By the time they left, Mary Yung was consoling the dealer. Gianni Garetsky just wanted to fly out of there as quickly as possible.
He was that excited.
“Well?” said Mary when they were outside and walking. “Talk for God’s sake! I’m busting!”
Gianni was so busy thinking, it required special effort to put the necessary words together. “We’re going to Positano.”
“That’s where Vittorio is?”
“I think so.”
“What do you mean,
think]
Is he or isn’t he?”
“It’s not that simple. Let me tell you what I’ve got. Then decide for yourself.”
They were back on the Via Veneto, with the traffic crawling and honking and swarms of tourists everywhere. Garetsky walked
for a moment in silence, his mind still trying to catch up with what he’d overheard.
“Understand,” he said. “Everything I have came from the dealer’s end of the conversation. So I had to do some filling in.
The artist’s rep is a woman. Her name’s Peggy Walters.
She’s American, she’s married to another American named Peter Walters, and they have a nine-year-old son called Paulie.”
“Lovely. Peter, Paul, and Peggy.”
“More than just that.”
It took her a moment. “You mean the boy’s about the same age as Guido Cosenza’s son in the painting?”
“Exactly. So you can see where that points. They all live in Positano, on the Amalfian Coast. Which I know well. In fact,
well enough to recognize the three tiny islands of the Sirens that Vittorio painted in the water behind where he posed his
boy.”
Gianni walked looking at the bumper-to-bumper traffic without seeing it. All he saw was a young kid he felt had to be Vittorio
Battaglia’s son, standing there with the sea and Ulysses’ three rocks behind him.
“This Peggy Walters reps other artists besides Vittorio,” said Gianni. “So she’s got his work nicely camouflaged among the
rest. The thing is, who could Vittorio trust more than his wife to sell him as Guido Cosenza and keep his true identity secret?”
The question was purely rhetorical but Mary Yung answered it. “Nobody.”
“Then you agree? You think Vittorio’s living in Positano as Peter Walters?”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t just think. I
know
he is.”
They said good-bye to their room.
Then as Gianni waited impatiently for their bill to be put together, Mary Yung went into the powder room to make her call.
She had the attorney general on the line in under two minutes.
“We’ve located him,” she told Henry Durning. “Are you ready to carry out your end?”
“Yes.” It was said without hesitation.
“Then wire the money immediately to the Banque Suisse in Berne, credited to personal account number 4873180. Do you have that?”
“Yes. But it’s after four here and the banks close at three.”
“Don’t fool with me, Mr. Durning. We both know there’s no clock running on electronic international money transfer anymore.
I’m calling my bank in exactly one hour. If my account’s been credited, you’ll hear from me with the information. If not,
forget the whole thing.”
“How do I know you won’t just take the money and run?”
“You don’t. But I suggest you try a little old-fashioned trust, Mr. Durning. You might find it rewarding. Besides, you’re
not someone I’d want chasing me for the rest of my life. Nice speaking with you.”
Mary Yung hung up.
Her palms were sweaty and bad things were happening in her stomach. They held the promise of extinction. She had opened a
big, black hole and placed herself at its center. Still, she felt she had carried it off well. For which she thanked Jimmy
Lee, who had once taught her about numbered offshore accounts and their many uses. He had even helped her open her present
modest account with the promise she’d be grateful to have it one day.
She was grateful now.
In a few hours I will be rich.
T
HE FLIGHT FROM
Rome took less than an hour, and Gianni Garetsky and Mary Yung were at the Naples airport by early afternoon.
They had spoken little during the trip. Their brief Roman idyll suddenly seemed distant and dreamlike, and the initial excitement
of locating Vittorio had passed. In its place was the more sobering thought of what might now result from their having found
him.
For Mary Yung, with her own two-faced involvement, there obviously was a double concern.
While Gianni was impatiently arguing and filling out forms at the Hertz rental counter, Mary drifted out of sight and found
the public phones.
First, there was the Banque Suisse in Berne.
Put through to an English-speaking account executive, Mary identified herself with her secret code letters and account number.
Then with her throat dry and scratchy, she asked the big question.
“Could you please tell me whether there were any deposits made to my account during the past few hours?”
“One moment please,” said the Swiss banker in perfect Oxonion English.
There was silence, and Mary Yung had a vision of swift, practiced fingers flying over computer keys.
“Madame?”
“Yes?”
“There was a single deposit. It was received by wire at exactly 1437 hours, standard time.”
Mary’s mouth was a desert. She tried to suck some moisture into it, but there was only sand.
“What was the amount, please?”
“Exactly one million dollars, American.”
“Thank you so much.”
“A pleasure to be able to serve you, Madame.”
Slowly, almost trancelike, she hung up the receiver.
Then she felt it building down below. And rising. And building and rising again.
Until she had to stuff her fist into her mouth to keep it inside. Thirty years tore through her brain like a videotape gone
wild, she saw a thousand ugly things she’d done just to keep herself breathing and that she’d never have to do again.
Then she came down with a bump.
Payment time.
It was late, but she knew the attorney general would be waiting for her call. He answered the phone himself.
“Durning.”
“You see?” Mary said. “I don’t just take the money and run.
Henry Durning laughed and she found the sound surprisingly warm and easy.
“I appreciate it,” he told her.
“You should learn to trust people more.”
“I’m afraid I’m in the wrong profession for trust. I’m a lawyer. But I’m trying, Mary.”
How lovely. I’m Mary now.
“OK, here it is,” she said. “Vittorio’s in Positano, Italy. He has a wife and son, and he’s calling himself Peter Walters.”
There was a long silence.
When Durning spoke, his voice was charged with feeling. “Thank you. This is very important to me.”
“I know. You’ve already shown me its importance.”
“The money’s the least of it.”
“Not to me, Mr. Durning.”
The line hummed between them.
“Tell me, Mary. Have you and Gianni actually seen Vitto-rio yet?”
“No.”
“When do you expect to see him?”
A warning light went on behind her eyes. “I don’t know. That’s up to Gianni.”
“Well, do yourselves a big favor. Don’t go anyplace near Battaglia for at least twenty-four hours. I can’t tell you more than
that. But you have my word it’ll be best for you both.”
Durning again gave her his best laugh. “You see? Now it’s your turn to do the trusting. Thanks again, Mary,” he said, and
hung up.
With no more than that to go on, Mary somehow found herself believing him.
Anyway, what did she have to lose?
Picking up some tourist brochures of Capri… a short ferry ride from nearby Sorrento… Mary Yung had an overnight honeymoon
extension all planned by the time she rejoined Gianni at the Hertz counter.
Gianni had no problem with the idea. He was learning about pleasure. You didn’t put it off.
Whatever it was that Vittorio had to tell them would keep for one more day.
H
ENRY
D
URNING CALLED
Carlo Donatti’s private number moments after he hung up on Mary. If he hoped to keep her alive, which he did, he had little
time to waste.
His conversation with Donatti was cryptic and brief. But when it was over, the two men had arranged to meet at an airport
motel near La Guardia in exactly two hours.
The attorney general reached the designated meeting room fifteen minutes early. But Don Carlo Donatti was already there, waiting
for him, the radio blaring at its usual high volume to cover possible bugs and wire packs.
They went through their ritual embrace and greeting with apparently undiminished zeal, but their eyes were cold.
“It’s good of you to come on such short notice, Don Carlo. I appreciate it.”
“It sounded important.”
“It is. I’ve located Vittorio Battaglia.”
The don slowly sat down. “Where?”
“Italy. More exactly, Positano. I believe he’s living with the woman he was supposed to have done for me nine years ago. And
they have a child. A boy.”
“Under what name?”
“Walters. Peter and Peggy Walters.”
“Who found them?”
Durning hesitated. “I suppose you have to know that.”
Donatti extended both hands, palms up.
“Garetsky and Mary Yung,” said the attorney general.
The don’s brows lifted ever so slightly.
“So Gianni did find him.” The idea seemed to surprise and amuse Donatti. “Which means you paid off the
cinese?”
Durning ignored the question. “Time is important, Carlo. If it can be handled fast… say no more than eighteen hours… it’ll
be best for all concerned. Can that be arranged?”
“Anything can be arranged. But why the rush? What happens if it takes a few hours longer?”
“Then your boy Gianni and the Chinese woman might have to be done, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They’re just on their way to Positano now. They don’t know yet what Battaglia and his wife can tell them.”
“And you don’t want them to know?”
“Not them and not anyone else.” The attorney general looked at Donatti. “That’s what this whole thing is about, Carlo.”
“Of course.” The don spoke softly, as if anything voiced less gently might cause him pain.
They sat considering each other. To Durning, the feel was of new mysteries being exchanged for old, and of secrets yet to
be discovered.
“It’ll be done,” said Donatti. “This has been a deep embarrassment for me. Vittorio Battaglia has made me feel like a fool.
I’ll be as relieved as you to finally put an end to it.”
“I’m grateful.” Durning’s face was grave. “Now there’s just one last favor I have to ask.” The attorney general paused. “With
your permission, Don Carlo?”
“Ask… ask.” Donatti smiled, his good humor suddenly restored along with his sense of honor and dignity. “You observe our little
ceremonies as if you were one of us.”
“I
am
one of you.”
Donatti nodded. “Now what’s the favor? I like it that I’ll be one up on you again.”
“There’s this bigmouthed Washington lawyer and his client,” said Durning. “They’re about to cause a lot bigger trouble than
they know.”
“Who are they?”
“The lawyer is John Hinkey. His client’s name is Beek-man, Mrs. James Beekman.”
“She’s in Washington, too?”
Durning nodded.
“Her husband’s not part of this big trouble you mentioned?”
“No.”
“Then what
is
he part of?”
“The FBI.”
Donatti stared at the attorney general.
“No problem,” said Durning. “He’s one of those your friend Garetsky buried somewhere. If he ever does turn up, he won’t be
saying much.”
Don Carlo laughed and he didn’t laugh often. “I’m beginning to understand a little about his wife and the lawyer.”
“Then you’ll help me out?”
Donatti was still chuckling. “Why not? There are too many wives and lawyers causing trouble as it is.”
Durning sat in the helicopter taking him back to Washington and thought,
Is this really the measure of me?
He’d had a shot of brandy at the start of the flight, and it had lit small fires in the caves of his belly. But just before
that, he had calmly arranged for the deaths of four people and felt only deep relief at having acted to preserve himself.
Meaning what? That he was missing an essential human ingredient? Pity?
Nonsense.
In his current situation, pity would have been the ultimate indulgence, a futile emotional gesture that would have put an
immediate end to all the good he was doing, and offered nothing in its place.
In all modesty, he was probably the best single thing to have hit the Justice Department in almost fifty years. He had taken
an inert, morally crumbling agency, so desperately in need of renewal that its best and brightest people were fleeing in droves,
and had restored the heart of its legal and ethical foundations.
He had pumped up the department’s moribund long view of the law and forced it not just to win cases, but to live up to its
tarnished precept that the United States prevailed only when true justice was being done.
And finally, he had himself inspired great numbers of lawyers with their present vision of the law as a magic wand for creating
desperately needed social and political change.
It’s all true. I’ve actually done these things. And more.
Still, if he could be so heroic, how could he also have become so villainous?
Not that he really felt like a villain. He had simply learned that when survival was at stake, you did what you had to and
put the rest aside until Judgment Day.
G
IANNI
G
ARETSKY AND
Mary Yung drove toward Positano in separate cars. Gianni Garetsky led the way. Capri had been magnificent but wasted on them.
They couldn’t escape what lay ahead.
Earlier, Gianni had picked up two 9mm automatics, a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, a .30 caliber rifle with scope sights, and
enough ammunition to fight a small war. Everything but the two automatics was locked in the trunk of his car. He carried one
of the handguns. Mary Yung had the other.