The Japanese Trilogy, Book 1 (Lust, Money & Murder #13)

By Mike Wells

Criminal mastermind Giorgio Cattoretti is back, and in rare form. The Cat has developed a brilliant new plan to make himself and his recently acquired clinic millions, but to pull it off, he needs to track down a key man who is hiding out from the Yakuza in one of the most isolated areas of Japan. The Lust, Money & Murder Japanese Trilogy features the usual cast of captivating characters—Elaine Brogan, Luna Faye, Nick LaGrange, Dmitry, Tony, and of course the notorious Cattoretti—so prepare yourself for another wild, ‘unputdownable’ adventure.

Note: This book was previously titled: Lust, Money & Murder, Book 13 - Face-Off

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Wells
• Release date: Jan 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463836873

Mike Wells

Mike Wells is an author of both walking and cycling guides. He has been walking long-distance footpaths for 25 years, after a holiday in New Zealand gave him the long-distance walking bug. Within a few years, he had walked the major British trails, enjoying their range of terrain from straightforward downland tracks through to upland paths and challenging mountain routes. He then ventured into France, walking sections of the Grande Randonnee network (including the GR5 through the Alps from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean), and Italy to explore the Dolomites Alta Via routes. Further afield, he has walked in Poland, Slovakia, Slovenia, Norway and Patagonia. Mike has also been a keen cyclist for over 20 years. After completing various UK Sustrans routes, such as Lon Las Cymru in Wales and the C2C route across northern England, he then moved on to cycling long-distance routes in continental Europe and beyond. These include cycling both the Camino and Ruta de la Plata to Santiago de la Compostela, a traverse of Cuba from end to end, a circumnavigation of Iceland and a trip across Lapland to the North Cape. He has written a series of cycling guides for Cicerone following the great rivers of Europe.

Book preview

Prologue

Lovska, Croatia

The hunting lodge was one hundred kilometers southeast of Zagreb. It belonged to the Croatian Minister of Finance.

Five men were sitting around the long wooden table in the living room. Mounted on one of the cedar walls were several trophies, the heads of a deer, a moose…the centerpiece was a wild boar, its long, twisted white tusks protruding from its open mouth.

Still wearing their camouflaged hunting outfits, the men were sweaty and worn out. They were enjoying glasses of homemade sljivovica—Croatian plum brandy—and congratulating each other on their successful kills. A half dozen wild boar were visible out the window, their lifeless carcasses laid out in a neat row in the grass.

But the men did not come here only to hunt. There was an important matter of business at hand, one that demanded absolute secrecy, and that could not be discussed in the government offices back in Zagreb.

One of the ministers rose from his chair and pulled a document out of his hunting bag.

This is the final report from the insurance company, he said, and slid it to the center of the table. It was marked TOP SECRET. There was only one copy of the three page document, which was typed in Croatian. The men passed it around and read it, one by one.

The report was based on data supplied from Jakob Henikstein, the insurance adjuster who had investigated the ‘robbery’ of the diamond cutting factory in Dubrovnik that the government had subsidized, set up by Giorgio Cattoretti.

Henikstein had discovered that one massive, raw pink diamond was removed from inventory only two days before the robbery took place, and it was found on Giorgio Cattoretti the afternoon he and his family managed to successfully slip out of the country. Henikstein had grown suspicious of him, watched his villa for several days, and followed him and confronted him. According to Henikstein, they had gotten into a scuffle and Cattoretti and his family escaped, but Henikstein had recovered the diamond.

There was no question now that the robbery was orchestrated by The Cat, a nickname that all of the ministers had learned to loathe.

The report also went on to say that it was believed that Cattoretti was now under the protection of the Greek government and that he had some operating role at ‘Panacea,’ a top secret clinic that was located on a tiny island in the Aegean Sea.

Jakob Henikstein was a very resourceful man.

Well? the Minister of Justice finally said, as the last of the ministers closed the report and set it back down on the table.

What is this Panacea place? he asked.

It’s a posh clinic where Arab sheiks send their slutty daughters to have their hymens sewn back shut.

I should send mine there.

Gentlemen, the Minister of Justice said, this is no joking matter. He looked evenly at the faces around the table. "What are we going to do about this Italian šupak?" It was the Croatian word for asshole.

The room was silent. Everything else the men had said up to this point was only foreplay—they all knew why this meeting had been called. The insurance company had refused to pay, the Croatian bank called in its loan, and now it looked like the government was going to take the entire hit, to the tune of one hundred million dollars. Giorgio Cattoretti had made fools out of them all.

I say we have him stuffed and his head mounted on the wall, the Minister of Commerce said, with the rest of these animals.

The men laughed.

Seriously. My friends, it is a matter of principle. We may be a small country, but we cannot let ourselves be jacked around by a lowlife crook like him. The minister paused and then added, Again.

The Minister of Finance recited a Croatian proverb, "One who digs a hole for another falls into the pit himself."

Well, last time, no one fell into the hole but Köhler—the thief got exactly what he deserved. Wilhelm Köhler was a German con artist who had screwed the country out of sixty-million euros worth of gas turbines. The criminal owned a house in Zagreb, and a masked ‘burglar’ broke in and not only killed him, but his whole family.

Yes, and I suppose the man’s poor wife and child got what they deserved, too? another minister said.

If you weren’t so cheap we could have hired a better one. The hired assassin had lost his mask after the break in, and both the wife and daughter had seen his face, and he had panicked. It had been a tragic screw-up.

I think we should just turn Cattoretti in to Interpol, the Minister of Finance said.

Not a chance. In effect, that would just be turning him over to the Americans, and you know how that goes. The man will probably end up ‘serving time’ in one of those hotels over there; what do they call them?

White collar prisons, the Minister of Justice said.

Like I said, hotels. Anyway, do we really want the world to know that we let him screw us like this?

I have found a new contractor, the Minister of Justice said. He’s a former agent for the Romanian secret police. This guy is a pro, a freelancer. His nickname is The Lullaby.

There was some laughter.

He is very good at what he does, believe me.

One of the ministers asked, How much does this Lullaby charge to sing someone to sleep?

One hundred thousand euros. Fifty up front, fifty after the hit.

Can he make it look like an ‘accident’?

Who cares? Giorgio Cattoretti has a list of enemies longer than my arm—mafia dons, FBI agents, politicians, entire governments... The minister paused, glancing at the report. The problem is one of access. From what I’ve heard, that Greek island he’s hiding on is a fortress, completely impenetrable. Anyway, it would ruffle too many powerful feathers if we eliminated him there.

I wonder if he will risk traveling outside of Greece...

He might, now that he has a new identity. The report said that he was operating under a new alias, Adrian Garcia, and that he was in possession of a Spanish passport in that name.

I have a reliable contact in Greek immigration, the Minister of Justice said. I can ask him to give me a heads-up whenever Cattoretti exits through passport control in Athens.

I don’t like this at all, the Minister of Foreign Affairs said. It was the first word he’d uttered since the conversation started.

You are suddenly developing a conscience? the Minister of Justice said. You were more than happy to accept the man’s bribes when he owned the factory.

"Quite the opposite. I want him to know who ordered it, and why. The minister thumped his fist on the table. I want revenge, dammit!"

Me, too, another minister said. I think that is the most important part—remuneration for the hit should be contingent on The Lullaby making it clear who ordered the hit before he takes Cattoretti out.

I’m sure we can put that in the contract, the Minister of Justice said.

The Minister of Finance glanced at the furry heads of the slain animals on the walls. Their black, glossy eyes seemed to be staring down at the humans sitting around the table.

He had the strangest feeling of being judged.

A few days later, the Minister of Finance was sitting in his Mercedes, parked under a narrow train overpass in an industrial section of Zagreb.

It was one o’clock in the morning. A cold, misty drizzle had been coming down all evening.

Sweaty with anxiety, the minister kept glancing at his watch. All the car doors were locked. In the back seat was a satchel that contained fifty thousand euros in cash.

The last thing he wanted to do was meet this nasty piece of work called The Lullaby in person. He and the other ministers had drawn straws and he was the lucky bastard who had gotten stuck with this task. Just listening to the man speak on the phone, with his toneless, matter-of-fact voice, sent chills up the minister’s spine. The hired assassin acted as if he was making an appointment to have his car serviced.

After another couple of nerve-wracking minutes, a sedan appeared in the mist and slowly rolled to a stop about twenty meters away.

The minister gave the prearranged signal, flashing his lights twice, quickly, and then one more time, leaving them on for about two seconds.

The car started moving again and came to a stop facing his, their fenders almost touching.

The door opened and a tall, lean man got out. His head was as bald and smooth as a billiard ball. It was hard to tell much else in the dim gray mist, other than that he was wearing a long black raincoat. And black gloves.

He stepped over to the passenger side of the minister’s car and grabbed the door handle, but it was locked.

Uh, sorry, the minister muttered, and clumsily found the button and unlocked it.

The man opened the door, peered inside at the minister’s face, and then climbed inside, snapping the door shut.

The Lullaby.

The man’s skin was pale and looked as thin as tracing paper, blue veins visible on his scalp and below his temple. But he had a remarkably affable face, considering his profession, with laugh lines around his mouth. He might have been some kindly grandfather—the minister could almost see him holding a baby in his arms, singing the child to sl…No, that was the wrong thought to have.

You have my payment? The Lullaby said, in English.

The minister hesitated, then reached into the back seat, having to turn towards the dangerous man and to expose his chest as he did so.

The Lullaby merely set the satchel in his lap, his gloved hands resting lightly on it. He did not open it. And the target’s information?

The target. The minister cringed at the hit-man terminology. He was an accountant, for god’s sake.

He reached under his seat and produced an envelope. In it were several photos of Giorgio Cattoretti, along with a copy of his passport and a list of known aliases.

The Lullaby glanced at the documents. Looking satisfied, he smiled, revealing his teeth. They were unusually fine, stained a light yellow, and arranged in two slightly uneven rows, like corn on the cob.

So, I understand you will notify me when he leaves Greece.

Correct.

Chasing him down while he’s traveling will require more resources, will cost you extra. You can pay those expenses on the back end. The hit-man paused. Do you prefer that I use a specific method? Do you want him to suffer?

The minister swallowed. The ‘how’ isn’t important to us.

Suit yourself. He reached for the door handle.

But we do have another requirement, the minister said, stopping him. Two, actually.

He let go of the door handle. I’m listening.

The first is that you wear a body cam and make a video.

The Lullaby considered this, and gave a little shrug. Not an unusual request these days. Another extra charge. He paused and smiled, flashing those fine, yellowed teeth again. Just do not ask me to post it on YouTube.

The minister did not laugh. We also want you to deliver a message to him from us before you…

Dispatch him?

The minister grimaced. Right. We want to make sure you capture his reaction on video. This is very important to us. The minister paused, mustering up his nerve. If you do not do this, you will not get paid.

The Lullaby eyed him for a long, unnerving few seconds. You are very demanding.

The minister swallowed hard.

The Lullaby regarded him for another long moment, as if sizing him up for a coffin, and said, I see no problem with that, but it is unusual. All things considered, I will have to charge you one-fifty.

That price is acceptable, but…

But what?

I do not have any more cash with me to add to the down payment.

You can give me the rest on the back end.

The minister was relieved. I am glad you trust us.

Trust you? The Lullaby gave a gentle smile, revealing his creepy teeth again. One of the perks of my profession is that I never have any trouble collecting debts.

I...see.

So, what is the message you want delivered…?

1

Marseille, France

When Elaine Brogan’s sat-phone started ringing in her carry-on bag, she was returning from a week-long business trip to the United States.

She stopped on the side of the airport corridor. Blowing a limp strand of hair out of her face, she opened her bag and found the sat-phone. She was hot and exhausted.

ITALIAN FOOD CATERER, the display said.

A feeling of dread swept over her. That was the tag she used for Giorgio Cattoretti’s number. She had not heard a word from him since he had taken over Panacea.

Don’t answer it, she told herself.

After the Spyro Leandrou/Panacea situation had been resolved, she had sworn to herself that she would not have any more to do with Cattoretti. It only led to complications and trouble.

She switched the phone to vibrate-only mode and put it back into her bag.

A few minutes later, Elaine was driving her SUV northeast along the D9, overjoyed that she was almost home. She had only been away for a week, but it seemed like a month—she missed the kids, as well as Nick and Tony, terribly. She was shouldered with new job responsibilities now, and even though her workload had become almost unmanageable, she was determined to keep it together.

She had her boss, Martin Valdez, to ‘thank’ for her stressful situation. Ever since Spyro Leandrou had been forced out of Panacea, Valdez had been riding high. Then using the information from Leandrou’s secret ‘red book,’ Interpol had coordinated a series of high-profile kidney-trafficking busts in Pakistan, Macedonia, South Africa, and the Philippines. Martin Valdez was a notable figure at each press conference, presenting himself as an ‘advisor’ from the Secret Service who had initially identified the organ-trafficking from money-laundering activity.

All this hoopla had garnered Valdez so much visibility that the President of the United States had taken note and formed a task force against illegal organ trafficking, and he made Valdez the head of it.

Shortly thereafter, Valdez had recommended Elaine for another task force that the President helped put together, a joint USA-European Union team charged with reducing the number of counterfeit passports that were produced. Due to the millions of refugees in Europe, it was becoming a bigger and bigger problem, and Elaine’s anti-counterfeiting work with paper money made her a natural fit.

Valdez had thought he was doing Elaine a favor, and even though it was against her better judgment, she had graciously agreed. Now she sorely regretted that decision. This had been her third week-long trip away from home in the past two months, and the small amount of extra time Valdez told her that the task force would require had spiraled into twenty extra hours a week.

When she turned into the driveway of the farmhouse, the gate was already open. The porch light came on as she parked the SUV and got out.

Nick trotted out to greet her, with Ryan on his heels.

Momma! her son cried, as if she really had been gone for a month. The boy rushed up to her, throwing his arms around her hips and hugging her.

Amelia wobbled along behind him, barefoot and wearing only a diaper, saying, Mamamamama. Elaine scooped her up in her arms.

"Signora! Tony called, and opened the door for her. He was wearing his white apron. We are so-a glad you’re-a home!"

Tony looked tired, with shadows under his brown eyes.

I hope the children didn’t wear you out, Elaine said.

"Oh, no, they were both little angelini, like always."

Elaine laughed. I bet they were.

Soon, the whole family was clustered round the dining table munching on bruschetta and mozzarella sticks that Tony had made—it was all delicious, especially after a week of bland hotel food.

By the way, babe, Nick said, three secure courier packages arrived while you were gone. I put them up in your office.

Elaine groaned. Thanks…I think.

She knew what they contained, and she dreaded opening them.

After they finally got the two overly-excited kids calmed down and into bed, Elaine went upstairs to the sunroom, where her home office was located. Nick was following along behind her, a bottle of red wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.

In addition to fake $100 bills, the wall under her office marker board was filled with shelf after shelf of counterfeit passports. One short month after joining the task force, she was buried in the damn booklets. Along with fake U.S. passports, there were passports from nearly every one of the twenty-eight EU member states. Nick had built her the set of special narrow wooden shelves just to store them and to keep them in order.

Elaine took a step towards her desk and reached for one of the packages that had arrived, but Nick gently took hold of her arm. You don’t have to do that now. He guided her into her comfy chair and told her to lean back and put her feet up. "You’re still keyed up from your trip, honey. You have to relax."

He poured some wine into the glasses and handed her one.

Thank you, she said, trying to let herself unwind.

As she sipped the wine, Nick began massaging her shoulders. Oh, that feels woooonderful, she purred, closing her eyes. "You really are an angelo."

After a moment, he said, I wish you didn’t have to leave again tomorrow.

Me, too, she murmured. She had to fly to Lyon so that she could brief Valdez on the results of the task force meeting in Washington.

After a couple of minutes of Nick’s blissful massage, her sat-phone started to vibrate. It was still in her handbag, but the room was quiet enough for Nick to hear it.

Cattoretti.

She was determined not to let that thought disturb her, enjoying the fingers digging into her aching shoulder muscles. Nick’s hands were magical. She felt the need to explain, so she said, I’m sure it’s Luna, wanting to know how the trip went. I’ll update her tomorrow.

"Are you still hungry? If you are, Tony made some biscotti—"

No, I’m fine.

You want a foot massage?

Elaine smiled and opened her eyes a little. You know what this reminds me of?

What?

Bulgaria. When I used to fill out those awful DOPS forms for you.

Nick laughed. Yeah, those were the days, weren’t they? After a moment, he said, Who would have ever thought we would get married and have two kids?

I thought it, Elaine mused, but said nothing.

Finally, the sat-phone had stopped ringing.

Elaine sat up straighter, her gaze again focused on the packages on her desk. Before Nick could stop her, she leaned forward and quickly picked up one of the envelopes and ripped it open.

Passports in a number of colors spilled out onto her desk.

The relaxation spilled out of her, too.

She shook her head in frustration—just from the sheer quantity, she was sure that most of them were low quality fakes. She picked up a passport from Sweden. Why do they keep sending me these? she snapped. "Why, Nick?"

Nick took the passport and glanced at it, thumbing through it. I don’t see what—

It’s stapled together! Real passports are stitched together, like books.

Oh. Right. He sheepishly handed it back.

Elaine shook her head again. "And the staples aren’t even straight, for god’s sake," she said, and tossed it back in the pile. Even Ryan could tell it wasn’t real.

Currently, Elaine was only supposed to be receiving the highest quality fakes, those that had all standard security features correctly implemented, and which also had the biometric RFID chips. Rumor had it that there was an underground source somewhere in Eastern Europe that was producing false passports in large quantities, with such good quality that even the DSS—the Diplomatic Security Service—could not tell they were counterfeit. On the black market, this clandestine operation was known as ‘The Factory."

Elaine told Nick, How can I ever zero in on this mysterious source that’s supposedly out there when they keep wasting my time with all this nonsense?

Did you talk to the chairman?

"Yes, just before I left. And you know what he said? 'Oh, I thought that issue had been resolved!'

Elaine ripped open the other two packages and dumped the passports out on her desk. She rapidly went through them, one after another, hoping to find a high quality counterfeit, but they were all instantly recognizable as fake, at least by her practiced eye.

When Elaine plopped back down into her chair, she wanted to cry. "Almost every member on that task force is a paper-pushing bureaucrat, Nick! I’m the only one who actually knows how to do anything."

That’s probably why Valdez recommended you.

He’s a real sport, Elaine muttered.

Nick gazed at her sympathetically and put his arm around her. Just stick it out, honey—it’s only one year. Besides, being a member of this task force is an impressive feather in your cap. Maybe by the end of it, you’ll not only be the Queen of Counterfeits, but the Princess of Passports.

Despite how exhausted Elaine was from her trip, she was still wired and frustrated with how things were going with the task force that sleep would not come. She was mad at herself for not telling Martin Valdez that it would be too much for her to take on. Elaine swore that she would never become the proverbial workaholic, but that’s exactly what she felt like right now.

Making sure that Nick was soundly asleep, she slipped out of bed, put on her robe, and padded quietly downstairs to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of milk, snatched up a couple of the chocolate almond biscotti that Tony had made, and took them back to her office.

Elaine sat there eating her midnight snack, staring at the sat-phone sitting on her desk. It was plugged into the charger and set to Night Mode, so it wouldn’t make a sound if anyone called or sent a message.

Such as Giorgio Cattoretti.

She finally picked it up and glanced at the display.

The ‘Italian Food Caterer’ had called two more times.

You know you’re going to call him back, some voice in her head yammered. So just pick up the phone and do it.

There was actually a reason she did want to talk to The Cat, and she knew she would give into that reason sooner or later. After the Panacea and kidney trafficking case was over, she had not gotten a satisfactory answer from Giorgio about what had happened to her mother. During their last phone conversation, he had claimed that the last time he saw Kathy was when she stabbed Lonnie Hendrix and pushed him over the cliff. Elaine had not directly asked Giorgio if he had killed her mother, but she had clearly implied it, and he did not deny it or try to defend himself. He simply said, Let me put it this way: if some person did step in and kill Kathy Brogan, you should consider it a favor.

That was a non-answer, of course, and certainly made Cattoretti look guilty. Elaine supposed that after everything Kathy had done, she didn’t really care if he, or anybody else, killed her—the woman certainly deserved it, or at least to spend the rest of her life behind bars.

It was the not knowing that ate away at Elaine. She didn’t think she cared so much about the outcome, one way or another—it was just the lack of information and of closure.

Elaine sat there in her office a long time, slowly nibbling on her cookie and sipping her milk, staring at the sat-phone. She finally sighed, Okay, and made the call.

The phone on the other end rang only once.

"¿Diga?" Giorgio said, as if he were really Spanish. Just hearing his voice made her stomach cramp.

It’s me, she said in a low voice. Her office door was shut but the house was dead quiet--the last thing she wanted was for Nick to know she was making contact with him.

"Ah, cara. Thank you so much for calling me back. I’ve been trying