Ultimate Betrayal (18 page)

Bishop handed the list of action items to Kingston. “I promise you, Winfred,” he said, “I won’t forget your help in this matter.”

After he left Bishop’s office, Kingston went directly to his desk and used his computer to search the database for every byte of information he could pull up on David Hood. He was a man on a mission. There was no way he would let Bishop down. For the next four hours, he captured all the mundane facts about Hood: date and place of birth; parents; Hood’s father’s stint with the Army; the deaths of Hood’s brother and mother; schools he attended; military service; jobs; Security Systems, Ltd.; foreign travel; date of marriage; children’s names and birth dates; tax returns; etc. He pulled up Peter Hood’s military file. All for nothing. Then he looked into Carmela Maria Hood’s background. He learned her maiden name. He typed “Bartolucci” into the computer.

The computer spewed data—page upon page about Gino Bartolucci. While he scrolled through the information, Winfred Kingston became very excited. Did the Director know Carmela Maria Hood was the daughter of Gino Bartolucci, a Mafia Don? He reached for his telephone.

“I just bet you could tell me all sorts of little secrets,” the thirty-eight-year-old wife of the Secretary of Defense whispered in his ear. Her Texas accent dripped with promise of things to come. When he tilted his head slightly in her direction, Bishop got a full shot of her ample freckled bosom and of the fortune in diamonds and emeralds strategically placed to accent her cleavage. The woman once again squeezed his thigh under the table.

He smiled at her; his white teeth flashed, predator-like. “But Madam, if I told you secrets, then I would have to kill you.”

The cabinet secretary’s wife tittered, glanced across the table at her much older husband deep in conversation with some senator’s wife, again placed a hand on Bishop’s leg, and whispered, “Why, Mr. Bishop, you do say the most exciting things.”

Once again amazed at the seductive nature of power and position, he was about to slip her his personal card with his private phone number, when another guest, Walter Preston, asked, “Director Bishop, do you think the Russian government will ever be able to break the stranglehold the Mafia has on their country’s economy?”

Bishop knew Preston had invested hundreds of millions of dollars in Siberian gas exploration. He understood the man’s question wasn’t casual. He also knew Preston’s partners in the gas deal were top players in the Russian Mafia, the
Bratva
. Preston was fishing for information, perhaps to find out if the CIA knew about his business arrangements and what the CIA might be up to in Russia.

“It would be my suggestion to anyone who wants to do business in the Russian Republic that they attempt to coexist with all centers of influence,” Bishop said.

Preston smiled, apparently pleased with the response. He looked as though he was about to say something more when Bishop’s cellphone vibrated. Bishop rose from his seat at the dining table, excused himself, walked to the hallway outside the dining room, and took the call.

“What is it, Kingston?” he demanded, irritated at the interruption.

“Mr. Bishop, I have information that could be of interest to you.”

Bishop waited for Kingston to continue.

“David Hood’s wife’s maiden name was Bartolucci. She was the daughter of Gino Bartolucci, the Philadelphia Mafia Don.”

Bishop’s heartbeat accelerated. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense. If Hood had allied with Bartolucci, then the resources available to Hood were indeed significant. “Good job, Kingston,” Bishop said. “Fax the information to my home machine.”

He returned to the dining room and apologized to his host and hostess. “Business,” he said. “I’m sure you understand.”

On the ride to his Georgetown townhome, Bishop considered his next steps. One thing was certain. He would have to eliminate Kingston. The kid could be a liability.

APRIL 24

CHAPTER 27

New York City
Capo
, Joey Cataldo, had been happy to hear from Gino Bartolucci. He’d always liked and respected the old Don. But the call had intrigued him, too. He sipped his Amaretto and thought again that Bartolucci wasn’t the type to socialize without some ulterior motive. To Cataldo, and to just about every
Mafioso
in the country, Don Bartolucci was a legend. The man had never been indicted or convicted of any crime, had amassed a fortune, and now lived off the earnings of a score of legitimate enterprises. He was a model for the modern-day
capo
. But while he sat in a private dining room at
Il Stazione
Restaurant in Manhattan and waited for the old Don to show up, he wondered again why, after so many years, Bartolucci had called him.

Cataldo was a phenomenon in his own right. He’d survived while the rest of the leaders of the old Zefferelli Family had either been killed or put away for the rest of their lives. When the Feds brought RICO indictments against the Zefferelli hierarchy, all they could pin on Cataldo was a racketeering conviction for bookmaking. This was such an inconsequential crime, as far as the trial judge was concerned, that Cataldo spent only thirteen months in a Federal Penitentiary. Frankie Zefferelli and several of his lieutenants received life without possibility of parole for murder, drug trafficking, prostitution, gambling, and myriad other crimes. A total of thirteen senior members of the Family were sent away. After Joey Cataldo got out of prison, he took over the organization. And in a brilliant political maneuver only one week after his release from prison, he invited the Dons from all the crime families to a summit conference in Guadalajara, Mexico.

Cataldo established himself as a visionary leader when he announced to the group he would allow each of the other families to buy into the Zefferelli Family’s Caribbean casinos—“to dip their beaks.” The acceptance of the offer by the other Dons sent a message to the entire underworld that Joey Cataldo had been accepted and anyone who challenged his authority would challenge the judgment of all of the Families. Of course, what choice did the other Capos have? Cataldo had a huge amount of information about their involvement in narcotics trafficking and had let them know how that information would remain “in a safe place” as long as they supported him.

Il Stazione Ristorante
was one of Cataldo’s “legitimate” businesses. It was now one of Manhattan’s “in” places: dark and intimate, white tablecloths, Deruta ceramics on high shelves, tuxedoed waiters, one of the best wine cellars in the city. Cataldo and one of his bodyguards sat at a corner table in the back, set ten feet away from the next closest table. He swept his hands through his thick, salt-and-pepper mane of hair. He was vain about his looks and his wavy hair had always been a part of that vanity. He knew he was a handsome man—the women had let him know that even before he had power. Even as a teenage street thug, Cataldo attracted the girls. He was tall—six feet four—and still powerfully built.

When Cataldo saw Bartolucci enter the front door, preceded by a powerfully-built man who Cataldo knew was the old man’s bodyguard, he stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and waited respectfully. Other than the mass of the older man’s belly—which was bigger by at least two belt sizes since Cataldo had seen him last—Bartolucci still exuded authority. While Bartolucci walked toward him, Cataldo did what most people did—he stared at the old man’s hands. They were the biggest hands Cataldo had ever seen on a man Bartolucci’s size. He thought those hands could snap a man’s neck with ease.

They exchanged greetings in Italian and embraced. After the further formality of introducing their bodyguards to one another, the two Dons took their seats at the table. The bodyguards sat at a table by the front door.

Cataldo and Bartolucci spoke cordially, even affectionately, in whispered tones. Cataldo expressed condolences about Carmela’s death and the deaths of Gino’s grandchildren. They talked about old times and joked about characters they both had known. Not a word of business was spoken during their two-hour, five-course dinner.

After the waiter brought espresso, Gino said, “Joey, I know you would do anything you could to help me find the
seppia
who killed my angels.”

“Of course, Don Bartolucci. You know I’d personally rip the bastard’s heart out. But naturally, I would leave that honor to you.”

“Well, maybe you
can
help me. I believe the man who killed Carmela and my two grandchildren was really after my son-in-law. I also think the same man killed many other people who were in Afghanistan around the time my son-in-law served there. And I believe I know who that man is. But there is one thing I can’t figure out—the reason for the murders. It’s important because I need to know if I take revenge against this guy my son-in-law will then be safe. I figure this man has something big to hide. I want to know what that is. And I want to make sure there aren’t other people working with this guy.” Gino paused. “I’ve come across some information that maybe someone here in New York can explain. I figure you can probably find out who that might be.”

“Don Bartolucci, you know I’ll do all in my power to assist you. What is this information you have?”

“It’s about a murder, Don Cataldo. I’m hopeful you can ask around, see if anyone knows something about it. You see, one of the men who served with my son-in-law in Afghanistan was killed here in New York back in 2004, just two days after the guy left Afghanistan.”

Cataldo was confused. “Don Bartolucci. You have got to know there are a lot of murders in New York. And 2004 was a long time ago.” After a beat, Cataldo added, “What would I know about such a murder?”

Bartolucci nodded. “Sure, I understand all that. I’m not saying you know anything about it.”

“Of course, Don Bartolucci. What can you tell me about this . . . incident?”

“The police never found the killer. The guy’s body was found in a fifty-five-gallon drum.”

Cataldo nodded. “Doesn’t sound like a random mugging.”

“Right!” Bartolucci said. “Even more interesting, the drum the guy was found in had a label that sounded awfully familiar: AWD. I racked my brain and tried to remember why I knew that name. And then it hits me. That was one of Frankie Zefferelli’s companies. Atlantic Waste Disposal.”

Cataldo knew there were dozens of bodies packed away in drums all over the eastern seaboard. The body Bartolucci referred to could have been dumped by any one of hundreds of wiseguys connected with any one of dozens of criminal organizations. Hell, Cataldo had disposed of three guys in the same way himself, including one around 2004.

“What is it you want me to find out?” Cataldo asked. “You know nobody’s about to step forward and admit they killed this guy.”

“All I want to know is why this guy was hit. I don’t care who killed him.”

Cataldo asked, “What was the guy’s name?”

“Robert Campbell,” Gino replied. “Master Sergeant Robert Campbell.”

Cataldo felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He hoped his expression hadn’t changed. He couldn’t believe Campbell’s name had resurfaced after so many years. Cataldo excused himself and walked into the men’s room at the back of the restaurant. He paced the floor. He could promise Bartolucci he would try to help him and then do nothing. But he knew the old man was no dummy. If Bartolucci found out he’d been lied to, he would be a dangerously unhappy man.

Cataldo wet a paper towel and pressed it to his eyes. He took a deep breath and returned to the table.

“Don Bartolucci, I gotta tell you I’m uncomfortable about this . . . matter. I don’t need to check around about this Robert Campbell.”

“Why’s that, Don Cataldo?”

“You see, I know who killed Campbell.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“Bruno Giordano and I were with Frankie Zefferelli. He told us all about this drug connection he had in Afghanistan and how it’s about to be shut down. He told us our only contact with the supplier had been this Robert Campbell and he’d suspected all along Campbell was just a messenger boy for the real brains behind the operation. Campbell thought he’d been sent to New York to pick up payment for some dope. But he was there to get whacked.”

“Did Zefferelli ever say who the guy was who sent the wire?”

“No, he never said and I don’t think he ever knew. He referred to him as “The Priest.” But I’ll tell you one thing. Whoever that guy was, he was one mean son of a bitch. I mean, he wants a guy taken out who I assume has been his partner. Whatever, Campbell gets whacked and stuffed in a drum.”

Cataldo paused to sip his coffee. “Galupo and I picked up Campbell at The Plaza Hotel. The guy just left the asshole end of the universe and comes to New York and checks in at the friggin’ Plaza.” He shrugged. “I guess I’d do the same thing if I was in his place.

“Anyway, Campbell’s like a kid at Christmas. He’s pumped about being back in the States and he can hardly wait to get his hands on the dough. The whole time in the car he kept talkin’ about buying a ranch somewhere out west . . . Arizona, New Mexico, I don’t know. We took him out to the truck yard. It’s after 6 p.m., so there ain’t no workers around. Coupla of our guys put a few rounds in him and stuffed the body into one of the fifty-five-gallon drums they got there.”

“So, this is at Zeff’s AWD?”

“Yeah, we used it a lot back then. You could set off a bomb in that joint and no one would be around to hear it. It’s ten miles way the fuck out on the island. Anyway, they put the barrel on the back of a semi-truck already loaded with dozens of other drums filled with toxic waste.

“That night, all the drums were put on a barge and dropped in the East River. The toxic waste drums got weights in them so they sink right to the bottom. Except for the drum with the body. Our guys forgot to put rocks in the drum. Coupla’ weeks later, the drum pops to the surface, floats down the river, and gets washed up in some marshy lowlands. One night, some kids out messin’ around in a car found the drum and called the cops. There was a lot of heat on Atlantic Waste Disposal because of its name being on the drum. Can you believe it? Our guys put the body in a marked drum. Frankie’s attorney finally convinced the cops somebody must have stolen one of the company’s drums. Eventually, the pressure went away. But the guys who packed the body were on the shit list for a long time.”