Omerta (27 page)

“What the hell do I do with him until then?” Monza asked. “That’s hours from now.”

“Take him for breakfast,” Astorre said. “He likes to eat. That should take up a couple of hours. Then take him for a walk in Central Park. Go to the zoo. I’ll take one of the cars and a driver. If he tries to run away, don’t kill him. Just catch him.”

“You’ll be on your own,” Monza said. “Is that smart?”

“I’ll be OK.” In the car Astorre used his cell phone to call Nicole’s private number. It was now nearly six in the morning, and light transfixed the city into long thin lines of stone.

Nicole’s voice was sleepy when she answered. Astorre remembered it had been like that when she was a young girl and his lover. “Nicole, wake up,” he said. “You know who this is?”

The question obviously irritated her. “Of course I know who it is. Who else would call at this hour?”

“Listen carefully,” Astorre said. “No questions. That document you’re holding for me, the one I signed for Cilke, remember you told me not to sign?”

“Yes,” Nicole said curtly, “of course I remember.”

“Do you have it at home or in your office safe?” Astorre asked.

“In my office, of course,” Nicole said.

“OK,” Astorre said. “I’ll be at your house in thirty minutes. I’ll ring your bell. Be ready and come down. Bring all your keys. We’re going to your office.”

W
hen Astorre rang Nicole’s bell, she came down immediately dressed in a blue leather coat and carrying a large purse. She kissed him on the cheek but didn’t dare say a word until they were in the car and she had to give instructions to the driver. Then she continued her silence until they were in her office suite.

“Now, tell me why you want that document,” she said.

“You don’t have to know,” Astorre said.

He saw she was angry with the answer, but she went to the office safe that was part of the desk and produced a file folder.

“Don’t close the safe,” Astorre said. “I want the tape you made of our meeting with Cilke.”

Nicole handed him the folder. “You have a right to these documents,” she said. “But you have no right to any tape, even if it existed.”

“Long ago you told me you taped every meeting in your office, Nicole,” Astorre said. “And I watched you at the meeting. You were a little too satisfied with yourself.”

Nicole laughed with scornful affection. “You’ve changed,” she said. “You were never one of those assholes who thought they could read other people’s minds.”

Astorre gave her a rueful grin and said apologetically, “I thought you still liked me. That’s why I never asked what you deleted in your father’s file before you showed it to me.”

“I deleted nothing,” Nicole said coolly. “And I don’t give the tape until you tell me what this is all about.”

Astorre was silent, then he said, “OK, you’re a big girl now.” He laughed when he saw how angry she was, her eyes flashing, her lips curled with contempt. It reminded him of how she looked when she confronted him and her father long ago.

“Well, you always wanted to play with the big boys,” Astorre said. “And you certainly do that. As a lawyer, you’ve scared almost as many people as your father.”

“He wasn’t as bad as the press and the FBI painted him,” Nicole said angrily.

“OK,” Astorre said soothingly. “Marc was kidnapped last night by Timmona Portella. Not to worry though. I went out and got his brother, Bruno. Now we can bargain.”

“You committed a kidnapping?” Nicole said incredulously.

“So did they,” Astorre said. “They really want us to sell them the banks.”

Nicole almost shrieked, “Then give them the fucking banks!”

“You don’t understand,” Astorre said. “We give them nothing. We have Bruno. They hurt Marc, I hurt Bruno.”

Nicole was looking at him with horror in her eyes. Astorre stared at her calmly, and one hand went up to finger the gold collar around his neck. “Yeah,” he said, “I’d have to kill him.”

Nicole’s firm face broke up into creases of sorrow. “Not you, Astorre, not you too.”

“So now you know,” Astorre said. “I’m not the man to sell the banks after they killed your father and my uncle. But I need the tape and the document to make the deal go through and get Marc back without bloodshed.”

“Just sell them the banks,” Nicole whispered to him. “We’ll be rich. What does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” Astorre said. “It mattered to the Don.”

Silently Nicole reached into the safe and took out a small packet, which she placed on top of the folder.

“Play it for me now,” Astorre said.

Nicole reached into her desk for a small cassette player. She inserted the tape, and they listened to Cilke reveal his plan to entrap Portella. Then Astorre pocketed everything and said, “I’ll have it all back to you later today, and Marc too. Don’t worry. Nothing will happen. And if it does, it will be worse for them than for us.”

A
little after noon Astorre, Aldo Monza, and Bruno Portella were seated in a private dining room at the Paladin restaurant in the East Sixties.

Bruno seemed not at all worried about being a hostage. He chatted cheerfully with Astorre. “You know, I lived all my life in New York and I never knew Central Park had a zoo. More people should know that and go see it.”

“So you had a good time,” Astorre said in a good-humored voice, thinking that if things went badly, Bruno would at least have a pleasant memory before death. The door of the dining room swung open, and the owner of the restaurant appeared with Timmona Portella and Marcantonio. Portella’s broad figure with its well-cut suit almost masked Marcantonio behind him. Bruno rushed into Timmona’s arms and kissed him on both cheeks, and Astorre was astonished to see the look of love and satisfaction on Timmona’s face.

“What a brother,” Bruno exclaimed loudly. “What a brother.”

In contrast, Astorre and Marcantonio shook hands, then Astorre gave a half hug and said, “Everything is OK, Marc.”

Marcantonio turned away from him and sat down. His legs had gone weak partly with relief at his safety and partly because of Astorre’s appearance. The young boy who loved to sing, the intense yet joyous youth so carefree and loving, now appeared in his true form as the Angel of Death. The power of his presence dominated Portella in his fear and bluster.

Astorre sat down next to Marcantonio and patted his knee. He was smiling his affable smile as though this were just a friendly lunch. “Are you OK?” he asked.

Marcantonio looked directly into Astorre’s eyes. He had never before noticed how clear and merciless they were. He looked at Bruno, the man who would have paid for his life. The man was babbling to his brother, something about the Central Park zoo.

Astorre said to Portella, “We have things to discuss.”

“OK,” Portella said. “Bruno, get the fuck out of here. There’s a car waiting outside. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

Monza came into the dining room. “Take Marcantonio to his house,” Astorre said to him. “Marc, wait for me there.”

P
ortella and Astorre now sat alone across from each other at the table. Portella opened a bottle of wine and filled his glass. He didn’t offer a glass to Astorre.

Astorre reached into his pocket, pulled out a brown envelope, and emptied its contents onto the table. There was the confidential document he had signed for Cilke, the one in which he was asked to betray Portella.

Then there was the small cassette player with the tape in it.

Portella looked at the document with the FBI logo and read it. He tossed it aside. “That could be a forgery,” he said. “And why would you be so dumb to sign it?”

In answer Astorre flipped the switch on the cassette player, and Cilke’s voice could be heard asking Astorre to cooperate to trap Portella. Portella listened and tried to control the surprise and rage he felt, but his face had flushed a deep red and his lips moved in unspoken curses. Astorre clicked off the tape.

“I know you worked with Cilke over the last six years,” Astorre said. “You helped him wipe out the New York Families. And I know you got immunity from Cilke for that. But now he’s after you. Those guys who wear badges are never satisfied. They want it all. You thought he was your friend. You broke omerta for him. You made him famous, and now he wants to send you to jail. He doesn’t need you anymore. He’s going to come after you as soon as you buy the banks. That’s why I couldn’t make the deal. I would never break omerta.”

Portella was very quiet and then seemed to come to a decision. “If I solve the Cilke problem, what deal would you make for the banks?”

Astorre put everything back into his attaché case. “Outright sale,” he said. “Except for me—I keep a five percent piece.”

Portella seemed to have recovered from his shock. “OK,” he said. “We can work it out after the problem is solved.”

They shook hands on it, and Portella left first. Astorre realized he was very hungry and ordered a thick red steak for lunch. One problem solved, he thought.

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A
t midnight Portella met with Marriano Rubio, Inzio Tulippa, and Michael Grazziella at the Peruvian consulate.

Rubio had been a superb host to Tulippa and Grazziella. He had accompanied them to the theater, the opera, and the ballet, and he had supplied discreet beautiful young women who had achieved some fame in the arts and music. Tulippa and Grazziella were having a wonderful visit and were reluctant to return to their natural environments, which were much less stimulating. They were subordinate kings being wooed by an overruling emperor who did everything to please them.

This night the consul general exceeded himself in his hospitality. The conference table was laden with exotic dishes, fruits, cheeses, and huge bonbons of chocolate; beside every chair stood a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Small elegant pastries rested on delicate ladders of spun sugar. A huge coffee urn steamed, and boxes of Havana cigars, maduros, light brown, and green were strewn carelessly over the table.

He opened the proceedings by saying to Portella, “Now, what is so important that we had to cancel our engagements for this meeting?” Despite his exquisite courtesy there was a slight condescension in his voice that infuriated Portella. And he knew that he would be lessened in their eyes when they learned of Cilke’s duplicity. He told them the whole story.

Tulippa was eating a bonbon when he said, “You mean you had his cousin Marcantonio Aprile, and you made a deal to get your brother released without consulting us.” His voice was full of contempt.

“I could not let my brother die,” Portella said. “And besides, if I hadn’t made the deal, we would have fallen into Cilke’s trap.”

“True,” Tulippa said. “But it was not your decision to make.”

“Yeah,” Portella said. “Then who—”

“All of us!” Tulippa barked. “We are your partners.”

Portella looked at him and wondered what kept him from killing the greasy son of a bitch. But then remembered the fifty Panama hats flying in the air.

The consul general seemed to have read his mind. He said soothingly, “We all come from different cultures and have different values. We must accommodate ourselves to each other. Timmona is an American, a sentimentalist.”

“His brother is a dumb piece of shit,” Tulippa said.

Rubio shook his finger at Tulippa. “Inzio, stop making trouble for the fun of it. We all have a right to decide our personal affairs.”

Grazziella smiled a thin amused smile. “This is true. You, Inzio, have never confided to us your secret laboratories. Your desire to own your own personal weapons. And such a foolish notion. Do you think the government will put up with such a threat? They will change all the laws that now protect us and permit us to thrive.”

Tulippa laughed. He was enjoying this meeting. “I am a patriot,” he said. “I want South America to be in a position to defend itself from countries like Israel and India and Iraq.”

Rubio smiled at him benignly. “I never knew you were a nationalist.”

Portella was unamused. “I have a big problem here. I thought Cilke was my friend. I invested a lot of money in him. And now he is coming after me and all of you.”

Grazziella spoke directly and strongly. “We must abandon the whole project. We must live with less.” He was no longer the amiable man they had known. “We must find another solution. Forget Kurt Cilke and Astorre Viola. They are too dangerous as enemies. We must not pursue a course that could destroy us all.”

“That won’t solve my problem,” Portella said. “Cilke will keep coming after me.”

Tulippa also dropped his mask of affability. He said to Grazziella, “That you should advocate such a peaceful solution is against everything we know about you. You killed police and magistrates in Sicily. You assassinated the governor and his wife. You and your Corleonesi
cosca
killed the army general who was sent out to destroy your organization. Yet now you say abandon a project that will earn us billions of dollars. And desert our friend Portella.”

“I’m going to get rid of Cilke,” Portella said. “No matter what you say.”

“That is a very dangerous course of action,” the consul general said. “The FBI will declare a vendetta. They will use all their resources to track down his killer.”

“I agree with Timmona,” Tulippa said. “The FBI operates under legal constraints and can be handled. I will supply an assault team, and hours after the operation they will be on the airplane to South America.”

Portella said, “I know it’s dangerous, but it’s the only thing to do.”

“I agree,” Tulippa said. “For billions of dollars one must take risks. Or what are we in business for?”

Rubio said to Inzio, “You and I are at minimal risk because we have diplomatic status. Michael, you return to Sicily for the time being. Timmona, you will be the one who must bear the brunt of what follows.”

“If worse comes to worst,” Tulippa said, “I can hide you in South America.”

Portella spread his hands in the air in a helpless gesture. “I have a choice,” he said. “But I want your support. Michael, do you agree?”