“No drive-bys at all?”
“Not that I was able to spot.”
The line was silent.
“Any last-minute questions?” said Carlo Donatti.
“No. I’m as set as I’ll ever be.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good luck, Don Donatti.”
“You, too, Frank.”
Donatti hung up and checked a number in the small, leather-bound notebook he always carried. Then he called the villa outside
of Palermo where the woman known as Peggy Walters was staying.
One of the guards answered and Donatti heard a television commercial going in the background. He identified himself and asked
to speak to the
signora.
It seemed like a long time before he heard her voice.
“I hope I didn’t wake you, Mrs. Battaglia.”
“Is something wrong?” Her voice was tight. “Has something happened to my son?”
“Your boy is fine. I’m calling with good news. You should be seeing him within twenty-four hours.”
Donatti heard nothing from the other end.
“Mrs. Battaglia?”
Still nothing. He gave her another few moments.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just having a little trouble dealing with this.”
“I understand. I can imagine how this has been for you.”
“How is it going to work?” Peggy asked. “Will Paul be brought here to me, or what?”
“I’ll be flying over and taking you to him.” Donatti paused. “But just so you’re prepared, Henry will be meeting us there
as well.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
“I’m afraid it’s necessary.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ll have to be exchanging the evidence we have against each other.”
Donatti could hear her breathing.
“As long as I get my boy,” she said.
“That’s not in question, Mrs. Battaglia.”
“I’m not by nature a vindictive person,” said Peggy softly. “I know we’re all God’s creatures and less than perfect. But
for what this man has tried to do to me and those closest to me, for the fear and anguish alone… ”
She stopped briefly.
“I’m almost ashamed of my feelings,” she went on. “But I swear, Henry has so reduced me, has brought me so far down to his
level, that the greatest joy 1 can imagine at this moment is pressing a gun to his head and… God help me… happily squeezing
the trigger.”
Donatti left her alone with it for several seconds.
“There’s something I don’t quite understand,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“You said you’d be exchanging evidence against each other?”
“Yes.”
“I know what he’s giving you, but what are you supposed to be giving
him?”
Donatti was silent. Talk enough and you end up choking on your own shit. He sought to cover any possible damage.
“I never did tell you,” he said. “Everything worked out perfectly with the buried evidence you described. Henry’s fingerprints
were on the weapon, and ballistics matched the murder bullet to the gun’s barrel. The whole thing is solid.”
“But if you give it all to him, what have you got left for an indictment? We decided. My word alone against his wouldn’t be
enough. He’d be in the clear.”
“Not really,” said Donatti.
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t actually be giving him the evidence. Just a better-than-reasonable facsimile.”
Peggy made a sound that might almost have been a laugh.
“I like that,” she said.
So did Carlo Donatti.
P
AULIE SAT IN
the midnight dark of his father’s studio and stared up at the stars through the jagged break in the big window. It was less
hurtful in the dark because he couldn’t see the dried blood on the edges of the glass.
After crying for a long time, the boy had begun to work his way out. The blood didn’t have to be that of his mother or father.
It could have belonged to some gangster. And the more he thought of it this way, the more he was able to believe it.
Paulie pushed the idea further.
With the mobster dead, this was why his parents had to leave the house. This was why they were never home when he called,
and why they weren’t home now. If they’d stayed home, other haircuts would have gotten them when they came around to find
what had happened to the first one. Also, this had to be why his mother and father had cleaned up all the broken glass and
everything and carried the dead haircut away someplace. They didn’t want anyone to know what they’d done.
The boy sat on his father’s painting stool in the dark studio, holding himself still and telling himself all the other things
that it was necessary for him to believe.
His mother and father were alive somewhere. They weren’t dead. They were busy running from the haircuts and trying to find
him.
When they couldn’t find him anyplace, they’d finally realize he might be home. Then they’d come here looking for him because
they’d know there was no place else for him to go.
So one thing was sure. He had to stay here and wait for them. Otherwise, they would never find each other.
But he had to be careful not to put on lights or give any other sign he was in the house. Because the haircuts weren’t stupid
and were probably thinking all these same things.
Sitting there on the stool, Paulie began turning his head from side to side, trying to fool himself into thinking he was looking
for something. As if smothering in the silence, he
breathed deeply and felt his lungs fill to the point of dizziness.
Eat,
he told himself. He hadn’t eaten all day and it was making him weak, dumb, and dizzy. He’d better get something into his
stomach right now.
Spurred by the prospect of so positive an act, Paulie groped his way into the kitchen.
He switched on his flashlight with the two socks over it, and opened a can of Beef-A-Roni. He ate it right out of the can,
cold, to avoid having to light the stove. Then he had some cheese for dessert. He was surprised at how good everything tasted.
Finishing, he felt a stir of satisfaction at how well he had managed the meal, and he considered what he would do next. He
had been upstairs earlier, and he didn’t want to go up there again. His first visit had been very bad, with him going up into
his parents’ bedroom, curling up on their bed, and crying like a baby.
Even now, thinking about it, he felt ashamed.
I have to be better than that
He knew he could.
So Paulie made himself go back upstairs.
Then he came to the hard part.
He went into his parents’ room and lay down once more on their bed. But this time he didn’t cry or whimper. Instead, he thought
all the good stuff about them.
And he slept.
T
OMMY CORTLANDT FOLLOWED
CIA Director Lessing into the Oval Office and shook hands with President Norton and White House Chief of Staff Michaels.
It was 5:25
P.M.,
and the fact that he and Lessing were being squeezed in between
two other appointments gave Cortlandt a fair idea of just how seriously the whole thing was being taken.
Just the four of them were present.
When they were all seated, the president spoke directly to Cortlandt.
“I know just the bare bones of this mess, Tommy,” he said. “And for obvious reasons I don’t want to know too much more. But
I do have a few questions I need answered.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“To begin with, do you believe what your telephone source told you?”
“I can’t corroborate a thing at this point, Mr. President. But if I didn’t give it at least reasonable credence, I’d still
be in Brussels, not here.”
“Then how do you see my options?”
Cortlandt looked at the chief executive. Norton was seated behind his desk in the big oval room, the American flag proudly
unfurled at his right, the presidential banner at his left. It was an impressive sight. Yet all it did was make the intelligence
agent wonder why anyone in their right mind would ever want to be president.
“As I see it,” Cortlandt said, “you have three choices. You can do nothing and just let whatever happens, happen. You can
let Durning know he’s being tracked and give him a chance to do something about it. Or you can go proactive and give us orders
to have his tracker neutralized. It all depends on how important you feel it is to keep Durning functioning as attorney general.”
It was Arthur Michaels who answered for the president. “That happens to be very important. Durning’s the best we’ve had at
Justice in fifty years.”
“Even if he’s a murderer?” asked the president.
“We don’t know that yet,” responded the chief of staff.
“And if we did know it?” asked Lessing.
No one was ready to touch that one, and the room was silent.
Cortlandt saw Lessing and Michaels exchange quick glances, and there was something between them, something they both knew
and that Cortlandt could only guess at. Still,
it was an educated guess, born out of long experience, and the intelligence agent tended to trust it.
President Norton broke the silence.
“Another question, Tommy. If we were to take action at this point, when would it have to be initiated?”
“Within the next few hours,” Cortlandt said. “The sooner the better.”
Cortlandt saw another look pass between the White House chief of staff and the CIA director. It helped him understand that
as far as these two were concerned the matter was settled.
The president didn’t seem to notice. “That’s really not very much time, is it?” His voice was cruel and he suddenly seemed
tired.
“It’s no time at all, Mr. President,” said Michaels. “Certainly not time enough to investigate what could turn out to be a
bunch of wild, unsubstantiated charges against no less than the attorney general of the United States.”
“Meaning what, Arthur?” asked the president.
“Meaning, I don’t really see us as having much of a choice as things stand. If we do nothing, there’s an excellent chance
Henry could be innocent and end up shot in the head by some nut with an imagined grievance. If we tell him what’s going on
and he’s actually guilty, we’ve warned a murderer in advance and given him time to either get away or kill others to cover
his tracks.”
The chief of staff looked evenly at his boss. “So I say we have to do what Mr. Cortlandt listed as a third choice. Which is
to say nothing at all to Henry and just neutralize his tracker by picking him up and holding him. Then we’d have time to properly
investigate the charges and do whatever has to be done long-term.”
The president brought his fingers together and let them touch. Then he studied them.
“One more point,” said Arthur Michaels, sensing an advantage. “I know this isn’t a moral, ethical, or even a legal consideration,
but it does affect the well-being of this administration. Whether Henry turns out to be innocent or guilty, we all know the
political fallout if even a hint of this ever leaks out. Come on. We’re talking about the fucking head of
the Justice Department. So let’s not kid ourselves. If Henry’s shit ever hits the fan, not even raincoats will keep us clean.”
The president again put it to Cortlandt.
“What do you think, Tommy?”
“That certainly says it as it is.”
“That’s all?” asked the president.
The intelligence agent shrugged. “In my line of work, there’s not much else. But I suppose there are a few things we might
do well to bear in mind.”
“Such as?”
“No matter how careful we try to be, neutralizing Durn-ing’s tracker could still end up going wrong and killing the tracker.”
Cortlandt paused for so long that the president had to prompt him.
“And?”
“And the woman and boy, too.”
G
IANNI
G
ARETSKY ARRIVED
at Dulles Airport about an hour and a half before flight time, selected his seat at the Alitalia counter, and picked up a
copy of
The New York Times.
Then he sat down far enough away from his flight’s boarding area to let him check out the passengers already there and those
still arriving, without much chance of his being seen himself.
Twenty-five minutes later, he saw Mary Yung appear.
It was no surprise. Considering Durning’s own scheduled departure plans, and the fact that Mary would have to fly to Naples
in order to get to Capri, this was the most logical flight for her to be taking. So he was prepared for the possible sight
of her.
What he wasn’t prepared for was its impact on him.
How stupid,
he thought, because it bordered on the physically insupportable. As if everything he had begun to feel for her was still
draining from the wound.
He watched her sit down near the departure gate, take a magazine out of her carry-on bag, and begin leafing through it. Then
he changed his seat on the off chance that she might just happen to stare off in his direction and see him.
And if she did spot him? Did he really expect her to point him out to Durning’s agents waiting nearby? Wasn’t it she who had
told him about Durning’s plans in the first place? Why would she betray him now?
Idiot. You ’re looking for logic again. Who knows why this one would do something?
Then for half an hour he sat reading the front page of the
Times
without absorbing a word.
He heard the boarding announcement and turned to watch Mary enter the ramp with the first-class passengers.
Naturally. How else but first-class would the attorney general’s millionaire whore travel?
The aircraft was a two-aisle 747 wide-body, with most of the first-class seating laid out fore of the boarding hatch. So Gianni
was able to reach his coach seat at the rear of the plane without having to walk past and be seen by Mary Yung.
In his mind it seemed a major victory. Until another part of his brain said she had seen him from the beginning.
He had finished eating dinner two hours later and just closed his eyes when she sat down beside him.