MOB SISTERS - Beirut I; Turkey

3.

Nine La Femmina skippers, Victoria, Terri, Laura, Jasmine, Carole Curtis, Deborah Cook, Lily Wyszowsky, Ayla Kalkavan, and Dove Cameron shared a table under a shaded trellis at a secluded outdoor cafe fifteen kilometers outside Beirut. Their faces, dappled from the sunlight that shone through trees and vines, were intent on conversation. A soft sea breeze and the odor of bay leaves wafted up from the Mediterranean, and a Nana Mouskouri song sounded from below.

The socko impact of Dovey Cameron's fabulous looks struck like lightning from across a crowded street. Perpetually suntanned with a mane of topaz hair, long, shapely legs, a sultry walk and high rounded breasts, Dove never failed to command male attention. At the tender age of twelve, she had been a recognized child prodigy from Nashville, a prize-winning organist performing to critical acclaim at New York's Radio City Music Hall. By fifteen, she became the mistress of a famous Pacific Rim dictator, at eighteen was ousted from the regime by the tyrant's jealous wife and nearly killed in a resulting fracas. Eventually her protector installed her in Beverly Hills, where he bought her an expensive house his ruthless wife later succeeded in confiscating.

Sobered by brushes with death and by having been outwitted by the dragon lady, Dovey rose to heights as a syndicate leader. Her portion of the La Femmina pie encompassed a slice of territory south of the Mason-Dixon line, but her chief area of expertise remained the Pacific bases with which she was so familiar.

Dovey was telling the group about an offshore gambling deal she had in the works. She would own the major portion, the other crime chieftains would each have a smaller piece. Through one of her connections Dove had been able to obtain at bargain prices a lease for Netherlands Antilles beachfront property from the Dutch government, which came with a guarantee to be able to build a casino. Though normally a hotel must be constructed before the gaming license was granted, the rules in this case were waived by a special permit.

"The Dutch government will cooperate — we get the land cheap. His Royal Highness the Prince of Holland is very eager — " Dove winked knowingly. The Netherlands Queen's consort was notorious for his roving eye and taste for delicacies that lay under a skirt. "Thanks to the Prince we're going to be able to lease 500 prime beach front acres at only $500 a year for the next 99 years. The ultimate decision makers for the Dutch government here are the Prince and the Minister of Justice of Aruba. They're both in our corner. A corporation is being formed right now, and development is the next stage."

Victoria plucked a fresh fig from the silver epergne in front of her, split it in half and dunked it in cream. She asked, "Why is the prince being so generous? How come we're getting this deal so cheap?"

"Friendship and trust," Dovey winked. "In exchange, we promise to invest American money in furniture and fixtures. They'll even guarantee a government loan to build the hotel. Preferential treatment all the way."

"Having one of these offshore places is a license to steal," Jasmine said. "I think we should set more horizons in this direction."

"Definitely," Carole Curtis, partner in a prestigious Washington, D.C. law firm, one of the nation's best loophole lawyers, and head of the Beltway branch of the LFM agreed. "The smart money's offshore. The couriers are hauling it away by the barrelload." Carole was tall and wore little makeup. A bump on her aristocratic nose gave her a distinctively memorable air.

The topic switched to the agenda nearest and dearest to Vic's heart, narcotics. Jasmine said, "Our retail outlets need more merchandise, and we need a bigger, cheaper supply. We're getting gouged right now."

Laura said, "At present there are eighteen steps from growing to distribution ahead of the point where we enter. Eliminating just a few of these middlemen will bring enormous profits. Economically we want to plot a better course." She shuffled sheets of paper and picked one from the pile, held it up and began consulting her figures.

"We're told that opium purchased for not more than $100 at the first round will eventually escalate to five million on the street in western sales, having been cut again and again. One estimate says the Corsicans buy their raw opium in Turkey for around $25 for ten kilos. When they transform it in their labs into one kilo of morphine, it's then worth $5000 FOB. After it becomes heroin, they get not only their wholesale price but a kickback on sales of final product. 5-6000 or 7000 kilos a year can supply the US market, around 12-15 tons. The Corsicans have got 80 per cent of this traffic. In addition, their product is superior."

"In what way superior?" Dovey asked.

"Other heroin producers can manage only about a 90% purity, whereas the Corsicans can go between 97-99% pure, and that's in big demand," Jasmine answered.

"Think if we didn't have to pay the Corsican markups, if we could bypass or knock the Corsicans out of their monopoly... too many steps, too many middlemen," Laura said.

"Streamlining would entail a big initial capitalization, but in the long run would pay off handsomely," Turkish-born Ayla Kalkavan remarked.

Until now the Corsican network had been providing the LFM and most of the other American underworld retail systems with all the heroin they could use. Now the LFMs wanted to explore alternative methods which could provide a more profitable artery with less intermediaries.

Ayla's slanted slate-colored lynx eyes were fringed with a thicket of dark lashes. Five years of struggle as an architect had led her to look to the LFM for her fortune. She'd made a great success from her Boston stronghold, and was now also dating the governor of Massachusetts, a widower with twelve children.

Ayla continued, "We believe that our present $60,000 kilogram buying price can be reduced to a tenth that amount. Multiply that by the tons, then you start getting an idea of the profits. Just take an 8 ton per year figure, estimate a conservative one million a kilo street price and you don't need a pocket computer to tell you we're talking about billions. And in addition, control. Control's the key element."

One idea under consideration was to start their own Turkish operation. The plan involved going into Turkey on reconnaissance. Several intermediaries would be necessary to buy opium in small lots direct from Turkish peasant growers, each of whom would supply 3-5 kilos.

Ayla, as a native Turk, was a natural to take charge of investigations. She proposed a broker buying up the lots for an account designated by a La Femmina financier in Istanbul or Ankara. The goods would then be smuggled to Syria along little known paths, facilitated through customs officials and ex-soldiers who would guide the caravans through Turkish government-laid mine fields along the border. In Syria, the consignment would be delivered to the party responsible for the transformation of the chocolate covered opium into base morphine. The morphine would be shipped from Aleppo to Beirut, the latter being a free port, not subject to customs, in addition to being a center for banking secrecy. With bribery of the right officials the wheels could be set in motion for the growing, processing and smuggling stages.

Jasmine was still claiming she was going to draw her financier friend Maurice Hirsch into the picture, but the situation was still on hold.

Vic said, "I can see all this as possible over the long term, but we need a good pipeline for the short term. There's no reason we can't double or triple or present capacity immediately. Now is the time to move, before the competition gets any stronger. I have a few ideas in this direction. If I can come up with a solid immediate heroin plan for increasing our profits, do I have everyone's cooperation?"

"Of course," Laura said. "We're always looking to make money."

Already plans were in the works for an offshore fund named Second General, from which they would be able to borrow huge amounts once it was set up. Deborah Cook, official moneymover for the group, described the venture.

Deborah, whose face evoked the lingering beauty of a Picasso line drawing, had faintly sucked in cheeks and an expression that seemed always to be sheltering a smile. Auburn hair framed her pleasant heart shaped face. Deserted by her husband after the birth of twin sons, soon afterward Deborah had become secretary-mistress to the head of a Wall Street brokerage firm specializing in new issues. Her former lover taught her the inner workings of the securities business, practices she put to work on La Femmina behalf. At the outset, Deborah tapped into brokerage house excess funds accounts, generated revenues for nonexistent customers, and after that, there was no end to the other schemes she came up with. Her expertise was crucial in laundering and hiding funds.

Deborah said, "We've discussed this Cayman Island reinsurance situation previously. Now we have a more coherent picture." The scent of Deborah's sweet smelling perfume competed successfully with the fragrant and profuse wildflowers.

Deborah turned her attention to a sheaf of papers concerning the fund deal for which the La Femmina organization was seeking ten million in startup capital. "Income will accumulate offshore without any current or future taxation," she explained. "We've designed this so on paper it will appear to be controlled by foreigners or anonymous US shareholders, thus eliminating all taxation in the US under Subpart F rules."

Lily Wyszowsky, quiet, unassuming holocaust survivor with a degree from Queens College and an Advanced Professional Certificate in Accounting from NYU, was the outfit's double and triple book accountant. Lily said, "There's literally no practical method by which the IRS can police a transaction involving two foreign reinsurers, because this would violate the privacy acts of the Cayman Islands."

Carole picked up the ball. "Second General has a very solid working relationship with one of this outfit's best people, Michelle Palmer, subcapo with the Susan Goldman regime in Los Angeles. Michelle runs a general insurance office in Glendale. A combination of premiums we'll have coming through Michelle, plus what Second General brings with them will start us off with nearly 20 million in gross premium writings, and with reshuffling we should triple the existing investment income in the first year. As an international service corporation, the insurance company can pool multinational exposures of any company. It will operate directly as well as in major countries, through service brokers or consultants or through domestic fronting companies."

"This deal has got to be the greatest moneymaking gimmick in decades," Laura enthused, intent on business at hand. "And the beauty is everything we need to make it fly is right here in Beirut."

"Ten million," Terri said. "We already have two or three good possibilities. We should have it settled by the time we leave."

Vic knew Terri was probably right; you could do anything here. Pre-civil war Beirut was a fabulous place to be, like nowhere else before or since. The city was crawling with entrepreneurs, industrialists, sheiks, maharajahs, bankers, oil men, movie people. You could close any venture here, including all manner of clandestine operations, such as the item nearest to Victoria's heart, narcotics.

Two large oil pipelines, the Trans-Arabian terminal in Sidon and the Aramco Tripoli pipeline, had put Beirut on the map, bringing to it an influx of the world's financial corporations and turning it into a dynamic multinational society. Visitors flocked to this al fresco paradise, where nine months of the year business was conducted at waterfront cafes and on the broad white sandy beaches.

The city's heart, "Ras Beirut," was a hilly peninsula nestled in the Mediterranean. On its seafront ran the Avenue de Paris. At the Sabbagh commercial center on the Rue Hamma, a blustering area overflowing with cafes serving exotic cuisine from all over the world, patrons lingered for hours, wheeling and dealing while enjoying the atmosphere in which old mingled with new — clusters of ancient stone houses stood smack against tall modern skyscrapers, and there were cedar stands with trees over 1000 years old. The elegance and beauty of Lebanon's great capital captured the imagination; the style fascinated: elderly men in fezes puffing on water pipes, shawarma vendors everywhere. In this city of languid sunsets and golden light, clad in a bikini, you could conclude important international affairs under the appreciative stares of admiring males from every corner of the globe.

Since their arrival, days and nights had been a neverending round of meetings. At the harborfront cafes of Tyre, Sidon, Byblos and Tripoli, and at the mountain casinos, the La Femminas had already negotiated apartment complexes in Florida and Spain, Brazilian emeralds, Israeli diamonds, sugar and coffee deals. On their agenda was also a major project afoot to develop the Algarve coastline of Portugal into a resort area with hotels, casinos and a marina.

Beirut was unparalleled as a source for loans, laundering, lines of credit, moving counterfeits — in short, for anything the La Femmina mind could conceive.

The LFM party was staying at the sumptuous Hotel St. Georges, where the sea below spread out from the curving green land like blue silk, calm and peaceful. In the hills surrounding the city, some of the richest men in the mid east maintained stucco residences rivaling sultans' palaces.

Beirut's fabled nightlife never disappointed — the wild, legendary Le Tabou, where American oil drillers played poker for $1000 hands; the Caves du Roy, alive with the sound of English pop groups; the Arab shows of the Casbah, where dazzling sequined belly dancers contrasted with sober darksuited musicians.

Evenings, they explored the wonders of Macumba, a popular night spot located under the Palm Beach Hotel that boasted Italian music, papier-mache parrots, rum bottles on walls and ceilings, an aura of privateering on the Spanish Main, and an impressionist in a ten-gallon hat doing an imitation of American cowboys in French and in Arabic with a Texas accent.

Drinks here were served by robust golden-tressed Valkyrie maidens, recruitment potential for LFM soldiers. In addition, Victoria rescued three peasant girls from Marika's, a famous local bordello, offering them training for impending expanded narcotics operations.


"So Maurice can't make it this trip?" Victoria fell in step with Jasmine, as they moved on to the Kit Kat, a nightclub situated at the end of the Avenue des Français, across from Anzak Harry's Bar. From somewhere nearby, you could hear mixed strains of Edith Piaf and Dalida competing.

"You know how busy Maurice is. But it'll happen, not to worry. Meantime, I like Dovey's deal," Jasmine was saying. "I'd like to expand that end of operations, find other casino situations, own a bigger piece than we do on Dove's deal."

"Get the drugs moving, get more launderable money and we'll be in a position to do anything," Vic said.

The Kit Kat terrace opened to the sea. From this vantage point one could see both the a fabulous floorshow that offered the most tantalizing fleshpots of Lebanon, as well as the glowingly lighted ships across the way in Beirut harbor. The QE II, anchored offshore, was ablaze with twinkling luminosity. A shimmering moon gliding across the water, coupled with the warm soft breeze, was tropical and romantic.

It was the golden age of Beirut: omnipresent Saudi and Kuwaiti sheikhs sent out swarthy procurers in long American-made limousines to tempt willing European adventuresses to visit their hillside villas. The young ladies, heedless of warnings about white slavery and Arab sado-masochistic practices, jumped at the chance and were financially well-rewarded.

At the Aley on the Damascus Road behind Beirut, mideast potentates pegged their prizes with leis of jasmine blossoms. Choice female specimens were then escorted to the sheikhs' palaces in air conditioned Daimlers, where they extracted a minimum wage of $1000 a night and up to $10,000 per screw, together with the guarantee of an old age pension.

Just the other night at the Bar les Troubadours, a disco converted from an old crusader warehouse, people were pointing out a voluptuous blonde "dancer" who had recently scored $300,000 in cash and a home worth half a million in exchange for exotic "dancing" at a very private party at the Al-Bustan Hotel in the hills of Buomana. It was like a different world. This was a philosophy diametrically opposed to La Femmina mafiosità.

Midway through a shot of ouzo, Victoria caught sight of someone who'd stopped to chat at a nearby table. The guy was like an apparition, an arctic flash in a white suit, icy and in full command.

"Who is that divine hunk?" she asked, intrigued.

"Charles Cestari," Laura said, "the Corsican Romeo, numero uno in narcotics himself. Are you ready for that?"

Ah so. Vic sized him up. He was goodlooking in the extreme, his pretty boy features masking a rattlesnake quality that lurked underneath. An inner perniciousness fairly seeped out of his pores, giving him an intriguing appeal.

As he moved on, Victoria, followed him with her eyes until he was out of sight, and felt an alternating tightening, then loosening of her anal muscles. It always started that way. The ass snap was a good sign. She had the feeling this man would somehow occupy a key place in her life. And then he just breezed out, leaving her wondering when she'd see him again. Cestari was the man to get to.

After that sighting, she looked for the Corsican everywhere, at the Kit Kat, Macumba, le Tabou. He was supposed to be highly visible on the Beirut scene, but except for that brief flash, he had eluded her. She went to his casino, the des Collines, and was told he left town unexpectedly and would be gone at least two weeks. Would she like to leave a message?

No, thanks, Vic said, feeling a sinking sensation in her stomach. Well, she'd hadn't solidified the connection this time around, but now she knew — she was going to get to this guy if it was the last thing she did.

In the meantime, she'd decided to make the trip to Turkey.


4.

It was the strangest thing: Jasmine, Ayla and Laura had been set to go to Turkey but canceled the trip. Their reason for backing off, they said, was that the original idea of trying to get a large supply of heroin direct from in Turkey no longer made sense, Ayla's further investigations having convinced them they would be unable to obtain enough product there to operate successfully on a big enough scale.

Supposedly the Corsicans had things wrapped up; the natives were neither able to fill additional orders nor refine the heroin effectively. Vic didn't believe it. Her feeling was if you were persistent enough you could accomplish anything. The others were focused elsewhere.

"I think we're missing a golden opportunity," Vic dissented. "This is such a natural for us."

"There's still time — "

She didn't like the sound of it. Having been screwed once too often, she wouldn't want this to be a repeat of the cocaine story. No doubt, as usual, the others had something up their sleeve. She'd just have to take matters into her own hands.

She spoke to Ayla, who stuck to her guns, insisting that based on new information the plan wasn't sound. But Vic didn't want to accept someone else's word for it, even Ayla's. Now just suppose if she went into Turkey and brought this thing off herself, showed everyone they were wrong, that the deal could be made. Everyone here, all these self-styled pezzo da novanta types, would they be surprised. Laura had said they would invest if there was a way to go that made sense. Well, she'd give them that way. So through Ayla, Vic arranged to connect with somebody trustworthy in Turkey, and caught the next flight out.


It was drizzling when they arrived at immigration at Yeshilkoy. She was met by a guide and interpreter named Nuri. They drove along the Kennedy Caddesi by the Marmara Sea, past the fishing piers and outdoor cafes along the Byzantine city walls.

Nuri pointed out the sights, as the car passed a green canyon of cedar trees, willows, tamarisk and Russian olive. The countryside was full of yellow daisies and ground lupins. Overhead flocks of red breasted geese called ankaz were heading for Arctic migration.

Vic was sure this potentially more profitable artery involving less intermediaries would work out beautifully. Of course she still intended to connect with Cestari — from the brief glimpse she'd had of him in Beirut, the guy was too incredibly appealing to pass up. He might even be so impressed with the way she zeroed in for the kill, he'd invite her to join his operation as an associate.

By yourself, you couldn't do anything here in Turkey; you needed references. It could be dangerous without protection, and bribery was the name of the game. Vic was prepared. She had confidence in Nuri to explain everything necessary to make this deal.

They passed 12th century yellow granite castles whose medieval towers flew the white crescent Turkish flag. Music from the Turkish hit parade was blasting over radios everywhere, until thorough the town loudspeaker the muzzein chanted his call to prayer. The weather cleared. They paused for lunch at a crowded smoke-filled tea house where men were pitching backgammon dice between swills of spiked tea from tulip-shaped glasses. Outside, the townswomen went on endlessly weaving rugs, tying knots on vegetable dyed yarn and silk. It would take two years to finish a rug that would sell for $200 a square yard.

The journey continued. Opium was cultivated in areas removed from the frontiers, originally in twenty-one provinces, later in sixteen and then it was cut down to only four provinces, Afyon, Kutahya, Isparta and Burdur.

A thousand foot high mountain jutted up in the center of the town of Afyon. The local farmers called this town the "Black Citadel of Opium Mountain," and for over one thousand years it had been the capital of opium growing in Turkey.

In summer the region was stark, baked dry; in winter icy winds blew off the steppes. The poppy was the staple of village life. In spring the brilliant flower bloomed with white and purple petals. Weeding and hoeing took place in March and May. In late June and early July, poppy pods emerged and gum oozed out, remaining on the pod overnight to congeal into a substance with the consistency of clay, which was collected the following day by scraping. An acre of poppy yielded twenty pounds of dark gum, to be shaped into loaves and stored.

In guarded mountain caves, armed men kept watch over what was estimated as at least 200 tons of opium base. Base was also kept in small amounts in assorted private cellars, barns and warehouses, often used as dowries and as insurance against inflation. When changed to morphine base it became an easily smuggled powder.

The illegal market price for a pound of opium in Turkey was ten dollars. Enough gum to manufacture a kilo of heroin that sold on the streets of New York for hundreds of thousands of dollars could be purchased in Turkey for a mere $220. Or you could purchase a kilo of morphine base from the Corsicans at $5000 FOB. If on the other hand you opted for finished product, pure white #4, you'd have to pay between $50 and $60 grand.

The trick, of course, was to peg your supply, purchase enough base, then get the manufacturing done cheaper than the Corsicans could do it. She'd worry about supply routes later. Thanks to her shilly-shallying LFM partners, she'd been held back long enough. It was time for action, and she was ready to deal.

At 4:30 a.m. the next day, Vic breakfasted on the Turkish steppes on stale bread, goat cheese and hot tea with milk boiled with sugar, slices of pita bread and tarhana soup, a mixture of boiled wheat, yogurt, butter, tomatoes, chicken entrails and green peppers. Nuri, who would be escorting her straight to the poppy fields, entertained with jokes, bawdy songs, magic tricks and imitations of Turkish pop singers.

Some of the villages in the Afyon province were accessible only by donkey ride up tall mountains. The village of Degirmendere was one of the opium growing areas that radiated from the Opium Citadel.

The women toiled in the poppy fields. In fact, all the work here was done by women, while the men played cards, drank and loafed. Although wearing the veil had been forbidden by the government since Ataturk's reform, every woman in the village over the age of fifteen wore one. The women also had to wear long sleeved blouses and pantaloons regardless of the heat, so that men would not become sexually aroused. The men claimed it was always the woman's fault when crimes of passion occurred, so females must obey, cover up, toil as beasts of burden and hope for the best.

Midmorning, the hospitable peasants served poppyseed bread and small glasses of Turkish tea. Through Nuri interpreting, Vic learned the peasants did not understand why the United States made such a fuss about drugs, that the big problem were the junkies who were using opium the wrong way. "My thinking entirely," Vic agreed.

At a local cafe she met Mehmet Yonuncuoglu, an agricultural agent who headed the squadron that assured farmers sold the required percentage of their legal crop to the government. On the side Yonuncuoglu owned parcels of land which he rented out to growers in return for half the profits of the opium crops sold illegally. Many Turkish legislators came from the poppy growing region and countless deputies and their families were involved in the black market.

Over warm vodka and cola, they discussed planning and financing of large scale smuggling operations that would make her one of the biggest importers of heroin to the United States. This could be arranged, Yonuncuoglu said. He would require as payment either small arms, gold or Swiss francs. His brother-in-law could transport, his nephew convert to morphine base.

The base could be smuggled in TIR trucks so that Customs after leaving Turkey would be unnecessary, shipped across Bulgaria to Munich, where it would be stored. His fee would be $7000 for 100 kilos of morphine base, a big break in price from the Corsicans. Another way he liked to do the job was to wreck a car; the authorities seldom checked wrecked cars.

After lunch, Nuri stayed to talk and fraternize with the locals, while Vic went to a hotel to make a phone call. She was excited and couldn't wait to tell Harry how well things were progressing. After their conversation, she wandered around outside, noticing that the peasants had retired from the fields to take an afternoon siesta. She'd eaten a heavy meal and suddenly felt like napping, herself. From the car she retrieved a blanket and placed it near the deserted poppy fields to lie down.

In the warmth of the sun, Vic contentedly basked in pleasant sensations. Everything was coming together beautifully. Funny, though, she really missed Harry. She'd been thinking about him a lot this trip, about what a great person he was. He kind of reminded her of the old song, "Just My Bill, an ordinary guy; you'd meet him on the street and never notice him." That was like Harry — you wouldn't notice him, either. He was a chubby tapioca blob of a man with the look of a past-his-prime NFL linebacker. His washed out appearance blended into the scenery; there was a greyish cast to his face, like he'd spent the winter holed up in a dingy basement. A severe, short haircut made him resemble a skinned rat, and his dishwater colored eyes were ringed with yellowish circles, like two almost-healed black eyes. His bite needed fixing, and when he smiled he showed blunt edges of worn down, tobacco-stained teeth. An Adonis Harry wasn't, though he did have a certain animal appeal. Regardless of anything, he was the most unusual man she'd ever known. An aficionado of gun magazines, covert newsletters and police bulletins, he was, like herself, also an avid daily reader of the Wall Street Journal. And there wasn't a cleaner man in God's creation; compulsive about personal hygiene, he usually took two or even three showers a day.

Vic was looking forward to getting home. Gazing up at the sky, feeling satisfaction at a job well done, she fantasized the reunion she and Harry would have in just a couple of days, and dozed off with her mouth open. Nobody ever told her that this area was legendary for its small snakes that loved to crawl down human throats and lodge in human stomachs.

Just minutes later she awoke, screaming and choking, with a mouth and esophagus full of reptiles. Already, tiny, odd microscopic organisms from the snakes were attacking her immune system. She was rushed to the hospital in critical condition.

Several weeks of recuperation would be necessary before she'd be ready to be moved and allowed to fly back to the States.