by Nele Neuhaus
He was exhausted, and he paused for a moment. The shadows under his eyes darkened, and his throat hurt from speaking. Sergio cursed the drugs that paralyzed his brain.
“Nelson,” he murmured, “think of something we can use to distract the press. We’ve already talked about a scenario, do you remember?”
The lawyer nodded. Dr. Sutton entered after knocking on the door.
“Gentlemen, I urge you,” he insisted, “Mr. Vitali really needs to rest now.”
“Nelson!” Sergio whispered, and the lawyer leaned over closer toward him. “Please call Alex. Tell her…”
I was ready to love you, Sergio. If you’d been honest with me, I would have accepted the truth, no matter how bad it might be.
He saw the rejection flare up in Nelson’s eyes. No, she shouldn’t see him this way, so weak and helpless, with all these tubes in his body.
“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head, “don’t call her. But please make sure that Domenico takes care of his mother. She mustn’t be left alone now.”
“I will.” Nelson pressed his friend’s hand with compassion. “We’ll get everything under control again. Don’t worry.”
The phones had been ringing off the hook at city hall since early morning. Nick Kostidis didn’t feel fatigued, even though he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep over the past few nights. Cesare Vitali’s arrest and suicide and the attempt on his father’s life were the top story in every news outlet—he had made sure of it. But Sergio Vitali had disappeared off the face of the earth. He was either dead or so severely injured that he couldn’t defend himself publicly, which was counter to Nick’s expectations. In any case, his late-night appearance on television in the Bronx prevented the matter from simply being swept under the rug. De Lancie was forced to investigate the case.
There was a knock at the door.
“Mr. Harding is here, sir,” Allie said. The police commissioner didn’t wait. He pushed the secretary aside and charged into the mayor’s office with a bright-red face.
“What the hell, Nick. Who do you think you are?” he screamed. “I’m out of town for two days, and then I hear something like this!”
He was so enraged that Nick thought for a moment he might assault him.
“What are you talking about, Jerome?” He pretended to be surprised.
“You’re not a damn US attorney anymore!” Harding roared. “How dare you interfere with a police investigation? How could you claim in front of running cameras that Vitali was gunned down by the Colombian drug cartel?”
“That’s not what I said—”
“Of course not!” Harding’s voice almost cracked in his rage. “You only insinuated it, but that’s bad enough! The governor called me. Even the secretary of state and the deputy attorney general from Washington want to know what’s going on here. I’m standing out in the rain like a complete idiot, and people are asking me why the mayor is doing my job.”
Nick suppressed a satisfied grin.
“Calm down, Jerome,” he said. “I haven’t done anything but point out some grievances in the Bronx. Wouldn’t you agree that these raids on apartment buildings—”
“Spare me your PR speech,” Harding interrupted him harshly. “You can’t fool me! You’re taking advantage of this situation to continue your crusade against Vitali. But you’re obstructing the police and obstructing justice in the process.”
“How is that?” Nick squinted at the police commissioner. “Because I prevented de Lancie from covering up this incident as quickly as possible?”
“That’s not your job anymore,” Harding replied vehemently. “Do you know what Vitali will do once he finds out that you’ve slandered him?”
Nick jumped up. “I don’t give a damn what he does. I represent my city’s interests, since nobody else cares to. The US attorney only cared about Cesare Vitali’s well-being on Saturday night. He didn’t say a single word about the injured police officer or the endangered citizens. It almost seemed he was trying to sweep these incidents under the rug, and I have to ask myself why. What interest would Mr. de Lancie have in protecting the reputation of someone like Vitali? I have the same question for you, Jerome. Why do you care what Vitali thinks?”
Harding’s face turned a deeper shade of red, but Nick continued, unperturbed.
“There are stacks of files on Vitali in the basement of the US Attorney’s Office. Everyone knows that, but we can’t prove any wrongdoings. Now we have a tiny chance to convict him of a crime. I won’t allow some corrupt bureaucrat to destroy this opportunity.”
“Be careful, Mayor Kostidis.” Harding’s voice was reduced to a threatening whisper. “What are you trying to suggest with that comment?”
“What am I trying to suggest?” Nick stopped just a few inches before the gigantic police commissioner, who was at least a head taller than him. “I have the suspicion that there are many influential people on Vitali’s payroll. Because of their silence, he’s in a position to do what he wants. I won’t tolerate the Mob ruling my city any longer, and I hope that you agree with me, Jerome.”
Harding stared at him and took a deep breath. But then he ran his hand through his dense white hair and sighed. Suddenly, his anger seemed to have blown over.
“You’re right,” he finally said, and let himself fall into a leather chair at the conference table. “The city is as corrupt as it’s ever been. We’re tilting at windmills. But the way you’re doing it won’t work.”
“Yes, it will,” Nick disagreed. “It’s the only way. We must publicly denounce this corruption. No politician will dare to side with a man like Vitali. His political network is paralyzed, at least for now.”
The police commissioner was silent.
“Jerome!” Nick looked at him imploringly. “This is my job, my struggle. I won’t capitulate because of convenience or fear and look the other way like so many others do. I want to put a stop to Sergio Vitali’s game.”
“When he’s gone another man will take his place,” Harding said, frowning. “It’ll never end. You know that as well as I do.”
Someone knocked on the door, and Frank Cohen entered the room.
“They caught the guy who tried to kill Vitali. It’s on the news right now. He’s even confessed.”
Harding and the mayor jumped to their feet.
“They say he was a former bodyguard of Vitali’s who wanted revenge.”
“Not the Colombian drug cartel, Nick,” Harding said disdainfully. “Just a frustrated ex-bodyguard.”
Nick didn’t answer and shook his head in silence.
“In case you should need me, I’ll be at police headquarters,” the police commissioner said. “I should take care of this matter personally before even more damage is done.”
Harding had barely left the office when Nick turned on the television. He and Frank silently watched a report about the alleged perpetrator’s arrest.
“Isn’t it strange,” Frank said, “that this guy turns himself in to the police and confesses even though they weren’t even searching for him? That’s too good to be true.”
“Simple solutions always make me suspicious.” Nick furrowed his brow in thought. “Four days after a sizeable amount of cocaine was seized due to an anonymous tip, someone makes an attempt on Vitali’s life. We know from our informants that a war is in the making between the Colombian drug cartel and the local crime syndicate. Then three men are shot dead at the port—all of them Italian—who, if we dug deeper, would surely turn out to be Vitali’s men.”
He turned off the television.
“Vitali has disappeared. He must have been wounded, and that’s why we haven’t seen or heard from him. Damn it, all of this is related. But everyone else refuses to believe it.”
“How could this guy drive the car and shoot a Kalashnikov through the open window at the same time?”
Frank shook his head.
“It seems to me that there are people who would prefer for all of this to simply disappear,” Nick said.
“This whole thing is—”
The telephone rang, and he pushed the button of the intercom system.
“It’s Eugene Varelli,” Allie said, “and he says it’s urgent.”
Eugene Varelli was the New York State commissioner of health.
“Hello, Nick,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it looks like we have a serious problem on our hands.”
“Great.” Nick rolled his eyes. He put the telephone on speaker so that Frank could listen in. “What kind of problem is it this time?”
“The FBI tried calling but couldn’t reach you. I said I’d call myself. We received an anonymous threat in the mail today, so my people didn’t take it seriously,” Varelli said, “but then I received a phone call about an hour ago. A man threatened to infect groceries with anthrax spores. He named the addresses of two stores in Queens and Morningside Heights. He allegedly infected some Freezo brand frozen hamburger patties. I’ve sent some people there to check all possibly affected products.”
“Great.”
“The FBI is taking this threat pretty seriously, Nick. The man didn’t sound like a nutcase. Furthermore, he made precise demands and announced that he wanted to make it public.”
“What are his demands?”
“Three million dollars to a numbered offshore account. And…”
“And what?”
“Your resignation.”
“He doesn’t want me to personally hand over the money, does he?”
“I don’t think sarcasm is appropriate in this situation,” Varelli replied stiffly. “How should we proceed?”
Nick threw a glance at Frank and then sighed.
“Inform the police and the US Department of Health.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and Eugene,” Nick said. “Keep me posted.”
He hung up. It was silent for a moment, and then Nick leaped out of his chair.
“Sergio Vitali is calling in the cavalry,” he said. “I’d bet my right hand that this act of terrorism is just a diversion to get Cesare’s death and the assassination attempt out of the headlines.”
Frank looked concerned.
“And what if this is a genuine terrorist?”
Nick grinned wearily. “Then I’ll resign and spend the rest of my life playing golf and fly-fishing. And I won’t turn around to look at Sodom and Gomorrah. That I swear to you, Frank.”
Naturally, the anthrax story was leaked to the press in spite of being highly classified information. The public’s reaction bordered on hysteria, and the media did its part to fuel the panic. The press focused on the anonymous terrorist and his strange demands. Old documentaries that had gathered dust in the TV station’s archives were dug up showing people who had been infected with anthrax. There were reports about how dangerous anthrax was, and interviews with any obscure expert they could find confirming that the disease would lead to certain death within two to three days. All of the Freezo brand products in the city were confiscated, which in turn led to vehement protests by the company’s management. The FBI checked laboratories across the country in order to find out where the pathogen could possibly have originated. The mayor established a crisis committee and a hotline where concerned citizens could get more information. The telephones rang off the hook, and many families decided that it would be better to visit distant relatives outside the city.
“That was good work,” Sergio said, satisfied, as van Mieren reported on the operation’s success.
“They have their assassin, and he’s got nothing to do with any Colombians.” Nelson smiled. “There won’t be a gang war, and everybody calmed down.”
“Your name is out of the headlines,” Massimo affirmed. He was relieved that his father had recovered so quickly and was able to once again make decisions. On their way from Long Island to Mount Kisco, the helicopter flew over Queens. During the flight, Sergio dictated to Nelson a list of people he should contact. He needed to know who was still on his side and what Kostidis had up his sleeve. Sergio was completely sure that the mayor wouldn’t believe the story of the self-confessed assassin. More than ever before, he had the feeling that Kostidis was a serious threat. It was late afternoon when Sergio entered his house near Mount Kisco. His second eldest son, Domenico, came to meet him with a concerned expression.
“Papa!” he called. “Thank God!”
Sergio hugged him clumsily with his right arm.
“How’s your mother?”
“She refuses to take the sedatives. But she’s somewhat composed. I still can’t believe that Cesare is dead.”
“Yes, it’s terrible.”
Sergio crossed the entrance hall, followed by his sons and Nelson van Mieren. He entered the grand living room. Constanzia was sitting on the massive leather couch with her daughters-in-law Victoria and Isabelle. Her sister Rosa and cousin Maria were also with her. Dressed in black, the five women had tearstained faces. Sergio’s eyes fell on a large framed picture of Cesare that someone had decorated with a black ribbon, and his stomach cramped painfully for a moment.
“Good afternoon,” Sergio said.
“Mr. Vitali”—a young doctor from Mount Kisco walked toward him with quick steps—“my condolences. It’s a real tragedy.”
“Yes, it is, indeed. Thank you.” Sergio nodded. Constanzia caught sight of her husband at that moment and jumped up with surprising agility. Her face, swollen from nonstop crying, contorted into an enraged mask.
“Assassino!” she screamed and charged Sergio before anyone could stop her. “L’hai ammazzato! Bestia! Assassino! You had him killed! Your own son!”
The other women jumped up, appalled, and Massimo and Domenico rushed to embrace their rampaging mother. They were visibly shocked by the allegations she flung at their father. The doctor stared at the woman in shock.
“He annoyed you!” Constanzia screamed. “You always despised him because he wasn’t as cold as you are! You had him killed, you cold-blooded bastard! Just like you sent my father to prison, when you knew it would be his certain death! You ordered the deaths of so many who were in your way, and now my baby, my darling. Oh, dio mio!”
She was reeling, and her tirade erupted into loud wailing. Her voice barely had anything human left in it.
“You’re not in your right mind, Constanzia,” Sergio said, extending his hand toward her.
“Don’t touch me, you murderer!” she screeched.
“No one did anything to Cesare,” he said in a calm voice. “He panicked and hung himself with his own belt. He was probably all coked up again.”
He noticed the incredulous glances of the doctor and his daughters-in-law, he saw the doubt in Nelson’s eyes, and he knew that even both his sons believed their mother in that moment.
“You never liked Cesare,” Constanzia said in a quieter voice. “The only thing you cared about was your damn business! I hate you!”
“Please give her a sedative injection,” Sergio said, turning to the doctor. “The pain of our son’s death is too much for her nerves.”
“Yes!” Constanzia laughed with utter hatred. “You just keep telling them that! But I know you, Sergio Vitali! I know exactly what you’re capable of! You’re as cold as ice!”
“Mama!” Domenico said in desperation. “Be quiet, please! Let’s go upstairs. Papa just returned from the hospital. He’s also grieving.”
“No, he’s not.” Constanzia freed herself from their grip. “This man never grieves. He has no emotions because he has no heart.”
Then she turned around and left the salon, followed by Victoria, Rosa, Maria, and the doctor. Sergio sat down awkwardly in an armchair.
“Bring me a whiskey, Massimo,” he said. His son obeyed, while the others stood there, silent and ill at ease. Constanzia’s uncontrolled fit of rage had profoundly shocked them because she was always calm and friendly.
“Why are you staring at me like that, Isabelle?” Sergio asked Massimo’s wife. “Do you really believe that I ordered Cesare’s death?”
/> “No,” the young woman said quickly, shaking her head, “of course not. It’s just terrible to see her suffer like this. She was very attached to Cesare.”
“I know,” Sergio replied. “It’s hard for her. She refuses to accept death. She also blamed me for her father’s death when he died of cancer. She’ll calm down again.”
Alex sat at her desk and read the Times article about Cesare Vitali’s suicide. She shivered as she recalled her first and only encounter with Sergio’s youngest son, which could very well have ended fatally for her. Her assistant Marcia peeked in through the door.
“Mr. Vitali’s on the phone,” she whispered dramatically, “and Mr. St. John wants you to call him back. It’s urgent.”
“Thanks.” Alex picked up the receiver. She had been waiting three days to hear from Sergio. She was in deep and time was flying by. First the attempt on Sergio’s life, then his son’s death, and now—after the alleged assassin was arrested—a terrorist dominated the newspaper headlines. Alex was quite sure that the men in that car were not former bodyguards, but perhaps it was best that no one found out the truth. She for one had banished any thought of that terrible night from her mind.
“Sergio?” she said.
“No. This is Massimo Vitali.”
“How’s your father?”
“Better. He wants to see you, Alex. If you can arrange it, right now.”
“I’m very busy,” Alex said evasively. She didn’t want to see Sergio.
“It’s important. My father asked you to visit him at his Park Avenue apartment. I can send a car if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll take a taxi,” Alex answered. “And Massimo—I’m sorry to hear about your brother. I read it in the newspaper today.”
“Thank you,” Sergio’s son said in the same cold voice of his father. “So when will you be here?”
“In an hour.”
Alex stood up without further ado. It was better to get this visit over and done with instead of procrastinating. Mark Ashton’s desk on the trading floor was empty, but Alex ran into him in the hallway. He had just returned from lunch.