by Zev Chafets
He turned off his electric typewriter, put a tan sweater over his blue button-down shirt, and caught a cab. He was a few minutes early, but he wanted to get to Clarke’s first, to size Sesti up as he came in. Apparently the consigliere had the same thought; when Gordon arrived, he was already at the bar, with a glass of Perrier.
“Mr. Gordon,” he said, making it a statement. He had a firm, dry grip. Sesti was about his age, an inch or two taller and maybe twenty pounds slimmer. His dark hair was cut short and parted neatly on the left, his dark blue suit understated and elegant. Sesti’s even features and pale complexion made him appear more New England Yankee than Sicilian.
“Mr. Sesti,” Gordon said. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”
“I was early,” he said with a pleasant smile. “And please, call me Carlo.”
“OK, Carlo, let’s get a table and eat.” On the way down in the cab Gordon had imagined a confrontation with a slick Ricardo Montalban–type hood. But Sesti seemed so ordinary that the tension of the morning evaporated, and Gordon was suddenly hungry. “I can’t stay too long,” he said. “I’ve got to get back and finish a piece.”
“It must be very exciting, writing on foreign affairs,” said Sesti. “I read diplomacy at Cambridge. At one time I even considered a career in the State Department.”
“What happened?”
“I failed French,” said Sesti, dropping a bit of the British accent. When he laughed he showed white, even teeth, and he seemed surprisingly likable. Gordon realized that he was being disarmed, and cautioned himself to stay alert.
“I would have thought knowing Italian, French would be a snap,” he said.
“I’m sure you’re right, but, regrettably, I don’t know Italian,” Sesti lied. “I can understand a bit, but my parents used the language primarily to keep secrets from me.”
“Mine did the same thing with Yiddish,” said Gordon. “Not that there’s much use for Yiddish these days.”
“You didn’t speak Yiddish with Max?”
“Max and I never talked much,” Gordon said truthfully. “I think you may be overestimating our relationship. I really didn’t know him very well. Most of the last twenty years I’ve been overseas.”
“Yes, I know,” said Sesti. “Vietnam, Israel, the Soviet Union, London. The great and the famous. I envy you that, Mr. Gordon.”
“If I’m going to call you Carlo, you’d better call me William.”
“Not Bill?”
“William.”
“Well, shall we order?” he said, signaling for the waiter. “Since you don’t have much time …”
They ordered rare steaks and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. “I seldom have wine with lunch, but this is a bit of an occasion,” said Sesti, lapsing back into his British accent.
“Is it?”
“I think so. Let me be candid, William, it will save us both time. Mr. Spadafore knows about the will that your uncle left. He intends to honor the spirit of that document in principle.”
Gordon had been prepared for almost anything, but not this. A day before, he had listened to his father warn him about being assassinated; now, the killers were offering him a fortune.
“You mean, as a matter of principle, you’re turning over five hundred million dollars’ worth of business to me? Very generous, Mr. Sesti.”
The lawyer gave him a wintry smile. “I’m afraid you misunderstand me, Mr. Gordon. I said ‘in principle.’ In other words, we accept the fact that you are, in fact, your uncle’s heir. But unfortunately there are no five hundred million dollars to be turned over. As things stand at the moment, the businesses your uncle owned in partnership with Mr. Spadafore now belong solely to Mr. Spadafore.”
“What you’re really saying is that I’m out,” said Gordon. “Goddamn it, Sesti, you could have saved us both time by telling me that over the phone. I told you yesterday that I’m not interested in the business.” He stood up, relieved and angry at the same time. “You can eat my steak, too, while you’re at it. And tell Mr. Spadafore that I hope they put him in jail.”
“William, please sit down,” said Sesti in a level tone. “I haven’t finished. Believe me, you misunderstand what I’m trying to say.”
Gordon lowered himself back into his seat. Round One, he thought, and I’m still in the ring. “OK, I’m listening.”
“Good. First, please realize that, whatever you may imagine, we are basically businessmen.” Gordon smirked, but Sesti held up a hand. “Granted, it’s an unorthodox business, which is precisely why a document like your uncle’s is not binding. We intend, however, to treat it as a statement of intent, and to try to honor its spirit.”
“You’re talking in circles,” said Gordon. “Let’s get down to the proposition, if there is one.”
“All right. Clearly, Mr. Spadafore, having spent his entire life creating his conglomerate, is not going to simply turn over a portion of it to an inexperienced, if gifted, outsider. It would be unreasonable to expect that. All other considerations aside, our business is, not to put too fine a point on it, confidential. To bring a stranger, especially one with such illustrious credentials as yours, into the inner circle of our affairs would be exceptionally reckless. And Mr. Spadafore is not a reckless man, not by any means.”
Despite himself, Gordon nodded. The reporter’s side of his brain told him that Sesti was making sense.
“It would also be presumptuous of us to imagine that an internationally renowned journalist such as yourself would want to enter our world,” Sesti continued. “With that in mind, Mr. Spadafore has authorized me to offer you one of two propositions. The first is straightforward. We are prepared to make a cash settlement of one million dollars, deposited anywhere in the world, in return for all of your uncle’s documents and papers, and your promise to forget this conversation and anything you may have already learned about our affairs.”
“I’m not putting anything in writing,” Gordon said.
Sesti winced at this crassness. “Mr. Gordon, William, I assure you that your word is more than sufficient.”
“What if I took the money and held back some of the papers? Have you thought of that?”
“Naturally,” said Sesti. “But were you to do that we would, of course, have you killed.” He said it in such a neutral tone that it took a moment for it to register.
“How do you know I’m not recording this conversation, Sesti?” Gordon asked.
Sesti pointed to his briefcase. “I have a device that makes it quite impossible for you to do that. Please don’t misunderstand me. This is not a threat. You merely asked a hypothetical question, to which you received a hypothetical answer. You don’t imagine that a man like Mr. Spadafore would allow himself to be taken advantage of without retaliation. But, I assure you, if you honor your part of the bargain, we will honor ours.”
“Would you be willing to deposit the money before you get the papers?”
“Simultaneously, I believe,” he said, “although we could work out the practicalities later.”
“You said that there were two propositions. What’s the other one?”
The waiter arrived with their food but Sesti ignored him, continuing to talk as if they were discussing stock prices. “Several months ago I had the occasion to look through a collection of your articles,” he said. “Over the past few years you’ve interviewed a great many heads of state.”
“Have I?”
“Thirty-seven, to be exact. Of course, several of them are now out of office. But there must be very few people alive who know as many world leaders as you do. Not to mention senior officials and military figures.”
“And …?”
The waiter was gone, and Sesti cut a small piece of meat, chewing it thoroughly as he let the question hang in the air. Finally he swallowed, took a dainty sip of wine and traced a small circle on the tablecloth with his finger.
“You may recall that a moment ago I alluded to our world—the world of your late uncle and my employer. It is, of course,
smaller than your world. Occasionally the two met—in Cuba, for example, under Batista. But, for the most part, we have confined ourselves to our own circumscribed little planet.”
“Judging from what I’ve seen, it doesn’t seem so little or so circumscribed,” said Gordon.
“I’m speaking relatively, of course. Our business is highly lucrative, but limited. Our foreign connections are largely with, for want of a better term, members of the underworld. But, of course, the real money, the enormous money, and the freedom to earn it, is controlled by governments. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose so.”
“We’ve made considerable progress since the days of prohibition,” said Sesti, “thanks to pioneers like your uncle, Mr. Spadafore, Meyer Lansky and a few others who saw that we required national cooperation to prosper. But this is a new era, William, an international era. To take advantage of its potential requires sophistication, access, expertise. Once—and I’m being blunt now—we needed Jews to handle our money and our legal work. Today, as you see, we have produced our own lawyers and business managers. But we have yet to produce a generation of international diplomats.”
“Too bad you failed French,” Gordon said. The lawyer acknowledged the joke with a small smile, but his eyes remained serious.
“I’m very good at what I do, William, but I don’t imagine that I could duplicate your exceptional experience. As I say, very few men of our generation are as well known and respected internationally. Normally, it would be unthinkable for us to come into contact with a man such as yourself, but you are your uncle’s nephew and, by the force of that coincidence, here you are.” He opened his hands and smiled, and for the first time he seemed very Sicilian.
“So, you want me to bribe Maggie Thatcher, or Brezhnev maybe? Come on, Carlo, you’re smarter than that. At least you seem smarter.”
“No, nothing as grandiose as that, William. But we both know that there are a number of places—say, in Latin America, the Far East, Africa perhaps—where there are people in high positions who are, or could be made to become, let us say, amenable to various sorts of business opportunities. They may control small countries, but even the smallest, poorest country is vastly richer than the Brooklyn docks or the Truckers Union. Handled properly, an operation of the kind I envision could be profitable beyond the wildest dreams of even your uncle or Mr. Spadafore.”
“And you want me to handle it, is that it?”
“Handle it, no. With all due respect, you have no training for that side of the business. What I’m proposing is that you take on the role of foreign minister. Locate areas of opportunity. Sound out potential associates. Ensure entrée. And, just as important, keep us from making awkward mistakes.”
“Out of curiosity, what would my share of this international operation be?”
“Twenty-five percent. One quarter of perhaps three billion dollars a year, perhaps many times that. It would make you one of the richest men on the planet. And as a warrant of our good faith, we would be prepared to give you a lump sum of, say, three million dollars.”
“And what if I took the three million and didn’t deliver?”
Sesti shook his head, and for the first time in the conversation he seemed a bit exasperated. “William, I’ve already answered that. Please don’t make me say it again.”
“What about my uncle’s papers?”
“No, those we must have in any case. That is not negotiable.”
Gordon was struck with a sudden thought. “Tell me something, Carlo, was this my uncle’s idea?” he asked. “Is that why he left me his share of the business?”
A shadow of caution came over Sesti’s eyes, like a window shade dropping. “I never discussed this with your uncle,” he said. “Nor, to my knowledge, did Mr. Spadafore. In fact, I must tell you that Mr. Spadafore is skeptical about this proposal. He is, for all his vision, an old-fashioned man in many ways. Distrustful of outsiders. Your uncle was an exception, of course; they were boys together. My first proposal is unconditional, but the second is contingent upon Mr. Spadafore’s approval. He’ll have to be convinced that you are whole-heartedly and irrevocably committed to our world, as it were.”
“ ‘Make my bones’ is the phrase, isn’t it?”
“A vulgar expression,” said Sesti. He took another bite of steak and fastidiously wiped his thin lips with his napkin; watching him, Gordon realized that he had barely touched his own meal. “I can assure you that you won’t be required to do anything violent, now or ever. That isn’t your nature; we understand that.”
“I have a couple of practical questions,” said Gordon. “First, would you want me to leave the paper?”
“Yes. You’d need more independence than it allows. A senior fellowship at a foreign policy research institute would be more suitable. We can, of course, arrange that, although I assume you could do so just as easily.”
“Another thing. If I were interested—and I’m saying if—I’d want to bring someone with me, another reporter who was with me in Vietnam.”
“Yes, John Flanagan. Well, you would be free to run your side of the operation as you see fit. But you must understand that you will be absolutely accountable for the discretion of whomever you choose. Absolutely accountable.”
“Last question. Supposing, again, that I’m interested. What next?”
“I’ll arrange a meeting with Mr. Spadafore. But, William, bear in mind that no such meeting can take place unless you’ve decided affirmatively. I promise that there will not be any additional conditions or obligations. My proposal is solid. But he can, of course, say no. If that happens, we will revert to proposal number one.”
“I’ll think about it and let you know, Carlo,” said Gordon. He raised his hand for the waiter, who moved toward the table with alacrity. “Please, William, this is my lunch,” said Carlo Sesti.
“Wrap this steak for me, will you?” Gordon said to the waiter. “And give my friend the check.”
CHAPTER 6
When Gordon walked into his apartment, the phone was ringing. He let it go six more times before picking it up.
“Hello, John,” he said.
“Don Velvel,” he said. “How did you know it was me?”
“Just a wild guess,” Gordon said. “And I told you, cut out this Don Velvel stuff. This whole situation is getting less and less funny.”
“Rough meeting with Sesti?” asked Flanagan, all the frivolity leaving his voice. He may have been playing make-believe gangster, Gordon thought, but when it came to getting information, he was an old pro.
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’ve got to finish this damn article on NATO and the Falklands, and then I’ve got a talk show to tape at six. Some Middle East discussion. So I’ll be tied up.”
“What about later on? I could meet you downtown, around eight, get a bite to eat.”
“I’d like to, but not tonight. Jupiter.”
“Doesn’t she have a nickname?” asked Flanagan. “Jody, or Jupy or something?”
“No, she likes Jupiter.”
“Yeah, no lie. She likes the hell out of Jupiter. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you’d be better off right now concentrating on business instead of mooning over that muff-diving girlfriend of yours.”
“OK.”
“OK, what?”
“OK, I forgive you for saying so.”
“How about, OK, I’ll take your good advice.”
“How about, OK, get your ass off the phone so I can do some work? I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
It usually took Gordon about three hours to write his column, counting four or five coffee breaks, a telephone call or two and at least one trip to the bathroom. Abroad, Gordon had learned how to write under daily deadline pressure, sometimes in frontline conditions. Sitting in a padded chair, in his own apartment, providing two opinions a week on obscure subjects was, by comparison, a leisurely task.
But today, for some reason, the words wouldn’t come. He was suddenly struck
by how little he actually knew about the Falkland Islands, NATO, or anything else for that matter. The revelation that he had won Pulitzer prizes because of the intervention of two old Jewish hoods in New York had shaken his normal self-confidence, and now he tried to type it back.
“In the absence of any proof to the contrary, the leadership of NATO must assume that the Soviets may be preparing to support Argentina as it has other Latin American nations hostile to the West.…” He looked at the phrase and frowned. How the hell did he know? Really know. Gordon had been around news all his adult life—wars and revolutions, coups and campaigns; had read purloined documents and exchanged information with smooth-faced diplomats in cozy bars—and always he had reported with an authority that approached omniscience. But, he now realized, he hadn’t even understood the basic facts of his own life. Maybe Reagan was as complex and deceptively bland as his uncle Max. Perhaps the British generals were as smoothly lethal as Sesti and his boss. He finished typing the article with leaden fingers, conscious of not only how little he knew but how little it mattered. His father’s line about newspapers came back to him; “They wrap fish in them, boychik,” the old man once said. That’s what his work was, he thought miserably—decorating paper for mackerel.
At five-thirty, Gordon left for the public television studio where he was scheduled to take part in a discussion on the Arab-Israel conflict. The cab was overheated, the driver a young Soviet immigrant who smoked cigarettes with the windows rolled up. Gordon, happy to find a fellow addict, took out a Winston and idly blew a few smoke rings, which wafted through the open bulletproof partition into the front seat.
“Circles,” the driver said, noticing. “I too.” He blew his own rings and, with his left hand, tried to push them into the backseat for Gordon’s inspection. They dissolved into clouds of acrid smoke.
