THE FOURTH WATCH (56 page)

Mary Sheeney had been a spy.

Not that she had started out that way. Mary had
wanted to be a diplomat. Her Father had been one. The family home
was in Andover, Massachusetts, but she had spent most of her youth
living in Paris and Bern. She studied history and political science
and learned to speak German and Russian fluently as an
undergraduate at the Georgetown University School of Government. By
then she already spoke French and Italian. She stayed at Georgetown
for Law School, interning in New York one summer at the United
Nations, and while in Washington, she worked part-time as a
volunteer on the staff of the Senator that Chaired the Foreign
Relations Committee. With her excellent grades, a few phone calls
from the Senator, and her Father's connections in the diplomatic
theater, there was a job waiting for her at the State Department on
the day she graduated from Law School in 1964.

After six months on the job it was clear to her
superiors that Mary was a special girl. She had a keen intellect, a
firm grasp of policy, an outgoing personality, good looks and a
gorgeous shape. And unlike others of her generation, she supported
her government. It was the CIA that approached her.

They were heady times. Vietnam was hot and the
cold war was raging. Her country needed her. The Russian's were
everywhere, working to stamp out democracy as fast as the U.S.
could spread it. It was a time of personal sacrifice. It was a time
to preserve the American way of life, and hold back the Red Tide
that was leaching across Europe. The Agency wanted to know: could
her Country count on her to do her part? The old 'Will you take it
on your knees for Uncle Sam?' speech as it became known to the
small group of young women recruited to infiltrate the Soviet
diplomatic community in Western Europe.

They were trained to be information gathering
machines and lone-wolf operatives. Trained in electronic
surveillance, penetration of electronic information systems,
satellite communication, security systems evasion, priority target
recognition and good old fashion cat burglary. They could kill with
razors, poisons, personal bombs and their bare hands. They learned
all the languages of the Soviet Union and never let anyone believe
they spoke anything but English. And most importantly, they were
trained in the art of seduction. The nuanced game of luring the
target in, of creating a primitive hunger in him, of delivering a
pleasure so intense that he became a slave to it, and then using
him to extract secrets that he may not have even known he
possessed.

She had used her cover as a functionary at the
US Embassy in the Netherlands well, and all of the intelligence
agencies benefited from her service over the years. When she came
in from the field at the end of the Carter Administration, she was
given a high ranking administrative position at Langley, where she
spent five years cultivating her contacts before hanging it up.
Alex had found her ten years ago when, as an up and coming star in
a Boston law firm, he was defending a Mexican drug smuggler. In
order to keep his very guilty client away from very long jail
sentences on both sides of the border, he needed information on
corrupt U.S. and Mexican Government officials, in order to leverage
a plea bargain. The Sheeney Group had uncovered explosive evidence
linking two U.S. Congressmen and a Border Patrol Commander to the
head of the Mexican Federal Narcotics Agency and Alex's client.
When Alex quietly presented his evidence unofficially to a DEA
consultant recommended by Mary Sheeney, the charges against his
client were dropped - and Alex never forgot it. So when he needed
invisible people to tail a Deputy Police Chief, he turned to the
Sheeney Group.

There was a soft tap on the door and a male
secretary entered carrying a silver tea service.

He set it on the conference table.

"Thank you, Shawn," Mary said.

''No problem," the young man told her.
"Anything else?"

''No, we're good."

He pulled the door closed behind
him.

Alex stood and went to the conference table and
poured for them both. "So, Mary, I'll read your report later, just
tell me what it says."

Mary pulled the file back across to her,
flipped it open, and took two 5x7 photographs out of a pocket. She
turned them and laid them on the desk as Alex returned with the
tea.

"The Gentleman on the left is Salvatore
Moltinaldo, he's 55 years old, has interests in financial planning,
real estate, a few bars and a restaurant in Worcester. He's a drug
dealer, big time operator. Ruthless ... He's been meeting with your
man Genetassio."

Alex said nothing.

"Came back from Vietnam in the early '70's and
set up shop in his hometown, Los Angeles. Hispanic mother, don't
know about the father, he wasn't around. Kid grew up in a South
Central barrio. Kind of burst on the scene, pushed his way into the
middle of the action, riled up the Triad's and the Mob, started
killing people, selling high quality heroin at a discount. Pissed
everyone off." She took a sip of her tea, leaving pale lipstick on
the rim of the cup.

"Really," Alex said. "How'd he manage to live
so long?"

"That's where the other guy comes in," she
said. "Ming Tasi Tse. The Tongs and Triads call him 'The Shadow'.
He's presently a General in the Chinese Army, comes from an
influential political family. His brother is the Minister of
Agriculture, in charge of working the politically incorrect to
death in labor camps. The General makes billions exporting sex
slaves, illegal immigrants and drugs, mostly heroin, to Europe and
the America's. He pays his graft up the line and the Chinese
government looks the other way because his business does damage to
unfriendly countries. The Asian gangs in almost every city piece
off to him. He's powerful and feared. He's the protection behind
Moltinaldo."

Alex put his cup down on her desk and picked up
the General's picture. He looked at it.

"Why would he do that? I mean if he controls
the gangs, why does he set up a Mexican in their midst? He's
competing against himself."

Mary shrugged. "Growth. Expanding into the
Hispanic and white communities. Moltinaldo is a hell of a
businessman. He's made himself filthy rich, he's very well
connected and is not afraid to bribe the tall and the small - or
kill anyone that gets in his way. He has a legitimate front, so his
political friends have cover.

"The General is rumored to control huge poppy
fields in the Golden Triangle. The heroin is processed in his labs
in China. He controlled the drug market during the Vietnam War.
Officially the Chinese weren't involved in 'Nam, but everyone knew
that they were in the background. Ming was a major then, raising
unofficial hell with the U.S and South Vietnamese in Laos. Of
course, officially, the U.S. wasn't in Laos, either. Moltinaldo was
a logistician with the American forces. It is suspected that he was
selling dope to the soldiers in the field. That's probably how he
got hooked up with Ming.

"My contacts in Los Angeles say Moltinaldo is
supplied by the General. The product comes in straight through
customs. They use legitimate companies that have a steady flow of
shipping containers coming in on a regular basis from the Orient.
They bribe company employees on both ends - someone puts it in over
there, and someone takes it out over here. Very slick. Customs can
maybe look at five percent of the stuff that comes in through the
big ports. So they look at the stuff that doesn't feel right. But
big companies that come through all the time mostly get a pass. DEA
thinks Moltinaldo moved up to Seattle to do the same thing there
and open up that market. There are some pretty grim stories about
how he dealt with the competition."

Mary picked up the photos, put them back in the
folder and pushed it back across to Alex.

He was thinking that Loading Dock had
containers coming through Seattle all the time that cleared customs
there, and then came by rail to Worcester to supply the East Coast
stores. Genetassio had to be Moltinaldo' s protection.

"It's all in our report," Mary said. She arched
an eyebrow, "Of course I can't prove a word of it."

Alex picked up the folder and stood. They shook
hands. "Thank you, Mary. Send me your bill and I'll see it's taken
care of right away."

She pointed at the folder. "It's in there.
We're trying to save on postage. They smiled together and Alex
turned to go.

"Mr. Andreason?"

"Yes," Alex said, turning back to
her.

"I cannot overstate how dangerous these people
are. Be careful."

*****

SAMANTHA WHORLEY FLED
to Paris after Carolyn's funeral. She was still
mourning Red's death, and Carolyn's murder had shaken her deeply.
She had to get away from it. The physical strength and mental
toughness that had always held her together were shattered. She had
to get away from the condolences and sorrowful faces, the hushed
voices and sad-eyed well-wishers. Her grief soared with every
sympathetic smile. Every note of encouragement from a friend set
off a painful flood of tears. It was maddening. She needed space
and time to heal.

Their apartment was on rue Trocadero behind
Basilique du Sacre Coeur - The Church of the Sacred Heart - in
Montmartre, a small, quaint village where writers congregated in
the cafes and artists painted in the squares in good weather.
Tourists came in hordes in the summer months, but in the fall it
was quiet and she could sit outside in the cool sun and watch the
leaves make shadow patterns on the walls.

In the evenings, when the dark leached in and
the moon looked like cold bone, and her loneliness was a clenching,
physical pain, she'd ride through the city's neighborhoods, peering
at the people out the windows of the cabs, and stroll in the plazas
lit by gas lamps to feel the pull of the human current, or sit in
cafes, listening to lyrical French, as if the voices were
instruments in a symphony. One night, when she'd sat too long
drinking in a bar on Blvd. Lavaillois in The Latin Quarter, a fire
roaring in a stone hearth, her skin tingling with wine, she let a
young man take her to his small flat above a dress makers shop on
rue Mouffetard and make love to her as rain drummed on the roof and
her eyes stung with tears. When he was finished he called her a cab
and she waited on the street for it to come. The next day she felt
a profound guilt, a hollow wretchedness that she could not explain.
She stood under a hot shower and tried to scrub her skin off, then
she went to Mass at Notre Dame and walked down to the river and sat
on the bank of the Seine and cried until she was empty.

When she made her decision that it was time to
go home, her good friend, Lisa flew over and they spent the last
week together. Lisa had never been to Paris, so they did all the
tourist things. Sam had forgotten how nice it could be. They went
to the Louvre and shopped in the Place de la Concorde and along the
Champs Elysees and visited the Arc de Triomphe and had lunch
outside at a sidewalk cafe on a heated patio. They took a day trip
to the Palace at Versailles and marveled at the sprawling Gardens
and mammoth halls where Marie Antoinette held masked balls full of
intrigue. They stared open mouthed in astonishment at the opulence
of the bedrooms where she must have met her male and female lovers.
They gawked at paintings in the Great Hall depicting the life of
the teenage Austrian Princess that came to France to become her
Queen. The young bride of Louis XVI, whose sexual adventures and
lavish lifestyle turned the nation against her. The young woman who
went to the Guillotine at the hands of Robespierre and had her head
carried through the streets of Paris to signal the end of the
French Monarchy.

They visited the Bastille, where the Revolution
started, and dined in Marais and St. Germain. They went to a
scandalous show in Pigalle at Moulin Rouge and took a tour of the
old Red Light District, where many of the brothels made famous by
American Soldiers during World War II, still stood. On the last day
they went up on the Eiffel Tower, Tour Eiffel, and looked out on
the old city that the Gauls had settled along the river in 200 BC.
The city that had been conquered by every invader from Julius
Caesar to Adolph Hitler still standing tall, its Cathedrals
reaching to Heaven, its proud monuments etched against a turquoise
sky at dusk.

Sam felt different going home. Not better, but
... settled. Seeing Paris with Lisa had brought her back. The two
months away had been a good thing. She had mourned, she had cried
herself numb, she was ready to rejoin the living. She could think
about Red now, and Carolyn and that lawyer she had hired, and what
he said. The coincidence of Red's death and Carolyn's murder was
too rich, no matter what the police were saying about gangs and
turf wars and all the rest of it. It all sounded like bullshit to
her. She needed to know the truth.

38

MATTE GENETASSIO RUBBED
his face with both hands. "This is way out of
control," he said.

Madigan nodded. "So, what's the
plan?"

They were sitting in Madigan's car at the curb
on Murry Ave., off South Main Street. Madigin was staked out doing
drug surveillance on a Vietnamese laundry that they suspected was
doubling as a meth lab.