The Prince (55 page)

As soon as they spotted Boccia, Haffenden's agents left three of their men to continue the surveillance and took off in two of their black cars to follow the Chevy.

Haffenden had ordered that Boccia be stopped away from the villa so that Bontade wouldn't know of his arrest.

As Boccia was approaching the entrance to the highway, one of the two Fords passed the Chevrolet and, with a spectacular maneuver, skidded to a stop sideways across the road. Boccia was forced to come to a screeching halt. Meanwhile, the agents in the other car slammed into the Chevy's bumper to disorient the gangster. They jumped out of their cars and surrounded him, ordering him to surrender. They then dragged him bodily out of the driver's seat and made him get into one of the Fords.

Other motorists witnessing the scene observed the episode with some satisfaction. If the police performed an arrest, it meant one less criminal on the streets, and that was sorely needed in those years.

Boccia's Chevrolet, driven by an agent, made a quick maneuver and fell in behind the Ford that sped off in the direction of Church Street in Manhattan, where the naval intelligence unit was headquartered.

In a suite at the Brevoort Hotel in Greenwich Village, Ferdinando Licata's latest refuge, a meeting was taking place between the prince, Jack Mastrangelo, and Saro Ragusa. Mastrangelo was desperate over the fate of his niece. He had grilled Ben Eleazar, who really didn't know anything more than what he'd already told him. Only Roy Boccia and, of course, Tom Bontade would know where the girl was. They had to get their hands on Boccia.

Mastrangelo had put out the word among his informers, but they'd all reported that they hadn't seen him for some weeks now. Mastrangelo had no way of knowing that Boccia had been secretly arrested by the B-3 intelligence team.

Then Ferdinando Licata came up with an idea to flush Bontade out from hiding. It was time to use his journalist friend, Luke Bogart from the
Sun
.

Roy Boccia was brought to the soundproof basement of naval intelligence on Church Street. Charles Haffenden himself wanted to interrogate him and—to avoid any obstruction on the grounds of civil liberties—had even sidestepped notifying Hogan, the district attorney.

Boccia felt trapped. He could try to send Saro and Licata to the electric chair declaring that he'd seen them kill Vito Pizzuto, but he also knew that if he turned them in, he would be finished with the other Cosa Nostra families. The code of silence,
omertà
, among the Mafia is the cornerstone of its power.

Haffenden wore his naval commander's uniform for the interrogation session. He entered the windowless room, lit by two metal lamps hanging from the ceiling.

Boccia was sitting in the middle of the room on a wooden swivel chair. When the door opened, he looked up and saw Haffenden coming toward him with a steely look. Seeing the determination in those eyes, he knew he would have to endure the man's questioning to the death.

“Well, Roy Boccia, at last I get to meet you. You're the one who sank all my ships, correct?” As usual, Haffenden was blunt.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Boccia said confidently.

“I hate wasting time. So I'll appeal to your intelligence, if you have any.” Haffenden paced around him. “We found I don't know how many pounds of dynamite in the trunk of your car—the same type used for the sabotage attacks.”

“But I never carried dynamite! I swear I didn't,” Boccia objected.

“All right, let's move on to something else. Were you present in warehouse eighty-two when Vito Pizzuto was killed? Or are you going to tell me you didn't even know him?”

“I knew him, yeah.”

“Good, that's better. So, were you there?” Haffenden pressed him.

“No. I beat it out of there when the shooting started.”

“So you didn't see anything? You didn't see who did that to him?”

Boccia hesitated a few seconds before answering, and Haffenden knew he was about to lie again.

“No,” was the gangster's predictable response.

“Let's get back to the dynamite. What were you going to do with all those explosives? Why were you carrying them around the city? What was your next target?”

“I swear to you, I don't know anything about that dynamite. Somebody must have planted it in my car to frame me. I'm telling you, I know nothing about it.”

Haffenden had no patience, but he had all the time in the world. Complacently, he told the killer, “Whatever you say. But understand that no one knows you're here—not even the DA's office. I can even keep you here for life, if I feel it's advisable. At least until you decide to talk. I'll see you in two days.”

With that, Haffenden left the room. Shortly thereafter, Boccia was thrown into a cell where the sole amenities were a stinking bucket and the faint glimmer of a hooded bulb. Boccia sat on the floor, leaning against the wall with his head in his hands, and cursed the day he had gotten in Saro Ragusa's way.

A few days later, a disturbing piece of news threw the entire Cosa Nostra organization into a panic. On the third page of the
Sun
, a headline blared: “Tom Bontade's Family Wiped Out.” The subhead explained that a mysterious outbreak had killed one of the bosses of the Cosa Nostra, along with all his family and some of his bodyguards. The bodies showed no sign of bullet wounds, nor traces of any violence. The mysterious deaths may have been due to ingestion of a poisonous substance. The article that followed described how the bodies of Bontade and his three bodyguards had been found. A macabre element concerned the fact that Bontade had been surprised by death while he was still talking on the phone. The reporter then recounted the gangster's eventful life in minute detail, up until the final weeks, when he'd lived virtually barricaded in his home for fear of being killed. Evidently all the precautions were of no use. The article was accompanied by photos of young Bontade and of the villa where the deaths took place.

The news spread quickly. Phone calls were exchanged among the foremost bosses of the families of New York and the entire East Coast. Some drank a toast, and others worried about their safety. A few, more daring or more interested in the facts, ventured out to northern Queens, where Bontade's home was. They expected to find a sea of police cars, but Tenth Avenue was nearly deserted. The only people around were a few passersby, a mother pushing a baby carriage, some cleaning women on their way to take the bus home—life went on like any other day.

A friend, however, went up to the gate of Bontade's estate and rang the bell. Aldo Martini, the recruit from Lombardy, went to answer. When he recognized the man, he stepped out to meet him in the driveway of the main building.

“Bob, what are you doing here?” Martini asked.

The man was taken aback, not knowing what to think. “Are you all okay?” he asked, confused.

Like any superstitious Italian, Martini grabbed his crotch: “What the fuck do you mean, Bob? Do I have to touch wood?”

In reply, the man handed him the newspaper. Martini scanned the front page full of news about the war in Europe. He looked up at him and said, “So?”

“Read the third page,” the man said.

Aldo Martini turned the page. The headline made his blood run cold. Then he felt like laughing. Except maybe there
was
something to worry about. He ran inside the house to show the article to Bontade.

Tom Bontade's rage frightened his own men. They had never seen him lose his temper like that. Even in the most difficult moments, the Mob boss always managed to remain cool and composed. It was clear that the length of time he'd spent in the house had frayed his nerves.

Bontade wondered what powers had arranged the publication of a piece so patently false. He immediately phoned the newsroom to retract the story.

From that day on, however, Tom Bontade doubled efforts to protect his person. Security became an obsession for him. He barricaded himself inside the house and had anyone who entered, even the most trusted bodyguard, searched thoroughly. Even his food was tasted by his consiglieri before it was served to him.

Ferdinando Licata had put him on the ropes. Terror was his constant companion.

All Jack Mastrangelo had to do was wait patiently for Bontade to make a wrong move.

T
he war in Europe had escalated dramatically following the Battle of Britain, the French occupation, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and the United States entry into the conflict. The brutalities in the Warsaw ghetto and the rest of Poland, the slaughter in North Africa, and the atrocities committed in Russia had plunged the world further into the depths of barbarism.

Then slowly luck seemed to turn against the Nazi dictator. Russian general Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov trapped three hundred thousand German troops in Stalingrad, condemning them to certain death or surrender.

In Italy, meanwhile, the population's discontent, particularly those factions hostile to the monarchy and to the regime, finally made its voice heard. Fascism no longer enjoyed the general consent of the people. As a result, a series of diplomatic exchanges began between Great Britain and the United States to determine how best to intervene in order to facilitate Italy's break with the German alliance. The British were more intransigent with the Italian government and, in particular, with the Italian monarchy. Unlike their British cousins, the Americans were more understanding. President Franklin D. Roosevelt knew that a majority of the more than six million Italian-Americans had voted for him, and he didn't want to displease them.

British strategists believed that it would be more productive to get Italy out of the war as quickly as possible, by seeing to it that the angry demonstrations of the antiregime activists grew to such an extent that the Germans would be forced to occupy the entire Italian peninsula with troops drawn from the European arena. They would then have to replace the Italian troops now stationed on the Russian front, in France, and in the Balkans.

The early months of 1943 were given over to organizing the invasion of Italy, which was to get under way in Sicily. The island was chosen because intelligence sources had reported that the population was strongly opposed to the fascist government and that a separatist group, composed of noblemen and large landowners had already set to work to form a powerful anti-German movement.

Operation Husky, the military's code name for the invasion of the island, was conceived during the Casablanca Conference of January 14, 1943.

Naval intelligence was aware that the fascist regime had persecuted Mafia families. Many bosses had been forced to immigrate to America to avoid arrest or imprisonment.

Lieutenant Commander Haffenden thought that they might be just the ones to help bring about a favorable outcome to the landing. Recalling the invaluable help they'd received from Lucky Luciano and his associates at the time of the sabotage attacks at the Port of New York, he thought that Saro Ragusa might once again be of help to him by interceding with high-ranking Italian-Americans of the Cosa Nostra.

Haffenden knew that the Sicilian and American Mafias worked hand in glove, doubly bound by blood ties and business connections. And so, once again the highest official of the US Navy's secret services B-3 unit decided to fall back on the young Ragusa.

When a date was set for the meeting, Licata called together the most influential heads of New York's families to decide jointly how to have Saro handle the difficult negotiations with the B-3 director.

Sante Genovese, Frank Costello, Joe Adonis, Meyer Lansky, Vincent Mangano, and Saro Ragusa—not to mention Polakoff, Lucky Luciano's attorney—all met at Licata's hotel suite.

No introductions were needed, since the prince was renowned among the city's Italian community, though he still put on a show of being powerless and unassuming.

Licata informed the Cosa Nostra bosses about the new opportunity that was being presented to them. Though it still wasn't public knowledge, Licata knew that the Allies were planning to land in Sicily and from there begin their invasion of Italy. With that in mind, to facilitate military operations, they wanted to ask the local populations for support. In his opinion, it seemed like an opportunity to restore Luciano's freedom, and one that should not be passed up.

“How do you mean?” Costello asked.

“They need logistical support. They know that the Mafia has been persecuted by the fascist regime, so they're counting on the fact that the entire organization will be ready and willing to assist the American friends who've come to liberate Sicily from the dictatorship. Someone representing all of us must go and parley with Don Calò in Villalba and convince him to side with the Allies—maybe even sabotaging German and Italian positions. If you still agree today that Luciano is our supreme capo, the decision as to whether or not to help the American troops must be left up to him.” Licata's words were received with nods of assent by almost all the participants.

“But what's in it for us?” Sante Genovese asked.

“First, the respect of America's top command,” Saro said before the prince could reply. “But above all, in exchange for a vital contribution in time of war, we'll request some form of pardon to free Luciano.”

“Exactly,” Licata confirmed. “We will insist to the lieutenant commander that only Luciano has the authority to meet with Don Calò in Sicily. No one else. That way, they'll have to let him out of jail, and that will indeed be a great victory for us all.”

The group unanimously approved the resolution. Saro would meet with Admiral Haffenden, confident that his back was covered by the consent of the leading families of New York.

Meanwhile, Jack Mastrangelo continued his desperate search for his niece, Aurora. None of his usual informants could give him the slightest clue. Bontade had not contacted him again. Licata's ploy, the phony story in the
Sun
, had not produced any reaction except to make the family's boss continue to shut himself up in his Beechhurst house. Mastrangelo was itching: he wanted to deal with the situation head-on, but Licata urged him to be patient. Sooner or later Bontade would slip up.