Deceptions

by Michael Weaver

  “Not really,” said Donatti.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I won’t actually be giving him the evidence. Just a better-than-reasonable facsimile.”

  Peggy made a sound that might almost have been a laugh.

  “I like that,” she said.

  So did Carlo Donatti.

  76

  PAULIE SAT IN the midnight dark of his father’s studio and stared up at the stars through the jagged break in the big window. It was less hurtful in the dark because he couldn’t see the dried blood on the edges of the glass.

  After crying for a long time, the boy had begun to work his way out. The blood didn’t have to be that of his mother or father. It could have belonged to some gangster. And the more he thought of it this way, the more he was able to believe it.

  Paulie pushed the idea further.

  With the mobster dead, this was why his parents had to leave the house. This was why they were never home when he called, and why they weren’t home now. If they’d stayed home, other haircuts would have gotten them when they came around to find what had happened to the first one. Also, this had to be why his mother and father had cleaned up all the broken glass and everything and carried the dead haircut away someplace. They didn’t want anyone to know what they’d done.

  The boy sat on his father’s painting stool in the dark studio, holding himself still and telling himself all the other things that it was necessary for him to believe.

  His mother and father were alive somewhere. They weren’t dead. They were busy running from the haircuts and trying to find him.

  When they couldn’t find him anyplace, they’d finally realize he might be home. Then they’d come here looking for him because they’d know there was no place else for him to go.

  So one thing was sure. He had to stay here and wait for them. Otherwise, they would never find each other.

  But he had to be careful not to put on lights or give any other sign he was in the house. Because the haircuts weren’t stupid and were probably thinking all these same things.

  Sitting there on the stool, Paulie began turning his head from side to side, trying to fool himself into thinking he was looking for something. As if smothering in the silence, he breathed deeply and felt his lungs fill to the point of dizziness.

  Eat, he told himself. He hadn’t eaten all day and it was making him weak, dumb, and dizzy. He’d better get something into his stomach right now.

  Spurred by the prospect of so positive an act, Paulie groped his way into the kitchen.

  He switched on his flashlight with the two socks over it, and opened a can of Beef-A-Roni. He ate it right out of the can, cold, to avoid having to light the stove. Then he had some cheese for dessert. He was surprised at how good everything tasted.

  Finishing, he felt a stir of satisfaction at how well he had managed the meal, and he considered what he would do next. He had been upstairs earlier, and he didn’t want to go up there again. His first visit had been very bad, with him going up into his parents’ bedroom, curling up on their bed, and crying like a baby.

  Even now, thinking about it, he felt ashamed.

  I have to be better than that

  He knew he could.

  So Paulie made himself go back upstairs.

  Then he came to the hard part.

  He went into his parents’ room and lay down once more on their bed. But this time he didn’t cry or whimper. Instead, he thought all the good stuff about them.

  And he slept.

  77

  TOMMY CORTLANDT FOLLOWED CIA Director Lessing into the Oval Office and shook hands with President Norton and White House Chief of Staff Michaels. It was 5:25 P.M., and the fact that he and Lessing were being squeezed in between two other appointments gave Cortlandt a fair idea of just how seriously the whole thing was being taken.

  Just the four of them were present.

  When they were all seated, the president spoke directly to Cortlandt.

  “I know just the bare bones of this mess, Tommy,” he said. “And for obvious reasons I don’t want to know too much more. But I do have a few questions I need answered.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “To begin with, do you believe what your telephone source told you?”

  “I can’t corroborate a thing at this point, Mr. President. But if I didn’t give it at least reasonable credence, I’d still be in Brussels, not here.”

  “Then how do you see my options?”

  Cortlandt looked at the chief executive. Norton was seated behind his desk in the big oval room, the American flag proudly unfurled at his right, the presidential banner at his left. It was an impressive sight. Yet all it did was make the intelligence agent wonder why anyone in their right mind would ever want to be president.

  “As I see it,” Cortlandt said, “you have three choices. You can do nothing and just let whatever happens, happen. You can let Durning know he’s being tracked and give him a chance to do something about it. Or you can go proactive and give us orders to have his tracker neutralized. It all depends on how important you feel it is to keep Durning functioning as attorney general.”

  It was Arthur Michaels who answered for the president. “That happens to be very important. Durning’s the best we’ve had at Justice in fifty years.”

  “Even if he’s a murderer?” asked the president.

  “We don’t know that yet,” responded the chief of staff.

  “And if we did know it?” asked Lessing.

  No one was ready to touch that one, and the room was silent.

  Cortlandt saw Lessing and Michaels exchange quick glances, and there was something between them, something they both knew and that Cortlandt could only guess at. Still, it was an educated guess, born out of long experience, and the intelligence agent tended to trust it.

  President Norton broke the silence.

  “Another question, Tommy. If we were to take action at this point, when would it have to be initiated?”

  “Within the next few hours,” Cortlandt said. “The sooner the better.”

  Cortlandt saw another look pass between the White House chief of staff and the CIA director. It helped him understand that as far as these two were concerned the matter was settled.

  The president didn’t seem to notice. “That’s really not very much time, is it?” His voice was cruel and he suddenly seemed tired.

  “It’s no time at all, Mr. President,” said Michaels. “Certainly not time enough to investigate what could turn out to be a bunch of wild, unsubstantiated charges against no less than the attorney general of the United States.”

  “Meaning what, Arthur?” asked the president.

  “Meaning, I don’t really see us as having much of a choice as things stand. If we do nothing, there’s an excellent chance Henry could be innocent and end up shot in the head by some nut with an imagined grievance. If we tell him what’s going on and he’s actually guilty, we’ve warned a murderer in advance and given him time to either get away or kill others to cover his tracks.”

  The chief of staff looked evenly at his boss. “So I say we have to do what Mr. Cortlandt listed as a third choice. Which is to say nothing at all to Henry and just neutralize his tracker by picking him up and holding him. Then we’d have time to properly investigate the charges and do whatever has to be done long-term.”

  The president brought his fingers together and let them touch. Then he studied them.

  “One more point,” said Arthur Michaels, sensing an advantage. “I know this isn’t a moral, ethical, or even a legal consideration, but it does affect the well-being of this administration. Whether Henry turns out to be innocent or guilty, we all know the political fallout if even a hint of this ever leaks out. Come on. We’re talking about the fucking head of the Justice Department. So let’s not kid ourselves. If Henry’s shit ever hits the fan, not even raincoats will keep us clean.”

  The president again put it to Cortlandt.

  “What do you thin
k, Tommy?”

  “That certainly says it as it is.”

  “That’s all?” asked the president.

  The intelligence agent shrugged. “In my line of work, there’s not much else. But I suppose there are a few things we might do well to bear in mind.”

  “Such as?”

  “No matter how careful we try to be, neutralizing Durn-ing’s tracker could still end up going wrong and killing the tracker.”

  Cortlandt paused for so long that the president had to prompt him.

  “And?”

  “And the woman and boy, too.”

  78

  GIANNI GARETSKY ARRIVED at Dulles Airport about an hour and a half before flight time, selected his seat at the Alitalia counter, and picked up a copy of The New York Times.

  Then he sat down far enough away from his flight’s boarding area to let him check out the passengers already there and those still arriving, without much chance of his being seen himself.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he saw Mary Yung appear.

  It was no surprise. Considering Durning’s own scheduled departure plans, and the fact that Mary would have to fly to Naples in order to get to Capri, this was the most logical flight for her to be taking. So he was prepared for the possible sight of her.

  What he wasn’t prepared for was its impact on him.

  How stupid, he thought, because it bordered on the physically insupportable. As if everything he had begun to feel for her was still draining from the wound.

  He watched her sit down near the departure gate, take a magazine out of her carry-on bag, and begin leafing through it. Then he changed his seat on the off chance that she might just happen to stare off in his direction and see him.

  And if she did spot him? Did he really expect her to point him out to Durning’s agents waiting nearby? Wasn’t it she who had told him about Durning’s plans in the first place? Why would she betray him now?

  Idiot. You ’re looking for logic again. Who knows why this one would do something?

  Then for half an hour he sat reading the front page of the Times without absorbing a word.

  He heard the boarding announcement and turned to watch Mary enter the ramp with the first-class passengers.

  Naturally. How else but first-class would the attorney general’s millionaire whore travel?

  The aircraft was a two-aisle 747 wide-body, with most of the first-class seating laid out fore of the boarding hatch. So Gianni was able to reach his coach seat at the rear of the plane without having to walk past and be seen by Mary Yung.

  In his mind it seemed a major victory. Until another part of his brain said she had seen him from the beginning.

  He had finished eating dinner two hours later and just closed his eyes when she sat down beside him.

  “Why are you here?” he said, without opening his eyes.

  “To see if I can keep you from being dead by tomorrow night.”

  Gianni opened his eyes and looked at her. The cabin lights had been lowered for sleep, but Mary Yung’s face was still luminous.

  “You’re no match for him,” she said. “He’s more dangerous, has more reach than you could ever imagine.”

  Gianni said nothing.

  “I don’t want you to die, Gianni.”

  “What’s so special about me?”

  “The way I feel about you.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m unmoved.”

  “You didn’t want any part of me after what I did, and who could blame you? But I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

  He stared mutely at her.

  “Come with me, Gianni.”

  “Where?” he said. “To Capri? To fuck with you and Henry?”

  “We could just take off from Naples and go anywhere you want. I’ve got all the money we’d ever need and you could paint anyplace.”

  Before her eyes, Gianni felt himself shrink in size. “And spend our lives hiding from Durning?”

  “If we leave him alone, he’ll leave us alone.”

  “You mean leave him alone to murder Vittorio’s wife and boy?”

  “He doesn’t have Paul. Besides, he promised he wouldn’t hurt him if he ever found where he was.”

  “And Peggy? What did he promise about Peggy?”

  She stared hopelessly at Gianni Garetsky.

  “Please, Gianni. Your dying isn’t going to help Peggy one damn bit.”

  Gianni closed his eyes. It was easier when he didn’t have to look at her.

  “Do me a favor,” he said softly to the new dark. “Don’t bury me until I’m dead.”

  They sat silently together at thirty thousand feet.

  “All right,” Mary Yung said in a voice as soft as Gianni’s. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “I’ve decided,” she said. “If you won’t come away with me, then I’ll go with you.”

  It took him a moment to realize what she was saying.

  “You’re either joking or you’re insane.”

  “I’m not joking and this may be the only really sane thought I’ve had in my life. I never should have let you drive me away the last time. I was just so sick with what I’d done that I couldn’t stand up to you.”

  Mary paused for breath. She might have just been running, her cheeks were so flushed.

  “This time,” she said, “I’m not letting you push me away.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mary.”

  “I know exactly. I know better than you. I’ve lived and slept with this man. I’ve seen parts of him that no one has ever seen. I told you. He cares about me.”

  Gianni shook his head as if to clear it. Emotion was clogging his brain. “He cares about no one. He’d kill you as fast as he’d kill me. Faster, once he knows you’ve betrayed him.”

  This time Mary smiled full-out. She was truly luminous.

  “You can say what you want,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still going with you.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  “You’ll see how possible I’ll make it.”

  “I won’t let you,” he said.

  “You can’t stop me. Whatever you do, I’ ll do.”

  “Durning will be calling you at Capri. He’ll be wondering what happened to you.”

  “He won’t have to wonder,” Mary Yung said. “He’ll know.”

  79

  AT ABOUT TWENTY minutes before boarding time, there was a warm holiday spirit, a pleasantly relaxed air of festivity in the VIP lounge at Dulles Airport.

  Like a bunch of kids off to summer camp, thought Henry Durning, chatting, laughing, and casually moving among them in his role of unofficial host. Except that these “kids” happened to include a fair cross-section of the country’s leading jurists and Justice Department officials. And since this was an all-expenses-paid conference at a luxury resort on the sparkling Bay of Naples, a great many spouses were present as well.

  Testifying to the distinguished, high-level nature of the group was the presence of two Supreme Court justices, who would be addressing the international symposium, and White House Chief of Staff Arthur Michaels, who would not be making the trip but had come down to wish them all bon voyage on behalf of the president.

  The attorney general had been surprised to see Michaels appear earlier. He was close to and knew the chief of staff from way back. Artie Michaels was a tough, hardworking political strategist who probably had the single most important and influential job in the country after the presidency. Some said, before the presidency. And he rarely wasted five minutes of his average fifteen-hour-a-day work schedule on this sort of ceremonial nonsense. This was strictly vice-presidential-caliber glad-handing.

  Durning wondered why he was here.

  He stopped wondering when Michaels suddenly draped an arm across his shoulders, walked him to a quiet corner of the lounge, and said, “We’ve got us a little problem, Hank.”

  Then the attorney general stood impassively, champagne glass steady in his hand, while Arthur Michaels g
ave him a quick rundown of pretty much everything that had been said in the Oval Office a few hours earlier.

  Durning was silent when the White House chief of staff had finished.

  “Does anyone know you’re telling me this?” he finally asked.

  “Are you crazy? Norton would have my head if he so much as suspected such a thing. But I feel it’s important for you to know what’s going on.”

  “I appreciate it, Artie.”

  “Fuck that shit,” Michaels said softly. “I’m not doing it for you. And I don’t give a damn whether you’re innocent or guilty of whatever it is those goombahs want to blow your head off for. All I care about is keeping you alive, in office, and free of scandal.”

  A short, chunky man with narrow eyes and bad skin, Michaels squinted resentfully up at the tall attorney general’s handsome face. “You have any idea of the odds against the president’s getting reelected in November if his personally chosen head of Justice gets publicly accused of murder?”

  Durning sipped his champagne and said nothing. Good old Artie. Ever the quintessential pragmatist, he’d happily appoint Jack the Ripper attorney general—providing, of course, that Jack could guarantee the serial killer vote.

  “So I’ve warned you,” said the chief of staff flatly. “Which doesn’t mean one of those crazy Guidos won’t manage to blow your head off anyway. But at least you’ll be watching out for yourself. And with Tommy Cortlandt’s CIA spooks out there protecting your back, you shouldn’t be too badly off.”

  Michaels squinted curiously at Durning with his little pig eyes. “Interesting,” he said.

  “What?”

  “All those wild stories about you. All those accusations. You know the single, overriding effect they have on me?”

  Durning slowly shook his head.

  “I have no idea whether they’re true or not, but they sure do humanize the hell out of you.”

  Michaels displayed the crooked grin that was his best feature. “Ever think about making a run for the Rose Garden when Norton’s finally out of there? You suddenly seem to have all the necessary qualifications.”