by Mario Puzo
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.
Kurt 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.”
Back 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.”
“What about this guy Tulippa?” Boxton asked. “He can leave the country anytime.”
“Tulippa is touring the country giving speeches for drug legalization and also collecting his blackmail payment from big companies.”
“Can’t we nail him on that?” Sestak asked.
“No, Sestak,” Cilke said. “He has an insurance company and sells them insurance. We might be able to make a case, but the businesspeople oppose it. They’ve solved the safety problem of their personnel in South America. And Portella has no place to go.”
Sestak grinned at him coldly. “What are the rules of engagement here?”
Cilke said smoothly, “The director ordered no more massacres, but protect yourself. Especially against Astorre.”
“In other words, we can leave Astorre for dead,” Sestak said.
Cilke seemed lost in thought for a moment. “If necessary,” he replied.
It was only a week later that the federal auditors swarmed over the Aprile bank records and Cilke came personally to see Mr. Pryor in his office.
Cilke shook his hand and then said genially, “I always like to meet personally with people I may have to send to prison. Now, can you help us in any way and get off th
e train before it’s too late?”
Mr. Pryor looked at the young man with a benevolent concern. “Really?” he said. “You are completely on the wrong track, I assure you. I run these banks impeccably according to national and international law.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know that I’m tracking down your background and everyone else’s,” Cilke said. “And I hope you are all clean. Especially the Sturzo brothers.”
Mr. Pryor smiled at him. “We are immaculate.”
After Cilke left, Mr. Pryor leaned back in his chair. The situation was becoming alarming. What if they tracked down Rosie? He sighed. What a shame. He would have to do something about her.
When Cilke notified Nicole that he wanted her and Astorre in his office the next day, he still did not have a true understanding of Astorre’s character, nor did he wish to. He just felt the contempt he had for anyone who broke the law. He did not understand the resolve of a true Mafioso.
Astorre believed in the old tradition. His followers loved him not only because of his charisma but because he valued honor above all.
A true Mafioso was strong enough in his will to avenge any insult to his person or his cosca. He could never submit to the will of another person or government agency. And in this lay his power. His own will was paramount; justice was what he decreed justice must be. His saving of Cilke and his family was a flaw in his character. Still, he went with Nicole to Cilke’s office vaguely expecting some thanks, a relaxation of Cilke’s hostility.
It was evident that careful arrangements had been made to receive them. Two security men searched Astorre and Nicole before they entered Cilke’s office. Cilke himself stood behind his desk and glared at them. Without any sign of friendliness he gestured them to sit down. One of the guards locked them all in and waited outside the door.
“Is this being recorded?” Nicole asked.
“Yes,” Cilke said. “Audio and video. I don’t want any misunderstanding about this meeting.” He paused for a moment. “I want you to understand that nothing has changed. I consider you a piece of scum I won’t allow to live in this country. I don’t buy this Don bullshit. I don’t buy your story about the informant. I think you engineered this with him and then betrayed your conspirator to gain more lenient treatment from me. I despise such trickery.”
Astorre was astonished that Cilke had penetrated so near to the truth. He looked at him with new respect. And yet his feelings were hurt. The man had no gratitude, no respect for a man who had saved him and his family. He smiled at the contradictions within himself.
“You think it’s funny, one of your Mafia jokes,” Cilke said. “I’ll wipe that smile off your face in two seconds.”
He turned to Nicole. “First, the Bureau demands that you tell us the true circumstances of how you got this information. Not that phony story your cousin gave. I’m surprised at you, counselor. I’m thinking of charging you as coconspirator.”
Nicole said coolly, “You can try, but I suggest you take it to your director first.”
“Who told you about the attack on my house?” Cilke asked. “We want the true informant.”
Astorre shrugged. “Take it or leave it,” he said.
“Neither,” Cilke said coldly. “Let’s get this straight. You are just another dirtbag. Another murderer. I know you blew up Di Benedetto and Washington. We’re looking into the disappearance of the two Sturzo brothers in L.A. You killed three of Portella’s hoods, and you took part in a kidnapping. We’re going to get you in the long run. And then you’ll be just another piece of shit.”
For the first time Astorre seemed to lose some of his composure, and his mask of affability slipped. He caught Nicole watching him with a sort of terrified pity. And so he permitted some of his anger to escape.
“I don’t expect favors from you,” he said to Cilke. “You don’t even know what honor means. I saved the lives of your wife and daughter. They could be lying underground if it wasn’t for me. Now you invite me here to abuse me. Your wife and daughter are alive because of me. Show me respect for that at least.”
Cilke stared at him. “I’ll show you nothing,” he said, and he felt a terrible anger at being in Astorre’s debt.
Astorre rose from his seat to walk out of the room, but the security guard pushed him down.
“I’m going to make your life miserable,” Cilke said.
Astorre shrugged. “Do what you like. But let me tell you this. I know you helped put Don Aprile on the spot. Just because you and the Bureau want to get hold of the banks.”
At this the security man moved toward him, but Cilke waved him off. “I know you can stop the attacks on my family,” he said. “I’m telling you now that I make it your responsibility.”
From the other side of the room, Bill Boxton looked at Astorre and drawled, “Are you threatening a federal officer?”
Nicole broke in. “Of course not, he is just asking for his help.”
Cilke now seemed more cool. “All this for your beloved Don. Well, obviously you haven’t read the file I gave to Nicole. Your beloved Don was the man who killed your father when you were only two years old.”
Astorre flinched and glanced at Nicole. “Is that the part you tried to erase?”
Nicole nodded. “I didn’t think that part was true, and if it was, I didn’t think you should know. It could only hurt you.”
Astorre felt the room begin to spin, but he kept his composure. “It doesn’t make any difference,” he said.
Nicole said to Cilke, “Now that everything is clear, can we go?”
Cilke had an overpowering build, and as he came out from behind the desk he gave Astorre a playful slap on the head. Which surprised Cilke as much as Astorre, for he had never done such a thing before. It was a blow to show his contempt, which masked true hatred. He realized that he could never forget Astorre saving his family. As for Astorre, he looked steadily into Cilke’s face. He understood exactly how Cilke felt.
Nicole and Astorre went back to Nicole’s apartment, and Nicole tried to show her sympathy for Astorre in his humiliation, but this angered him even more. Nicole prepared a light lunch and then persuaded him to lie down on her bed for a nap. In the middle of his nap, he was conscious that Nicole was on the bed beside him, hugging him. He pushed her away.
“You heard what Cilke said about me,” he said. “You want to get mixed up in my life?”
“I don’t believe him or his reports,” Nicole said. “Astorre, I really do think I still love you.”
“We can’t go back to when we were kids,” Astorre said gently. “I’m not the same person, and neither are you. You’re just wishing we were kids again.”
They lay in each other’s arms. Then Astorre said sleepily, “Do you think it’s true what they say about the Don killing my father?”
The next day Astorre flew out to Chicago with Mr. Pryor and consulted with Benito Craxxi. He brought them up to date and then asked, “Is it true that Don Aprile killed my father?”
Craxxi ignored the question and asked Astorre, “Did you have anything to do with inspiring the attack on Cilke’s family?”
“No,” Astorre lied. He lied to them because he did not want anyone to know the depth of his cunning. And he knew that they would have disapproved.
“And yet you saved them,” Don Craxxi said. “Why?”
Again Astorre had to lie. He could not let his allies know he was capable of such sentimentality, that he could not bear to see Cilke’s wife and daughter killed.
“You did well,” Craxxi said.
Astorre said, “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Because it is complicated,” Craxxi said. “You were the newborn son of a great Mafia chief in Sicily, eighty years old, and head of a very powerful cosca. Your mother was very young when she died in childbirth. The old Don was in extremis, and he summoned myself, Don Aprile, and Bianco to his bedside. The whole of his cosca would tumble at his death, and he was worried about your future. He made us promise to look
after you and chose Don Aprile to take you to America. There, because his wife was dying and he wanted to save you any more suffering, he placed you with the Viola family, which was a mistake, because your foster father turned out to be a traitor and had to be executed. Don Aprile took you into his home as soon as his trouble had passed. The Don had a macabre sense of humor, and so he arranged to have the death labeled suicide in the trunk of a car. Then, as you grew older, you showed all the traits of your real father, the great Don Zeno. And so Don Aprile made the decision that you would be the defender of his family. So he sent you to Sicily to be trained.”
Astorre was not really surprised. Somewhere in his memory was a picture of a very old man and a ride on a funeral hearse.
“Yes,” Astorre said slowly, “and I am trained. I know how to take the offensive. Still, Portella and Tulippa are well protected. And I have to worry about Grazziella. The only one I could kill is the consul general, Marriano Rubio. Meanwhile, I have Cilke hounding me. I don’t even know where to start.”
“You must never never strike at Cilke,” Don Craxxi said.
“Yes,” Mr. Pryor said. “That would be disastrous.”
Astorre smiled at them reassuringly. “Agreed,” he said.
“There is some good news,” Craxxi told him. “Grazziella, in Corleone, has requested Bianco in Palermo to arrange a meeting with you. Bianco will send you word to come within a month. He may be your key.”
Tulippa, Portella, and Rubio met in the conference room of the Peruvian consulate. In Sicily, Michael Grazziella expressed his profoundest regret that he was unable to attend.
Inzio opened the meeting without his usual South American charm. He was impatient. “We must solve the question: Do we get the banks or not? I’ve invested millions of dollars, and I am very disappointed in the results.”
“Astorre is like a ghost,” Portella said. “We can’t get at him. He won’t take more money. We have to kill him. Then the others will sell.”
Inzio turned to Rubio. “You’re sure your little love will agree?”
“I will persuade her,” Rubio said.