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  A Present For Santa. Copyright ©1986 by James Burke.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  No Part of this book may be used or reproduced

  in any manner whatsoever without written permission

  except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information, address TFBlack, LLC,

  1129 Vintner Blvd. Palm Beach Gardens, FL 33410

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Burke, James 1921-1997

  A Present For Santa

  First TF Black, LLC Printing: February 2015

  ISBN 978-1-63415-038-5

  This book is dedicated to Mary, who knows why

  PROLOGUE

  It was raining hard, but the brunt of the rush hour traffic was off the streets, so the dark coupe was making good time up the Drive. The blond man, driving alone, was handling the car mechanically, his mind far from Chicago's glistening streets.

  He turned left off the Drive and headed west, then north again. He stopped in front of an apartment building entrance and touched his horn. A woman who'd been waiting just inside the heavy glass doors came out and dashed across the sidewalk to his car. She climbed in quickly with a splattering of water, shaking more from her plastic head cover as she took it off and laid it on the floor next to her wet bag. She reached over and kissed the man's cheek, but he didn't seem to notice as he pulled the car back into traffic. He turned right at the second intersection, drove a couple of blocks east, and began looking for a parking place. He found one and skillfully maneuvered the car into it, then got out, opening his umbrella as he did, and moved around to the other side to let the woman out. They walked quickly to a nearby building, she clutching his arm.

  Inside the lobby the woman shed her raincoat and dabbed at her tanned cheeks with a kerchief as they waited for the elevator. On the fourth floor, they stopped in front of an apartment door while the man used two keys to open a pair of formidable-looking locks. Then he pushed the door open and stepped back politely to let her precede him. As she crossed the threshold there was a blinding flash of light and then a deafening roar as the walls seemed to disintegrate and the floor erupted and bucked. Time seemed suspended for one lucid fraction of a second as the man saw the woman literally fly apart in every direction-blood, bone, flesh, gore, and cloth, just seeming to hang in midair. Then a million needles tore at his face, his eyes, his body; a giant fist slammed into his middle, hurling him backward and crumpling him against the steel of the elevator doors. There was an instant of consciousness in which he heard the clattering madness of a thousand trains and felt the reverberations of their wheels passing over his head. Then at last there was the silence of oblivion.

  The young nurse was sick with compassion. How could the poor man be alive? But he was and conscious. He was battered beyond belief: blind, legless, one arm amputated above the elbow, the other a mangled mess, head and internal injuries they couldn't even count or locate, much less diagnose; still he hung on. She had been standing by his bed, just watching, when his hand had moved. And then he had struggled to form words, trying until he did it with such force and distinction that she had understood and obeyed. She'd brought the paper and pencil, and he'd used that mutilated hand to write his request. When he had finished he'd dropped the pencil and his bandaged fingers had grasped her wrist, holding it tightly until the gauze began to turn pink and she told him gently that she understood. He had relaxed his grip and she'd left, taking the paper to the chief resident. The chief had looked at it, listened to her explanation, and then reached for the phone. He dialed a number, waited, then asked to speak to the U.S. district attorney.

  1

  As Morley rounded the curve in the path he could see the old man sitting quietly on the bench, looking across the lake toward the mainland. He was a handsome old guy. Dapper as hell. Always looked like he was dressed for lunch at some ritzy hotel. Dapper Dan. That's how Morley had thought of him since the first time. The old man smiled as Morley approached, moving toward the end of the bench and patting in invitation the space he'd vacated.

  Morley sat down. "Morning, Dan."

  "Morning. You're early today."

  "Nothin' better to do, so I decided to take a little extra walk. How 'bout you? You're pretty early too."

  "Too nice a day. Couldn't stand it inside any longer. Besides, I've got to go back North tomorrow, and from the latest weather reports I'll need all the Florida sun I can store up."

  "Hope you don't have to stay long."

  "I don't think so. Maybe a week at the outside. I'm too old for all that snow and ice."

  "Hell, Dan, I'm too old for it."

  They both laughed at that, as the disparity in their ages was great and obvious. Morley was still on the sunny side of forty, and Dan, well preserved and tailored as he was, had seen sixty quite a few years ago. The older man got serious. "I've got a pickup and delivery for Saturday. Could you handle it for me?"

  "Don' know why not. Same deal as usual?"

  "No, not quite." Dan looked away, hesitated a moment, then turned back to the younger man and went on. "No, it's really very different this time. I've never lied to you before and I won't start now." He smiled. "Of course, I've not always told you all the truth - but you've known that."

  Morley raised an eyebrow, nodded in assent, but said nothing.

  "Okay. I’ll tell you what I think you need to know about this one, and you decide if you're in or not. No hard feelings if it's no, but I'd sure appreciate it if you'd take it."

  Again Morley said nothing, so again the old man went on.

  "This one is different, but in degree. We'll use the same procedures - although the timing will be tighter and we'll have to hold to it - but the package is more important, more secret, more valuable than before."

  Morley nodded; Dan continued. "I do not believe there will be any danger for you, and it's certainly not illegal for you. There could be danger before it gets to you, and even after you send it on its way but I repeat, not for you."

  "May I ask why the big distinction?"

  "Yes, that's an acceptable question." The old man laughed. "Because the knowledge of all the procedures 'in this operation, and of your part in it, is held by only one person - me. The other two parties don't know each other's roles, nor does either of them know who you are."

  "Hmm. I think I like it that way. May I ask why this particular package is dangerous?"

  "Yes, as long as we don't get into specifics. This is a very negotiable package. Whenever you've got something like this, there's always a chance somebody or something will go sour, somebody whose greed exceeds his discretion." The old man smiled again. "You know, Pat, there are people - some of whom we deal with - who firmly believe that 'fair shares' start after they get theirs."

  "I won't ask what people."

  "Good. That is not an acceptable question."

  "And you still say my piece of this action is legit?"

  "I assure you so although I'll admit that the overall deal might not be considered kosher in some circles."

  "I've known that, Dan." Morley smiled widely. "The work's too easy and the pay's too good. There has to be a wrinkle somewhere."

  "How did you get so cynical at such an early age?"

  "Just lucky, I guess."

  "Any other questions?"

  "Yeah, but I know better than to ask."

  "Are you in?"

  "I'm in."

  "Good. Pickup will be at Miami International, Saturday, one P.M., Eastern information desk. Use your Carradine papers. You won't need anything else. Envelope for Carradine will be there no later than twelve-forty-five. Your pickup no later
than one P.M. Okay?"

  "Okay. That is a tight schedule."

  "That's what I meant, but it's not too tight, is it?"

  "Not for me, Dan. Just so your other boy makes it."

  "He will. I assure you."

  "And how about delivery?"

  "West Palm Airport, five P.M. same day - Saturday. United desk. Use key, or check if no keys available. You can even use the bus station if necessary. This man will have leeway. He's not booked out 'til seven-thirty on United to New York, but you should observe the five P.M. deadline."

  Morley nodded and Dan continued. "The envelope with this ticket" - he handed Morley a one-way ticket from West Palm Beach to La Guardia -" and your key or check should be left for Mr. Merle Sandstone. Any questions?"

  "Have I ever seen Sandstone?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Has he ever seen me?"

  "I can't imagine how. No. I'm sure. No."

  "And you think we should try to keep it that way?"

  "I think we have to."

  "Hmm. You've never felt that strongly before."

  "I told you. This time it's different. Believe me:"

  "I do. I’ve got it. I can’t make sure Merle Sandstone doesn't see me, but I can make sure he doesn't see the real me."

  "Good. Exactly what I meant. I'm not trying to scare you, but the less other parties know, the better I like it."

  "Agreed."

  "Ernie Pro will arrange for your stipend in the usual way, as soon as the transfer is confirmed."

  "That I don't worry about, although I've gotta admit I live better'n I used to." Morley smiled at this. It was true.

  The old man shook his head, waving an index finger at him playfully. "Just see you don't live so well you get those tax bastards snooping around."

  "C'mon, Dan, it's not that much. Unless you gave me a raise."

  The old man laughed again, then quickly got serious. "There will be a little something extra this time. After all, you're getting some seniority in your profession."

  "That’s great. Now if I only knew my profession was. "

  The old man smiled but said nothing. He stood up, brushed off the seat of his trousers, and started to walk away. He stopped after a couple steps, turned, and lifted his hand in a half salute. "See you next week, Pat. Usual signals." As he started away he turned back again. "Be careful."

  Morley returned the wave and just as seriously said, "You too." He stayed there on the bench, watching as the old man carefully crossed the highway and disappeared into a nearby oceanfront high rise. Morley felt sad. He couldn't have explained why; he just did. After a couple of minutes he got up and headed south along the shore, hands in pockets, a worried look on his face.

  Friday was a bright, gorgeous day, with just a few puffy clouds, none of them big enough or high enough to deaden the warmth of the January sun. Morley had been fishing at Lake Okeechobee all day Thursday and then out late with fishermen companions that night. Still he was up early and out on the street long before the "snowbirds" had begun their daily pilgrimage to the beach. Hot or cold, rain or shine, each morning Morley walked over the huge arched causeway to the mainland to pick up his paper. His paper was the Chicago Tribune, and the newsstand held it for him each day. He'd had to make a special order and pay weekly in advance to get the regular city edition, as the various out-of-state editions did not carry the want ads and personals.

  This paper business had begun early in his relationship with Dan Casper - in fact, right after his first pickup and delivery and his first stipend. Dan had suggested to Morley that they use the want ads and personals of the Tribune to "assist and protect their communication." What he'd meant was that he would use them to send Morley pickup and delivery instructions when he, Dan, was out of Florida, which at that time was quite often. At the time, Morley had been more amused than impressed, but it had worked well.

  At that same time, Dan had given him a code name, "Santa," which was a source of amusement to both of them. He'd also given him a rather extensive open code of letters and words, which were used in the Tribune and in all other communications to disguise their messages.

  Back in his apartment, Morley settled into his lounger to study the pertinent parts of the Tribune. It was possible that Dan might change some aspect of Saturday's job. It had happened before. But there were no messages, so Morley began to read the rest of the paper. He turned the front page, looked down, and gasped.

  Lead column, page three, a two-column write-up with pictures - SUSPECTED SYNDICATE FINANCE CHIEF AND SECRETARY GUNNED DOWN IN WASHINGTON D.C. STREET. The pictures showed a smiling Dan Casper and a serious Ernie Pro, both looking very much alive. Dante Cappacino (evidently his real name) and Dorothy E. Prohaska (obviously hers) had just left a fashionable downtown restaurant and were strolling east near Lafayette Park, only a block from the White House, when the killers opened fire from a car that had pulled up at the curb beside them. The victims had fallen in the traditional hail of bullets; the gunmen had raced off in the traditional tire-squealing getaway car; the police were following the traditional myriad leads with alacrity. Cappacino had been pronounced dead at the scene; Miss Prohaska was in critical condition in a Washington hospital.

  Morley came out of shock slowly but completely. He had heard something about a gangland shooting in Washington on the radio yesterday over at the lake, but he'd missed the names and details, so it hadn’t meant anything to him. But this changed everything. He forced himself to be calm, to think, to try and turn this unexpected occurrence to his own advantage.

  He thought back to the first time he'd met Dan, and later, Ernie Pro. Could it have been only nine months ago? Time has a way of playing tricks on an idle mind -and idle he'd been ever since Monnie's death. A few months of going through the motions of work, knowing that neither his head nor his heart was in it. And then coming down here to Florida, supposedly on a sabbatical aimed at getting his head screwed back on, a sabbatical that had stretched on and on, with no end in sight. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, money had been no problem. His uncle’s estate and the proceeds from holdings that Monnie had had in her own name meant that he hadn't had to work at all for a few years, so it had been easy to exist, just blowing the days, weeks, and months in idle pursuits. But he was too young, too healthy, and too energetic to be forever content with self-enforced idleness; maybe that was why he'd been so receptive to the Dan Casper overture. Maybe. He knew he didn't want to go back to the military job from which he'd resigned. It was too hooked in to all the "Monnie memories," especially the final one: tangled, smoking fabric and metal, and blanket-covered bodies in a torn-up grain field. But then, he wasn't sure he wanted to get involved in something new, either; he had finally admitted to himself that he just didn’t know what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He had consoled himself with the assurance that one day he’d find a direction, and then he’d know.

  In those empty days nine months ago Morley had often walked along the bike path that followed the eastern shore of Lake Worth. It was a pleasant three miles, quiet, relaxing, and most of all, conducive to thinking. That particular day he'd found Dan sitting on a bench across from the northernmost group of high rises, and, in the local fashion, had wished him a good morning. This had happened a number of times before the older man invited him to share the bench and chat. They'd begun to talk, feeling each other out like strangers do, sometimes walking the path, but more often sitting on a bench - the old man made it known that he wasn't much of a walker. They were pleasant talks, learning a bit about each other, the kinds of things you're willing to tell strangers. Gradually, their conversation had become more broad-based and general, and Morley had been impressed by the man's knowledge, especially on a number of Morley's favorite subjects. But most of all he liked the old man's whimsical sense of humor, his ability to mock gravity with absurdity, and his willingness to laugh at himself.

  Morley began to notice that his new friend Dan was skillfully edging many of the
ir conversations onto the subject of background, personal experience, jobs, family, and so forth. Although he volunteered some information and seemed to answer quickly and frankly any of Morley's questions about his own background, the old man seemed much more intent on encouraging Morley to talk about himself.

  It was a hot, humid day in early May when their relationship had gone from the fraternal to the fiduciary. Morley still didn't know whether the incident was contrived or real. As he became exposed to more of Dan's maneuverings in the ensuing months, his better judgment told him that the affair had been a well-staged fake. Now that the only two who knew for sure were dead or dying, he would never be sure. But on that day it had seemed very real.

  They had walked a few blocks down the path and then returned to the bench. Although the weather had cut the walk to a short and leisurely stroll, Dan had appeared a little woozy and breathless. When he mentioned he was experiencing some discomfort in his chest, Morley had accepted it, as he was supposed to. Then, at Dan's request, he had gone to the old man's apartment and brought back his nitroglycerin pills. Ernie Pro was out at the time. The pills seemed to ease Dan’s pain, but Morley had insisted on accompanying him back to the apartment to make sure he was okay. The old man was adamant about not wanting a doctor.

  It was on this second visit that Morley had begun to notice things. First, that Dan's apartment was luxuriously furnished. This he had expected, but the degree was impressive. He figured it had cost upwards of forty thou to put in the basics. Then his trained eye noted all the security features - doors, windows, locks, and wiring, even an electric eye. It went way beyond the means or desires of the usual condominium owner. And Dan's office compounded his suspicions: complicated phone system comprised of several phone lines. One phone had no numbers, no dials, and no identification at all. There was also a taping system, with remote, auto, or manual; an answering machine; recorders; and on and on. A cabinet was filled with phone books from all over the world and airline schedules of all kinds and from all countries, both master books and smaller seasonal schedules. It had been immediately apparent that Dan was neither retired nor vacationing when he wintered in Florida.