The Plan

Chapter 71.

C. WALLACE LITMAN AND HIS WIFE SALLY HAD INVITED Karen and Max Jergenson over for a game of bridge. Litman always kept the UBC broadcast on low in the living r oom. He had one eye on the TV as he looked at his hand.

Diamonds were trump. C. Wallace pondered his opening lead. Then he saw a picture of Joseph Alo on the TV. He reached for the remote control and turned up the volume.

Sally and the Jergensons swung around to look at the screen.

Cole's voice still carried the narrative: ".. financing that set up the broadcasting empire of C. Wallace Litman came from Meyer Lansky's offshore Bahamian company Mary Carver Paints. This painting supply company, which had been acquired in the sixties, was a corporate shell funneling offshore cash payments from Meyer Lansky to C. Wallace Litman. These cash transfers occurred all throughout the seventies and into the eighties. It was these underworld funds that enabled C. Wallace Litman to purchase his broadcasting empire."

"What…?" C. Wallace Litman got unsteadily to his feet, torn between turning off the set so the Jergensons wouldn't be able to see it, and keeping it on to hear what was being said about him. Then he heard his own tape-recorded voice talking to Meyer Lansky.

"Good to talk to you, Meyer."

Meyer's brittle voice answered.

"Did you get the package, Wally?"

Pictures of Meyer and C. Wallace Litman from old magazines that Naomi Zur had collected from the wire service were side by side on the screen.

"Sure did, but we're gonna hold it in the paint company offshore until we need it."

`That's you, Wallace,' Sally said, a look of pure confusion on her face.

"Okay, good," Meyer continued. "I think you should level off on the newspaper and radio. We got four chairs but I'm much more interested in television."

"I agree, Meyer. I got my eye on United Broadcasting. They're a group of independent stations, but I think they can be bought for the right price. We can leverage the buy. And I'd recommend that because I think we're gonna need a lot more cash downriver to acquire additional stations and fund programming."

C. Wallace Litman was frozen, unable to turn off the TV or stop this searing indictment. The Jergensons laid down their cards and looked first at Wallace, then at each other, as the conspiracy between their host, Meyer Lansky, and the Mafia came into sharper focus.

"How's Teddy?" Litman said on the tape, referring to Meyer's wife.

"She's fine. And Mrs. Litman…?"

"She's fine. You two are gonna have to meet sometime."

We can't meet. Joseph wants you in the clear. If he puts a man in the White House, you're the one who's gonna do it. You and that TV network. Once we own the Man, we're gonna put all these fucks in the Justice Department out of business."

The Special Report ended with film footage from FBI hidden cameras, first of Joseph Alo and Meyer Lansky, then one shot of Joseph Alo with Litman in the Vegas e levator of the Frontier Hotel twenty years ago. Litma n s till had hair, but the billionaire was plainly recognizable.

Cole wound up the broadcast as the camera came back to the Madison Junior High video lab. He was still sitting on the edge of the desk:

"It is not hard to understand why an organized crime family in this country would attempt to buy a President. In Italy, in 1993, government corruption from the Mafia went all the way to the prime minister. It destroyed the institutions of that government. As Haze Richards stands on the threshold of the White House, you can bet that he has made a pledge of obedience to the men who financed him and controlled his candidacy, men who created his image and popularity through the subtle use and manipulation of network broadcasting." The camera moved in closer.

"This report was prepared by four people, including myself, who are currently being sought by the FBI. We have been accused of planning the assassination of Haze Richards, a charge that was made to discredit us and this report. All of the material we have gathered is available now to the press and law enforcement agencies. Voice prints will validate the accuracy of the audiotapes. The film speaks for itself."

"Naomi Zur, Lucinda Alo, Ryan Bolt, and I will offer ourselves up for arrest. A brave man, retired FBI agent Solomon Kazorowski, gave his life for this story and for his country."

The camera was now in an extreme close-up as Cole concluded: "I have devoted my life to the concept of a free and open press. In a democracy, the press is the watchdog for the evils men commit, but what happens when the press has been capWred? What happens if our greatest freedom is sold to society's villains? What if free speech is constrained by media conspiracies? If the pen is to remain mightier than the sword, then it must be defended passionately… Defended by…"

And the broadcast was interrupted. The screen turned to snow.

The helicopter hovered low over the parking garage as two of the Italian "cousins" leaned out of the bay and riddled the SNG truck with.223-caliber copper-jacketed devastators. They shot off the "feed flow" and took the pirate transmission off the air. Naomi Zur ran out from behind the truck, her eye glued to her Nikon. She strobed fifteen pictures of the helicopter before she got caught in the hailstorm.

She was hit twice.

One bullet went through the palm of her right hand. The other went through her chest, puncturing her heart.

She was dead before she hit the ground.

Cole urged John to take off on foot. His part of the plot was over and Cole didn't want the engineer exposed to more danger. They could hear the gunfire in the distance. The RF engineer carefully shut down his equipment in the MCC and took off into the rainy night.

In the basement next door, Ryan and Lucinda had taken cover behind the generators as the security guard, his eyes watering from Lucinda's blast of carbon dioxide, moved into the dark room with his gun out. Ryan hurled himself at the man as he approached. and drove him back against the wall. The security guard was a sixty-seven-year-old ex-cop from Brooklyn. He folded up, wheezing out a lungful of smoker's breath. His gun flew from his hand and landed next to the wall. Lucinda grabbed a flashlight and went to scoop it up as Ryan snatched the handcuffs off the guard's belt and cuffed the old man to one of the pipes in the basement.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said to the security guard, who was unable to answer as he struggled to get his breath.

They climbed the stairs, Ryan's leg quivering from the effort. When they went out into the alley, it was dark and a heavy rain was falling. They could hear automatic gunfire, and as they ran to the mouth of the alley, they could see the gray and red helicopter hovering above the parking structure with four men leaning out, firing. He sensed that Mickey was in the chopper. The moment Ryan had predicted was upon them.

The cold rain drenched them as they took off running, moving as fast as Ryan's leg would allow. They reached the staircase where the mobile control room was parked. The helicopter was now hovering above, but the men had stopped firing momentarily. Ryan banged on the door of the big truck while Lucinda ducked into the building.

"It's me!… It's Ryan!"

Cole swung the door open, his face flushed with excitement "The fucker put six or seven rounds right through the top of this bastard," he said, grinning and pointing to the roof of the mobile control center.

"Get the tapes and get into the garage," Ryan said. "I'm going after Mickey." He didn't wait for an answer but ran to the fire door.

Ryan was forced to pull himself up the fire stairs by the banister rail. His leg had lost almost all of its strength. It felt wobbly under him.

Finally, he stepped out onto the roof and stood staring at the helicopter a hundred yards away, still hovering. He could see Mickey in the seat next to the pilot.

"Come here! Come here, Mickey," he yelled into the wind and rain. He knew Mickey couldn't hear him. "Come down here, you son of a bitch!" he shouted, waving his fist at the chopper.

From the helicopter, Mickey saw Ryan come out of the stairwell. Anger fueled by adrenaline hit him, frying all reason.

"Cocksucker!" he screamed at the windshield. The pilot looked at him in amazement and alarm. Mickey was in a new zone, someplace he'd never been before. His emotions were completely controlling his actions. He banged the pilot on the shoulder and pointed down. The four Ita l ian "cousins" jammed new clips into their AR-15s. Mickey yelled at them, "You shoot this asshole if he gets me… put him under if I go down."

The Italian cousins looked at him blankly, and Mickey repeated the instructions in Italian. They nodded, grave expressions on their faces.

"Gimme," he said to Pulacarpo, pointing at a nine-millimeter Beretta in the Sicilian's belt. Pulacarpo gave the gun to Mickey as the helicopter set down on the side of Hertz Castle farthest away from the big dish. Mickey jumped out onto the rain-soaked roof.

Mickey and Ryan were now only fifty feet apart. The wind from the rotor blades was blowing rainwater everywhere. Mickey waved at the pilot to back off. The gray and red chopper pulled back slightly and the prep school roommates stood facing each other, Naomi Zur's dead body between them. Rain hammered down on the concrete. Ryan moved to Naomi, knelt awkwardly, and checked her pulse. He knew when he touched her. He knew she was dead. Then he stood up and looked at Mickey.

"It was bound to come to this," Mickey shouted over the noise of the rain and the helicopter. Anger and bitterness were in his voice. He raised the gun and pointed it at Ryan.

"I'm not armed," Ryan yelled. But Mickey didn't respond. "You need a gun, 'cause you never could take me one-on-one. You're a pussy, Mickey. A fat, oily little piece of shit with no guts."

Mickey looked across the pavement at the handsome blond man. God had given Ryan the gift of beauty… Mickey had always scorned that gift, but Mickey had the devil's gift of power. And now he vowed to take Ryan's beauty from him… take it with his bare hands. Anger swelled. Emotion flooded through him. It filled his empty vessel with rage. Mickey dropped the gun and moved forward.

Ryan stood his ground. He put his weak left leg forward so that he would get punching power off his stronger right leg. They net in the center of the roof, drenched from the downpour. Both held up their fists.

"You could a' been my friend," Mickey said, bitterly. "I was trying to help you."

"No, you weren't. You don't have any friends. You liked watching me squirm… I was just like Rex… Running with my head off, going nowhere."

Mickey swung.

The fight didn't last very long. Mickey's first blow hit Ryan square on the jaw. It rocked him back. Ryan pivoted to his right on his good leg and threw a left hand into Mickey's ribs, following it with a low right cross. Mickey stumbled back but didn't go down, then faked with his right and threw a looping overhand left that Ryan ducked. Then Ryan launched a vicious uppercut that caught Mickey square. He staggered backward, dropping to one knee. He let out a roar of anger and charged Ryan, who tried to pivot left, but his bad leg collapsed and he fell. Mickey flung himself on his fallen enemy, screaming with rage and joy. He had lost all control. He grabbed Ryan's neck in both of his chubby hands and tried to strangle him. Ryan struggled to throw Mickey off, but adrenaline powered Mickey's grip, giving him ungodly strength. Finally, as Ryan was about to pass out, with a last surge of energy, he rolled up and over on top of Mickey. As if pushed by an invisible force, the two of them rolled down the slight incline of the ramp to the level below. Ryan encouraged the roll and used it to break Mickey's grasp around his neck. He struggled to his feet, trying to favor the left leg, but Mickey turned and ran.

Ryan realized he was going after the nine-millimeter Beretta and limped futilely after him. Mickey picked up the gun and pointed it at Ryan.

"Fuck you Bolt," he yelled. "Fuck you. You're going away." And he fired.

Ryan felt a stinging in his right shoulder and then three shots rang out in succession and Mickey stumbled backward.

Stiff-legged.

A man on stilts.

Mickey's stomach opened up… Stomach lining, kidney fluid, and intestines poured out into the rainwater at his feet. He looked down in horror as his life gushed out of the ragged hole in his abdomen.

Standing in the doorway with the security guard's pistol still in her hand was Lucinda. She was staring wide-eyed at her brother.

Mickey looked down. The gun was still in his hand. He dropped it and stumbled backward, trying to get to the helicopter, which was returning for him. He was moving by sheer force of will. His vision was blurred; he lost perspective, stumbling blindly on the rain-slick pavement.

The helicopter was still a few yards from the edge of the building and the Italian cousins let out a nine-millimeter stream of death. The lead chipped the concrete around Ryan but, miraculously, didn't hit him. Mickey moved on unsteady legs toward the chopper and they stopped firing. Mickey lunged for the helicopter skid and fell off the roof, catching the ledge at the last second with both hands.

Ryan looked down at Mickey. They were now only a few feet apart. Mickey had a strange, empty look on his face. With death almost on him, Mickey still held the ledge, his grip firm. Something ungodly came up from the depth of Michael Joseph Alo, a grumbling sound, powerful and angry. Ryan kneeled down to hear. Then Mickey spoke two chilling sentences.

Mickey's eyes were shining, more intense and alive than any eyes Ryan had ever seen. A jack-o'-lantern grin spread his face wide, and then he simply let go.

He fell backward off the roof, tumbling in the air, turning and rolling, the hideous leer still stretching his plump cheeks.

Four stories below, his body exploded on impact. Sirens sounded in the distance as the helicopter abruptly changed direction and streaked away into the rain-swept night.

Ryan, with his shoulder bleeding, limped over and picked up Naomi's camera, then went back to Lucinda. He put his good arm around her. "Thank you," he whispered.

"What did he say?" she asked, still stunned.

Ryan looked away. "I couldn't understand him."

They moved into the garage to get out of the rain and found Cole on the first level looking out at the street as the cop cars pulled up, a cherry orchard of flashing red lights.

"Naomi's dead. Here's her camera." Ryan handed it to Cole.

Cole bowed his head. She had gone to join her Israeli.

They walked into the street, where the cops took them into custody. They were cuffed and read their rights. The rain slowed as they were put in separate squad cars.

Ryan sat alone in the backseat, listening to the windshield wipers flip-flopping the moisture away. He was in the middle of a city of eight million people, yet he was alone and afraid. He couldn't forget the last words Mickey had said to him.

"I'll come back," his prep school roommate had promised. "I'll come back and get you."