The Black Sands of the Karakum

By Dr. Verdun Trione

Within a period of one hundred years, the Mafia in the United States has undergone change. The Western Mafia is a coalition of several Families and is identified as having moved into legitimate gambling and entrepreneurships. The Eastern Mafia coalition operates on the old values of Omerta. Listening to stories of Mafia activities, the author heard from a casino executive about his interest in the huge reserves of oil under the desert of a country called Turkmenistan. This led to a novel about the Eastern and Western Families—the Eastern Mafia wanting to drill for oil with no regard for the people or heritage of the region. Written in the rich tradition of The Reluctant Godfather and Rogue Warriors, Dr. Trione’s third novel will keep you on the edge of your seat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books for Pleasure
• Release date: Sep 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781553490920

Book preview

The Black Sands

Of The

Karakum

A Novel by

Dr Verdun Trione

Copyright Verdun Trione 2009

All rights reserved

ISBN # 978-1-55349-092-0

Published by Books for Pleasure at Smashwords

To My Wife, Ethel, Whom I Cherished

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Protagonists

Dr. Leonardo Juaregi:

Former Seal

Basque; Professor of Forensic Psychology and Anthropology; Consultant to Western Mafia;

…

Dr. Florio Treponte:

Godfather; head of Western Mafia Coalition

…

Dr. Aldo Treponte:

Son of the Godfather

…

Board of Western Mafia

Dominic Valiente: Consiglieri, Treponte Enterprises

…

Sol Lewen: Chief Financial Officer, Treponte Enterprises

…

Connor O’Reilly: Head of Security, Western Mafia

…

Huicksi Pavati: Hopi; Supervisor of Villa Maintenance and Security

…

Jillianna (Treponte) Zorya: Daughter; Director of Communications for Treponte Enterprises

…

Ilya Zorya: Chief Attorney for Treponte Enterprises

…

Other Principals of Treponte Enterprises

Sifu Tubari: Turk, Former Navy Seal; now Consultant in Languages, Treponte Enterprises

…

Ted Tamika: Ex-Seal; Trainer of Psychopaths at Sipapuni

…

Sam Lu: Ex-Seal; Expert Tracker; Trainer of Psychopaths

…

Colonel James Grant: Former Seal; Trainer of Psychopaths

…

Colonel Dario Gambogi: Former Army; Trainer of Psychopaths

…

Dr. Aaron Brok: Scientific genius

…

Ferma Giusti: Computer wizard

…

Mario and Nello: Gay bodyguards of Florio Treponte

…

Fabrone Brothers (Calvin and Egidio): Own restaurant; Hit Men for Western Mafia

…

Arturo Patrizzio: Chief Accountant for Treponte Enterprises

…

Ella Bryant: Ex-Cop; Administrative Assistant to Dr. Treponte

…

John Bell: Former Juvenile Officer; Professor of Forensics

…

Dr. Joseph Ozanna: Former Professor; Former Field Director of CIA

…

The Women of Treponte Enterprises

Ethel Treponte: Wife of Florio (Godfather)

…

Jilliana Treponte Zorya: Daughter; Wife of Ilya Zorya

…

Philomena (Mena) Treponte: Wife of Aldo

…

Fianna Tutti, M.D.: Wife of Leo Juaregi

…

Akila: Wife of Prince Amir of Turkmenistan

…

Pilots for Treponte Enterprises

Barsi

LoPinto

Gilhooley

…

Contingent from the First Psychopath Group

Vic Armano

Terry Brennan

Malika Lorant

Molly McCarty

Duke Ray

…

New Psychopath

Dante Malpiedi

…

Western Mafia Dons

Georgio Falcone: Arizona

Vito Albini: New Orleans

Antonio Macchia: Dallas

Paul Borso: Des Moines

Francesco Ponte: San Francisco

Carlo Pacheco: Seattle

Lucio Tasso: St. Louis

…

Eastern Mafia Dons

Anthony Ratello: Calumet section of Chicago

Ciro LaBruzzi: Atlanta

Joe Balsamo: West Side of Chicago

Ignazio Ottumbo: New York

Joe Lenzi: Kansas City

Vincent Meli: Denver

…

The Sheikhs of Turkmenistan

Faruz Hakeem: Ahal Province

Alban al Matin: Nebitag Province

Abu Asan: Dashowuz Privince

Yahman Rahimat: Lebap Province

Farug Koury: Mary Province

…

Sons of Faruz Hakeem

Amir: Eldest Son

Omar: Youngest Son; Castrati

…

Mole in the Kremlin

Marko Borya

…

Antagonists

Ibn Fugari: President of Turkmenistan

Colonel Bachel: Assistant to Fugari

FORWARD

Within a period of one hundred years, the Mafia in the United States has undergone change. The change is addressed in this novel. The Western Mafia is a coalition of several Families and is identified as having moved into legitimate gambling and entrepreneurships, including professional. The Eastern Mafia coalition operates on the old values of Omerta and organized secrecy—not untypical of what was transferred from Sicily during the late 1800’s.

Certain habits remain with both groups. The Family and organized business comes first. Both coalitions function on the principles of survival. They are analytical, constantly assessing relationships. Duplicitous individuals are dealt with ruthlessly. Suspicion of strangers or outsiders is evident. In brief, ‘the village’ mentality reflects the traditions and ancestral ‘tribalism’ that has existed since Roman times. Concurrent is the sense of ‘respect’ and ‘loyalty’, key elements of the relationships within the Mafia organizations, honest or illegal.

Ratello and LaBruzzi operate on the ‘old values’. A key behavior is that the traditional Mafia always dealt in cash. There rarely was evidence of bank accounts. If there was, it was under a fictitious name and could not be traced back to the depositor. While cash comes from the top in the corporate world, it comes from the lower echelons of the Old Mafia. The ‘soldiers’, ‘wise guys’, and ‘Capos’ make the money which they share with the Dons. Thus, bank accounts and credit cards of the traditional Mafia are under assumed names, or in the names of a sister, mother, or cousin. In particular, credit card addresses might conveniently be in a garbage dump.

An illustration of the old Mafia transactions—a ‘wise guy’ makes $10,000. A third to a half may go to his ‘Capo’, who in turn splits with the Don, always cash. Products such as liquor or food are shared in similar fashion.

The Western Mafia, headed by Dr. Florio Treponte, operates with shrewd business behaviors characteristically found in the American economy. However, the closeness of Family, respect and ‘village mentality’ is apparent.

Ratello and LaBruzzi, Eastern Mafia, made their own laws. Avarice and violence was the ‘MO’ of their world. Their attitude was to hell with the law. These different rules were the result of two, perhaps three generations of parents and associates who lived by the Mafia code.

They were Psychopaths. In comparison to most Psychopaths, they lived longer by virtue of their ‘MO’. They were far from being ‘nice guys’; but were ‘wise guys’.

Their relationship with President Fugari was a ‘match’. None of them cared for the safety, feelings or rights of others. Fugari correlated, lacking decency and conscience. The old Mafia had all the elements of tribalism—cruel tribalism. Ratello and LaBruzzi were tribal chiefs with the primitiveness of indifferent cannibals.

This is a work of fiction. Its characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Apart from certain geographical sites, people, events, and specific locales have been contrived. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental.

Incidental to the story, this author in his childhood and adolescence, became aware certain family relatives were ‘in the loop’. In fact, an uncle built the first winery in Sonoma County, California during Prohibition. The author’s father was one of the vintners, and owned several hundred acres of grapes nearby. It was 1928, the author as a child, stood with his father and watched thousands of gallons of wine being dumped by federal agents into a creek. The father pointed out several agents scooping up buckets of wine to take home.

It is of interest, years later when the author was seventeen and about to graduate high school, this uncle, the winemaker, appeared. He presented a proposal. He would pay for the author to attend college and law school, then work for him. At that time I had attained musical skills that I believed would get me a scholarship at U.C. Berkeley. I turned him down.

Years later, I was a professor at the University of Nevada and became acquainted with the gaming industry in the burgeoning city of Las Vegas. I spent thirty-five years in that state; twenty were at the University where I developed a Counseling and Applied Psychology Department. I also was a Forensic Psychologist to the courts and attorneys of Nevada.

Becoming acquainted with many attorneys, including one who was a major defense attorney for alleged Mafia personalities, I also became acquainted with executives from many of the casinos. Alleged Family members from the Eastern states owned Points (stock) in the gaming industry. The Nevada State Legislature had formed a Gaming Commission to oversee the activities of Nevada gaming. I found over the years that casinos tended to operate honestly. Whether it was due to the Commission is a moot point. It was suggested to me that cheating chased gamblers away. That spelled doom to a local casino.

These experiences led me to create this novel. Listening to stories of Mafia activities by Eastern and Western Families, I sensed this was a different story. Many books have been written about the Mafia genre. Instead of violence and conflicting Families, I heard about deals in cattle, property, gaming and oil, the same as any legitimate business man. Then, I heard from a casino executive about his interest in the huge reserves of oil under the desert of a country called Turkmenistan. Upon further research, it was evident I had the makings of a story with two Mafia groups, the Eastern and Western Families—the East wanting to drill for oil.

The Basque, Juaregi, introduced wind and sun technology to Turkmenistan. The result was life and commerce to an impoverished country without disturbing its ancient culture.

I never saw my uncle again. I sometimes speculate that if I had accepted his offer, I would be a powerful and wealthy man—Or, I would be at the bottom of the San Francisco Bay.

Dr. Verdun Trione

Professor Emeritus, University of Nevada

2007

CHAPTER ONE

What is Utterly Absurd Happens in the World

(Nikolai Gogol)

THE SOURCE

Hey, Eddie!

Eddie Cecilio paused on the lawn of the University of Texas. He was accompanied by Jerry Levin, a fellow classmate. He directed his attention towards a black automobile parked at the curb. An arm waved to him from an open back window. Levin stopped, allowing his friend to step forward, and looked curiously at the grey colored smoke emitting from the tailpipe of the car.

Eddie Cecilio walked towards the car with a grin.

Hey, he called, when he was about twenty paces from the car.

Met with a burst from an M-10, the force of the shot killed him instantly. Levin had the keen sense to drop flat on the ground. The gun muzzle had turned towards him as the car roared away. The second burst flew over him.

THE VILLA TREPONTE

Dr. Florio Treponte, Don and Godfather of Las Vegas, looked up from his writing into the troubled eyes of his son, Aldo Treponte. The young Don dropped into a chair before his father’s desk.

What? asked the concerned father, placing down his pen.

Aldo looked at his father with puzzled pain. I just spoke to Carlo Macchia in Houston. There was a ‘hit’ on his nephew, Eddie Cecilio, at the University. He was gunned down while walking from one building to another with a friend. Someone called his name from a car parked at the curb. Levin, who was with Eddie, was interrogated by police. He had observed the idling car and thought it odd—then the shots. Obviously, it was a setup.

What was the connection of Levin to Cecilio? inquired Treponte, suspicion in his voice.

Macchia, Eddie’s uncle, looked into this. Levin was just a friend. They had a couple of classes together. Macchia’s guys could find no connection of Levin with the shooting, informed Aldo. Eddie was a good kid and Macchia had a lot of plans for him when he graduated. He arose from the chair and restlessly paced the room.

Macchia want any help from us? Should we send a couple of our men to him? asked Treponte.

Aldo shook his head. He was just giving us information, as he has a whole platoon of his own guys working on it, plus the local police. He’d appreciate any leads if we get them. I told him that we would inquire around with the rest of the Western Mafia Families.

The office door opened. Dominic Vagliente, Consiglieri (advisor) to Florio Treponte, strode purposefully into the room and stopped abruptly in front of Treponte’s desk.

I just got a call from Tasso of St. Louis and from Ponte of San Francisco, he barked. Some crazy jackasses are running ‘hits’ on both Families. One was Tasso’s aunt who was watering her flowers. The other was Ponte’s grandfather when he was playing bocce in North Beach.

The announcement jerked Florio to his feet and stopped Aldo in mid-stride; both staring in dismay. Vagliente continued, No one has any idea who the killers are. They were in a car. They slammed to a stop and started shooting. They’re highly accurate and knew who their targets were. I put in some calls. Have you heard about Macchia’s nephew?

The two men nodded. Florio sank back into his seat. Aldo still stood, tense, angry and confused. Vagliente and Treponte looked at each other with growing alarm.

My calls netted me nothing. They are as surprised as I am. What the hell gives? snarled the Consiglieri, smashing a fist on Treponte’s desk in his frustration.

We have had no trouble in over ten years, exclaimed Florio.

Vagliente looked bleakly at Treponte, Could this be the Eastern Mafia? he asked, eyes angry.

Ten years before, Dr. Florio Treponte, head of a department at Nevada Southern University, reluctantly accepted the position of Mafia Don of Las Vegas. The position had been willed to him by Quattro Treponte, his uncle and Don of Las Vegas. In the ensuing years he organized Mafia Families of the western states into the Western Mafia. Predicated upon what Quattro had begun, the evolution of the Families was clear. The Western Mafia represented the splintering of old Families into honest commercial enterprises. Leaving behind fraud, illegal gambling, drug trading and prostitution, the Western coalition was now involved in cattle growing, legal gambling, shipping within the U.S. and overseas, and into construction companies over the globe. Under the skillful management of Florio Treponte, the Western Families had become wealthy. They had become the envy of the group called Eastern Mafia. This group was still active with the ‘Old Ways’ the Mafia had brought to the U.S. in the 19th century.

Who hates us? asked Florio’s son, Aldo.

Ratello, the most, replied Vagliente.

Aldo turned to leave the room. I’m calling the Fabrone brothers in Pittsburg. They know Chicago like the back of their hands. He made eye contact with his father. I suggest we send them to Chicago to snoop around.

Do it! Good idea, responded Florio.

As Aldo left the room to get a quiet telephone, Treponte and Vagliente exchanged anguished looks. Both recalled the battles of ten years before with the Eastern Mafia Families.

Surely, began Treponte, they won’t have more—

We never could trust the bastards, Vagliente cut off Florio. We never could trust Ratello in Chicago, and his buddy LaBruzzi in Atlanta. We whipped them, but Ratello and LaBruzzi always carried grudges.

Is it starting again? asked Treponte, almost whispering his concern.

Vagliente stared moodily out the office window toward the mountain range west of Las Vegas.

The instincts of my ancestors tell me it is so, Florio. I have a hunch we have to pull our Families together, growled the Consiglieri.

They looked expectantly at Aldo entering the room.

The Fabrones agree with our assessment of Ratello and of LaBruzzi, reported Aldo. They are leaving immediately. I told them to use the company plane. They will be staying with their relatives as a cover.

Calvino and Egidio Fabrone will get the information for us, declared Vagliente.

The Fabrone brothers were part of the Western Mafia Soldiers for Treponte Enterprises. These were ex-military men identified by Dr. Leo Juaregi, former Navy Seal who presently represented the intelligence arm of Treponte Enterprises.

Aldo had taken a seat. He arose restlessly and paced.

I’m going to call Leo Juaregi. I want to get his fix on this. He again walked from the room.

Aldo had served under Leo Juaregi as a Seal during the Vietnam era. Florio recognized the brilliance of the Basque. The man was both a soldier and a scholar. He presently was head of a special department within the University at Berkeley. It centered on graduate studies in Forensics and Anthropology, a department funded by Florio Treponte. Treponte Enterprises hired most and located them in areas to protect Western Mafia resources.

Dr. Florio Treponte stared speculatively at his Consiglieri. I think I had better send Tubari with Duke Ray to Atlanta. They know the city. They know our contacts there. I’m interested in learning what LaBruzzi is up to.

Vagliente brought his troubled eyes from his view of the Spring Mountain Range to those of his friend.

Excellent idea. I want to know who is being used to make these ‘hits’. They are excellent shots but this is no select Mafia hit. They are without conscience; shoot at whatever has been identified. These shooters are ruthless. I am sure Tasso and Ponte have alerted our other Families and called in their soldiers for guards. We can draw on the staff at Sipapuni.

Valiente referred to Sifu Tubari—Turk, linguist and martial arts expert. He had served in Vietnam along with Leo Juaregi and Aldo Treponte. He now was a consultant to Treponte Enterprises.

Duke Ray was a young Jamaican; a Psychopath who, along with other Psychopaths, had been trained by Juaregi and Tubari into mercenaries. The training project was still going on. Duke was kept on as part of the training cadre with new recruits.

The mercenary training program was funded and authorized by CIEL, a branch of the CIA. It had hired many of the graduates from Sipapuni, a training location in Northern Nevada. Their performance had been outstanding and supported the integrity of the Western Mafia as an organization favoring the constitutional integrity of the United States. Dr. Florio Treponte would interpret it in no other way.

Treponte stared at the top of his desk in thought. He pressed a button on the side of his desk.

Huicksi Pavati, a Hopi Indian, slid into the room on his quiet moccasined feet. Treponte had adopted Huicksi, his wife and two children, a decade before. Originally hired by Quattro, Huicksi was an ex-Vietnam veteran. He had been instrumental in saving Treponte when Geno Vitale, Don of Seattle, had sent assassins to kill the Las Vegas Don. With skills learned as a child and as a Seal, Huicksi had protected Treponte and led him into the mountains outwitting the killers.

Huicksi, please call the Western Mafia Dons to meet here next week. Advise them that we have a serious problem, said Treponte.

Does that include Mr. Falcone? queried Huicksi. Falcone was a Don from Philadelphia, presently retired in Arizona.

Aldo grinned behind his hand. He was aware of Huicksi’s phenomenal memory. No doubt the Hopi could tick off names and telephone numbers in his memory.

Slightly perplexed, Treponte looked over the half-glasses he wore while reading. I am sure you overheard the conversation thus far.

Yes, sir, black eyes twinkling. Do you wish me to inform them of the circumstances for the meeting?

Why do I even tell this man anything? Treponte sighed with mock weariness. He waved dismissively at the man. Go, go. Do what you have to do.

Yes, sir. Huicksi left the room with the trace of a smile.

Vagliente and Aldo chuckled over the interaction of the Godfather and Huicksi, the Hopi. In the past decade Huicksi had taken over the management of the Villa and its properties. He had changed the security of the place. He had restructured the caves in the mountain that the Villa backed into and added stores of food and equipment. Huicksi and his wife lived in the Villa. Both were graduates of the University of Mexico. Huicksi had served in Vietnam as a machine gunner. Highly decorated, he had been hired by Florio’s uncle Quattro. At that time no one would give a job to a Vietnam veteran, let alone his being an American Indian. Huicksi had been instrumental in saving Florio Treponte’s life when there were efforts to assassinate him.

Florio Treponte was silent, staring at the top of his desk. In deep thought, he stared at his son Aldo and old friend, Vagliente.

What? asked Vagliente, looking keenly at Treponte.

It makes no sense, whispered the Godfather of Las Vegas. These killings are made to look like random hits. What’s the motive? We suspect it may be Ratello in Chicago. What is he looking for? I know the man is irrational but he has some plan in mind.

Don’t leave LaBruzzi of Atlanta out of the equation, added Aldo. I know the guys will come back with information.

You’re right. I don’t like the mystery, agreed Vagliente, anger in his voice.

U.C. BERKELEY

Aldo reached for the telephone on his father’s desk. I’m calling Leo Juaregi at U. C. Berkeley. I’d like to get his thinking on this matter, dialing. Ella, he spoke to Juaregi’s secretary.

Yes, Aldo, came her crisp voice. What trouble are you in now?

Aldo grinned and punched the speaker button on the telephone so all could hear her. Just passing the time of day. Is the boss in?

Ella sighed audibly, I’ll see if he is somewhere on campus. This was a game she and Aldo played. Ella was an ex-cop that Leo Juaregi had hired as his secretary when he was chief juvenile officer for Clark County. She was the first woman to be on a Black and White for Berkeley police. She had been seriously injured in a shootout. Reluctantly, she accepted a desk job. Her satisfaction was that she had terminated the shooter who shot her.

You have trouble, she informed entering Dr. Leonardo Juaregi’s office. He, too, grinned. He knew the drill with the Trepontes.

Aldo? speaking into the telephone. Make it point for point, a statement he had used with his platoon when in Vietnam.

Aldo filled him in on the random assassinations.

I agree it may be Ratello. He’s stirring up something to get us fighting among ourselves, he observed. Have you any idea what he wants?

That was Dad’s conclusion also. We sent the Fabrone brothers to Chicago; Tubari and Duke Ray were sent to Atlanta to see what they can sniff out.

Good idea. Keep me informed when they get back, said Juaregi. Through the open door of his office he caught Ella peering at him over her glasses.

You off again? she asked sharply.

Juaregi nodded and recited what he had heard from Aldo. Ella was well informed about the Western and Eastern Mafia Family conflicts. Her policewoman’s perception told her there were storm clouds gathering. A cliché, she admitted to herself.

Ella Bryant had never married. Her extended family was never voiced, but understood to be Leo and Fianna, his physician wife, and two children. The rest of her life was the department she administered with a proverbial ‘velvet glove’. She had a tart tongue when displeased. She would look up and down scornfully at a complaining graduate student.

What’s keeping you here if you can’t stand the (heat from the) kitchen? She knew full well the assignments Juaregi thrust on his graduate students. While he held many seminars, he rarely lectured. You’re graduate students. You know where the computer center is and I am giving you assignments in the ghettos of San Francisco, Richmond and Oakland. You will ride engines to fires; you will follow police cars on assignment; you will interview people in jails when I assign you to the D.A.’s office. Where else are you going to learn about life unless you are out there with the action? It was no secret; students were known to patiently wait as much as two years to get into his classes.

Ella knew Juaregi would be going to the Las Vegas Villa. She quietly informed key members of his staff. In particular, it was Dr. John Bell who had been with Juaregi as a juvenile hall deputy. He had completed his doctoral work under Juaregi’s tutelage.

Juaregi was aware of Ella’s maneuvers. She ran the department like a well oiled machine. This was the way Juaregi liked things done. People should be given the responsibility. Then he’d step aside and let them run it.

Juaregi smiled while walking to one of his seminars. Earlier that day, Ella had stuck her head in his office and advised him that student so and so would be spending a couple of days with me. He knew that mother hen Ella had taken the young woman to a reputable clinic for an abortion, after interviewing the young woman carefully, assessing her intentions and character. He chuckled to himself the first time Ella took a male student with syphilis to a clinic. While students were in awe of Ella, they respected this freckled, slender, redhead; a tough but compassionate woman.

Leo Juaregi’s mother and father, when teenagers, had fled the Basque country of Spain. They met and married in Nevada where the families ranched sheep and cattle in the Paradise Valley of northeastern Nevada. Leo was the eldest of three, having one brother and sister. He attended a small elementary school in the Valley; then high school in nearby Pioche, Nevada. He worked the ranch for a year after high school, then attended the University of Nevada in Reno. After graduation, he joined the Navy and trained as a Navy Seal. In Vietnam, he attained the rank of Commander. It was in this position he formed lasting friendships. One was Colonel James Grant who soon recognized Juaregi’s intelligence, courage and ability to command. Others were the Turk, Sifu Tubari, corpsman and skill with several languages; Sam Lu, the Taiwanese with the talent to track man and animal; and Tamika, the Japanese from California. He was a highly skilled martial arts expert. The last was Aldo Treponte, son of Professor Florio Treponte. For some reason that Juaregi could not fathom, Aldo Treponte was a crack shot and the assigned sniper for the group.

At the cessation of Vietnam hostilities, Juaregi and Aldo attended graduate school at the University of California, Berkeley. There they met Dr. Ozanna, former CIA field director. It was he who encouraged Juaregi to do a study of youth gangs. Juaregi spent two years on the ghetto streets of San Francisco, Oakland, Los Angeles and Richmond. There he discovered burgeoning Psychopaths. These were brilliant, ruthless kids that usually led gangs. They were indifferent to any form of traditional therapy programs. On the basis of his experiences as a Seal in Vietnam and his insights derived on the streets, Juaregi formed a theory. It was his contention that Psychopaths would make excellent mercenaries if trained properly.

Ozanna was impressed. Using his contacts in the CIA, he submitted Juaregi’s dissertation to train Psychopaths into mercenaries. CIEL, an experimental branch of the CIA, bought the concept. Thus, Sipapuni was formed. The next ten years, the Psychopaths made history finding and decimating killers; roving the Mexican border harassing the drug cartels. Juaregi finally put those findings in a book called ‘Rogue Warriors’.

The Trepontes funded Sipapuni and had a continual contract with CIEL to train young Psychopaths. CIEL then hired and placed the young mercenaries in crucial locations about the world.

Through the efforts of Ozanna and Dr. Florio Treponte, a new department of Forensics and Anthropology was created at UC. Juaregi was appointed head, but also remained a consultant to Treponte Enterprises.

Juaregi was a quiet, self-effacing man, brilliantly analytical and pragmatic As only a Basque could be, avowed Fianna, his wife. They had been married twelve years and had two children. The eldest was bright, verbal Fionna, age eleven. The second, introspective Urtzi, was nine years old. At age five, Juaregi had handed a Rubik Cube to his son. An hour later, the child quietly returned a completed Rubik Cube to his father. Juaregi was impressed. Fianna snapped at her husband, Now, how will we keep him occupied?

Turn him over to his sister. She can flood him with questions in order to explain how he does things so easily. It was said in jest, but Leo Juaregi was pulled into the dialogue with his daughter and son. He spent hours reading to and with them; talking; taking short trips; writing stories with them. Fianna was content with the fact she had indirectly created what Juaregi called his ‘three-way seminar’.

Leonardo Juaregi was a warrior. At forty-one, he kept in shape by jogging and lifting weights. Not attuned to the diet of the American macho man, he ate a diet similar to the European one he had when on the ranch of his youth. Mentally, he was a counter-terrorist. Something, he mused, that every Basque was by nature. Basques hated to be cheated or compromised unfairly.

His gold-flecked eyes were calm as a summer night’s sky. Angered, he was as violent as an unleashed dam bearing down on a valley. Juaregi had the skills to analyze a threatening situation in seconds and come up with several solutions. This he demonstrated in Vietnam when commander of a Seal unit.

AT THE VILLA

Aldo slammed the telephone back on its cradle.

His sister, Jillianna, asked Not another one?

New Orleans, Aldo’s voice filled with fury. That was Don Vito Albini. His uncle, Michael Vercelli from Alabama was stabbed. It was a tall man, dark skin, handsome, smooth features, black hair. He was wearing dark glasses. It happened on a double-decker tour bus. One of the people on the bus later mentioned that the killer walked with a mincing step.

Could it have been a Sicilian, light-skinned African American or Arab? ventured Jillianna.

Aldo threw up his hands in a silent, frustrated gesture. Damn it, he exploded. This is obviously a stacked deck. We have heard nothing from the Fabrones in Chicago, nor a word from Tubari in Atlanta. He turned towards Florio Treponte who had entered the office. Aldo related the phone call he had just received from Vito Albini of New Orleans.

Dr. Treponte sat quietly behind his desk, brow furrowed. Have you alerted all the Western Families? The targets are clear now. All the killings thus far are members of Western Family Dons.

I have talked to everyone of the Western Families, the young Don informed his father. Falcone, in Arizona wants to know if we need soldiers. I told him to keep them on hold. If something breaks, I’ll let him know.

Dr. Treponte leveled his eyes at both of his children. Both you and Jillianna will be running Treponte Enterprises in the near future. Both of you are well aware that the Western Mafia works honestly; leading by caring, and serving according to the original principles of Feudalism. You will be working with other Families not part of the Western Group, here and in other parts of the world. Some will be saints, some will be bastards. What is important is how much you will add to the evolution of the honest Mafia begun by our Uncle Quattro. Certain Mafia Families such as ours have undergone an evolution from Omerta; from the code of brotherhood to one of general citizenship. Our Western Families have been getting their children educated; some have become professionals. Others have become honest business men and women; or skilled tradesmen and women. What has allowed this is the diminishing of prejudice towards Italians that occurred in this country during the 19th century.

Aldo looked quizzically at the man known as the Godfather. I note we Families still form our own constabulary. Florio Treponte smiled at the designation Aldo gave to Mafia soldiers.

Florio peered over the rims of his reading glasses. I believe I have often heard you paraphrase a fourth century Roman writer—‘if you desire peace, prepare for war’.

OK, Dad, said Aldo sheepishly. For a moment, I forgot I served in Vietnam. Machiavelli said much the same. People attempt to be Christian biblically. With us, it doesn’t happen. We live it.

Rather, spoke up Jillianna, we tend to repeat a Greek tragedy of irreconcilable differences. Along with the poverty and disease, we have the pruning hook of war.

Dr. Florio Treponte, former professor and Mafia Godfather, stood. He picked up the pen set given him by his son and daughter that he had used for years. He smiled fondly at the two.

You two are ready to run this shop; work out the division of responsibilities. Your mother will be pleased. With that he strode out, leaving two slack-jawed offspring.

EASTERN MAFIA IN TURKMENISTAN

Anthony Ratello, Chicago Don, arrived in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. He had flown there by way of Istanbul and London from Chicago. He was impressed with the new, modern airport. He was not impressed with the surliness of the Turkmen people working at the airport, and had the same impression with the staff of the new hotel where he registered.

Ratello was to meet and negotiate with Fugari, the president of Turkmenistan. He knew Turkmenistan had the fifth largest untapped reservoir of oil in the world, and was smart enough to read and inquire further about what was known in the states as ‘Texas Tea’. He also learned this ancient country was once part of the Old Silk Road. It had been the site of ancient cities built and rebuilt by the Parthians, the Sycthians, Alexander the Great, the Greeks and Romans, Mongols and Arabs. Marco Polo had passed through there in the 12th century. The place was now an archeological gold mine. To that, Ratello was indifferent. What interested him was that the population was half nomads and primarily Muslim. Walking about Ashgabat, he noted many women wore nothing on their heads; no burkas as in other Muslim countries. An occasional woman wore a colorful kerchief on her head. Also, women’s clothes were of colorful silks. Men clumped about in baggy pants tucked into sturdy boots, and wore colorful silk shirts and vests. Many wore hats made of sheepskins. There were other people who dressed poorly; walked aimlessly, shoulders slumped—too many to be ignored. Ratello made a mental note of that. He walked on looking into shop windows, noticing a picture on many products. Shopkeepers who knew some English informed him the picture was that of Fugari, the president of the country.

Two hours later, Ratello had his appointment with Fugari, and passed through security with his letter of appointment and I.D. The President had taken over a four block area in the middle of Ashgabat and built a villa with gardens, and a high wall around it. Ratello was impressed with the archaic luxury within the palace. The floors were of Italian marble; huge paintings hung on the walls; thick drapes on windows. Ratello speculated that the windows were bullet proof.

Ratello was seated in a huge office where he was brought tea and a dish of sweets. He recognized dates and baklava. He sipped the tea, amused. Hearing steps on the marble floor behind him, he arose and turned to face a burly man wearing a suit. The man stood slightly under six feet tall; was muscular, had black silvered hair, heavy features with a mustache, dark eyes and ruddy skin. He stuck out a ham-like hand.

Mr. Ratello? he said with a deep accent. Ratello caught the Russian-like accent he had heard as a boy on the west side of Chicago. Fugari, gesturing Ratello to a chair and seating himself behind a huge walnut desk, opened the conversation.

I have been president for five years. When the Russians left, they made certain that I would be elected president.

And for life? smiled Ratello.

You are here to discuss the oil in our country, according to your letter, Fugari switched the conversation. Are you interested in investing?

May we talk about it? prodded Ratello, relaxing in his chair and crossing his legs.

Fugari lit a cigarette. Ratello shook his head when offered one. Fugari puffed, looking at Ratello.

How much are you willing to invest? asked Fugari.

Ratello had an answer. Whatever it takes. He privately thought this guy doesn’t know how to dicker a deal.

Fugari had more in mind. Would you be interested in a contract that gave you the power to drill for oil? The Caspian Sea is landlocked so the oil would have to be moved by a pipeline. Russia has processing plants and ships and a pipeline we can get to. They already expressed interest in being part of such a contract.

Wow, thought Ratello. This guy doesn’t pull any punches, but he’s anxious for someone else to pull his coals out of the fire.

I, myself, am very interested. However, I must talk to my partners in the states who have expressed an interest to invest. I should sit down with them and explain what it will be and how much they can invest, he said.

Fugari liked the phrase how much they can invest. It told him there was a pool of money in the United States that could get the oil out from under the sands of the Caspian Sea and the Karakum Desert. He knew of Ratello’s background and exactly who he was; his contacts in the Kremlin had investigated Ratello for him. There was a file in Fugari’s desk that informed him about Ratello and his status as a major Don in Chicago. Fugari drew a file from another drawer in his desk and handed it to Ratello.

These are copies of engineering reports on our sources of oil. As you know, Turkmenistan is 80 percent desert. It sits on the fifth largest source of oil in the world. He paused dramatically, waiting for that information to sink in on Ratello.

Ratello already knew that, but he pretended surprise. Now I am really interested, he declared. He took the file Fugari held out to him. Both men settled back in their chairs while Ratello scanned through the engineering reports that had been translated into English. Ratello knew how to read engineering reports as he had invested in oil wells in Oklahoma and Texas. He calculated quickly. Fugari needed money to connect with the oil pipeline to Russia. That meant Russia wanted a chunk of the action; taking the pipeline over Kazakhstan into Russia, over the Ural Mountains to the Kara Sea where the Russians had an oil processing plant and port. How much they would want, Ratello silently speculated. He’d have these engineering reports evaluated when he got back to the States.

May I have these copies so I can show them to my associates? I suggest we could consider ten million as an investment? I noted, while walking through your city, that many of your people could use work.

Fugari was startled momentarily at the insight. He smiled, You are absolutely right.

Ratello was intent in making his own history. He was a man of medium height, olive skin, five-feet ten in height; brown eyes and curly hair. The linguistics of his language system were wily and seductive. He saw himself as masculine, intelligent, a leader and above the law. A Psychopath, he mixed truth, fantasy and lies. Manipulating the less intelligent and less informed, he could pose distorted questions for amusement and/or control. Despite his penchant for irrelevancies, he could read people with acuity. To close associates, he would recite his four commandments for deception.

After all, he would say, people like to be conned. First, never ask a man about his private affairs. Second, if he spills his guts, never look bored but sympathetic. Third, never brag about what you do. Just look helpful. Last, let the people fool themselves. Such was his mantra.

THE GUYS FROM PITTSBURG, CALIFORNIA

The Fabrone brothers had grown up on the same street of Southside Chicago as Ratello. They were back on this street at the request of the Treponte Family. The Fabrone Family in Chicago knew Ratello’s history and avoided him. Much had not changed. Most of the homes still contained the same families. The same eateries and family owned stores were still there. The brothers visited on the pretext they were visiting their relatives; drank homemade wine and ate antipasto. They regaled old associates with stories of Las Vegas and their restaurant in Pittsburg, California.

They listened carefully to stories about Ratello. It had been whispered about the neighborhood that Ratello was working on a ‘big oil deal’. He had passed around the possibility of big jobs for interested people. The Fabrone brothers suggested their friends move to Las Vegas for work. The response was that with so many family connections, they never could leave their old neighborhood. It was apparent that many of their friends still clung to the culture of the Italian Village.

After five days the Fabrone brothers headed back to Las Vegas where they reported to Aldo Treponte, the son of the Godfather. Aldo immediately conferred with Juaregi, informing him of the Chicago visit by the Fabrone brothers.

It begins to make sense, said Juaregi. "Ratello in Turkmenistan. There is a long history of oil in Turkmenistan. Also, there is a history of a large segment of the Turkmen being nomads. I recall studies about those peoples. They are one of several old societies that still practice castration. In this case, the studies reported the castrated are sold when they are adults to the highest bidder. These monies support the tribes.

What about assassins? asked Aldo, intrigued with Juaregi’s comments.

I have thought the same, admitted Juaregi. "Let us wait to hear what the rest of your crews find further in Chicago and Atlanta.

THE ATLANTA DON

Ciro LaBruzzi spoke with a southern accent. Born the son of a backwoods distiller in Americus, Georgia, his grandfather had come from Sicily in 1890 by way of New Orleans. He worked the docks as a laborer, and found he could make more money with a small still built from battered copper tubs and pipes found in a junk yard. He taught Ciro’s father the skill of distilling. After several arrests, the family moved to Americus, Georgia where they found a virtual gold mine among the ‘Georgia Crackers’ who loved the smooth ‘white lightening’ he and his son provided. During prohibition, they prospered. In 1933, they moved to Atlanta and began buying small businesses and running floating crap games. This was the wealth Ciro LaBruzzi inherited.

Young Ciro invested in iron and steel during World War II; also in the manufacturing of airplane and Jeep parts. He kept involved in bootlegging and illegal gambling. The past ten years he ran an ‘underground railroad’ for illegal aliens, getting a price from the Coyotes who brought them to Atlanta.

LaBruzzi kept a flow of illegal aliens into Chicago as cheap labor for the Ratello restaurants and waste disposal contracts held by another Chicago Don. The connection with Chicago was consummated. LaBruzzi lived in a spacious mansion in the Buckhead area of Atlanta. The area was viewed as the snobbery village of robber barons. It was beautiful, festooned by the azaleas and dogwood with their white, red and pink blossoms. The houses were elegant with curving forested streets, a happy distraction within a competitive, sophisticated city. He had spearheaded the tearing out of homes built in the 50’s and 60’s, and formed a walled area specifically for ‘southrens’. Southrens was an old pre-Civil War expression which earmarked the landed gentry of the Old South.

LaBruzzi was age fifty-five and a well-built man. In good health, he worked out at the gym three times a week. He had unusual disarming features. He beamed at people. There was a sly raffishness, but his expressionless eyes gave his true character. They were expressionless. The façade of beaming was merely a front whether he bought dinner for a friend or ordered a ‘hit’ on some enemy.

Sifu Tubari, Molly McCarty, and Duke Ray drove leisurely about Atlanta. Presently, they were in the Chamblee district that divided Highway 85 and Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. They crossed obsolete railroad tracks; passed rundown warehouses and a sprinkling of honky-tonk bars. Nearby, the bars were small ethnic restaurants—Spanish, Thai and other unnamed polyglot eateries. The side streets were potholed. Row after row of deserted homes built in the 20’s and 30’s slumped along the city blocks. Tubari noted that street lights were soiled to a crusty dimness or broken. He had been informed that the majority of residents were Blacks, Mexican and Asian. Most of the homes and warehouses were owned by the LaBruzzi Family. They parked the beat up looking ’64 Chevy with its eight cylinder motor in a warehouse. The warehouse was a result of a favor called in by Florio Treponte—not one owned by LaBruzzi.

Descending from the car, they carefully inspected the interior of the warehouse. It was made of sheet metal. In the middle of the warehouse they found a huge old walk-in bank safe. It had been converted into a small hut. The walls and ceiling were fire-proofed.

Look! Guns, food and a generator for electricity, exclaimed Duke. He hit a handle on a huge tank in a corner. A blast of oxygen responded.

Tubari pointed to a refrigerator and reversible air conditioner.

The warehouse could be on fire, but we would be safe. He rapped a wall with his knuckles. A fifty caliber rifle couldn’t penetrate this. He gestured towards a corner that held bedrolls and air mattresses. "Get out in the neighborhood and see