Omerta (30 page)

Aspinella made Heskow sit in a chair facing the desk, on which she sat and looked down at him.

“Can we get on with it?” Heskow asked. “I cannot afford to miss that flight.”

Aspinella didn’t answer. She reached out and took Heskow’s briefcase from his lap. Heskow twitched. She opened it and leafed through the contents, including the stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. She studied one of the false passports, then put everything back in the briefcase and returned it to him.

“You’re a very clever man,” she said. “You knew it was time to run. Who told you I was after you?”

“Why would you be after me?” Heskow asked. He was more confident now that she had given him back his briefcase.

Aspinella lifted her eye patch so that he could see the wretched crater. But Heskow did not flinch; he had seen much worse in his day.

“You cost me that eye,” she said. “Only you could have informed and set Paul and me up.”

Heskow spoke with the utmost sincerity, which had been one of his best weapons in his profession. “You’re wrong, absolutely wrong. If I did that, I would have kept the money—you can see that. Look, I really have to catch that flight.” He unbuttoned his shirt and tore a piece of tape. Two packets of money appeared on the table. “That’s yours, and the money in the briefcase. That’s thirty grand.”

“Gee,” Aspinella said. “Thirty grand. That’s a lot of money for just one eye. OK. But you have to tell me the name of the guy who paid you to set us up.”

Heskow made up his mind. His one chance was to get on that flight. He knew she wasn’t bluffing. He had dealt with too many homicidal maniacs in his line of work to misjudge her.

“Listen, believe me,” he said. “I never dreamed this guy would knock off two high-ranking cops. I just made a deal with Astorre Viola so he could hide out. I never dreamed he would do such a thing.”

“Good,” Aspinella said. “Now, who paid you for the hit on him?”

“Paul knew,” Heskow said. “Didn’t he tell you? Timmona Portella.”

At that Aspinella felt a surge of rage. Her fat partner had not only been a lousy fuck but a lying bastard as well.

“Stand up,” she said to Heskow. Suddenly a gun appeared in her hand.

Heskow was terrified. He had seen that look before, only he had not been the victim. For one moment he thought of his hidden five million dollars that would die with him, unclaimed, and the five million dollars seemed a living creature. What a tragedy. “No,” he cried out, and huddled his body further into the chair. Aspinella grabbed his hair with her free hand and pulled him to his feet. She held the gun away from his neck and fired. Heskow seemed to fly out of her grasp and crashed to the floor. She knelt by his body. Half his throat had been blown away. Then she took her throwaway gun from its ankle holster, placed it in Heskow’s hand, and stood up. She could hear the door being unlocked, and then the two screen men rushed in with guns drawn.

“I had to shoot him,” she said. “He tried to bribe me and then he pulled a gun. Call the terminal medical van and I’ll call homicide myself. Don’t touch anything, and don’t let me out of your sight.”

.  .  .

T
he next night Portella launched his attack. Cilke’s wife and daughter had already been spirited away to a restricted heavily guarded FBI station in California. Cilke, at the director’s orders, was at FBI headquarters in New York with his full staff on duty. Bill Boxton had been given the overall command of the special task force and would spring the trap at Cilke’s house. The rules of engagement were strict, however. The Bureau didn’t want a bloodbath that would cause complaint from liberal groups. The FBI team would not fire unless it was fired upon. Every effort would be made to give the attackers a chance to surrender.

As an assistant planning officer, Kurt Cilke met with Boxton and the special task force’s commander, a comparatively young man of thirty-five whose face was set in the rigid lines of command. But his skin was gray and he had a regrettable dimple in his chin. His name was Sestak and his accent was pure Harvard. They met in Cilke’s office.

“I expect you to be in constant communication with me during the operation,” Cilke said. “The rules of engagement will be strictly observed.”

“Don’t worry,” Boxton said. “We have a hundred men with firepower that exceeds theirs. They will surrender.”

Sestak said in a soft voice, “I have another hundred men to establish a perimeter. We let them in but we don’t let them out.”

“Good,” Cilke said. “When you capture them you will ship them to our New York interrogation center. I’m not permitted to take part in the interrogation, but I want information as soon as possible.”

“What if something goes wrong and they wind up dead?” Sestak asked.

“Then there will be an internal investigation and the director will be very unhappy. Now, here’s the reality: They will be arrested for conspiracy to commit murder, and they will get out on bail. Then they will vanish into South America. So we have only a few days to interrogate them.”

Boxton looked at Cilke with a little smile. Sestak said to Cilke in his cultured tone, “I think that would make you terribly unhappy.”

“Sure, it bothers me,” Cilke said. “But the director has to worry about political complications. Conspiracy charges are always tricky.”

“I see,” Sestak said. “So your hands are tied.”

“That’s right,” Cilke said.

Boxton said quietly, “It’s a damn shame, they can attempt the murder of a federal officer and get off.”

Sestak was looking at them both with an amused smile. His gray skin took on a reddish tinge. “You’re preaching to the choir,” he said. “Anyway, these operations always go wrong. Guys with guns always think they can’t be shot. Very funny thing about human nature.”

T
hat night Boxton accompanied Sestak to the operational area around Cilke’s home in New Jersey. Lights had been left on in the house to make it look like someone was home. Also there were three cars parked in the driveway to give the impression that the house guards were inside. The cars were booby-trapped so that if they were started, they would blow up. Otherwise Boxton could see nothing.

“Where the hell are your hundred men?” Boxton asked Sestak.

Sestak gave him a huge grin. “Pretty good, huh? They’re all around here, and even you can’t see them. They already have lines of fire. When the attackers come in, the road will be sealed behind them. We’ll have a basket full of rats.”

Boxton remained at Sestak’s side at a command post fifty yards from the house. With them was a communications team of four men who wore camouflage to match the patch of woods they used as cover. Sestak and his team were armed with rifles, but Boxton only had his handgun.

“I don’t want you in the fighting,” Sestak told Boxton. “Besides, that weapon you carry is useless here.”

“Why not?” Boxton said. “I’ve been waiting my whole career to shoot the bad guys.”

Sestak laughed. “Not today. My team is protected by executive order from any legal inquiries or prosecution. You’re not.”

“But I’m in command,” Boxton said.

“Not when we become operational,” Sestak told him coolly. “Then I’m in sole command. I make all the decisions. Even the director can’t supersede me.”

They waited together in the darkness. Boxton looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to midnight. One of the communications team whispered to Sestak, “Five cars filled with men are on approach to the house. The road behind them has been sealed. Estimated time of arrival is five minutes.

Sestak was wearing infrared goggles that gave him night vision. “OK,” he said. “Send the word. Don’t fire unless fired upon or at my order.”

They waited. Suddenly five cars raced to the driveway and men spilled out. One of them immediately threw a firebomb into Cilke’s house, breaking a pane of glass and sending a thin blaze of red fire inside the room.

Then suddenly the whole area was flooded with bright searchlights that froze the group of twenty attackers. At the same time a helicopter whirred overhead with glaring lights. Loudspeakers roared a message into the night. “This is the FBI. Throw away your weapons and lie on the ground.”

Dazzled by the light and the helicopters, the trapped men froze. Boxton saw with relief that they had lost all will to resist.

So he was surprised when Sestak brought up his rifle and fired into the group of attackers. Immediately the attack group started firing back. And then Boxton was deafened by the roar of gunfire that swept the driveway and mowed down the attackers. One of the booby-trapped cars exploded. It was as if a hurricane of lead had completely devastated the driveway. Glass shattered and poured down a silver rain. The other cars sank to the ground so riddled with bullets that their outsides had no color. The driveway seemed to spout a spring of blood that flowed and eddied around the cars. The twenty attackers were blood-soaked bundles of rags looking like sacks of laundry to be picked up.

Boxton was in shock. “You fired before they could surrender,” he said to Sestak accusingly. “That will be my report.”

“I differ,” Sestak grinned at him. “Once they firebombed the house, that was attempted murder. I couldn’t risk my men. That will be my report. Also that they fired first.”

“Well, it won’t be mine,” Boxton said.

“No kidding,” Sestak said. “You think the director wants your report? You’ll be on his shit list. Forever.”

“He’ll want your ass because you disobeyed orders,” Boxton said. “We’ll go down in flames together.”

“Good,” Sestak said. “But I’m the tactical commander. I can’t be overruled. Once I’m called in, that’s it. I don’t want criminals to think they can attack a federal officer. That’s the reality, and you and the director can go fuck yourselves.”

“Twenty dead men,” Boxton said.

“And good riddance to them,” Sestak said. “You and Cilke wanted me to blast them, but you didn’t have the balls to come right out with it.”

Boxton suddenly knew this was true.

K
urt Cilke prepared for another meeting with the director in Washington. He had his notes with an outline of what he would say and a report on all the circumstances of the attack on his home.

As always, Bill Boxton would accompany him, but this time it was at the express wish of the director.

Cilke and Boxton were in the director’s office with its row of TV monitors showing reports of activities of the local FBI office. The director, always courteous, shook hands with both men and invited them to sit down, though he gave Boxton a cold, fishy look. Two of his deputies were in attendance.

“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the whole group. “We have to clean up this mess. We cannot allow such an outrageous act to go without answering it with all our resources. Cilke, do you want to stay on the job or take retirement?”

“I stay,” Cilke said.

The director turned to Boxton, and his lean aristocratic face was stern. “You were in charge. How is it that all the attackers were killed and we have no one to interrogate? Who gave the order to fire? You? And on what grounds?”

Boxton sat up in his chair stiffly. “Sir,” he said, “the attackers threw a bomb in the house and opened fire. There was no choice.”

The director sighed. One of his deputies gave a grunt of scorn.

“Captain Sestak is one of our beauties,” the director said. “Did he try, at least, for one prisoner?”

“Sir, it was over in two minutes,” Boxton said. “Sestak is a very efficient tactician in the field.”

“Well, there hasn’t been any fuss by the media or the public,” the director said. “But I must say I consider it a bloodbath.”

“Yes, it was,” volunteered one of the deputies.

“Well, it can’t be helped,” the director said. “Cilke, have you come up with an operational plan?”

Cilke had felt a surge of anger at their criticism, but he answered calmly. “I want a hundred men assigned to my office. I want you to request a full audit of the Aprile banks. I am going into deep background on everyone involved in this business.”

The director said, “You don’t feel any debt to this Astorre Viola for saving you and your family?”

“No,” Cilke said. “You have to know these people. First they get you into trouble, then they help you out.”

The director said, “Remember, one of our primary interests is to appropriate the Aprile banks. Not only because we benefit but because those banks are destined to be a center for laundering drug money. And through them we get Portella and Tulippa. We have to look at this as global. Astorre Viola refuses to sell the banks, and the syndicate is trying to eliminate him. So far they’ve failed. We have learned that the two hired killers who shot the Don have disappeared. Two detectives in the NYPD were blown up.”

“Astorre is cunning and elusive, and he isn’t involved in any rackets,” Cilke told them, “so we can’t really put something on him. Now, the syndicate may succeed in getting rid of him, and the children will sell the banks to them. Then I’m sure in a couple of years they will step over the line.”

It was not unusual for government law enforcement to play a long game, especially with the drug people. But to do so they had to permit crimes to be committed.

“We’ve played it long before,” the director said. “But that doesn’t mean you give Portella carte blanche.”

“Of course,” Cilke said. He knew that everyone was speaking for the record.

“I’ll give fifty men,” the director said. “And I’ll request a full audit of the banks just to shake things up.”

One of the deputies said, “We have audited them before and never found anything.”

“There’s always a chance,” Cilke said. “Astorre is no banker, and he could have made mistakes.”

“Yes,” the director said. “One little slip is all the attorney general needs.”

B
ack in New York Cilke met with Boxton and Sestak to plan his campaign. “We’re getting fifty more men to investigate the attack on my home,” he told them. “We have to be very careful. I want everything you can get on Astorre Viola. I want to go into the blowing up of the detectives. I want all the dope on the disappearance of the Sturzo brothers and all the information we can get on the syndicate. Zero in on Astorre and also Detective Washington. She has a reputation for bribe taking and brutality, and the story she gives of getting blown up and all that money at the scene is very fishy.”