Finally they were alone and Astorre was wiping his face. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said, laughing. “Was it?”
Cilke found himself immediately liking the man. About thirty, he had a boyish vitality and did not seem to take himself seriously. He was tall and well built, with a boxer’s grace. He had a dark-skinned beauty and the kind of irregular but sharp features you might see in fifteenth-century portraits. He did not seem vain, but around his neck he wore a collar of gold two inches wide, to which was attached an etched medallion of the Virgin Mary.
“It was great,” Cilke said. “You’re cutting a record for distribution?”
Astorre smiled, a wide, good-natured grin. “I wish. I’m not that good. But I love these songs, and I give them to friends as presents.”
Cilke decided to get to work. “This is just routine,” he said. “Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm your uncle?”
“No one at all,”Astorre said, straight-faced. Cilke was tired of hearing this. Everyone had enemies, especially Raymonde Aprile.
“You inherit controlling interest in the banks,” Cilke said. “Were you that close?”
“I really don’t understand that,” Astorre said. “I was one of his favorites when I was a kid. He set me up in my business and then sort of forgot about me.”
“What kind of business?” Cilke asked.
“I import all the top-grade macaroni from Italy,”
Cilke gave him a skeptical look. “Macaroni?”
Astorre smiled; he was used to this reaction. It was not a glamorous business. “You know how Lee Iacocca never says automobiles, he always says cars? Now, in my business, we never say pasta or spaghetti, we always say macaroni.”
“And now you’ll be a banker?” Cilke said.
“I’ll give it a whirl,” Astorre said.
After they left, Cilke asked Bill Boxton, “What do you think?” He liked Boxton enormously. The man believed in the Bureau, as he did—that it was fair, that it was incorruptible and far superior to any other law-enforcement agency in its efficiency. These interviews were partly for his benefit.
“They all sound pretty straight to me,” Boxton said. “But don’t they always?”
Yes, they always did, Cilke thought. Then something struck him. The medallion hanging from Astorre’s gold collar had never moved.
The last interview was the most important to Cilke. It was with Timmona Portella, the reigning Mafia boss in New York, the only one besides the Don who had escaped prosecution after Cilke’s investigations.
Portella ran his enterprises from the huge penthouse apartment of a building he owned on the West Side. The rest of the building was occupied by subsidiary firms that he controlled. The security was as tight as Fort Knox, and Portella himself traveled by helicopter—the roof was equipped with a landing pad—to his estate in New Jersey. His feet rarely touched the pavement of New York.
Portella greeted Cilke and Boxton in his office with its overstuffed armchairs and bulletproof walls of glass that gave a wonderful view of the city skyline. He was a huge man, immaculately dressed in a dark suit and gleaming white shirt.
Cilke shook Portella’s meaty hand and admired the dark tie hanging from his thick neck.
“Kurt, how can I help you?” Portella said in a voice that rang through the room. He ignored Bill Boxton.
“I’m just checking out the Aprile affair,” Cilke said. “I thought you might have some information that could help me.”
“What a shame, his death,” Portella said. “Everybody loved Raymonde Aprile. It’s a mystery to me who could have done this. In the last years of his life Aprile was such a good man. He became a saint, a real saint. He gave away his money like a Rockefeller. When God took him his soul was pure.”
“God didn’t take him,” Cilke said dryly. “It was an extremely professional hit. There has to be a motive.” Portella’s eye twitched, but he said nothing, so Cilke went on. “You were his colleague for many years. You must know something. What about this nephew of his who inherits the banks?”
“Don Aprile and I had some business together many years ago,” Portella said. “But when Aprile retired he could just as easily have killed me. The fact that I’m alive proves we were not enemies. About his nephew I knew nothing except that he is an artist. He sings at weddings, at little parties, even in some small nightclubs. One of those young men that old folks like myself are fond of. And he sells good macaroni from Italy. All my restaurants use it.” He paused and sighed. “It is always a mystery when a great man is killed.”
“You know your help will be appreciated,” Cilke said.
“Of course,” Portella said. “The FBI always plays fair. I know my help will be appreciated.”
He gave Cilke and Boxton a warm smile, which showed square, almost perfect teeth.
On the way back to the office, Boxton said to Cilke, “I read that guy’s file. He’s big into porn and drugs, and he’s a murderer. How come we could never get him?”
“He’s not as bad as most of the others,” Cilke said. “And we’ll get him someday.”
Kurt Cilke ordered an electronic surveillance on the homes of Nicole Aprile and Astorre Viola. A domesticated federal judge issued the necessary order. Not that Cilke was really suspicious—he just wanted to be certain. Nicole was born a troublemaker, and Astorre looked too good to be true. It was out of the question to bug Valerius, since his home was on the West Point grounds.
Cilke had learned that the horses in Astorre’s meadow were his passion. That he brushed and groomed one stallion each morning before he took it out. Which was not so bad, except that he rode dressed in full English regalia, red coat and all, including a black suede hunting cap.
He found it hard to believe that Astorre was so helpless a target that three muggers in Central Park had taken a pass at him. He had escaped, it seemed—but the police report was foggy about what had happened to the muggers.
Two weeks later Cilke and Boxton were able to listen to the tapes he had planted in the house of Astorre Viola. The voices were those of Nicole, Marcantonio, Valerius, and Astorre. On tape they became human to Cilke; they had taken off their masks.
“Why did they have to kill him?” Nicole asked, her voice breaking with grief. There was none of the coldness she had shown to Cilke.
“There has to be a reason,” Valerius said quietly. His voice was much gentler when talking to his family. “I never had any connection to the old man’s business, so I’m not worried about myself. But what about you?”
Marcantonio spoke scornfully; obviously he did not like his brother. “Val, the old man got you an appointment to West Point because you were a wimp. He wanted to toughen you up. Then he helped in your intelligence work overseas. So you’re in this. He loved the idea you could be a commander. General Aprile—he loved the sound of it. Who knows what strings he pulled.” His voice sounded far more energetic, more passionate on tape than in person.
There was a long pause, and then Marcantonio said, “And of course he got me started. He bankrolled my production company. The big talent agencies gave me a break on their stars. Listen, we were not in his life, but he was always in ours. Nicole, the old man saved you ten years of dues paying by getting you that job at the law firm. And Astorre, who do you think got your macaroni shelf space in the supermarkets?”
Suddenly Nicole was furious. “Dad may have helped me get through the door, but the only one responsible for my success in my career is me. I had to fight those sharks at the firm for everything I got. I’m the one who put in eighty-hour weeks reading the fine print.” She paused, her voice cold now. She must have turned to Astorre then. “And what I want to know is why Dad put you in charge of the banks. What the hell do you have to do with anything?”
Astorre’s voice sounded helpless with apology. “Nicole, I have no idea. I didn’t ask for this. I have a business, and I love my singing and riding. Besides, there’s a bright side for you. I have to do all the work, and the profits
are divided equally among the four of us.”
“But you have control and you’re only a cousin,” Nicole said. She added sarcastically, “He sure must have loved your singing.”
Valerius said, “Are you going to try to run the banks yourself?”
Astorre’s voice was filled with mock horror. “Oh, no, no, Nicole will give me a list of names, a CEO to do that.”
Nicole sounded tearful with frustration. “I still don’t understand. Why didn’t Dad appoint me? Why?”
“Because he didn’t want any one of his children to have leverage over the others,”Marcantonio said.
Astorre said quietly, “Maybe it was to keep you all out of danger.”
“How do you like that FBI guy coming on to us like he’s our best friend?” Nicole said. “He hounded Dad for years. And now he thinks we’re going to spill all our family secrets to him. What a creep.”
Cilke felt a flush coming to his cheeks. He hadn’t deserved that.
Valerius said,“He’s doing his duty, and that’s not an easy job. He must be a very intelligent man. He sent a lot of the old man’s friends to jail. And for a long time.”
“Traitors, informers,” Nicole said scornfully. “And those RICO laws they enforce very selectively. They could send half of our political leaders to jail under those laws, and most of the Fortune Five Hundred.”
“Nicole, you’re a corporate lawyer,” Marcantonio said. “Cut the crap.”
Astorre said thoughtfully, “Where do the FBI agents get those snazzy suits? Is there a special ‘Tailor to the FBI’?”
“It’s the way they wear them,”Marcantonio said. “That’s the secret. But on TV we can never get a guy like Cilke right. Perfectly sincere, perfectly honest, honorable in every way. Yet you never trust him.”
“Marc, forget your phony TV shows,” Valerius said. “We are in a hostile situation, and there are two significant intelligence aspects. The why, then the who. Why was Dad killed? Then, who could it possibly be? Everyone says he had no enemies and nothing that anyone wanted.”
“I have a petition to see Dad’s file at the Bureau,” Nicole said. “That may give us a clue.”
“What for?” Marcantonio said. “We can’t do anything about it. Dad would want us to forget it. This should be left to the authorities.”
Nicole sounded scornful. “So we don’t give a crap who killed our father? How about you, Astorre? Do you feel like that too?”
Astorre’s voice was soft, reasonable. “What can we do? I loved your father. I’m grateful he was so generous to me in his will. But let’s wait and see what happens. Actually, I like Cilke. If there’s anything to find, he’ll find it. We all have good lives, so why twist them out of shape?” He paused and then said, “Look, I have to call one of my suppliers, so I have to go. But you can stay here and talk things out.”
There was a long silence on the tape. Cilke couldn’t help feeling goodwill toward Astorre and resentment against the others. Still, he was satisfied. These were not dangerous people; they would cause him no trouble.
“I love Astorre,” Nicole’s voice said now. “He was closer to our father than any of us. But he’s such a flake. Marc, can he possibly go anywhere with that singing?”
Marcantonio laughed.“We see thousands of guys like him in our business. He’s like a football star in a small high school. He’s fun, but he hasn’t really got the goods. But he’s got a good business and he enjoys it, so what the hell?”
“He has control of multibillion-dollar banks—everything we have, and what really interests him is singing and horseback riding,” said Nicole.
Valerius said ruefully and with humor, “Sartorially splendid, but he has a lousy seat.”
Nicole said, “How could Dad do that?”
“He made something very good out of that macaroni business,” Valerius said.
“We have to protect Astorre,” Nicole said. “He’s too nice to run banks and too trusting to deal with Cilke.”
At the end of the tape Cilke turned to Boxton. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Oh, like Astorre, I think you’re a splendid fellow,” Boxton said.
Cilke laughed. “No, I mean, are these people possible suspects in the murder?”
“No,” Boxton said. “First, they are his kids, and second, they don’t have the expertise.”
“They are smart though,” Cilke said. “They ask the right question. Why?”
“Well, it’s not our question,” Boxton said. “This is local, not federal. Or do you have a connection?”
“International banks,” Cilke said. “But no sense wasting any more of the Bureau’s money; cancel all the phone taps.”
Kurt Cilke liked dogs because they could not conspire. They could not hide hostility, and they were not cunning. They did not lie awake at night planning to rob and murder other dogs. Treachery was beyond their scope. He had two German shepherds to help guard his home, and he walked with them through the nearby woods at night with complete harmony and trust.
When he went home that night, he was satisfied. There was no danger in the situation, not from the Don’s family. There would be no bloody vendetta.
Cilke lived in New Jersey with a wife he truly loved and a ten-year-old daughter he adored. His house was wrapped up with a tight security-alarm system plus the two dogs. The government paid. His wife had refused training to use a gun, and he relied on remaining anonymous. His neighbors thought he was a lawyer (which he was), as did his daughter. Cilke always kept his gun and bullets locked up with his Bureau ID when he was at home.
He never took his car to the railroad station for his commute to the city. Petty thieves might steal the car radio. When he arrived back in New Jersey, he called his wife on his cell phone and she came to pick him up. It was a five-minute ride home.
Tonight Georgette gave him a cheerful kiss on the mouth, a warm touch of flesh. His daughter, Vanessa, so boundlessly alive, bowled into him for a hug. The two dogs frolicked around him but were restrained. They all fitted easily into the big Buick.
It was this part of his life that Cilke treasured. With his family he felt secure, at peace. His wife loved him, he knew that. She admired his character, that he did his work without malice or trickery, with a sense of justice to his fellowman no matter how depraved. He valued her intelligence and trusted her enough to talk to her about his work. But of course he could not tell her everything. And she was busy with her own work, writing about famous women in history, teaching ethics at a local college, fighting for her social causes.
Now Cilke watched his wife as she prepared dinner. Her beauty always enchanted him. He watched Vanessa setting the table, imitating her mother, even trying to walk with that graceful balletlike movement. Georgette did not believe in having household help of any kind, and she had raised her daughter to be self-reliant. At the age of six, Vanessa was already making her own bed, cleaning her room, and helping her mother cook. As always, Cilke wondered why his wife loved him, felt blessed that she did.
Later, after they put Vanessa to bed (Cilke checked the bell she could ring if she needed them), they went into their own bedroom. And as always, Cilke felt the thrill of almost religious fervor when his wife undressed. Then her huge gray eyes, so intelligent, became smoky with love. And afterward, falling into sleep, she held his hand to guide them through her dreams.
Cilke had met her when he was investigating radical college organizations suspected of minor terrorist acts. She was a political activist who taught history at a small New Jersey college. His investigation showed she was simply a liberal and had no connection with a radical extremist group. And so Cilke wrote in his report.
But when he interviewed her as part of the investigation, he had been struck by her absolute lack of prejudice or hostility toward him as an FBI agent. In fact, she seemed curious about his work, how he felt about it, and oddly enough he answered her frankly: simply that he was one of the guardians of a society that could not exist without some regulati
on. He added half-jokingly that he was the shield between people like her and those who would devour her for their own agenda.
The courtship was short. They married quickly, really so that their common sense would not interfere with their love, for they both recognized they were opposites in almost every way. He shared none of her beliefs; when it came to the world he lived in, she was an innocent. She definitely shared none of his reverence for the Bureau. But she listened to his complaints, how he resented the character assassination of the Bureau saint, J. Edgar Hoover. “They paint him as a closet homosexual and reactionary bigot. What he really was was a dedicated man who simply did not develop a liberal conscience.” He told her, “Writers deride the FBI as the Gestapo or KGB. But we have never resorted to torture, and we have never framed anybody—unlike the NYPD, for instance. We have never planted false evidence. The kids in college would lose their freedom if it wasn’t for us. The right wing would destroy them, they are so dumb politically.”
She smiled at his passion, was touched by it.
“Don’t expect me to change,” she told him, smiling. “If what you say is true, we have no quarrel.”
“I don’t expect you to change,” Cilke said. “And if the FBI affects our relationship, I’ll just get another job.” He didn’t have to tell her what a sacrifice that would be for him.
But how many people can say that they are perfectly happy, that they have one human being they can absolutely trust? He took such comfort in his guardianship and faithfulness to her spirit and her body. She could sense his alertness every second of the day for her safety and survival.
Cilke missed her terribly when he was away on training courses. He never was tempted by other women because he never wanted to be a conspirator against her. He cherished his return to her, to her trusting smile, her welcoming body, as she waited for him in the bedroom, naked, vulnerable, pardoning him for his work, a benediction to his life.
But his happiness was haunted by the secrets he had to keep from her, the serious complications of his job, his knowledge of a world that festered with the pus of evil men and women, the stains of humanity that spilled over into his own brain. Without her, it was simply not worth living in the world.