by Joseph Badal
Cyril was about as proper as an Englishman can get. He was tall and erect and his clothes would have passed the most detailed inspection at any Marine boot camp. His blond hair was slicked back in the continental fashion and his eyes, magnified by a thick pair of spectacles, looked particularly blue. His mustache was thin, straight, and perfectly trimmed. He showed them to their rooms, pointed out where they would each find towels, pajamas, robes, and slippers, and asked them to fill out a card on the dresser in each of their rooms with their clothing sizes. He explained he’d return for the completed cards in thirty minutes.
Cyril took Gino to an especially extravagant suite at the end of a hall. “Please feel free to get cleaned up and rest,” he said. “At 10 a.m., a man from a haberdashery will be here to fit you for new clothes. Don Cataldo told me to inform you his business in the city will occupy him through the morning and most of the afternoon, but he promised to be here early this evening to formally welcome you to his home.”
At 10 sharp, Cyril ushered a short, nattily dressed, sixty-something man into Gino’s room. “Antonio Persico,” Cyril announced, “the best tailor in New York.”
The little man accepted the compliment gravely. He bowed deeply to Gino and said in an accent heavy with the strains of southern Italy, “It is a great honor to be of service to a friend of Don Cataldo’s.” He walked over to the bed and carefully—almost lovingly—laid out several garment bags he’d carried in draped over both arms. He removed a suit, a sports jacket, a pair of slacks, and several shirts from the garment bags. Cyril had a large shopping bag in each hand and deposited them on the floor next to Gino. From the bags, Antonio the Tailor took underwear, socks, shoes, ties, belts, and toiletries, and laid them on the bed, too.
The tailor asked Gino to put on the articles of outerwear so he could be sure the sizes were appropriate. After Gino had done so, the man sighed with pleasure and said, “Maybe a little change here, a little change there.”
“Si,” Gino responded. “Molto bene. Grazie.”
At noon, Cyril tapped gently at each of their bedroom doors and suggested they “repair to the veranda for lunch.” They looked like patients in a hospital, in their pajamas, bathrobes, and slippers. Cyril treated them to a meal: Several types of cold cuts and garnishes, salads, freshly baked Italian breads, imported Italian soft drinks, coffee, and a variety of pastries. After they’d finished and the dishes were cleared, Cyril informed them their host would arrive around 5 p.m. Then he left the veranda.
“I need to tell you all something,” Gino announced. “This place belongs to the head of the New York . . . organization. And he’s not retired. I need each of you to give me your word anything I tell you or anything you hear around here will remain completely confidential. I need to know that none of you will ever do anything to make me regret bringing you into this.”
David and Peter nodded. Gino spoke directly to the Bethesda policewoman. “Are you in agreement, Detective Ramsey?”
Jennifer was no starry-eyed idealist or self-righteous ideologue, but “hanging out” with two Mafia Dons was well beyond her definition of appropriate behavior for a career law enforcement officer. She realized Gino wanted her to plead the Fifth or outright lie if she should be questioned or forced to testify about any of her activities with these men. The ethical and professional quandary she found herself in seemed to have anesthetized her vocal chords, until David gave her a painful look that seemed to beseech her to go along for the ride.
Before she knew what she was doing, she nodded and said, “I give you my word.”
Gino grunted his approval, and looked at O’Neil.
“I’ve thought a lot about how all of this will play back in Chicago,” O’Neil said. “I’ve also gone over in my mind on numerous occasions why we are knee-deep in the shit Bishop has generated. Some of us are here for very personal reasons. Gino, David, Peter, you’ve all lost family members and that pain is the worst pain a man can endure. But I, too, feel a pain I will never get over. That CIA son-of-a-bitch not only killed your family members, but he had a lot of brave men murdered—men who fought for our country. I’m also certain he had Gunnery Sergeant Sam Collins killed. I’ll always suspect if I hadn’t asked Sam to help me, he would still be alive. I assure you, Gino, I’m in this thing ‘til the end. And yes, I will never use anything I see or hear against you or anyone else who helps us take down Bishop.” Then O’Neil smiled and said, “As long as you give me your word you won’t tell anyone how I spent my East Coast vacation.”
Gino laughed, held up his right hand, fingers extended. “Scout’s honor.”
Peter slowly got out of his chair and stretched in a futile effort to work the kinks out of his sore back. “My friends,” he said, “it’s about time I put these old bones back to bed. Woe to the sorry, insensitive son of a gun who cuts my nap short by even one minute.”
David watched his father slowly ascend the stairs from the veranda to the guesthouse’s back entrance. Peter looked tired and old. He remembered the little Maryland diner where he’d agreed to let his father join him in his hunt for the murderer of Carmela, Heather, and Kyle. And once again, the thought crossed his mind he might live to regret that decision.
After Peter disappeared into the house, the others also stood and moved in that direction. They’d almost reached the door when Peter came back out with a copy of The New York Times. He waved the paper in the air to get their attention and yelled, “Well, lady and gentlemen, guess who made the front page of the Times.” Before anyone had a chance to venture a guess, Peter said, “It’s our buddy Rolf Bishop. And this time he’s with the President.”
David moved next to his father to get a look at the front page. There was Bishop, handsome and dignified, in a photograph, just under the paper’s banner. The caption read, “CIA Deputy Director, Rolf Bishop, will brief heads of state at this week’s G-8 summit conference in New York (see story on page 5).”
“Turn to page 5,” David said.
Peter turned the pages and read aloud:
CIA Deputy Director of Intelligence, Rolf Bishop, will provide the keynote briefing at today’s G-8 meeting at the United Nations Building in New York City. The United States hosts the summit, which is the third in a series held over the last fourteen months. The previous two conferences concentrated on financial and economic matters. This conference focuses on issues of global security. Deputy Director Bishop’s briefing—for the heads of the G-8 nations, as well as for their security chiefs and other key international security personnel—will cover strategic security matters, including an analysis of trouble spots in the Middle East.
Premier Armand d’Espy of France told the Times he looked forward with great anticipation to Deputy Director Bishop’s remarks.
Bishop will also participate in several other meetings associated with the summit conference and will attend a State Dinner at the end of the conference, hosted by the President at The Plaza Hotel.
This will be the first opportunity the President has had to present his new CIA Deputy Director to other world leaders.
Bishop retired from the U.S. Army in 2004 with the rank of Colonel. He holds a number of decorations.
Since he retired from the military, Bishop has served in numerous volunteer positions and on the boards of directors of a number of national and international corporations.
Chief of Detectives Mickey Croken was having a hissy fit. He’d been in a terrible mood ever since Detective Ramsey woke him in the middle of the night and then hung up on him. Now in Police Headquarters, he stormed around the detective bureau. This was his day for case briefings and the word had gotten out among the detectives the boss was in a rage about something.
The entire detective squad had assembled in the briefing room. Team by team, they shared whatever progress they’d made on their cases: new suspects, solved cases, status of trials, etc. Croken’s comments to the detective teams were even m
ore caustic than usual. There wasn’t a cop in the room who couldn’t wait for the meeting to end.
When the last team completed its briefing, Croken sent them all on their way with, “Get out there and try to accomplish something for a change.”
Roger Cromwell hung back and let the other detectives vacate the room. He followed Croken to his office. “Hear anything from Ramsey, Lieutenant?” Cromwell asked from the office doorway.
Croken plopped down into his chair and stared back at Cromwell while he unwrapped a piece of nicotine gum. He popped the gum in his mouth and rolled the wrapper between his fingers. He put his feet up on the corner of his desk and said, “Yeah, I heard from Ramsey. What do you care?”
“Just curious. I haven’t seen her around for a few days.”
“She found David Hood in Philadelphia. Apparently, the police there raided Hood’s father-in-law’s place for some reason. That’s about all I know.”
“Ramsey wasn’t hurt in the raid on the Bartolucci place?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“That’s good,” Cromwell said and left the office.
Croken squinted. The gum tasted like shit. Then he stared at his empty office doorway and thought, How the hell did Cromwell know Bartolucci was David Hood’s father-in-law?
CHAPTER 38
Manny Segal started out as an attorney in New York City. After years of legal grunt work, he got the chance to defend a mid-level member of the Colombo crime family in court. The man had been indicted for the murder of a drug dealer who’d encroached on Colombo territory. Manny knew the man was guilty. He also knew the DA had an open and shut case against his client. So Manny did what any attorney with no moral compass would do: He bribed a juror.
But a month after Segal’s client was acquitted, a traffic cop in Queens stopped the bribed juror because of a broken brake light. The man appeared to be unusually nervous, so the cop asked him if he could search the car. The juror gave his permission. What he hadn’t noticed was that the cop had a four-legged partner that waited patiently in the back of the patrol car. It took Rex the Wonder Dog less than ten seconds to sniff out a kilo of heroin packed inside the spare tire. So the juror was arrested for possession of narcotics with intent to distribute. He was in a cell awaiting trial when he realized he might be able to get a suspended sentence in return for giving up evidence about Manny Segal’s jury tampering.
The New York State Bar Association disbarred Manny and a District Court judge sentenced him to five years in the state penitentiary. While in prison, he decided what he would do when he got out of prison.
With the assistance of his old mob client, Manny developed a whole new sort of practice after his release. Manny the lawyer became Manny—code name: Paladin—the hired killer. And a damn good killer at that. Manny never knew who his clients were and frankly didn’t care. If they had his telephone number, they had to be powerful men who required anonymity.
Rolf Bishop decided the David Hood problem had reached the crisis point. He needed to turn the problem over to the highest level professional he knew—Paladin. The assassin had eliminated seven of the men who served under Bishop in the SLSD, as well as Gunnery Sergeant Samuel Collins. Paladin had done his job well. A sharp pain hit Bishop’s stomach. Why the hell didn’t I have Paladin take out all the men in the unit? he thought. He’d assigned Toney to the job because of proximity, and Toney had blown it. Then he’d hired the two Georgia men because he thought two killers would be better than one. They’d also screwed up. Now everything he’d worked for was threatened because of their failures.
The risks to Bishop had grown exponentially. The bodies in the SUV on his street in Georgetown and the note found at the Bartolucci estate represented something well beyond reputational or legal risk. David Hood and his supporters now hunted him. Hood and his father had to be taken out without delay! Bartolucci and that Bethesda detective had to be eliminated, as well.
But Bishop knew how Paladin worked. He didn’t act precipitously; he researched his targets and never took unnecessary risks. That type of caution took time. Time Bishop couldn’t afford.
He dialed Paladin’s unlisted number.
“This is Talon. We need to talk.” He left his cellphone number. The assassin called back in less than a minute.
“You’ve interrupted the Allegro Molto of Rachmaninoff’s Symphony Number 2,” a man’s high-pitched voice complained.
“I require your services.”
Bishop heard the man put down the receiver. Music played in the background. The music suddenly went silent and Paladin returned to the phone. “Are you familiar with Rachmaninoff’s work, Talon?” he asked in a superior tone.
“Yes, I am quite taken with Rachmaninoff,” Bishop said. “In fact, that piece you had on is one of my favorites. However, I must tell you I find the Allegro Molto movement a little frivolous and fanciful. Now the Adagio is the one I truly love. It has nuances of passion and romance that approach the spiritual.” He paused a moment and then said, “My apologies for the interruption.”
Bishop realized he’d laid it on a little thick, but he hoped the total silence at the other end of the line indicated Paladin was surprised and impressed. He needed to be in Paladin’s good graces.
“I had no idea, Talon, that we had a mutual admiration for classical music. Suddenly, I regret my business arrangements require arms length relationships.”
“I have an assignment for you that will require your immediate attention. This matter is so urgent it will not accommodate the usual lead time.”
“Explain.”
“I need the assignment concluded within twenty-four hours.”
“Where is the man located?”
Bishop paused. “I’m not sure. And it’s three men and one woman, not one man. But I believe if you find one of them, you will find all of them.”
“This is impossible,” Paladin said.
“I have found nothing is impossible if enough money is thrown at the problem.”
“Please define enough.”
“My need is critical and time is of the essence. I am prepared to pay $200,000.”
“As much as I would like to accommodate you, Talon,” Paladin said, “that is not my definition of enough.”
Bishop said, “I’ll pay you two hundred thousand dollars up front, and another two hundred thousand dollars upon successful completion of the assignment. The down payment will be wired to your account tonight. The balance will be put into escrow for transfer the instant you accomplish the mission.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Then Paladin said, “Talon, I look forward to assisting you in this matter. What are your instructions?”
CHAPTER 39
Cyril politely knocked on Gino’s door. “Mr. Bartolucci,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. When Gino opened the door, Cyril said, “Mr. Cataldo has arrived and would be pleased to meet with you.”
“I’ll be right with you,” Gino said.
“I’ll wait downstairs.”
Gino threw off the tasseled cashmere throw he had around his shoulders and dropped it on a chair. Come on you old bastard, he told himself, let’s move. He felt . . . he couldn’t come up with the right word. Heavy, sloggy. Too much excitement; too little sleep, he thought. He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and toweled off. He put on a shirt and tie, slacks, and a sport coat, and went downstairs and outside, where Cyril sat behind the wheel of a golf cart.
Cyril drove Gino one hundred yards to the main house. Joey Cataldo waited by the front door. When Gino stepped out onto the pavement, Cataldo hugged him and then led him into the house.
“Welcome to my home,” Cataldo said. “I hope you’ve been comfortable. I apologize I couldn’t welcome you when you arrived.”
“You’ve gone out of your way to accommodate my friends and me. I am again in your de
bt. I apologize for the intrusion.”
“On the contrary. You bring great honor to my home.”
Cataldo guided Gino to a room decorated in the style of a 19th century baron’s library. The furniture was done in deep maroon-colored leather and the pictures on the walls showed hunt scenes full of horses, dogs, and well-dressed gentry.
After they sat in plush chairs, Cyril escorted a young olive-skinned woman who carried a tray into the room. She wore a maid’s uniform that highlighted her figure. Cyril pointed at a low table between the two men. She placed the tray there.
Then Cyril said, “Endoxie!” and she left the room. “Tea or coffee?” Cyril asked.
They each selected coffee. Cyril poured and left the room.
“What’s with the doll?” Gino asked. “I thought maybe she was Italian, but now I’m not so sure. What did your man say to her?”
Cataldo laughed. “I don’t like to have hired help around the main house who might overhear something they shouldn’t. So I only use immigrants here. That little girl is right off a boat from Greece. She works hard and keeps her mouth shut, and Cyril can somehow communicate with her.” He smiled. “And she’s damn good to look at.”
“What about the English guy?”
Cataldo smiled. “When I found Cyril he was in the country illegally . . . his work permit had long expired. I fixed that and then brought his whole family over. I wish some of our own people were as loyal as he is.”