Warren Murphy: A Pound of Prevention

Chapter 1

The Mafia was represented.

The Cosa Nostra delegations from the United States and Sicily had insisted on a place of honor near the head of the table, and they still commanded enough respect to get it. Truth be told, everyone there knew the Mob's time had nearly come to an end.

Once rich and powerful, it had flourished before most of the men there were born. But that was before there was any real competition in the world. Now...

Now. Well, politeness did not allow the other delegates to speak of the hard times that had befallen the Mob of late. Now it was more out of respect for what it had been in the past that its demands were acceded to in the present. Like a doddering father too beloved by his family to place in a home, the Mafia was allowed its seat of honor.

An agent from the Camorra was there, as well. Looked down on for years by the more powerful Mafia, the Camorra was thought to have had been abolished by Mussolini early in the twentieth century. It had survived, but only with a fraction of the power it had previously enjoyed. It had experienced a resurgence of late, poised to make inroads in what had previously been purely Mafia territory.

Black Hand was there. This was the crime syndicate thought at various times in its history to be one and the same as both the Sicilian Mafia and the Naples Camorra, but which was never part of either. It was strong and stealthy, its leadership unknown. So complex were its transactions that its influence was impossible to calculate.

The current titans on the world scene were the powerful drug dealers. And from France to the Far East, from the Russian Mob in the north to the Medellin cartel in the south, all had sent representatives to this introductory meeting.

The promise of peace had brought them all there. But that had been shattered the moment Jamon Albondigas spied Russell Copefield, the ambassador for the Cali cartel.

"You are a fool who works for fools," Albondigas spit viciously. The La Cosina drug lord was pudgy with a dark brown complexion. Even in the chilly air-conditioned hall, he perspired like a Venezuelan stevedore. Crescent moons of sweat stained the underarms of his white, open-necked shirt.

"If you and your brothers cannot compete..." Copefield shrugged in a delicate shift of Armani. The Cali agent was a New York lawyer in his midforties. His weasel's face was tugged forward in perpetual condescension.

"Cali is dead," Albondigas snarled. "We are the new power. My brothers and I have buried you."

"We'll see who'll be dead at the end of the day," the American lawyer taunted with infuriating smugness.

Albondigas gripped the edge of the huge table. Furious eyes darted to the double doors.

The bodyguards and hired killers waited beyond. Albondigas had brought with him a hulking Paraguayan with arms as wide around as tree trunks and a chest as broad and muscled as the hindquarters of a charging rhino. If Albondigas called, the giant would break down the door. The other bodyguards would follow him in, guns blazing. In the ensuing bloodbath, they'd all be killed.

Albondigas's face twitched with barely contained rage.

The others in the room glanced anxiously to the head of the table for guidance. For a soothing voice. For something to stop this madness. But only silence issued from the most prominent chair in the big room.

"You are very certain of yourself, gringo," Albondigas hissed abruptly.

The softness of his tone was jarring. All eyes returned to Albondigas.

"I'm paid to be certain," Copefeld replied tightly. There was something in his voice, in his eyes. Like a cornered animal. Almost as if he didn't believe what he was saying. Yet he did not back down.

Albondigas clenched his jaw. Slowly, his gaze shifted to the main doors. And as all watched, his lips pursed with jeering malevolence.

Before Albondigas could utter a single word, another sharp voice broke in. The English was clipped and precise.

"This is foolishness. We are not here to squabble. Stop this now, Mandobar."

Sham Tokumo of the Yakuza was looking to the head of the table, to their silent host.

The faces of the men were bland-deliberately willed calm to mask inner unease. Flat eyes focused once more on the world-famous chocolate-black face of Mandobar. Their host's eyes were unreadable; the mouth held an expression of puckered impatience.

Mandobar's reaction to the war of words surprised them all. There was a long sigh, followed by a very slight raising of shoulders. Utter helplessness.

"I did not believe it would come this quickly," Mandobar clucked unhappily. "Of course, I knew a conflict was likely inevitable. But here? Now?" The head shook, the eyes were sad and slightly downcast, as if lost in weighty thought.

Albondigas licked his lips. He glanced from the lawyer up to Mandobar.

Albondigas's temper was legendary. Yet no one seemed ready to prevent his calling his bodyguard into the room. Not even the person who had summoned them all there for this great meeting of the world's most powerful crime syndicates. For Albondigas, it was now a matter of honor.

With agonizing slowness, he pushed his chair away from the big table. The mahogany legs groaned a sad protest across the dry, buffed-marble floor.

Across the table, Sham Tokumo was stunned. The Yakuza man could not believe Mandobar wasn't stopping this. Wasn't that what this whole plan was all about? Unity among these organizations? Tokumo didn't want to die because two squabbling idiots couldn't get along.

Albondigas was walking slowly to the door. Tokumo glanced desperately around the gleaming conference table for someone to stop the madness. When Albondigas ordered his man to shoot, it would all be over.

Tokumo had not spent four months negotiating with the East African government to be slaughtered over some petty remarks not even related to the current meeting.

"Stop this, Jamon," Tokumo called, rising to his feet.

Pausing, the drug dealer turned. He stood in the middle of the wide, vacant room, as big as a large auditorium. The table was far behind him, illuminated by sheets of cascading light pouring in from a latticed network of skylights that filtered the ultraviolet from the burning African sun.

"Do not worry, Sham," Albondigas said blandly. "I am only stepping outside for some air. It has suddenly gotten foul in here." He began walking once more.

Tokumo spun to the Cali lawyer, who sat a few seats from the Yakuza agent. "Apologize, fool," he hissed, whipping off his owlish glasses.

There were beads of perspiration on the lawyer's upper lip and forehead. Again, there was the sense that he hadn't expected a few ill-chosen words to go this far.

Tokumo saw a single bead of sweat form just beneath the neatly shaved hairline at the back of the lawyer's head. It slipped to the top of his white shirt collar.

Albondigas was barely a yard from the door when the Cali attorney called to him.

"The business day," Russell Copefeld called abruptly, his voice echoing in the big hall. Albondigas turned slowly, eyes narrowed. The harsh sunlight, muted through the blackened glass, cast weird shadows on his burly form. He was so far across the huge room they almost needed binoculars to see the expression on his face. "What?" Albondigas said, his tone flat.

"I meant to say 'we will see who is dead at the end of the business day,'" the lawyer offered, his voice suddenly going timid. "Rhetorically, there's a big difference. It wasn't a threat-it was a metaphor. For our healthy business rivalry. If you took it another way, it was not intentional and I do apologize, most sincerely."

Near the door, Jamon Albondigas weighed Copefeld's placating words carefully. It took him a moment to react. When he took a step back toward the table, Sham Tokumo felt the very air lighten. It was over.