Triangle of Death - Hardcover

Levine, Michael

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0385314752 ISBN 13: 9780385314756

Publisher: Delacorte Press, 1996

Synopsis

From the man 60 Minutes called "America's  top undercover cop"comes a gripping companion  to his bestselling expose, Deep Cover--a novel  inspired by real events.

Drawing from  the most dangerous real-life deep cover mission of  Michael Levine's illustrious career as a DEA  agent, Triangle of Death is as  fast-paced and explosive as his bestselling expose Deep  Cover.

While working on a top  secret assignment, Rene Villarino, Levine's only  friend and fellow agent, has disappeared. Rene's  mission was to find the source of La Reina Blanca, or  The White Queen, a deadly new form of cocaine  engineered as one of the most addictive and dangerous  drugs known to man.

Levine finds  his friend's tortured body in Argentina and  immediately suspects that the Triangle of Death, a huge  underground organization created by escaped Nazi  war criminals, is responsible for both Rene's death  and for the manufacture of The White Queen. Now  Levine, with the help of the Israeli Mossad, must  bring the Triangle of Death to its own timely  demise.

About this title

From the Inside Flap

<i>60 Minutes</i> called "America's  top undercover cop"comes a gripping companion  to his bestselling expose, <i>Deep Cover</i>--a novel  inspired by real events.<br><br>Drawing from  the most dangerous real-life deep cover mission of  Michael Levine's illustrious career as a DEA  agent, <i>Triangle of Death</i> is as  fast-paced and explosive as his bestselling expose <i>Deep  Cover.</i><br><br>While working on a top  secret assignment, Rene Villarino, Levine's only  friend and fellow agent, has disappeared. Rene's  mission was to find the source of La Reina Blanca, or  The White Queen, a deadly new form of cocaine  engineered as one of the most addictive and dangerous  drugs known to man.<br><br>Levine finds  his friend's tortured body in Argentina and  immediately suspects that the Triang

Reviews

Drawing on cases he worked during his 25 years as a DEA agent, Levine reunites with Kavanau (coauthor of Levine's bestselling memoir Deep Cover, 1990) to tell a tale of anti-drug derring-do that's as mean and rapid-fire as a dope dealer's Uzi. In the manner of Richard Marcinko, Levine casts himself as the narrator/agent who goes undercover to tangle with a South American drug cartel with Nazi connections and the Middle-Eastern oilmen who plan to exchange black gold for white powder. The stakes are vengeance for the slaughter of one of Levine's colleagues, and the multibillion-dollar market promised by a new form of cocaine, the White Queen, which prolongs sexual ecstasy. Levine's characterizations are believable, if not deep, and he makes an appealing hero as a man searching for justice in a world that no longer recognizes the concept. The action is exceptionally furious, and brutal, told in pulp style. What gives this thriller its edge, though, is Levine's world-class knowledge of the drug business and of its lawful, too often squabbling, enemies. Author tour.
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Action, adventure, karate kicks, and just about every spy thriller clich‚ possible in a federal drug-buster's roman … clef debut fiction. Casting himself as the hero of his own novel, former DEA undercover agent Levine (called ``Lee-veen-ay'' by one of his thickly accented comrades) gives his all to avenge the torture murder of one Rene Villarino, his best friend and fellow agent. Along the way, he spends a fortune in airline tickets, jetting briskly around the world as he beguiles Manhattan mafiosi, inscrutable Israeli spies, scheming Nazis, and unctuous Arab bad guys along the path to the Paraguayan headquarters of Nadia Ricoard, a lethal female crime boss and the manufacturer of White Queen, a superpowerful cocaine that variously stimulates sexual orgasm, transforms its victims into murderous fiends, or kills them outright. Readers of Levine's memoirs (Deep Cover, 1990; The Big White Lie, 1993) will recognize some thinly fictionalized scenes and grow weary of his tendency to portray those who question his reckless, high-spending methods as paranoid, backbiting incompetents. When he isn't dodging bullets with his hotheaded, street-savvy former partner Tito Garza, or romancing a sexy Mossad spy, Levine's globe-hopping brings out a nail-biting xenophobia: Everywhere he goes he uncovers sleaze, foul odors, and criminal types who eagerly betray God and country for a few hundred million dollars. The story becomes almost comically preposterous as Levine breezily becomes a high-rolling Arab drug dealer, wins effortlessly at blackjack, fends off numerous femmes fatales, and survives a deadly plunge down a waterfall. And all of this, Levine insists, is presented as fiction only because his former bosses won't let him tell the whole truth. A bull's-eye for Rogue Warrior fans but not nearly as interesting, or entertaining, as Levine's nonfiction. (Author tour) -- Copyright ©1996, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.

In 1990, Delacorte published the best-selling Deep Cover, Levine's nonfiction account of his findings as an undercover agent for the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA). Noting in the preface to Triangle of Death that secrecy laws prevent the revelation of "the truth behind many of the events that are the fabric of this book," Levine has invented an alter ego, also named Mike Levine, who puts his life on the line for the same causes. The enemies are brutal drug traffickers, devious insiders at the DEA, a Nazi-inspired female villain, and flocks of corrupt individuals. The good guys are fellow agents willing to bend rules and other men and women of honor and commitment. The catalyst that triggers Levine's desperate final act is a new drug, so powerful that it addicts users at once because it mimics orgasm. Levine's best friend, also an agent, is killed as he gets too close to the secret source. The violence is extreme, and the characters and action are over the top, yet the style and observations are skillful, realistic, and entertaining. The story is powered by vivid dialog. Highly recommended for libraries with a clientele that just can't get enough of shoot-'em-up justice.
-?Barbara Conaty, Library of Congress
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

"RenÚ Villarino's gone missing," said Stratton flatly.

My heart sank.  RenÚ was the only man I called friend.

"How? When?"

"You up on your cable traffic? Don't answer--you won't have to lie.  Your secretary at the embassy said the telexes piled on your desk go back two months and she hasn't heard word one from you in over a month."

"Well where the fuck have I been?" I said, fighting to control my temper.

He glared at me, lifted a knee to rest the case, snapped it open and shoved a red jacketed cable at me.  It was marked TOP SECRET, which meant national security was involved.  I started to read it and felt guilty when I saw that it had been received at my office a week ago.

"Don't bother reading it now," said Stratton.  "It's yours.  Bottom line is RenÚ has been working a deep cover special out of Panama for the past eight months.  Forty-eight hours ago he receives a call at his UC residence in Panama.  Notifies his contact at HQ.  He sounds rushed and excited.  Says he's on to the source of this new drug--you'll read about it in the Teletype.  They want him to come to Argentina to talk.  He says he'll check in the moment he knows something.  He arrives at Rio where he's supposed to change planes.  He vanishes.

"We track his UC ID.  He never passed Brazil Immigration.  He either transited to another country using a different ID or boarded a private plane.  We've eliminated all but a half-dozen private flights to Argentina and Bolivia.  We can't go any further without risk of burning him."

"Why the fuck wasn't I notified about a UC operation in my jurisdiction? I'm still the Country AttachÚ.  I should've been covering him."

Stratton put his big hand up, like a traffic cop.

"Nobody told me squat either.  You think I'd put a man out there without backup? This thing's been top secret for eight months.  That's why I'm here and this ain't a phone call.  I hear you two were close.  You got the same fucked-up reputation--hotshot undercovers, loners.  You like to do things your own way, don't you?"

I started to speak.  The big palm rose again to stop me.

"Sooner or later your luck runs out and somebody got to come and pick up your fucking pieces."

"Say what you like about me," I said.  "I know I'm no fucking hero in headquarters, but RenÚ does things by the book.  I know him twenty years, he's never blown his cover.  The guy's made more Mafia cases on his own than the whole New York FBI.  Two days with no word could mean he's living with dopers.  We go in we'll blow his cover."

"We're not going public," said Stratton.  "And you're right: you're definitely no hero in headquarters.  You don't follow rules, you're arrogant, you piss people off.  Some people say you're a certifiable fucking loony tunes.  Your mouth is usually running long before your brain.  But your case record speaks for itself and whoever I talked to on the street all agreed on one thing--if they were jammed up, they'd want Mike Levine coming after them.  I don't mind telling you, a lot of them don't even like you."  Look, Bobby.  The last UC bit I did with RenÚ he got stood up the last minute and asked me to play his bodyguard for one meeting with some Mafia capo in New York.  A ten-minute meet.  I was just supposed to drive and keep my mouth shut, like a good man.  Window dressing.  An extra.

"RenÚ rehearsed me for a week--how I should dress, jewelry, shoes, the kind of cologne I should wear, how I should position myself in the driver's seat.  He checked every item I'd be carrying in my wallet and pockets, just in case we were searched.  He checked my shirt for identifying laundry marks.  For a ten-minute meet? If I didn't love the guy and respect the way he did things, I wouId've told him to go fuck himself.  This is a guy who once went to Italy and bought himself a count's title to help bring off a scam.  RenÚ is an artist, a perfectionist.  Two days missing doesn't mean anything."

The big hand came up again.  Stratton glanced over at the chopper.  The engine blades were still whipping the air.  The pilot stared straight ahead, unrecognizable in helmet and dark glasses.  There's more.  RenÚ was working with a CI, a Panamanian banker.  He was hit this morning."

"How?"

"A fender bender on the street in downtown Panama City.  The CI bends to check the damage--the driver of the other car pops him with a twenty-two behind the ear.  Broad daylight and a dozen witnesses don't see a thing."

"That might not have anything to do with RenÚ," I said, desperately wanting to believe it.  "Stool pigeons get offed every day."

Stratton shook his head.  "Maybe, maybe not.  Until we know he's okay we don't take nuthin' for granted."

"What about tasking NSA and CIA?"

"Done.  NSA's programmed tapes of RenÚ's voiceprint into the system.  He makes a call from anywhere, we'll have him....How do you get along with the head spook in Buenos Aires?"

"Forrest Gregg? Never had any problems with him.  You know him?"

"I met him.  The guy knows his job.  He says he has a lead.  When you get back to B.A. check with him first.  Then turn your dogs loose--all your CIs, every cop on your payroll, all your counterparts.  Get as many eyes out there as you can.  I have some surveillance shots of RenÚ you can distribute."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa.  No photos," I said.  "Ninety percent of these Argentine cops are for sale.  If I put out photos and they know he's DEA, we'll burn him. Even if he's in trouble, RenÚ's a guy that can talk his way out of anything."

"You're right," said Stratton.  "I should've thought of that."

For a moment I was taken aback.  I'd never heard a DEA boss admit he was wrong about anything.

Stratton removed a manila folder from the attachÚ case and handed it to me.  It contained a typewritten list of names, each with a date of birth beside it and several copies of an eight-by-ten undercover surveillance photo.

The camera had captured the handsome RenÚ as he strolled down a crowded street with a man in a dark hat.  RenÚ wore his black beret, his dark hair fashionably long, curling just above his suit collar.  He smiled broadly, his big hands gracefully gesticulating in a typically Italian gesture, as if describing a beautiful woman.  Just behind were two heavies in dark glasses--bodyguards.  Several stores and a restaurant were visible with signs in Italian.

"He looks a little like that Italian movie actor in this photo," said Stratton. "I forget his name."

"Marcello Mastroianni," I said.  "Back in the '60s, when Mastroianni was a big star, people used to stop RenÚ on the street and ask for his autograph."

"The other dopers in this photo are dead," said Stratton.  "You can distribute it if you think you need to.  The list is all the aliases RenÚ's been using."

I looked down at the smiling face of my friend in the photo and wondered what he was thinking at that moment.  Did he feel the slightest chill of apprehension? I believe that there are key moments in life when we are warned of danger.  We must stay alert for them, remain open to vibrations, to premonitions, to primal senses no longer understood--the tiny ripples on a still pond.  There are no second chances.

Edition details

• Publisher: Delacorte Press
• Publication date: 1996
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0385314752
• ISBN 13: 9780385314756
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 395