wrist, slamming it uselessly against the snow. Acasano was not idle. He kept pounding Al in the sides and chest, trying to get a clear blow to the stomach. And the punches were beginning to tell.

Then Al, with all the strength he had left, sank his teeth into the gun wrist. Acasano cried out in agonizing pain and the.38 dropped to the bloodstained snow bank. Al scrambled for it and got it in his hand just as Acasano kicked him in the stomach.

There had been little sound other than the panting of both men and the crunch of snow as they rolled back and forth in it. Since the hour was late and the street infrequently used, no cars came by the parked Continental.

Al Emmet was on his back, swinging the.38 around. Acasano scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the agent, hovering above him like a huge bear. Al fired once, then again. Both slugs tore into the hood’s chest. He stood with mouth and eyes open, not believing what had just happened. Then his eyes glazed over and he fell back.

Al pushed his painful, bleeding body to his feet. He dropped the.38 in his overcoat pocket. By grabbing the hood’s arms, he managed to drag him to the back seat of the Continental. He shoved Acasano inside, then shut the trunk lid and stumbled to the driver’s seat.

He knew he was dying. The slugs were accurately placed inside him. And there had been too much blood lost. He managed to get the Continental started, and drove straight to an AXE branch office in New Jersey.

Acasano was dead before Al got there. They had to drag Al from the car where he was slumped over the wheel. Nobody would have known he was there if he hadn’t smashed into the steps to the building and slumped over the horn ring. He was immediately rushed to the nearest hospital.

Even then he wouldn’t allow them to give him a sedative or take him to the operating room. In a mumbling voice he told them to keep him alive until he could speak to Hawk. A phone call was made, and Hawk was on a special chartered jet out of Washington, D.C. When he reached the hospital he was rushed to Al Emmet’s bedside.

In gasping breaths Al said this was the first real break in the case. He told Hawk of the two telegrams and how the code had to be broken. Then he lapsed into silence.

Hawk stood and read the telegrams. Later, when the code was finally deciphered, he would learn that there was much more than access to a code in one of those telegrams. Rozano Nicoli had given definite instructions to Acasano. He was to draw up a list of those family heads who would side with Nicoli and a list of those who wouldn’t. Since this would be a very secret list, Acasano would deliver it personally in Palermo.

Hawk was standing over Al Emmet as the agent gathered strength. Then Al motioned for Hawk to bend closer.

“T-there is... a girl,” Al said in a very weak voice. “She is far too young... for Acasano, barely over nineteen. He... tried to impress her with her own apartment. Paid for by him. She... refused. Already had a boyfriend. Then... boyfriend in auto accident. Both legs broken. Acasano moved in on... girl. Showered her with candy and flowers. Took her... best places. She’s not... very bright. Easily impressed. Liked the apartment Acasano had for her. Six weeks... moved in.” Al Emmet fell silent again.

“What was her name, Emmet?” Hawk asked softly. “Give us her name.”

In a still weaker voice, Al said, “Sandee... Catron... flashy blonde. Padded bra. Lot of make-up. Keeps hair up to look older. Chews gum. Likes to...” Al Emmet died before he could finish the sentence.

Hawk and I had finished the pot of coffee. He held up his hand, and a pretty girl in green, with red hair and sparkling blue eyes, came to get us a refill.

“So what did AXE do about this Sandee Catron?” I asked. “It seems to me she would have been the first one to miss Acasano, being his girl and all.”

The cigar had gone out. It rested in the ash tray looking cold and distasteful. “We kidnapped her,” Hawk said. “Right now she’s in northern Nevada. We have her on ice in a remote cabin along the shores of Lake Tahoe.”

I smiled as the redhead brought over our fresh pot of coffee. She set the pot down, returned my smile, and moved away with a lot of hip action.

“That isn’t all we did, Carter,” Hawk went on. “Using Acasano’s name, we sent another telegram to Palermo telling Rozano Nicoli that the snooping agent had been dealt with.”

“In the code, of course.”

“Yes. We broke the code. We also asked Nicoli when he wanted Acasano to fly to Palermo with the list.”

“And?”

He shook his head. “There hasn’t been a reply yet.”

We sipped our coffee silently for a few moments. I thought I had been told just about everything. My assignment was pretty clear. Using the cover of Acasano, I would fly to Palermo and try to get next to Nicoli. Then I had to stop him. And this Tai Sheng.

“We know very little about Acasano,” Hawk said. “He has no police record; he was never in any trouble that could be proved. You are going to have to play it by ear, Carter.”

I nodded. But one thing still puzzled me. Where was Tanya going to fit in all this?

“Make no mistake, Carter,” Hawk said pointing a finger at me. “Even though Nicoli and Acasano are close, Nicoli trusts absolutely no one. The two men have not actually seen each other in almost ten years. AXE has photos of Rozano Nicoli taken ten years ago, but no photos have been taken of him recently. He keeps himself completely surrounded by bodyguards. And except for those regular flights to Istanbul with that Turkish Communist, Konya, he rarely leaves his villa. Even then he takes a private plane, a Lear jet belonging to and piloted by none other than Tai Sheng. There is a winged tiger painted on the tail, and it is always landed on a grassy field just outside Istanbul.”

“Could a woman get to Nicoli?” I asked.

Hawk gave me a meaningless smile. “Rozano Nicoli has been married to the same woman for thirty-one years. To our knowledge, he has never once been unfaithful.”

“Well, I guess that just about...” I stopped as I saw her coming through the door of the commissary toward us.

It was Tanya, and yet it wasn’t. She smiled as she approached our table. All innocence was gone. She looked brassy with flashy blond hair, a padded bra, a lot of make-up, her hair piled on top of her head to make herself look older, and she was chewing gum. The skirt and blouse were almost too tight for her.

As she stepped up to the table, I smiled at her and said, “Sandee Catron, I presume?”