In the silence Ettore opened the ball of paper, then held it out to Paul and Vito. “All right, Vito, I’ve tied your hands all along the line. But no more. Use everything you have.”
Vito moved at once, and Paul later grinned wryly to himself that if the army had half the resources which Vito seemed to possess, the United States could fight a full scale war on three fronts. By the following morning, Vito’s Chief of Security, a Cyril Boranski, was in Chicago. He was a small, bald, pudgy Pole who wore an ill fitting checkered suit and wiped sweaty hands on his pants continually. He seemed barely to listen to Vito’s instructions, then gave a quick bow and waddled out.
Vito chuckled at Paul’s questioning expression. “He fools everyone,” he said. “Cy gets sixty thousand dollars a year plus an unlimited expense account, and I still have trouble with other organizations trying to buy him away.”
“Why do you need such a sophisticated security force? And people like Boranski?”
“Every large organization has tremendously valuable trade secrets. For example, one of our conglomerates owns a pharmaceutical manufacturer which is experimenting with a drug to fight viruses. Their approach is to coat the cell containing the virus rather than attempt to attack it. The importance of this new method is overwhelming, especially when you realize that half a billion virus attacks take place each year, from common flues to cancer. There isn’t a pharmaceutical company in the world which wouldn’t pay enormous sums to know how these tests are progressing, and to give most of their assets to participate in its marketing if it does work. The manufacturer, of course, has a highly organized security program, with good men to enforce it, but someone has to double check the program and to police the police, so to speak.”
“And little Boranski does all that? “
Vito laughed again. “Cy has sixty odd people working for him. His budget last year was over four million dollars. I daresay that fifteen or twenty of his people are ex-FBI and CIA agents. Give Cy two or three days. He’s very good at doing things.”
Paul changed his opinion about the Pole an hour later when the pudgy man returned with three well dressed technicians carrying large suitcases. During the next half hour they visited every nook and corner of the house. When the three men left, Boranski asked Ettore, Paul and Vito to come with him to the formal dining room.
“Your house has been bugged,” he said without preamble. “The phone in the sitting room, the one in the hallway, and the one in the kitchen. Down the street, about a block away, is a brown Mercury station wagon. It contains the directional gun and recorder. Out on the lake is a fishing boat. It also contains a gun and recorder. You can assume for all intents and purposes that whatever you said in those rooms since you’ve been back to Chicago has been recorded.”
“You mean everything we said on the phones, don’t you?” asked Ettore.
“No, sir. The transmitters picked up all conversations.”
Ettore sat down on a chair, his face settling in hard lines. “Are we disconnected now?”
“No. I thought you might want to use the taps to your own advantage.”
Paul nodded his head at Boranski’s reasoning. “They must have put in the taps when everyone left for the east.”
“Bonazzi had one put into my office,” said Ettore. “It was a little round instrument, no larger than a couple of silver dollars.”
“They are different here - much more sophisticated. Thin, colorless sleeves that fit around telephone wires. Unless they are pointed out, you could look directly at them without realizing they are there.”
“We’ll think it over, Mr. Boranski,” said Ettore, “and let you know what we want done with them. Is it possible to have a second line installed that would be safe to use?”
“No trouble at all, so long as it’s in a secure room. I can have one put in today without alerting the other people.”
“We’d appreciate that. Thanks for your assistance and advice.”
The small man nodded and was out of the room at once.
Paul dropped onto a chair beside Ettore. “That’s bad news. Bonazzi heard we decided to kill him and that we know about his girlfriend.”
“But he doesn’t know we have her address,” said Vito. “If I remember rightly, we didn’t say anything about it when we opened the paper.”
Ettore waved his hand. “Forget the girl. Bonazzi will have dropped her the instant he heard we knew she existed.” He sat thinking, Paul and Vito watching him. Ettore finally stirred. “We’ll keep the taps, and use them to deceive Bonazzi. But don’t tell the others. Let their speech come through normally. However, be careful never to mention anything to them which you don’t want Bonazzi to know.”
That evening after supper, Paul complained of a headache, saying he would turn in early. He lay on his bed for a couple of hours, then got up and donned dark pants, a sweater over a brown sports shirt, rubber soled shoes, and a dark, waterproof, zip up jacket. In the jacket pocket he placed thin gloves and a small flashlight.
To his belt he attached a sheath containing a knife with an eight inch blade. The knife had been made in Korea from bandsaw steel embedded in a hand-carved rosewood handle. It had never been wielded in anger, but because it kept a finely honed edge for ever so long, he utilized it for various everyday military-personal requirements.
Opening the window, he stepped out on the slate roof covering the back porch. He walked to the edge, slid over the side, let himself hang, then dropped the two or three feet to the ground. In previous years he had gone out and come in by this route so many times that he could do it blindfolded.
He kept to the shadows as he walked to the fence bordering their neighbor’s property. Many years ago the house over there had been built by a politician with every finger deeply immersed in bootlegging. His attorney son had acquired the estate when his father died, but had lived there only six or seven months before coming down with advanced leukemia. The property had later been sold to a wealthy refugee from Hitler’s Germany, who had buttoned it up like a fortress, keeping two German shepherd dogs at his side day and night.
Paul vaulted over the fence and walked carefully across the smooth lawn of the back yard to the line of shrubs and trees delineating the next owner’s property. This four acre estate had also passed through three or four hands since being built. It was now owned by an engineer whose hobby was sailing. Paul skirted the boathouse to the far line of shrubs and trees, then along them to the front road. He peered around thoroughly before venturing out on the pavement towards a small shopping area four blocks away. The candy store there, where he had played countless pinball games, was now a television repair shop; the grocery store, the shoemaker’s cubicle, and the corner drug store now were combined to form a supermarket open twenty-four hours each day.
He found a taxi a couple of blocks further on, gave the driver instructions, then settled back. He winced half an hour later when the taxi stopped at the golf course at the bill of twelve dollars for the drive. Once the vehicle had gone off, he walked across two of the greens to where Bonazzi’s estate was located. Around the property ran a thick, stone wall, eight feet high with an additional three feet of barbed wire tilting outward on the top. He followed the wall for a couple of hundred feet to a steel door. It was securely locked. He continued on to a narrow road bordered by a thick woods where the wall turned at a right angle. He proceeded down it, realizing he was now at the rear of the property. Three or four hundred feet along was another steel door, also locked. He looked about for a tree standing close to the wall to help scale it, but there were none in sight. Moonlight allowed him to see a good seventy-five feet ahead. Perhaps there was a tree further on. He began walking again.
Suddenly, lights flashed on behind him! He looked back. A car had turned onto the dirt road and was roaring down on him. He spun round towards the long stand of trees. The steel door clanged open. Out charged two dark figures. More lights came on as another car entered the road from the opposite end, also racing in his
direction. Bathed in the light, Paul dashed into the woods, the two men from the estate hard on his heels.
Paul was in perfect health and condition, and running between bushes and dodging under low limbs was exhilarating. But it was also futile. That he concluded when he saw several lights up ahead where the woods thinned out. Bonazzi was no fool. He had let Paul run into his own trap. Paul immediately changed direction towards the golf course, but the two men pursuing him were expecting this maneuver. They angled after him, closing the gap. Then he saw car lights flash on in that direction. Things were moving too fast. They were using excellent tactics, sending in two dogs to nip at his heels to keep him busy while the net was being formed around him.
Without warning, he stopped in his tracks, then jumped to one side behind a tree. Hot in pursuit came the two men. They tried to brake as they approached the tree, but one drew level with Paul before he could turn. Paul stepped out and struck him with full force of a fist at the temple. The man flew back and crashed to the ground. Paul’s eye caught the glint of a gun dropping from his hand. He dove for a bush as the second man ran up. There was a “pfft” as a bullet from a gun with a silencer splintered wood by his head. Paul rolled and turned on the man with the gun. He heard two more soft “pffts” before he closed in. They were fools to use handguns in the dark of a forest. Shotguns, yes. Machine pistols, yes. But not single shot weapons. His knife was in his hand as the man prepared to fire again. It rose and slashed forward. A scream came from the man as the sharp blade almost severed his arm at the elbow. Paul used his momentum to drive a shoulder into his opponent’s chest, knocking him to the ground. He saw the gun fall from the nerveless hand. Spinning, he picked it up, and, reversing the weapon, he brought down the butt solidly on the man’s head. He felt bone give under his blow. Good, let the bastard have a silver plate to remember him by.
Breathing fast, but still very much in control, Paul listened to the sounds of the search. They had certainly done this before, it struck him. These woods were a cage. Then he began jogging, back towards the estate. Minutes later he saw he had guessed correctly. Four or five men were moving from that direction among the trees, probing the dark with flashlights. By all rights Paul should be at the other end of the woods. That would be the normal direction of a man fleeing with two swift pursuers on his heels.
He slipped silently towards the line of men, measuring distances as he approached. They were about fifty or sixty feet apart. He dropped to his hands and knees at a particularly thick patch of shrubs and crawled quickly to the far edge. One of the men was barely thirty feet away. Paul crouched behind a shrub, waiting. The man came closer, working slowly and thoroughly, absolutely convinced it was a waste of time, but disciplined enough to do a proper job. He inspected one side of the thicket, then began to circle it to check it from a second angle. At that position he would see Paul. But now his own body was silhouetted and exposed. Paul waited patiently until he was not more than ten feet away, aimed carefully and fired. There was a low gasp as the bullet struck the man in the chest, then the sound of crushed leaves as he fell. At once, Paul was on his feet walking quietly through the gap in the line. He was well away when he heard a shout behind him. The man he shot was found. He broke into a run. Soon he came upon the road. The two cars were parked on it, headlights gleaming. He trotted up to one; it was empty, the key still in the ignition. Stepping inside, he drove quickly out of the side road onto the street running along the golf course. He was three or four blocks away when he saw lights move from the far end of the woods after him. He chuckled; they must be half a mile away. Minutes later, he had lost the other vehicle completely.
He parked the car in an empty lot, then drew out his knife and slit open the seats. They would get the message. He walked a few blocks before flagging down a taxi. In ten minutes he was let off at the small shopping section. The taxi fare this time was only four dollars. He took care getting back home, and climbed the roof as easily as during the old days. He stripped, took a hot shower, then sank down on the bed.
One for Bonazzi, he thought. As a general, Paul had violated one of the basic tenets of combat - never to underestimate the enemy.
CHAPTER 17
Don Alfredo Paladino walked down the staircase of the plane towards the Chicago-O’Hare International Airport terminal building. His bodyguard stepped close to place a tan, vicuna topcoat over his shoulders. Don Alfredo nodded his thanks as he drew it tighter around him. His swarthy, lined, Sicilian face was darker than most of his countrymen. Fifty years of residing in southern Louisiana and Florida had tanned it to leather.
Mickey Giannotti, flanked by two sharp eyed men, was waiting for him. He bowed over the hand Don Alfredo held out, then ushered him quickly through the terminal into a gleaming Rolls Royce. He turned to the bodyguard. “Please give your baggage tickets to Benny over there. He’ll arrange everything.” The bodyguard nodded, handed them over to Mickey’s man, then climbed onto the front seat next to the driver.
Don Alfredo took a long, oval cigarette from a gold case and placed it between his lips. Mickey promptly flicked a lighter for him. Soon the pungent fumes of Turkish tobacco filled the car. Don Alfredo held the cigarette in European fashion, the lighted end outward between thumb and forefinger, the palm of his hand towards his face.
Not a word was spoken during the ride to Bonazzi’s estate. The guard at the gate had the wide steel doors open the moment the Rolls Royce came into sight, and saluted as it went by. Don Alfredo’s black, piercing eyes flashed approvingly over the men patrolling the grounds.
Bonazzi was waiting at the steps of the mansion when the car drew up. He opened the door himself, his face wreathed with a smile of affection. Don Alfredo shrugged off the coat before stepping out, and stood looking closely at Carlo, his head nodding with pleasure. They embraced, two lean, elegantly groomed men, kissing each other on the cheeks.
“Ah, Carlo, Carlo,” said Don Alfredo, speaking Italian and holding him at arm’s length. “You have found the fountain of youth.”
“And you, Don Alfredo, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“How can an eighty-year-old man change? For the better?” He linked his arm through Carlo’s. “Come, let us get out of this cold. Someday I will get on a plane and not get off until I see my beloved Siracusa again.”
They walked into the house to the grand living room. The heat had been turned up, huge logs burned merrily in the fireplace. “Ah, this is better,” said Don Alfredo, hunching his shoulders to throw off the chill.
Carlo poured two anisette and passed one over. Don Alfredo sipped his slowly, then nodded with satisfaction. He sat in a deep, silk chair and placed his glass on a side table.
“So, Carlo, you have been making waves.”
Carlo took a seat across from him. He raised his hands in helpless resignation. “It could not be avoided.”
“Everything can be avoided, my friend. Most of all, having to come up to this dreadful climate to speak to you. It has all gotten out of hand. The Dons in New York are furious. Even Don Aldo here is upset.” Carlo remained silent. “They have asked me to speak to you, as a father to a son. Friends of Judge DiStephano are digging into corners. Donini is flexing his muscles. It is all without reason.”
“There is a reason. They murdered my son.”
“Everyone agrees with that. But there is also a reason why they murdered Caesar. I was very fond of him. He was a boy a father could be proud of. But all this does not concern the Dons. Waves concern them. What they cannot understand is this salami type of war. You seem content to cut a slice here, then a slice there. If there was bad blood between you, why did you not put all of them to sleep at one time? There would have been an uproar, but only once. This way the newspapers are always filled with the name DiStephano.”
Carlo’s face turned dark with hate. “I want that old bastardo to die many times.”
“Ah, well, that is always a fine feeling. It makes the juices run strong for digestion. The Dons will unders
tand that. But no more of it. Not for a while. A year, maybe two. Then an accident here or an accident there.”
Carlo sat back in his chair, his face inscrutable. “It is not the way I want it.”
“I understand, Carlo. Were I twenty years younger, it would give me joy to see this family put to sleep. But one reason the Dons respect you is because you are respectable. Many whisper Mafia money, but everyone speaks loudly that Don Carlo Bonazzi is the most reliable and astute investment manager in the country, perhaps the world. They all know you do not go to the Dons with an outstretched hand, but that they come to you, with respect. This is very important to the Dons.”
“It is also important to me. But there is something more important.”
“Ah, yes, well, I agree. To men like us, what is in the blood and the heart is always the most important. And it is so to the Dons. They do not quarrel with that. Not at all. They quarrel with the nibble here and the nibble there.”
Carlo sighed with vexation. “Very well, I will finish it off.”
“Ah, but Carlo, my friend, there is already too much publicity. Too many waves. It must stop here.”
“DiStephano may not agree.”
“Then you must convince him. The Dons will ask Don Emilio in Boston to pass the message to Donini. He is a sensible man.”
“I will think over carefully what you have said, Don Alfredo,” said Carlo. “But now it is time for you to lie down. Ernestine is preparing a scallopini with eggplant especially for your supper.”
Carlo himself accompanied the old man to a suite upstairs, saw that one of the servants was at hand to assist, then went down to his library. He sat in his large, leather chair for a few minutes, reflecting, then he rang for Mickey.
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 30
