At one time, early, still shaky with fear of happiness, he had done the one thing he was truly ashamed of. He had bugged his own home to record his wife’s every word, then listened in the basement to the tapes. He had listened to every inflection. And she had passed the test; she was never malicious, never petty or traitorous. He had done that for a year.
That she loved him despite his imperfections, his feral cunning, his need to hunt down fellow human beings seemed to Cilke a miracle. But he was always afraid that she would discover his true nature and then abhor him. And so in his work, he also became as fastidious as possible and acquired his reputation for fairness.
Georgette never doubted him. She had proved that one night when they were dinner guests at the director’s house, along with twenty other guests, a semiofficial affair and a signal honor.
At one point during the evening the director managed to secure a moment alone with Cilke and his wife. He said to Georgette, “I understand you are involved in many liberal causes. I respect your right to do so, of course. But perhaps you don’t truly comprehend that your actions could damage Kurt’s career in the Bureau?”
Georgette smiled at the director and said gravely,“I do know that, and that would be the Bureau’s mistake and misfortune. Of course, if it became too much of a problem, my husband would resign.”
The director turned to Cilke, a look of surprise on his face. “Is that true?” he asked. “Would you resign?”
Cilke didn’t hesitate. “Yes, it’s true. I’ll turn in the papers tomorrow if you like.”
The director laughed. “Oh, no,” he said. “We don’t come by men like you often.” Then he gave Georgette his steely aristocratic eye. “Uxoriousness may be the last refuge of the honest man,” he said.
They all laughed at the laborious witticism to show their goodwill.
CHAPTER 4
FOR FIVE MONTHS after the Don’s death, Astorre was busy conferring with some of the Don’s old retired colleagues, taking measures to protect the Don’s children from harm and investigating the circumstances of his murder. Most of all he had to find a reason for such a daring and outrageous act. Who would give the order to kill the great Don Aprile? He knew he had to be very careful.
Astorre had his first meeting with Benito Craxxi in Chicago.
Craxxi had retired from all illegal operations ten years before the Don. He was the man who had been the great consiglieri of the National Mafia Commission itself and had an intimate knowledge of all Family structures in the United States. He had been the first to spot the decay in the power of the great Families, foreseeing their decline. And so he had prudently retired to play the stock market, where he was pleasantly surprised that he could steal as much money with no risk of legal punishment whatsoever. The Don had given Craxxi’s name to Astorre as one of the men he must consult, if necessary.
Craxxi, at seventy, lived with two bodyguards, a chauffeur, and a young Italian woman who served as cook and house-keeper and was rumored to be his sexual companion. He was in perfect health, for he had lived a life of moderation; he ate prudently and drank only occasionally. For breakfast a bowl of fruit and cheese; for lunch an omelet or vegetable soup, mostly beans and escarole; for dinner a simple cutlet of beef or lamb and a great salad of onions, tomatoes, and lettuce. He smoked only one cigar a day, directly after dinner with his coffee and anisette. He spent his money generously and wisely. He was also careful to whom he gave advice. For a man who gives the wrong counsel is as hated as any enemy.
But with Astorre, he was generous, for Craxxi was one of the many men who was greatly in the debt of Don Aprile. It was the Don who had protected Craxxi when he retired, always a dangerous move in the business.
It was a breakfast meeting. There were bowls of fruit—glossy yellow pears, russet apples, a bowl of strawberries almost as large as lemons, white grapes, and dark red cherries. A huge crag of cheese was laid out on a wooden board like a sliver of gold-crated rock. The housekeeper served them coffee and anisette and disappeared.
“So, my young man,” Craxxi said. “You are the guardian Don Aprile has chosen.”
“Yes,” Astorre said.
“I know he trained you for this task,” Craxxi said. “My old friend always looked ahead. We consulted on it. I know you are qualified. The question remains, do you have the will?”
Astorre’s smile was engaging, his countenance open. “The Don saved my life and gave me everything I have,” he said. “I am what he made me. And I vowed I would protect the family. If Nicole isn’t made a partner in the law firm, if Marcantonio’s TV network fails, if something happens to Valerius, they still have the banks. I’ve had a happy life. I regret the reason I have the task. But I gave the Don my word, and I must keep it. If not, what can I believe in the rest of my life?”
There were moments of his childhood that flashed through his mind, moments of great joy for which he felt gratitude. Scenes of himself as a boy in Sicily with his uncle, walking through the vast mountainous terrain, listening to the Don’s stories. He dreamed then of a different time, when justice was served, loyalty valued, and great deeds accomplished by kind and powerful men. And at that moment he missed both the Don and Sicily.
“Good,” Craxxi said, interrupting Astorre’s reverie and bringing him back to the present. “You were at the scene. Describe everything to me.”
Astorre did so.
“And you are certain that both shooters were left-handed?” Craxxi asked.
“At least one, and probably the other,” Astorre said.
Craxxi nodded slowly and seemed lost in thought. After what seemed long moments, he looked directly at Astorre and said, “I think I know who the shooters were. But not to be hasty. It is more important to know who hired them and why. You must be very careful. Now, I have thought very much of this matter. The most probable suspect is Timmona Portella. But for what reasons and to please who? Now, Timmona was always rash. But the killing of Don Aprile had to be a very risky enterprise. Even Timmona feared the Don, retirement or not.
“Now, here is my thought about the shooters. They are brothers who live in Los Angeles, and they are the most highly qualified men in the country. They never talk. Few people even know they are twins. And they are both left-handed. They have courage, and they are born fighters. The danger would appeal to them, and the reward must have been great. Also, they must have had some reassurances—that the authorities would not pursue the case with conviction. I find it strange that there was no official police or federal surveillance of the confirmation at the cathedral. After all, Don Aprile was still an FBI target even after he retired.
“Now, understand, everything I’ve said is theory. You will have to investigate and confirm. And then, if I am correct, you must strike with all your might.”
“One thing more,” Astorre said. “Are the Don’s children in danger?”
Craxxi shrugged. He was carefully peeling the skin off a golden pear. “I don’t know,” he said. “But don’t be too proud to ask them to help. You yourself are undoubtedly in some peril. Now, I have a final suggestion for you. Bring your Mr. Pryor from London to run your banks. He is a supremely qualified man in every way.”
“And Bianco in Sicily?” Astorre asked.
“Leave him there,” Craxxi said. “When you are further along, we will meet again.”
Craxxi poured anisette into Astorre’s coffee. Astorre sighed. “It seems strange,” he said. “I never dreamed I would have to act for the Don, the great Don Aprile.”
“Ah, well,” Craxxi said. “Life is cruel and hard for the young.”
For twenty years Valerius had lived in the military-intelligence world, not a fictional world like his brother’s. He seemed to anticipate everything Astorre said and reacted without any surprise.
“I need your help,” Astorre said. “You may have to break some of your strict rules of conduct.”
Valerius said dryly, “Finally you’re showing your true colors. I wondered how long it would ta
ke.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Astorre said, somewhat surprised. “I think your father’s death was a conspiracy that involved the NYPD and the FBI. You may think I’m fantasizing, but that’s what I hear.”
“It’s not impossible,” Valerius said. “But I don’t have access to secret documents in my job here.”
“But you must have friends,” Astorre said. “In the intelligence agencies. You can ask them certain questions.”
“I don’t have to ask questions,” Valerius said, smiling. “They gossip like magpies. That ‘need to know’ is all bullshit. Have you any idea what you’re after?”
“Any information about the killers of your father,” Astorre said.
Valerius leaned back in his chair, puffing on a cigar, his only vice. “Don’t bullshit me, Astorre,” he said. “Let me tell you something. I did an analysis. It could be a gangland act of retaliation or revenge. And I thought about you being in control of the banks. The old man always had a plan. I figure it like this. The Don made you his point man for the family. What follows from that? That you are trained, that you were his agent in place to be activated only at a crucial moment in time. There is an eleven-year gap in your life, and your cover is too good to be true—an amateur singer, a sporting horseman? And the gold collar you always wear is suspicious.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “How’s that for analysis?”
“Very good,” Astorre said. “I hope you kept it to yourself.”
“Certainly,” Valerius said. “But then it follows that you are a dangerous man. And that therefore there is an extreme action you will take. But some advice: Your cover is thin; it will be blown before much longer. As for my help, I live a very good life and I’m opposed to everything I think you are. So for now my answer is no. I won’t help. If things change, I’ll get in touch.”
A woman came out to guide Astorre into Nicole’s office. Nicole gave him a hug and a kiss. She was still fond of him; their teen romance had left no bitter scars.
“I have to speak to you in private,” Astorre said.
Nicole turned to her bodyguard. “Helene, can you leave us alone? I’m safe with him.”
Helene gave Astorre a long look. She was impressing herself on his consciousness, and she succeeded. Like Cilke, Astorre noted her extreme confidence—the kind of confidence shown by a card player with an ace in the hole or a person holding a concealed weapon. He looked to see where it could be hidden. The tight trousers and jacket molded her impressive physique—no gun there. Then he noted the slit in her trouser leg. She was wearing an ankle holster, which wasn’t really that smart. He smiled at her as she left, exerting his charm. She looked back at him blankly.
“Who recruited her?” Astorre asked.
“My father,” Nicole said. “It worked out very well. It’s amazing how she can handle muggers and mashers.”
“I’ll bet,” Astorre said. “Did you manage to get the old man’s file from the FBI?”
“Yes,” Nicole said. “And it’s the most horrible list of allegations I’ve ever read. I simply don’t believe it, and they could never prove any of it.”
Astorre knew that the Don would want him to deny the truth. “Will you let me have the file for a couple of days?” he asked.
Nicole gave her blank-faced lawyer stare. “I don’t think you should see it right now. I want to write an analysis of it, underline what’s important, then give it to you. Actually, there’s nothing that will help you. Maybe you and my brothers shouldn’t see it.”
Astorre looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled. “That bad?”
“Let me study it,” Nicole said. “The FBI are such shits.”
“Whatever you say is OK with me. Just remember, this is a dangerous business. Look after yourself.”
“I will,” Nicole said. “I have Helene.”
“And I’m here if you need me.” Astorre placed his hand on Nicole’s arm to reassure her, and for a moment she looked at him with such longing he felt uncomfortable. “Just call.”
Nicole smiled. “I will. But I’m OK. I am.” In fact, she was really looking forward to her evening with an incredibly charming and attractive diplomat.
In his elaborate office suite lined with six TV screens, Marcantonio Aprile was having a meeting with the head of the most powerful advertising agency in New York. Richard Harrison was a tall, aristocratic-looking man, perfectly dressed, with the appearance of a former model but the intensity of a paratrooper.
On Harrison’s lap was a small case of videotapes. With absolute assurance, without asking permission, he went to a TV set and inserted one of the tapes.
“Watch this,” he said. “It’s not one of my clients, but I think it’s just astounding.”
The videotape played a commercial for American pizza, and the pitchman was Mikhail Gorbachev, the former president of the Soviet Union. Gorbachev sold with quiet dignity, never saying a word, just feeding his grandchildren pizza while the crowd voiced its admiration.
Marcantonio smiled at Harrison. “A victory for the free world,” he said. “So what?”
“The former leader of the Soviet Republic, and now he’s clowning around doing a commercial for an American pizza company. Isn’t that astonishing? And I hear they only paid him half a million.”
“OK,” Marcantonio said. “But why?”
“Why does anyone do anything so humiliating?” Harrison said. “He needs the money desperately.”
And suddenly Marcantonio thought of his father. The Don would feel such contempt for a man who had ruled a great country and did not provide financial security for his family. Don Aprile would think him the most foolish of men.
“A nice lesson in history and human psychology,” Marcantonio said. “But again, so what?”
Harrison tapped his box of videos. “I have more, and I anticipate some resistance. These are a little more touchy. You and I have done business for a long time. I want to make sure you let these commercials run on your network. The rest will necessarily follow.”
“I can’t imagine,” Marcantonio said.
Harrison inserted another tape and explained. “We have purchased the rights to use deceased celebrities in our commercials. It is such a waste that the famous dead cease to have a function in our society. We want to change that and restore them to their former glory.”
The tape began to play. There was a succession of shots of Mother Teresa ministering to the poor and sick of Calcutta, her nun’s habit draping over the dying. Another shot of her receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, her homely face shining, her saintly humility so moving. Then a shot of her ladling out soup from a huge pot to the poor in the streets.
Suddenly the picture blazes with color. A richly dressed man comes to a pot with an empty bowl. He says to a beautiful young woman, “Can I have some soup? I hear it’s wonderful.” The young woman gives him a radiant smile and ladles some soup into his bowl. He drinks, looking as if he’s in ecstasy.
Then the screen dissolves to a supermarket and a whole shelf of soup cans labeled “Calcutta.” A voice-over proclaims,“Calcutta Soup, a life giver to rich and poor alike. Everyone can afford the twenty varieties of delicious soup. Original recipes by Mother Teresa.”
“I think that’s done in pretty good taste,” Harrison said.
Marcantonio raised his eyebrows.
Harrison inserted another video. A brilliant shot of Princess Diana in her wedding dress filled the screen, followed by shots of her in Buckingham Palace. Then dancing with Prince Charles, surrounded by her royal entourage, all in frenetic motion.
A voice-over intones, “Every princess deserves a prince. But this princess had a secret.” A young model holds up an elegant crystal bottle of perfume, the product label clear. The voice-over continues, “With one small spray of Princess perfume, you too can capture your prince—and never have to worry about vaginal odor.”
Marcantonio pressed a button on his desk and the screen went black.
Harrison said, ?
??Wait, I have more.”
Marcantonio shook his head. “Richard, you are amazingly inventive—and insensitive. Those commercials will never play on my network.”
Harrison protested, “But some of the proceeds go to charity—and they are in good taste. I hoped you would lead the way. We’re good friends, after all.”
“So we are,” Marcantonio said. “But still, the answer is no.”
Harrison shook his head and slowly put his videos back in the box.
Marcantonio, smiling, asked, “By the way, how did the Gorbachev spot do?”
Harrison shrugged. “Lousy. The poor son of a bitch couldn’t even sell pizza.”
Marcantonio cleared up other work and prepared for his evening duties. Tonight he had to attend the Emmys. His network had three big tables for its executives and stars and several nominations. His date was Matilda Johnson, an established newscaster.
His office had a bedroom suite with a bathroom and shower attached and a closet full of clothes. He often stayed there overnight when he had to work late.
At the ceremony he was mentioned by some of his winners as being important to their success. This was always pleasant. But while he was clapping and kissing cheeks, he thought of all the awards celebrations and dinners he had to attend during the year: the Oscars, the People’s Choice Awards, the AFI tributes, and other special awards to aging stars, producers, and directors. He felt like a teacher awarding homework stars to elementary schoolchildren who would run home to show their mothers. And then he felt a momentary shame for his malice—these people deserved their honors, needed the approval as much as they needed the money.
After the ceremony he amused himself by watching actors with slight credentials trying to impress their personalities on people like himself who had clout, and an editor of a successful magazine being courted by some freelance writers—he noted the wariness on her face, the careful and cold cordiality, as if she were Penelope waiting for a more famous suitor.