Deceptions (51 page)

Durning stared at Donatti. “But what does our Mrs. Battaglia believe she’ll be gaining from her confessed indictment of
me?”

“Her boy. Not to mention my undying gratitude. I did, after all, save her life the other day, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Although you’ve obviously lied to her about having her son.”

Don Carlo Donatti studied the tips of his fingers and nodded. When he spoke again, there was something gentle and tired in
his voice.

“That’s true,” he said. “I did lie to her. But everything considered, I can’t really see it mattering all that much. Can you?”

I
’
m going to
die right here on this crazy ship
, thought Paulie,
among these smelly barrels, and no one will ever know what became of me.

It was the middle of the night, with gale-force winds and pounding waves, and the constant thumping of engines, and no relief
from any of them. And as if all that wasn’t bad enough, he was slowly being poisoned to death by the giant pizza he had pigged
out on earlier.

He had been asleep for a while under his truck tarpaulin,
but had been awakened by recurring stomach cramps. The boy tried to fight down the pain. He wouldn’t give in to it. He would
just lie quietly and wait, and it would go away.

Then Paulie drew his knees up against his chest, the spasm passed, and he felt something very near to hope.

With it, on the tossing, rolling truck, he was able to believe that the storm would be over by morning, that Naples would
be safely reached without his dying of a poisoned pizza, and that his mother and father would be waiting for him in Positano
when he got there.

Instant magic. A moment’s freedom from pain.

But it didn’t last long. Because soon the cramps came back and they were so bad that he cried out, and cried out again, and
then again. Until he became so afraid someone would hear him that he stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth to muffle the
sound.

Finally, he closed his eyes. As if shutting out all sight of the tarpaulin over his head would shut out the pain as well.

But it didn’t. And when he opened his eyes again, the tarp had been pulled away and a man’s face was there instead.

“Holy Christ!” said the man.

All they seemed able to do was stare at each other.

The man was big and tough looking, and Paulie guessed he was the driver of the truck. Now he was in for it. Now he’d be handed
over to the
carabinieri,
who’d pass him on to the haircuts, who’d give him to their
capo,
who’d shoot him full of holes for what he’d done to Dom and Tony.

“What the hell’s going on?” said the man.

The boy made a muffled, choking sound against the handkerchief in his mouth. He seemed to have forgotten it was there.

The man plucked it free. “What are you trying to do, kid? Choke yourself to death?”

As if suddenly rendered mute, Paulie shook his head.

“What then?”

“I’m sick.” The boy’s face contorted as another spasm hit, gripped him, and passed. “I didn’t want to make any noise.”

The man studied him. “Where does it hurt?”

Paulie pressed a hand to his stomach.

“You running away, or what?”

Paulie was afraid to answer.

“You been hiding here since Palermo?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you trying to go?”

“Home.”

“Where’s that?”

Paulie stared at him.

“Don’t worry, kid. I won’t turn you in. You got enough trouble. Just tell me where you live.”

“Positano.”

The trucker nodded. “If you don’t die first, maybe I can drop you not far from there.”

The boy felt a rush of something that made his eyes start to water. He fought it back. He hated that about himself. It was
like he had a fountain in his head. The least thing set it off.

“Listen,” said the man. “You don’t have to lie back here with all this shit. I got a better place for you up front. Right
back of the cab.”

Paulie shook his head.

“It’s all right. No one’ll see you there. It’s where I sleep on long hauls. I got some stuff for your cramps, too. What kind
of garbage you been eating?”

“Anchovy and sausage pizza.”

The trucker made a sour face. “Next time you want to kill yourself, try jumping off a high building. It’s faster and don’t
hurt anywhere near as much.”

Paulie could barely straighten up, and the ferry was still pitching and rolling badly. So the man carried him to his secret
place behind the driver’s seat and stretched him out on some nice soft padding with a regular pillow for his head. Then he
gave him a swig of some pink stuff from a bottle that he promised would make his cramps go away in less than half an hour.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Paulie.”

“I’m Nino. You want to sleep, go ahead. No one’ll bother you here.”

Paulie was tired enough to sleep, but he didn’t want Nino to see him sucking his thumb. Also, the trucker’s being so nice
to him was beginning to make him worry a little. He’d
heard all about the kind of men who liked to play around with young boys’ weenies. He’d never actually run into anyone like
that, but a couple of the kids from school had told stories about what had happened to them with such men.

The boy closed his eyes.

He wondered what he would do if Nino suddenly tried to fool around with him. Would he jump out of his truck and run away,
or pull out his gun, or just let him do it?

Then he opened his eyes and saw Nino sitting there, looking at him, with that real tough face of his kind of smiling.

“Cramps going away a little?” he asked.

Paulie nodded.

“Good. Your mom and dad know you’re coming home?”

“No.”

“I guess you’re going to surprise them, huh?”

“I tried to call them but no one was home.”

“Well, they’ll sure be happy to see you. My kid ran off once. Was gone for two days and nights. Nearly drove me nuts. I swear
I wanted to kill him. Then he walked in the damn door, and all I did was hug and kiss him and start crying like an asshole.”

The boy silently rolled with the truck and the ship. Somehow, he didn’t think Nino was one of those men with young boys’ weenies
on his mind.

“Thanks for helping me,” he said.

The trucker shrugged. “Shit. Who wouldn’t help a kid trying to get home? Besides, I like your guts. Imagine sticking a handkerchief
in your mouth to keep from crying out.”

Paulie lay there, his cheek resting against his hand. He didn’t think there was anything so special about his not wanting
to cry out and maybe get caught. But he liked the idea of Nino thinking he had guts.

T
HE SEATBELT SIGN
had just come on for the descent to Washington’s Dulles International, and Gianni Garetsky thought,
I’m coming full circle.

Leaving Palermo that morning on the earliest scheduled flight, he had spent the last twelve hours flying first to Naples,
then to Rome, and finally on to Washington, where he would be landing at approximately 3:00
P.M.
local time.

He hadn’t taken off his clothes or slept in a bed for more than thirty-six hours, although he had dozed occasionally in the
air. With his thoughts and emotions running at flood tide, he had neither the need nor the patience for serious, all-out sleep.

Finally, he was going to the source.

Gianni had made the decision about fifteen hours ago at Vittorio Battaglia’s bedside, with Vittorio himself forced into reluctant
agreement. Not that they had any real choices. What the two men did have in their few final nighttime hours together in the
hospital was a tiny spark of hope, still fighting to hold on against an avalanche of negative logic and reason.

“I’ve accepted it,” had been Vittorio’s coldly stated position. “My wife and son are gone. I can’t bring them back. But as
soon as I am able to walk out of here, I’m at least going to save what’s left of my sanity by making payment.”

“How?” Gianni had asked. “By blowing away burning?”

“Along with Don Donatti. I hold them both responsible.”

Gianni had remained silent.

“You don’t agree?” Vittorio had asked.

“We don’t really know for sure that your son and wife are gone.”

“
You
might not know.
I
know.”

“And if you’re wrong by some miracle… ”

“I don’t believe in miracles.”

“If by some miracle,” Gianni repeated quietly, “one or both of them are still alive at this moment, and you find out
later that you gave up on them just a little too soon… how do you imagine your sanity would react to
that?”

Vittorio had stared at Gianni until there was no air left in the silence.

“I can’t deal with this shit,” Vittorio had finally said. “I’m not worth a damn here in this bed. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Just get well.”

“Then what do
you
want to do?”

“I want to go to them both. First, Durning, then Donatti. But fast. Right now even miracles have time limits.”

“And do what?”

“Put a gun to each of their heads and ask for answers.”

“And if there are no miracles?”

“I’ll squeeze the trigger. Twice. Once for each.”

“You’ll be able to do that?”

“Take a good look at me, Vittorio.”

Battaglia had taken a good look. Then he nodded, tiredly. “Yeah, you can do it. Though that’s really my job.”

“I’ve got my own stake in it.”

They had considered each other in the silent room with its hospital smells.

“Just one thing,” Vittorio had said. “I’m giving you a name and a phone number. If you need help, or anything at all. Call
this man and tell him it’s for Charlie. You can trust him with your life. I’ve already trusted him with mine.”

“Who is he?”

“His name’s Tommy Cortlandt and he’s been my company contact and chief of station for the past eight years.”

Garestsky had stared blankly. “You mean like in CIA?”

“Exactly.” Vittorio had written the name and number on a slip of paper for him. “Memorize this along with the code word Charlie.
Then tear it up.”

It had taken Gianni a while to absorb. “That’s some surprise.”

“No big deal. Just a need I had.”

It occurred to Gianni that Vittorio Battaglia had always done pretty much as he wanted with his life. He had never just accepted
what was handed him.

It was less than a week since Gianni Garetsky had left the country with Mary Yung, but coming back, he felt as if he had been
away for years.

I’m back, he told his wife. And I’m alone. You never warned me. You never taught me that all women are not like you.

Well, now you know,
said Teresa.

Picking up his bag and going through customs, he saw that people suddenly seemed beautiful. The girls were slender and bouncy
and walked with their breasts high, half smiling as if remembering some secret pleasure the night before. The young men looked
strong and immortal. The children were laughing and energetic. The elderly were neatly dressed and appeared philosophically
relaxed about whatever might lie ahead,

Among them, he felt like the proverbial specter at the feast. Come to threaten. Come to shoot and kill.

He found himself deeply weighed by his mission. So much so, that for the first time in years a few words of Hebrew, learned
as a boy from his father, came back to him.
Hazak, v’ematz.
Which was the order God gave to Joshua and meant strengthen thyself.

He rented a black Cougar from Hertz. Then he drove into Alexandria to rearm himself, having had to abandon his weapons before
boarding the first of his trip’s many planes. Vittorio had given him the address of a gun dealer who would satisfy his needs
without questions. And an hour later, Gianni was on his way to Washington with a sharpshooter’s rifle and scope sights in
his car trunk, a 9mm automatic in a belt holster, and silencers that he could attach if needed. Trying to anticipate his needs,
he also picked up some high-powered binoculars and a pair of infrared night-vision goggles.

At shortly before 5:00 p.m., he was parked near enough to the Justice Department Building to be able to spot the attorney
general when he came out.

Seeing a steady stream of town cars and limousines coming and going, Gianni suddenly felt joyless, dispirited. All this great
officialdom of the world’s last remaining democratic superpower, and everyone with their own line of dirty secrets. The higher
you went, the dirtier they got. While at the very top, a past, present, and future killer.

Gianni felt it as something beyond him, some eternal seepage from the nation’s waste pipes. And the more you held your breath
the more it stank.

For over a week now he had been crawling through some pretty mean streets. They tore away the pink wrappings and exposed the
maggots. Blood flowed like honey, and a lot of people got their livers chopped. Memorial candles burned day and night in too
many windows. Everyone had their own landscapes. His had become studded with a grotesque blend of lies, violence, and ice
cream sundaes.

Gianni had been waiting for almost an hour when he saw Henry Durning leave the Justice Department Building and get into the
back of an official, dark-gray, chauffeur-driven limousine. Moments later, the car drove off and he followed.

Keeping a safe interval in the heavy, early-evening traffic, Gianni tailed the attorney general out of the immediate area
of working Washington and through some of Georgetown’s more picturesque streets. When the limousine finally deposited Durning
in front of a narrow Federalist town house, Gianni circled the block and parked within sight of the entrance.

The limousine had disappeared.

At about eight o’clock, a black woman left the house and drove off in a gray Toyota.

Gianni sat there until it was fully dark. Then he left his car and worked his way around to the rear of the house.

Lights showed in two rooms… one, on the first floor… the other, directly above it on the second floor.