New by R. A. SCOTTI

BASILICA
The Splendor and the Scandal
Building St. Peter's

&

SUDDEN SEA
The Great Hurricane of 1938

A Book-of-the-Month Club Selection.
"One hell of a story! A whodunit thriller in reverse sure to hold your interest until the bitter end."
—Attenzione

A tangled case of money laundering leads CIA operative George Bannigan on a trail from the poppy fields of Afghanistan to the inner sanctum of the Vatican Bank, from the swank salons of Milan to the boardrooms of Manhattan, and embroils him in high-stakes international finance and drug trafficking.


Read an EXCERPT
A couple of inches give or take on either side and the twin-engine Fokker would graze he ragged fangs of the Hindu Kush. George Bannigan looked out at the Khyber Pass, a gaping mouth surrounded by rocky teeth. Edged between them as tightly as plaque were the reasons he had travelled halfway around the globe to the treacherous mountain belt that girded the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan: pockets of color as potentially lethal as they were beautiful. Bannigan leaned forward to study the fields of poppies below, the flowers of pink, white and red blurring in a sunset of color.

Except for the poppy fields, it was mean looking country, and you had to be clever or cruel to survive in it. Bannigan wondered if he was enough of either. The Fokker sucked in a draught of wind between peaks and shuddered. Bannigan shuddered with it. Of all the glorious spots on earth, he had to end up here, pretending to sell guns to men who would slit his throat if they ever suspected his true purpose. His only comfort was the silver saxophone in its battered black case beside the cache of weapons stashed under his seat.

Maybe he'd done it all wrong and his old man had been right...he could have been a dentist with a lucrative practice in Santa Clara, a jacuzzi, a 36-foot Pearson, a Porsche, and-and-a-half kids, and a sun-tanned wife with blonde hair and a yoga-conditioned body that could perform like an elastic band. Instead he had gotten angry...and now he was scared.

A week ago he'd been sitting in Leonard Hindle's office at DEA headquarters in Washington, a hill of pure white smack on the desk between them. Twenty-four kilos of the stuff had been siezed at JFK International Airport in New York. It was the biggest haul since the French Connection, and Bannigan had been called off the case of the international financier Stefano Carlatti and summoned to DC.When he got there, Leonard Hindle had been sitting back in his swivel chair, a burned-out cigar stump planted between his front teeth, contemplating the heroin.

"There's more smack coming in here from southwest Asia than from the Golden Triangle and our Latino neighbors combined—nine times as much."

Bannigan waited, his face bland, wondering what his boss was really driving at. Hindle removed his cigar long enough to swallow the last of his coffee, then settled back again. “I want you to volunteer to trace this stuff.”

“You mean I’m off the Carlatti case?” Bannigan didn’t try to hide his exasperation. He’d spent the last six months trying to find a way back from Carlatti to his Mafia clients.

“I’m not sure,” Hindle said, as if he had been waiting for the question. “Maybe I’m taking you off Carlatti and maybe I’m just asking you to start at the other end and work your way back. Could be you’ll end up at square one again with Carlatti. Let’s not prejudge it.”

Bannigan traced his initials in the powder, the way he used to do on the sand at the beach. “I’ll leave it up to you, George,” Hindle was saying. “If you really think this is off the mark, you can always catch the next shuttle back to New York and go on nipping at Carlatti’s tail.”

“Sure, and I could also work someplace else. Since when did this outfit become a democracy?”

“I mean it, George. I won’t order you to take on this one. I could, but I won’t. It’s a no man’s land. I need someone to go over there and find out who’s behind it—how the stuff’s getting out and where it’s going. If you go and you’re not scared shitless every step of the way, you’re a horse’s ass, and I don’t want you working for me. You’ll also be a sitting duck. There’s no way I can support you logistically or otherwise. Once we fly you in there, you’re on your own. We don’t even know you if anybody asks.

“I hear there’s a war going on over there.”

Hindle leaned over the desk. “There ism and I’m going to start a second one. I’m going to war against that southwest Asian smack. All I’ve got to go on now is the seat of my pants.” He laughed. “You’d think that would be ample in my case, but it’s not.”

Bannigan leaned back as if to put some distance between them. Even Hindle’s good humor was somehow intimidating. “So where do you want me to volunteer to start?”

Hindle smiled. “Where the poppies grow.”

“How will I get by over there? I can’t exactly pass for a native.”

“True, you look about as much like a Pathan tribesman as Robert Redford, only you’re better-looking than he is.”

“So what am I supposed to be? The Great White Hunter?”

“That’s Africa. You’re getting your continents mixed up. You’ll go in as a mercenary and gunrunner with a Canadian passport. We’ll give you everything to help you be convincing. That’s the best we can do.”

“You mean once I sell the guns I get to sell myself?”

“Guns and butter. Or rather, snake oil.” Hindle’s laugh boomed.