The Last Crusader

The Last Crusader

Prologue

March 23,2007,

Boston,Massachusetts.

          When I went in to embrace this peril,as my colleagues had first said, I didn't know what they meant actually,I should say. I didn't know I was to enter into a dark world filled with things those might cost my life,as they do at present.
          They are not men.They might have been men,but I don't know how long ago they were ,but are no longer.
          I had a chance,only one,to meet some higher heads in that society they have formed.So sorry it was not under convincing circumstances.Neither did it prove good to me.It needed one of my eyes in return.
          It was said that Italy had its own row of thugs and thieves once.When there flourished an exquisite empire called Roman in history.I should say the history is repeated.This time with more vigor and malice for these people still move around killing and abusing the lot.
          I am used to making wild imaginations about these people. Their life, their childhood, their relations, and their going. Though proper conclusions cannot be attained, one thing was common in every of their dossiers. Happiness had never been their legacy and they strive to keep their children as far away as possible from inheriting the same. Or at the least they think they do so. They do not care about life, be it human or other, unless it was a possession of anything within the closest circle they have constructed around them, which at times included themselves and themselves alone. All that appears to them are hatred and malice, for they love things those are considered rubbish and brutal by people who are in the ascending points, both in background and economy. They do not feel like they are carrying a burden while being amidst thousands of their contemporaries, each with his own treason and reason to loathe. I have been through gangs around the world since I took to writing articles as a freelance writer at a time, which now is far beyond my remembrance. I can be sure of my not having seen any other gang, or should I mention it an organization, with this diligence and rectitude towards doing what are called as serious, international crimes by the Moral world.
          I cannot say where this might end. Or what much it would have accomplished when it reaches its end, if it has one. But I have gathered something regarding the start of a grand history. It was not a mass start. Nor did it lavish on any great man's bank niceties when it was born. It started, like everything that has shaken the world started, with one man. A man, who became the King of the organization in the early 90's, who is the Emperor of this great community that has its branches all around the world.
          In my knowledge, he has appeared into the legend from nowhere.I have mustered as profound as I can towards striking at something regarding his clear background, always coming to a dead end. It has been lost into oblivion. His story starts with his stealing one of the most precious paintings of Botticelli from Galleria degli Uffizi, Uffizi gallery in Florence, right under the nose of heavy security. Having made his first assignment a global nightmare, he progressed ,slowly, cautiously leaving his prints in almost all kinds of international scandals. Justice was there to hunt him right from the scratch, but the guy turned out too elusive to be caught. He started making confederate with people of the same sort, from all around the world. Within 5 years, his professional dexterity and sagacious leadership heightened his notoriety into an extent that no one would ever dare to imagine.
          This man, raised in blood and hatred, belonged in Italy. But his interests have turned towards the world's most powerful nation, as many profess, of late.My records are clear enough and the evidences are up my sleeve regarding his presence in New york city recently. He is doing all his business in US right now and he knows very well that I spy on him. He warned me once against my activities, but I should say I was too reckless about him then to follow. But now I know how deadly he is, how serious the shackle that has chained me is.To my plight, now it is too late. He cannot afford to let me live, and I know he wouldn't.
          I doubt this article would ever be published. But all I write this for is to caution someone, who might be under similar clutches in the future. This is an insurance policy. By the time this article is read by anyone, I am afraid I would hardly be alive.

Chapter-1

          Jason read his Rolex. It said eleven. He sighed wheezily, feeling the gentle shudder that ran through his body out of the humidity under his bathrobe.
          He squinted across the room, at where his new company lay asleep. The girl was not much to look at, but she provided a very entertaining night. She lay curled in the blanket, her auburn hair untidily sprawled over the pillow.
          Strippers were not uncommon here. He ignored her and moved toward the curtained window. His eyes momentarily swarmed over the brilliant artdeco that enlightened the room. Brilliant, he thought. It was his first time in this hotel. Via Veneto Boutique.The brief visit to Rome, however, was to be over soon. He had done what he came there for. The damage was done. In the worst way possible..
          He jerked the blinds away and peered out into the busy Roman night. The night was sound but the city was still busy, seemingly day-like.Ahead, into the night, he could see the gloomy gardens of Villa borghese.They appeared glum tonight. Maybe it was because of the macabre feeling that was gobbling him up today. He felt the smooth finishing of amboyna burl that lined the windows, under his fingers. .
          All his days in Rome came flooding back to him. The days when he had roamed in the Roman streets looking for someone to give him something as unwelcome as a loaf of bread; The days he had wondered how something not more than a pink stain of a paper,called lire, with a man they said Caravaggio in it could worth his life.And how his not possessing it meant futility; if not futility, doom; and if not either, a great, unexplainable void..
          Money, and its mammoth implications... Power, Influence and more. The incident that changed his mind, he shook his head involuntarily, that cultivated his mind had happened just at the right moment of his life, when he was abandoned, all he could call as relations were his old, peeling shoes and loose, hang-me-down shirt. And one other man. His Savior. His own, ever-lasting Messiah..
          If there was anyone, ever, in his life who Jason wanted to hold, even to the point at which easing the grip might be his own death,it was this man. No other, never, would enjoy this diadem of honor. With this man at his side, his leadership up his sleeve, Jason realized he could tumble all his inhibitions down, with a little more of his knuckles. And he did that. Sometimes, with precious prizes of his birth as expenses, but still he did that. Everyone had something unique to them. Jason had one. And he was lucky he could sort it out. Though it was not often approved of by others..
          The girl gasped in sleep. He turned over to see her, faintly reckoning that three or so hours ago the horrible breath was what seemed arousing. The brief thought brought a smile and he resumed to his thoughts toward his partner. This man was the second in command of their fellowship. Jason knew that he was smarter than his saviour lad, but the respect towards him had been growing for several other reasons. He was more like a father to Jason. Unless any plan received his consent, it was as good as dead. Jason could not afford something not approved of by him to happen. It always, always, had resulted in failure, that too, exactly in the same ways as predicted by him..
          At that thought, as if on cue, his cellphone rang. The sharp noise jarred the girl awake and she cursed under her breath. He moved to the headstand where it lay. She was beaming at him, seemingly annoyed by the interruption. He shrugged with a smile and brought the phone to his ear.
          "Jason, it's me."
          His smooth features turned alive. " Speak of the devil, Mike. Was thinking of you, dude!". Jason returned to where he had been before.
          "We have some urgent shit coming up here."
          The voice was hasty. There was no mistaking in it. After a long time, and a lot of white hairs, Mike's voice had turned nasty. No good sign.
          "Something wrong?"
          "I ain't saying you'd love to hear it."
          "Spill the beans then. I can't wait."
          "You had been busy, this evening. I was trying to steal a talk with you."
          That evening's incidents crossed Jason's mind. "I ought to be busy. I hoped you knew."
          "Yeah, I did. But not to the point of being unaware of this."
          "May I ask again what this 'this' shit is?"
          "It needs more than a phone talk. I'm in Rome now."
          Jason was perplexed."I'd bet on Red Sox that you are kidding...".
          "I'm not. Sorry, it was not the part of the agenda, but it was provoked."
          "Where should I expect you then?" The girl had not lost on her client's expression, aware that it had now come a long way from a rollicking start. His voice had more than a tinge of threat now.
          "Downstairs, to be exact. I'm coming to Boutique now."
          "Counting you in..." Jason snapped his cellphone. He glared her askance for what seemed to be an eternity and then without a word, he moved to the wardrobe. He collected a royal black tuxedo and dressed in silence. She knew better than to ask him anything. She was a professional. Candy guys like this one might not always be as pleasing in their ethos as their appearances are. Twice did she end up in the hands of such lunatics who concluded their businesses,with a knife to her throat. This guy might be no different, she thought..
          While he left, he proved her wrong and gave her another two thousand euros. Party time; Her lips curled into an inducing smile, but the door had slammed shut. He was gone..




          Ten minutes later, after finishing all his financial ties with the motel, Jason was slowly sauntering down the semi-circular staircase of the Via Veneto Boutique. He had looked for Mike in the lobby in vain. The only other choice lay before him.
          As he watched the torrent of vehicle stream, a black, lustrous Audi cut across the fast lane and precipitated slowly out of the traffic. The dark sedan rolled smoothly in line with the curb and pulled up right before him in the road. From the rear of the vehicle rose a stalwart frame that was instantly recognized by Jason. The silhouette beckoned him.
          Had it not been for the phone call he had had minutes earlier, a wide grin would have filled Jason’s face. He, however, as always, rejoiced at having seen his mentor again after his relatively long time. But the news was bad. Perhaps, more than bad. Pernicious. Ruinous.
          He opened the door and slid in. The man crept close by and the chauffeur kicked the engine on. The sedan rolled and hit the road.
          Jason looked anxiously at Mike. It seemed to him a lifetime had gone by since he left this man, his mentor, a week ago. His eyes lingered on Mike’s face as though reading an unacquainted stranger. Mike Hewston was an African-american with a broad, furrowed forehead and a prominent, voluminous nose. He had a thin film of bushy hair in which ran circuitous strands of gray. A pair of expanse sockets with perpetually rolling brown eyeballs were his bespectacled eyes. His elongated, dangerously thin face, accentuated by a pointed chin was anything but pleasant, a fact he had long since adapted to and seldom cared about.
          “ Well,” Jason eased in his seat.
          “ We had this deal this morning you could not have forgotten about. With Brandons,” breathed Hewston, “ It’s out.”
          Jason’s torso erected involuntarily. “ What!”
          “ If you’d excuse me, I should be impressed with the execution of this plan, Jason.”
          “I hear that my nigger is famous for his cutting the crap…”
          “ Not unless you ask the essential question.”
          “ Cops?”
          He saw Hewston shaking his head violently, which clearly meant ‘ far from it’.
          “ You slip me.”
          “ I told you, the question is not who, though it is necessary, but how…”Hewston’s fingers were closely pronouncing his words, stabbing the air.
          Jason shrugged .“ How, then?”
          “ Our nightmare. Infiltration.”
          “ You’re bluffing.”
          “ With hell I bluff. I mean it kid. Wait till you hear who the victim is.” Jason responded with an anticipating silence. Then, Hewston blurted out,” Andy”.
          Andy is impossible. “ Mike, you are not famous for your humor.”
          “ You are right. Never have I been. Never will I be. It’s Andy. He’s out too.”
          “ Andy is a smart guy.” Jason’s voice was the one of the captain of a sinking vessel.
          “ Was. It’s not everyday you find someone smarter than you, but when the day comes when you find the one, you cave in. Andy’s gone. So are many of our men.”
          “Many? Plural?”A stiff nod was Hewston’s answer. Jason saw Spanish steps whiz across him through the window. He was clearly in no mood to savor the architectural splendor of Rome.
          “ Okay, now, we need to get everything on line, don’t we? You gotta tell me all about this. Enlighten me, for God’s sake!”. Jason’s voice was unusually edgy.
          Hewston’s big eyes contemplated Jason’s face for lengthy seconds. He might be looking into some other man’s face. It had been a long time since he saw confusion clouding those eyes. It had indeed been a long time since he saw the same confusion, or more, in his own eyes, which he did that morning when he heard all that.
          “Okay, Let’s start from this guy’s entry. I swear by god I don’t have the faintest idea as to how he got hold of Andy but he did. Andy was the first piece down. Then this guy fakes him by means of some technical stuff which I can be sure do not exist in our mafia circles, comes in, stays with us. Right under our noses…”
          Jason was looking forward for some absurd reason to sieve all his rage in, but now it seemed to him that the fault was not all external. If this guy had feigned right before his eyes as Mike now said he did, then he should not blame his underlings. The bait was his for the taking. And he took it. Damn…
          “You saw him, I saw him. Neither of us raised an eyebrow. And you got here a week ago. Then comes the deal…”
          “Yeah…”Twenty million dollar deal, Jason thought. This time it was Pantheon that failed to create the expected amusement in his eyes.
          “No, no”, Hewston waved his hand in a poised manner. He could see what Jason was thinking. He too got the same idea first. “ If you bet all this hoax is for cash, it is a rational thought, yes, but you lose. You and I would have gone as deep as cutting our own throats for such a sum, but this man has shown a different style.”
          Jason waited impatiently.
          “He walks in with all the other six as the one who had to pull the deal off. He has this Ace case that contains the diamonds smuggled out of Swaziland. One of our men passes it over to the Brandon’s crew, which, too, is believed to have consisted six members. They open the lid wishing to fancy the speck of diamonds, and they are blown up to the sky. Before our men understand what happens, our guy finishes every of them off with two 0.45mm pistols. Ain’t that a peach?”
          “He could very well be a cop,” Jason could see no argument against the idea.
          “Keep the robber in you away for a while and act like a man. This man didn’t want to seize our property saying it was one belonged to government or some bunch of self-righteous mob. You see what he did to the diamonds. As I told you already, the chance of him trying to make out some good currency goes down as you see it again. His intention is clear. He did not want no diamonds, no money. He just wanted to make neither useful to us. So he vaporized the diamonds. I checked it personally if the money had left the other crew before the fuse went off, but it did not. So the money’s gone too.”
          “ Could it be some rival? Some new hick?”
          “ I cannot think of anyone who could take such a risk for something as silly as depraving us of a deal. After all, the guy has come into lion’s cage, has made a considerable commotion and left without anything as much as a scratch. Deeply embarrassing it is, though. Your theory again fails to explain why he should not take the money away. A rival would be too professional than not to leave forty million dollars, with diamonds added, and watch it pulverize into nothing.”
          "Then it leaves us with only two conclusions. Either the guy should be a mental or...". The thought of the alternative sickened him. There was a possibility, yes. A remote possibility. But, there was one.
          "I'm afraid we come at that. You have not forgotten about the recent things we have left unfinished..."
          Jason nodded. How could he have forgotten about the massive collapse his empire was about to be in, which demanded all his skullduggery for elusion. He felt a shiver run down his spine.
          "Keep it till we get there." He mumbled. Far ahead, into the night, he could see the Leonardo da vinci airport's huge neon sign. The guy was not a cop; Not any obvious enemy; A neutral nuisance.....




          It was a July evening. Yet, not a typical Washington D.C July evening.
          Dark clouds pervaded the skyscape like mammoth behemoths heralding an imminent rain. It was only six but very few other 6 p.ms at the month of July in the capital had seen a darkness as that today. Eyes had started to incline skyward, patches of umbrella tints flank the frames. If it rained, voices murmured, it would be a rain the city had seen in months. Signs along the streets were already glowing and so were the buildings even though the day did not end before eight usually. A rain today would not be that significant were it not for the match to be started shortly. After all, it was a Redskins's evening.
          The National Mall was still anything but dull. Monuments and museums spread across the Mall were flooding with visitors oblivious of the weather. There was blithe concentration of population in parks, manicured lawns, sidewalks, benches, their chatter so buoyant as if they had been detached from the chaos of the world and found asylum in a heaven of their own. Tourists from across the world could be sporadically seen, occasionally gaping at the huge obelisk that was the Washington monument, or enjoying themselves at the sight of the Capitol that they had seen only in CNN or BBC, or politely requesting a random native to have him or his pet photographed. Sidewalks were bunched with people leaving their business, their strides fastened with the approach of the gloom, precocious teens huddling in pairs and scammers loitering around foreigners asking for fake donations in return for guidance through the Mall. With the Independence day celebrations and Smithsonian folklife festival just passed, the Mall was as lively as ever against the worst weather.Traffic in the Independence Avenue suffered no difference either. Across the blocks the vehicle movement was sound and boisterous as always.
          A gray Cadillac was speeding east along the Independence avenue, crossing the 1st street. The sedan proceeded in the fast lane passing the Federal library and the Library of Congress. In the intersection of the Bank of America, it turned south-east, into the Pennysylvania Avenue. It waited once in the traffic for the green. Then it proceeded straight in the avenue until coming to the intersection where it took a sharp turn right into the 4th street. Having just passed the Capitol hill Exxon, the vehicle took another right turn now appearing in the C street. The Cadillac moved in a few meters west and rolled to a stop.
          The rear door opened at the right from where emerged an elderly man in his late fifties. He surveyed the forsaken lane with what appeared to be a blithe indifference;a blithe indifference that partially served its purpose in belying haste. The man looked behind once again to check if there were any more vehicles that took the same sudden sharp turn as his. Or was there any face that had already been seen in the past fifteen minutes? Or one that snapped back with his sudden turn of the head? Nothing. No alarms at all. Everything clear.
          This section of the C street was unusually calm with neat rows of trees lining the sides. He had not been there before. He might have; in a distant past, for a reason very different from the one now. A smile crossed his lips. He came forward and hunched to look at his driver. " Forty-five minutes exact. You know where."
          The driver nodded. The sedan moved straight and then took a turn right into the 3rd street.
          The man looked at his watch. Then he squinted at the stretch of road in front through his horn-rimmed glasses. Reckoning the possibility of a rain, he broke into a start. With the row of quiet buildings and that of stationary automobiles flanking his sides, the man who had not to walk walked.
          It had been a long time since he had involved himself in activities like this that warranted physical effort, a fact that accounted for the corpulence. Yet, he was not a lazy man, let alone a man without consequence. He exercised power. Unobtrusive and clandestine. Still, power. And that too, one paralleled by very few men. Ironically, his power could not be seen in a man who walked under the shades through a circuitous path to reach the least destination imaginable. He, for now, was anything but what he was. He could be a businessman taking a stroll at the end of a long tiring day; or a lawyer sick of keeping his butt busy all along; or a civilian with a respectable clothes going to attend some evening club; anything but his true self.
          At the intersection he turned left. A long walk lay ahead. But it was necessary; many possibilities had to be taken into account and the margin of error was to be made as small as possible. Rain, if there, was not accounted for. Not that it would ruin anything professionally, but just a personal discomfort. It was already drizzling and the crowd in the sidewalks had thinned. He cursed himself for not having had his raincoat on.
          By the time he crossed right into D street and walked past the Sports Clubs, the intensity had reached its height. A heavy downpour erupted as though the sky had blown in parts. The lonely man in the curb was instantly doused, senility making it harder for him to contemplate his path. He swore under his breath and tried his best to move his bulk a little faster. Two more blocks and he would be there.
          Another turn right. 2nd street. The mammoth spire of St.Peter's church could barely be seen through the shielding rain drops. The vehicle stream, though, did not suffer any hindrance, except for the wipers wagging across the windshields. Faster now.. WR stragies... Church... and now the intersection. He glanced at his right, faintly recalling how easy it would have been had he not taken the turn and proceeded through this same C street to turn right now. Three blocks could have been saved. He knew that could not be allowed. No luxury could be afforded at the expense of security. Three more blocks meant more time and ease to look around for any interested observer. That was the only count where rain was helpful. He was sure that no other fellow followed him, what with this heavy rain that would have been pretty obvious a bait.
          Few more yards and there was Pete's Carry-out. He was there. Ahead was the white building that was the Bank of America. Then, FedEx courier ship center; then his destination. The blue striped sunshade hung like a dead weight with the puddle of water stagnated over it. And perched over it were the embossed letters,'LE BON CAFE'.
          A row of spectators was standing by the shades when the man hastily dragged himself into the cheap cafe. His favorite Ralph Lauren charcoal suit was all drenched. Awkwardly, he removed his glasses and surveyed the scene. Occasionally a head would rise to stare derisively at the intruder. His eyes took in every table, moving across the length of the hall. Then they stalled.
          He moved along the aisle. The table that caught his attention was at the extreme corner of the hall, an abandoned inland with all its neighbors unoccupied. Yet, the inland was not. A lone figure occupied the table and was reading some newspaper with his right hand,a cup of coffee in his left. The older man sat opposite to the new one. The resident occupant raised his eyes briefly and flashed a smile.
          " Hi there, Dave". A signal.
          " Hello, Fred". A reply.
          " How's my mama Bess out in the home?". A code.
          " She's making it fine. she's supposed to be in doctor Mark's today". A confirmation.
          The soaked man, having been addressed as Dave, let out a sigh and nodded. Fred folded the newspaper, which was an outdated copy of Express, and sat straight placing his locked fingers on the table.
          " How about a croissant sandwich, Davie? or a panini? they're quite good here. Fluffy as you." The young man chuckled. He was a man in his early thirties. His eyes were blue, face oval, perched with tawny hair. Dave recalled having read in that man's dossier about his affinity for women. And unequivocally, their's for him. He stared at this young man, astounded at how someone of his stand could mock him like this. Men were ready to sacrifice their sweet wives for him to bring up a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, and against all that,now, this silly young chap was making fun of him. His superior. How dare he...
          " Watch your mouth, kid". He muttered abrasively, hostility in his eyes.
          " I'm afraid that daddy crap won't fly now, Davie. I have already had a vegetable soup". He ran his hand across his belly and continued," Now, I think the big John Q is ready for business." He raised his eyebrows.
          " I gotta give you something and the meeting is to be precise." Dave fished inside his wet jacket and darted out something. In his opened palm rested a small silver key. " Locker number one seventeen in the Union station. You are supposed to collect your requirements before night fall today." said the old man, his eyes perpetually roaming through the crowd for any pair of eyes on their table. " You'll find your tickets in the belongings. I'd suggest you leave D.C as soon as possible, presumably tonight or with the first light tomorrow. Dulles." A waiter came by and asked for order. Dave told him, as politely as possible, to leave them alone and if need be he would place the order. Then he turned to Fred who was finishing the coffee with one final gulp.
          Fred placed the empty cup in front of him and glanced at his superior. " I wonder," he said. " I do wonder Davie. After all of your underlings who would die for you, why should it be you here today? I know how tough an egg you are. And unlike you thought sometime before, I do not underestimate you. I know who you are and if you are what I know you are, you need not necessarily be here. Someone of your stand need not."