Omerta (15 page)

“You’re right,” the director said with a sigh. “But the attorney general has made a deal. No criminal indictments, no prison time. They will pay fines of hundreds of billions of dollars. So close that investigation. It’s out of our hands.”

“Fine, sir,” Cilke said. “I can always use the extra manpower on other things.”

“Good for you,” the director said. “I’ll make you even happier. On that shipping of illegal technology to China, that’s very serious business.”

“There’s no option,” Cilke said. “Those companies deliberately broke a federal law for financial gain and breached the security of the United States. The heads of those companies conspired.”

“We do have the goods on them,” the director said, “but you know conspiracy is a catchall. Everybody conspires. But that’s another case you can close and save the manpower.”

Cilke said incredulously, “Sir, are you saying a deal has been made on that?”

The director leaned back in his chair and frowned at Cilke’s implied insolence, but he made allowances. “Cilke, you are the best field man in the Bureau. But you have no political sense. Now listen to me, and never forget this: You cannot send six billionaires to prison. Not in a democracy.”

“And that’s it?” Cilke asked.

“The financial sanctions will be very heavy,” the director said. “Now, on to other things, one very confidential. We’re going to exchange a federal prisoner for one of our informers who is being held hostage in Colombia, a very valuable asset in our war on the drug trade. This is a case you’re familiar with.” He referred to a case four years ago in which a drug dealer took five hostages, a woman and four children. He killed them and also killed a Bureau agent. He was given life without parole. “I remember that you were adamant on the death penalty,” the director said. “Now we are going to let him go, and I know you won’t be too happy. Remember, all this is secret, but the papers will probably dig it up and there will be an enormous fuss. You and your office will never comment. Is that understood?”

Cilke said, “We can’t let anyone kill our agents and get away with it.”

“That attitude is not acceptable in a federal officer,” the director said.

Cilke tried not to show his outrage. “Then all our agents will be endangered,” Cilke said. “That’s how it is on the streets. The agent was killed trying to save the hostages. It was a cold-blooded execution. Setting the killer free is an insult to the life of that agent.”

“There can be no vendetta mentality in the Bureau,” the director said. “Otherwise we’re no better than they are. Now, what do you have about those scientists who’ve emigrated?”

At that moment Cilke realized he could no longer trust the director. “Nothing new,” he lied. He had decided from now on he would not be part of the agency’s political compromises. He would play a lone hand.

“Well, now you have a lot of manpower, so work on it,” the director said. “And after you nail Timmona Portella, I’d like to bring you up here as one of my deputies.”

“Thank you,” Cilke said. “But I’ve decided after I clear up Portella, I’m taking my retirement.”

The director gave a deep sigh. “Reconsider it. I know how all this deal making must distress you. But remember this: The Bureau is not only responsible for protecting society against lawbreakers, but we must also take only the actions that, in the long run, benefit our society as a whole.”

“I remember that from school,” Cilke said. “The end justifies the means.”

The director shrugged. “Sometimes. Anyway, reconsider your retirement. I’m putting a letter of recommendation in your file. Whether you stay or go, you will receive a medal from the president of the United States.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cilke said. The director shook his hand and escorted him to the door. But he had one final question. “What happened to that Aprile case? It’s been months and it seems nothing has been done.”

“It’s NYPD, not ours,” Cilke said. “Of course, I looked into it. So far no motive. No clues. I would think there’s no chance of it being solved.”

T
hat night Cilke had dinner with Bill Boxton.

“Good news,” Cilke told him. “The tobacco and the China machine cases are closed. The attorney general is going after financial sanctions, not criminal. That frees a lot of manpower.”

“No shit,” Boxton said. “I always thought the director was straight. A square shooter. Will he resign?”

“There are square shooters and there are square shooters with little nicks on the edges,” Cilke said.

“Anything else?” Boxton asked.

“When I bring Portella down, I get to be the director’s deputy. Guaranteed. But by then I’ll be retired.”

“Yeah,” Boxton said. “Put in a word for me for that job.”

“No chance. The director knows you use four-letter words.” He laughed.

“Shit,” Boxton said, in mock disappointment. “Or is it
fuck
?”

T
he next night Cilke walked home from the railroad station. Georgette and Vanessa were in Florida visiting Georgette’s parents for a week, and he hated taking a taxi. He was surprised not to hear the dogs barking when he walked up the driveway. He called out for them but nothing happened. They must have wandered off into the neighborhood or the nearby woods.

He missed his family, especially at mealtimes. He had eaten dinner alone or with other agents in too many cities all over America, always alert to any kind of danger. He prepared a simple meal for himself as his wife had taught him to do—a vegetable, a green salad, and a small steak. No coffee, but a brandy in a small thimble of a glass. Then he went upstairs to shower and call his wife before reading himself to sleep. He loved books, and he was always made unhappy when the FBI was portrayed as heavy villains in detective novels. What the hell did they know?

When he opened the bedroom door he could smell the blood instantly and his whole brain fell into a chaotic jumble; all the hidden fears of his life came rushing in on him.

The two German shepherds lay on his bed. Their brown and white fur was mottled red, their legs tied together, their muzzles wrapped in gauze. Their hearts had been cut out and rested on their bellies.

With great effort, his mind came together. Instinctively, he called his wife to make sure she was OK. He told her nothing. Then he called the FBI duty officer for a special forensic team and a cleanup squad. They would have to get rid of all the bedclothes, the mattress, the rug. He did not notify the local authorities.

Six hours later the FBI teams had left and he wrote a report to the director. He poured himself a regular-sized glass of brandy and tried to analyze the situation.

For a moment he considered lying to Georgette, concocting a story about the dogs running away. But there were the missing rug and bedsheets to be explained. And besides, it wouldn’t be fair to her. She had a choice to make. More than anything, she would never forgive him if he lied. He would have to tell her the truth.

T
he next day Cilke flew first to Washington to confer with the director and then down to Florida, where his wife and daughter were vacationing with his in-laws.

There, after having lunch with them, he took Georgette for a walk along the beach. As they watched the glimmering blue water he told her about the dogs being killed, that it was an old Sicilian Mafia warning used to intimidate.

“According to the papers you got rid of the Mafia in this country,” Georgette said musingly.

“More or less,” Cilke said. “We have a few of the drug organizations left, and I’m pretty sure who did this.”

“Our poor dogs,” Georgette said. “How can people be so cruel? Have you talked to the director?”

Cilke felt a surge of irritation that she was so concerned about the dogs. “The director gave me three options,” he said. “That I resign from the Bureau and relocate. I refused that option. The second was that I relocate my family under Bureau protection until this case is over. The third is that you remain in the house as if nothing has happened. We would have a twenty-four-hour security team guarding us. A woman agent would live in the house with you, and you and Vanessa will be accompanied by two bodyguards wherever you go. There will be security posts set up around the house with the latest alarm equipment. What do you think? In six months this will all be over.”

“You think it’s a bluff,” Georgette said.

“Yes. They don’t dare harm a federal agent or his family. It would be suicide for them.”

Georgette gazed out at the calm blue water of the bay. Her hand clasped his more tightly.

“I’ll stay,” she said. “I’d miss you too much, and I know you won’t leave this case. How can you be certain you’ll finish in six months?”

“I’m certain,” Cilke said.

Georgette shook her head. “I don’t like you being so certain. Please don’t do anything awful. And I want one promise. When this case is over, you’ll retire from the Bureau. Start your own law practice or teach. I can’t live this way the rest of my life.” She was in deadly earnest.

The phrase that stuck in Cilke’s head was that she would miss him too much. And as he so often did, he wondered how a woman like her could possibly love a man like him. But he had always known that someday she would make this demand. He sighed and said, “I promise.”

They continued their walk along the beach and then sat in a little green park that protected them against the sun. A cool breeze from the bay ruffled his wife’s hair, making her look very young and happy. Cilke knew he could never break his promise to her. And he was even proud of her cunning in extracting his promise at the exact proper moment, when she risked her life to stay on his side. After all, who would want to be loved by an unintelligent woman? At the same time Agent Cilke knew his wife would be horrified, humiliated by what he was thinking. Her cunning was probably innocent. Who was he to judge it? She had never judged him, never suspected his own not-so-innocent cunning.

F
RANKY AND STACE STURZO
owned a huge sporting-goods store in L.A. and a house in Santa Monica that was only five minutes from the Malibu beach. Both of them had been married once, but their marriages didn’t take, so now they lived together.

They never told any of their friends they were twins, although they had the same easygoing confidence and extraordinary athletic suppleness. Franky was the more charming and temperamental. Stace was the more levelheaded, just a little stolid, but they were both noted for their amiability.

They belonged to one of the large classy gyms that dotted L.A., a gym filled with digital body-building machines and wide-screen wall TV’s to watch while working out. It had a basketball court, a swimming pool, and even a boxing ring. Its staff of trainers were good-looking, sculptured men and pretty, well-toned women. The brothers used the gym to work out and also to meet women who trained there. It was a great hunting ground for men like them, surrounded by hopeful actresses trying to keep their bodies beautiful and bored, neglected wives of high-powered movie people.

But mostly Franky and Stace enjoyed pickup basketball games. Good players came to the gym—sometimes even a reserve on the L.A. Lakers. Franky and Stace had played against him and felt they had held their own. It brought back fond memories of when they had been high school all-stars. But they had no illusions that in a real game they would have been so fortunate. They had played all out, and the Laker guy had just been having a good time.

In the gym’s health-food restaurant, they struck up friendships with the female trainers and gym members and even sometimes a celebrity. They always had a good time, but it was a small part of their lives. Franky coached the local grade-school basketball team, a job he took very seriously. He always hoped to discover a superstar in the making, and he radiated a stern amiability that made the kids love him. He had a favorite coaching tactic. “OK,” he would say, “you’re twenty points down, it’s the last quarter. You come out and score the first ten points. Now you got them where you want them—you can win. It’s just nerve and confidence. You can always win. You’re ten points down, then five, then you’re even. And you’ve got them!”

Of course, it never worked. The kids were not developed enough physically or tough enough mentally. They were just kids. But Franky knew the really talented ones would never forget the lesson and that it would help them later on.

Stace concentrated on running the store, and he made the final decision on which hit jobs they would take. There had to be minimum risk and maximum price. Stace believed in percentages all the way and also had a gloomy temperament. What the brothers had going for them was that they rarely disagreed on anything. They had the same tastes and they were almost always evenly matched in physical skills. They sometimes sparred against each other in the boxing ring or played each other one-on-one on the basketball court. This cemented their relationship. They trusted each other absolutely.

They were now forty-three years old and their lives suited them, but they often talked about getting married again and having families. Franky kept a mistress in San Francisco, and Stace had a girlfriend in Vegas, a showgirl. Both women had shown no inclination for marriage, and the brothers felt they were just treading water, hoping for someone to show up.

Since they were so genial, they made friends easily and had a busy social life. Still, they spent the year after killing the Don with some apprehension. A man like the Don could not be killed without some danger.

Around November, Stace made the necessary call to Heskow about picking up the second five hundred grand of the payment. The phone call was brief and seemingly ambiguous.

“Hi,” Stace said. “We’re coming in about a month from now. Everything OK?”

Heskow seemed glad to hear from him. “Everything’s perfect,” he said. “Everything’s ready. Could you be more specific on time? I don’t want you coming when I’m out of town somewhere.”

Stace laughed and said casually, “We’ll find you. OK? Figure a month.” Then he hung up.