Who is Roberto Mara (And why does the FBI say he doesn't exist.)

1 Park Avenue

Dickie?

Park Avenue on a Friday night. A glittering river of yellow and black traffic is flowing past a smoke-windowed stretch at the curb.

Dickie! Down here!

Richard L. Richards, a bear in a tuxedo, stands at the curb searching vainly for the woman whose voice is calling from the limo – right next to him.

Dickie! I'm down here, idiot!

The bear bends to the window. Dottie? That you?

Genius! You couldn't find the ocean on a desert island. I don't know how the hell you write spy novels. She's tiny, a mouse with black hair and clothes to match – but amber eyes that pierce the dark, and a voice that's sultry beyond her size. Where are Simon and Barbara?

Still inside.

Let's go get them, you guys are late.

The mouse drags the lumbering tuxedo across the sidewalk toward a tower of black glass with brushed steel letters proclaiming Harrison Media International.

They enter the Harrison House Bookstore - where the windows are dominated by three book displays. Death's Twin by Simon Littlejohn. The Bod Snatcher by Barbara Blair. And Fire Walker by Richard L. Richards. With a poster announcing Book Signing Today, 1:30 to 6:30 p.m.

Inside, security guards are locking up while two authors still stand behind a table.

Ooh! Dottie, darlin', I'm glad you're here! Barbara Blair's famous bosom and pinched waist are sheathed in a wisp of white silk. I can't decide which dress to wear. She holds up two other wisps. The red one's too bright, the black's too formal, but doesn't this white make me look fat?

Barbara, the mouse frowns, you're like a transvestite in a nudist colony. Nothing seems to be the right thing to wear.

Bursts of laughter.

Ah, Dorothy! Simon Littlejohn, a balding man in a white dinner jacket the size and shape of a small igloo, gives her an air-kiss. Did you order us a limousine as I requested?

I did, Simon, her large amber eyes flare ever so slightly at his condescending tone, but you never told me where you were going.

Ah, yes! Littlejohn pulls an invitation from his pocket and reads, his voice like a lion rumbling in a barrel. 'You are Cordially Invited... to be a Guest of Honor... at the International Thriller Awards... aboard the Forbes yacht, Highlander... 7 p.m... Friday May 15... et cetera, et cetera.

Would you like to join us, Dottie darlin'? Barbara is adjusting her considerable décolletage.

I'll pass, thanks. I don't need a night of booze and breeze with the New York flitterati just to watch Simon here pick up another award for crime writing.

Mystery writing, Dorothy, not crime. Mystery writing.

The amber eyes flare again, Simon, I've been editing your books for twenty-two years and frankly your writing is sometimes both.

Both?

A mystery – and a crime. Let's go.

More laughter as the tiny woman pushes the three writers out to the Park Avenue sidewalk - where she suddenly stops at the curb.

Hold on! This isn't the same limo!

The writers stare at her, bewildered, as the limo driver jumps out and holds the door open.

Dickie? You saw the limo I was in. This isn't it!

YezYez! YezYez! The driver's face is all sunglasses and a black beard that sweeps up to a maroon turban. Thiz other limo is having a problem. I vill take... he reads from a clipboard as they duck into the car, Miz Bahbarah Blair, Mizder Ridjard Ridjards and Mizder Zimon Liddlejohn... all going to Chelzea Piers. 

But the tiny woman pulls the door stubbornly. Wait a minute! How do you know where they're going? I never told you...

Relax, Dottie, the bear calls from inside, as long he gets us to the boat and the bar on time I don't care if he's driving an elephant with a howdah.

YezYez! The driver brushes her aside, jumps in and slams the door.

You want a lift, Dot? Barbara calls. But the limo shoots away, almost pulling the small woman with it into the stream of tail lights heading downtown.

***

Inside, the bear leans back. Jeezus, I'm glad that's over.

Oh, please, Dickie, Littlejohn rumbles, you love book signings – all those gushy women.

And those hunky guys! Barbara rolls her eyes, My readers always look like the 'Before' ladies from a diet commercial.

Richards laughs. That's because you're always writing about hunky guys, Boobs. Whereas, Simon here - 'The Master of the Criminal Mind' - has fans that look like the Invasion of the Androgynes.

At least my readers don't spend their days snorting testosterone, the fat man growls and wriggles uncomfortably. This car is much too small. We need a stretch.

Stretch? Darlin', what you need is a spread!

Their laughter is muffled inside the limousine as it slithers downtown, across town and into the cavernous parking lot at Chelsea Piers.

The tires squirm luxuriously on the concrete floor – then yip to a stop – the gigantic room has suddenly gone black.

Hey! The lights! Barbara yelps. Who's that?

In the startled darkness a huge figure looms in their headlights. A giant wearing a black ski-mask and, glinting from his large left hand, a black steel tube.

The Scorpion silencer on a 9mm Glock 26.

2  The Kidnap

Driiiver!

Inside the limo – blind pandemonium. Who's that! What's wrong! Get us out of here! The driver is praying in a high whimper as he follows the beckoning giant deeper into the receding black.

Idiot! Stop! Don't follow him! the fat man bleats.

Jeezus! Jeezus! the bear yanks at an un-responding door handle, Let us out!

From nowhere, the giant's ski-masked face appears in the driver's window, calmly mouthing the words Open, please. 

The window whirrs down and the driver is greeted with the Glock's fat silencer and a whispered command, Hit the hatch. The driver is frozen. The silencer waves in front of his eyes. Open the trunk, please.

There's a thunk and the trunk lid hisses open.

The giant whispers again. Out! Now!

Yezzyezzyezz. The turbaned man falls out of the car and the giant, in one motion, sweeps him up, slams the door and shoves him behind the car's open trunk.

The passengers flail.

Open the door! Driver! Driver! Get us out of here! The burly Richards tries to reach through the half-closed privacy window into the front seat. The other two claw and punch at the car's windows and doors.

From outside, they hear a Thok, like the muffled pop of a champagne cork.

Mygod! Barbara screams.

In the silence after her scream there are two more shots, ThokThok, and a heavy weight bounces the rear of the limo. Another Thok, then a long hiss as the trunk closes. Everyone shouts at once.

Jeezus! Jeezus! Unlock the doors!

Break the window, idiot!

Do something!

The giant reaches through the open driver's window to unlock the doors and moves quickly to open the left rear door as another man - this one in a red ski mask – taps the right rear window with another silencer.

Yevvybody out! barks the red mask in a high, constricted voice. Slow.  And don't yell or move too fast or yiz can join da driver in da trunk...

Shut! the giant cautions him.

The three writers emerge hesitantly, eyes on the guns.

Did you kill him? whimpers Barbara.

The mouth of the red mask smiles with one gold tooth, A little brain soigery.

Shut! the giant points his gun at the red ski mask, then gestures with the silencer, Over there.

The three are herded in the blind-dark between a row of cars.

Even the bear shrinks back as the giant leans over them to whisper, Okay, move to the exit sign, please, pointing to a door in the far darkness.

The three captives shuffle, whimpering and cursing with each blind step, toward the dim exit sign. They've almost reached it when a voice from behind them suddenly shouts out of the dark Hey! Hey! Hey! The giant wheels and cuts it off, Hey! Hey! Heh... in mid-breath with another thock thock. He hesitates, listening to scurrying in the darkness, then calmly continues to shove his captives to the exit.

The red ski mask is already outside waiting for them. The giant turns, calling into the dark behind them. Ocho! Siete! Clean this up! No cops! Then turns to the huddled group in the doorway. Now. We are going to walk calmly and quickly to that black motor launch he points across the dock. Anyone misbehaves? he waves the Glock.

Frightened nods.

A giant whisper, Let's go!

They walk tight-legged to the glossy black launch. The red ski mask steps aboard and helps the three hesitant followers across the gap. The giant follows closely, his bulk tipping the boat as he boards.

The red mask disappears into the forward cabin, which has its rear windows blackened, and the idling boat moves slowly to the end of it's mooring line. The giant slips it off its cleat and the boat lurches forward, out onto the silver-gray surface of the darkening Hudson.

***

The launch is tiny among the late commuter ferries hurrying across the broad skin of river. The lights of the pier recede and the evening cityscape, a vast impersonal backdrop, begins to fill the passenger's vision.

Stand please! The giant is in front of Richards and shouts above the engine noise. I'll be searching each of you...

If this is a robbery... Richards is incredulous. 

Just a precaution. I'll be needing your cell phones and any odd weapons.

The men submit to a pat-down with a grumble. Barbara stands, arms out, and the giant gingerly takes her purse and removes a cell phone.

***

The launch thumps across the water at top speed, the giant leaning on the starboard rail while the writers hunch tensely on the seats opposite him, as if to balance his weight.

After a few minutes, the red ski mask emerges from the cabin and lurches to the giant. Henjry! Mara wants ya on da radio.

The giant stumbles to the cabin door and turns to the red mask. How come you wasted the driver? He was on the payroll.

Mista Mara said no eyeballs.

He told you to get rid of him?

He said no eyeballs.

He scares me sometimes. The giant ducks into the cabin.

Dat's de idear! the red mask calls after him, sitting back on the rail, unconsciously snapping a six-inch ivory-handled switchblade open-and-closed. 

Mara? Simon Littlejohn eyes the knife as he growls the name at the red ski mask.

Mista Mara ta you, pal.

Roberto Mara? The fat man shakes his head slowly. We've heard the name.

Richards squints his bearded face at the others. I see that name on the message boards a lot lately. There was something about him yesterday. Some murder in Mongolia? Or Angola?

Anteegwaa, the red mask nods. Not a murda. A unfortunate accident. A lapse of memory, so ta speak, when dis impawtant shipping magnate decides to go sky diving wit'out benefit of a parachute.

Jeezus! The bear is squinting, I thought Mara was some kind of urban myth. What is it they say about him? 'Who is Roberto Mara? Who is...'

The fat man intones with deep, mocking melodrama. 'Who is Roberto Mara? What is the Peli? And why does the FBI say they don't exist?'

I've seen it, too. The woman's voice is a petrified whisper.

Littlejohn sneers. One finds a lot of fanciful trash on the criminology websites.

Shooa, Mack! He don't exist! And we don't exist! The red mask extends his arms, holding the switchblade delicately between thumb and forefinger. Looka me, I don't exist!

Littlejohn ignores him. I have a connection in the intelligence community who says that Mara is a fiction cooked up by the Sicilians or the Russians to cover their tracks.

Richards nods and frowns. This organization of his, the Peli, is some sort of multi-national supermafia... a shadow mob?

Oh, please, Dickie. It's all just lot of hokum.

Yeah, Mack! There's a lotta people wish we di'n't exist. the red mask insists, a lotta dead people.

The giant returns, still under the black ski mask and pulls his compatriot aside, Mara wants you up front as soon as we get there.

The three writers huddle on the plastic seat.

The bear nods his head. I read somewhere the Sicilians call him The Devil's Twin or the Double Devil. In Marseille they call him Le Brouillard Meurtrier - the deadly fog because 'Wherever he goes, things and people disappear.'

How come youse know so much about Mista Mara? The red mask shakes his head. In Shanghai dey call him 'Da Laughing Corpse'... da man what was shot dead but got up again and killed da guys what shot 'im. Dey was so busy countin' da money, dey di'n't see him get up and, 'blam, blam, blam,' befaw dey know what hits 'em, he blows away six guys... he was a crazy man in dam days... he even left da money ... wit dem bleedin all over it. The man laughs till he coughs. Dat, ladies and gennamen, is Mista Robyto Mara. And yiz are gunna be his guests fuh da weekend. He leans to the woman. Maybe longa.

Barbara stares straight ahead.

I don't suppose, Littlejohn's derisive tone is aimed at the giant, that you could tell us what this Roberto Mara might want with three writers.

The giant points straight out across the water ahead of them. You can ask him yourself.

In the distance, a sleek jet-powered monster yacht is laying to on the broad river. It is white, the length of a football field, and outfitted with two jet-skis, two motorcycles, a white Maserati Spyder and a helicopter lashed to its upper platform.

A group of men can be seen as shadows on the top deck.

On the salon deck below, the single figure of a man clad in white watches them through a large pair of binoculars until, as the launch slows down, he is suddenly gone.

3  The Welcome

Comin' abawd!

The stern of the yacht looms above as the launch eases up to an enormous swimming platform that has been lowered to the water level. The red mask leaps aboard, slips a line over a cleat and hurries into the lower deck. The giant steps onto the platform, helps each of the writers, then swiftly unhitches the launch and waves one big arm to a figure in the darkness above.

The platform rises in hydraulic silence from the dark water to the brightly lit main deck, slowly revealing a palatial interior. And, like a very careful bull in a very expensive China shop, the giant leads his three awed captives through a succession of magnificent salons.

A spa and gym contain a lap pool, half-court basketball and boxing ring with viewing bleachers. A mansion-size living room surrounds a working walk-in fireplace with Queen Anne and Chippendale antiques. A room with stucco walls and dark Imbuya floors has postmodern metal and overstuffed furniture. Coffered cherry walls with gold-and-white brocade paneling enclose an exquisite collection of Louis XIV side pieces, settees and three-person tete-a-tete-a-tetes in the fashion of Napoleon's apartments in the Louvre. Stark white walls set off an austere Bauhaus living room. Hand-carved Moorish pieces and dark half-timbers create a long, brooding dining buffet. A library centers around a grand single-slab oak table with alternating gothic and Wright chairs. And finally, a neon and chrome replica of a 1950s diner complete with counter, swivel-chairs and booths with table-top juke-boxes ends at a large archway leading to the grand salon.

Panoramic windows wrap around this thirty-by-forty-foot great room that opens onto a spacious foredeck with walkways that run back along the length of the boat on either side. The salon is furnished as a hotel lobby with potted palms, leather couches surrounding low cocktail tables, a large oval bar and - set forward with a magnificent view over the bows – a glass-enclosed dining room.

***

As the three writers enter the salon, a tall man in a white linen suit steps in from the foredeck and stands for a moment, surveying them. He is tan, tough-guy handsome, with dark eyebrows and a glistening shaved head.

Henry, he glares at the giant, take off that ridiculous Balaclava. Then he smiles, turning to the three writers and motioning them to a group of easy chairs next to the bar. Please. Sit. Welcome. I'm Roberto Mara.

Littlejohn stares, his fat eyes narrow. It is you.

You know me, Mr. Littlejohn?

I know... of you.

Yes, yes, many people know of me. Not many know me. I try to keep that number to a minimum.

Look, Barbara Blair is emboldened, if this is a kidnap, our publisher will take care of the money...

Mara cuts her off, Please relax. It's not exactly a kidnap...

Then what the hell is it! Richards steps toward Mara, fists clenched, but the giant, still holding the Glock, leans forward ever so slightly and freezes the bear in his tracks.

Mara smiles, surveying the three, then turns his back and begins pouring himself a drink at the bar.

Mr. Richards, according to U.S. Coastguard statistics, approximately eight hundred and fifty corpses wash up on the beaches and under the piers around the world each year. Bodies with no heads, no hands, no fingerprints, no dental records – in short, no identities. And the fact is, most bodies never make it to shore. The fish eat what floats and the bones sink. Goodbye.

Disgusting. Barbara Blair mumbles into her handkerchief.

And who are they? Mara counts on his fingers. Couples sailing alone on holiday, whose boats are stolen by local pirates. Cargo ship crewmen who'll be reported lost overboard by a captain who doesn't want to explain a killing. Drug people who've fallen afoul of their enemies – or friends. And, of course, the occasional unfortunate whose bad luck or bad judgment brings him in contact with people like me.

Three sets of anxious eyes are fixed on the man in white linen.

Sit.

They sit, ensemble, without taking their eyes from the shaven head.

But not to worry. I have a much less violent solution for you.

Mara picks up three large manila envelopes from the bar and ceremoniously hands them out to Mr. Richards - for you. Mr. Littlejohn - sir. And saving beauty for last, Ms Blair.

As the writers open the envelopes, Mara circles behind their chairs. I think these photographs will be self explanatory.

He points to particular photos as though appreciating a work of art.

That's Key West isn't it, Mr. Littlejohn? Of course, you didn't get much sun on that trip - though you did have your clothes off much of the time.

Oh, please!

Ms. Blair, that's you in the tanning machine?

My god, that spa's in my building! It's secure! Women only! How the hell did you get in?

Not me - though I might have liked to.

Richard's face is a bearded beet, Jeezus! How the hell did you get into my compound? It's miles off the goddam road. Nobody even knows where it is. Jeezus!

Littlejohn stares at his pictures, stands up to protest, then sags back in resignation. So this is it? This is blackmail?

Mara shakes his head and relishes his own laugh - a series of dry intakes of breath with a kind of amiable irony. "Nonono. I'm sure your readers would love to see the great Simon Littlejohn in flagrante delecto - though in your case it's a little more flagrante and a little less delecto - but, no, it's not blackmail."

He continues to circle them, smiling. This is simply my way of illustrating just how close I can get to you, still smiling, but now his eyes are hard, any time I want to reach out and ... take your photograph.

Jeezus!

The shaken woman is searching her bag, I need a pill.

I may have something a little less chemical and more civilized, Mara steps behind the bar and spreads his arms We have everything.

Brandy. Neat. The woman nods.

And scotch for you, Mr. Richards? Mara meet's Richards' startled look. "Famous Grouse on the rocks, if my bartender tells me correctly?"

Jeezus!

And what for you Mr. Littlejohn? Something a little stronger than your usual Lilet, I'm guessing.

"Bombay. Ice." 

Good, Mara is now the affable host, we'll have a civilized conversation with drinks and dinner. Get to know one another. You'll find out why you're here. And have what I hope will be a pleasant weekend.

Weekend? Ha!' Littlejohn's derisive snort turns into a sneer. I knew you'd make a mistake, Mara. We all have plans. We'll be missed. Something you should've thought of."

That's right, the woman is almost disappointed, people will know we all are missin' and call the police.

Mara continues pouring. That's all been taken care of. Your voice-mail greetings and several e-mails will tell anyone who's looking for you that you're on a last-minute jaunt - a yachting weekend with a new friend. Which is true enough in a way.

It won't fool Dottie. She's expecting a call this weekend.

Whoever she is, Littlejohn, I'm sure she'll understand.

Jeezus, I was going to Harrison's duck-shoot on Sunday.

You've apologized, Richards.

But, darlin', every Saturday I have my hair done.

Malcolm will take you Tuesday, Ms Blair. Tuesday at... Mara looks to Henry, who consults something in his giant palm, Three o'clock.

Tuesday at three. Mara surveys his stymied guests. Anything else?

Littlejohn is insistent, shaking his head slowly. Why is it that the FBI says there is no Roberto Mara.

The FBI. Mara sighs. If they admit we exist, Mr. Littlejohn, they open the door to charges of everything from incompetence to complicity. So they say we don't exist. Or they have no evidence. Or there's a secret investigation going on. Or it goes deeper than you think. Or some other excuse that puts you off and leaves them clean.

And you're not afraid someone will get suspicious? Littlejohn growls into his gin. Call the police? Or the FBI? Or the CIA? Or Interpol? All three of us have friends in high places, you know. You must be vulnerable somewhere. Are you sure you haven't forgotten something?

Mara picks up Littlejohn's manila envelope and pats it against the fat man's bulging cummerbund, Nothing that can't be handled.

Silhouetted against one dark window, the light glaring from his white linen suit and shaven head, Mara speaks to the woman. So I believe everything has been cleared for you all to focus on the business at hand.

Which is?

4 Young Roberto

Which is...

Mara claps his hands and four men in chef's whites and toques blanche, rise from a spiral stairway bearing silver trays laden with hors d'oeuvres. They set out the array of food - a tray of oysters, a server of iced caviar surrounded by hot toast fingers, a great glass bowl of cold shrimp, sausages, cheeses, canapés steamed, broiled and baked, breads and crackers – then quietly disappear below.

... to begin with some civilized enjoyment! Mara is again the affable host.

"Mr. Littlejohn, you may want to try the Tete de Moine and Kobel Kaese. And those tiny Treberwurst are pork sausages soaked in the lees of wine - our André is from Bern.

Macabre, muses Littlejohn with some admiration.

Ugh. Barbara shudders, I couldn't eat.