Omerta - Mario Puzo [101]
“Listen, believe me,” he said. “I never dreamed this guy would knock off two high-ranking cops. I just made a deal with Astorre Viola so he could hide out. I never dreamed he would do such a thing.”
“Good,” Aspinella said. “Now, who paid you for the hit on him?”
“Paul knew,” Heskow said. “Didn’t he tell you? Timmona Portella.”
At that Aspinella felt a surge of rage. Her fat partner had not only been a lousy fuck but a lying bastard as well.
“Stand up,” she said to Heskow. Suddenly a gun appeared in her hand.
Heskow was terrified. He had seen that look before, only he had not been the victim. For one moment he thought of his hidden five million dollars that would die with him, unclaimed, and the five million dollars seemed a living creature. What a tragedy. “No,” he cried out, and huddled his body further into the chair. Aspinella grabbed his hair with her free hand and pulled him to his feet. She held the gun away from his neck and fired. Heskow seemed to fly out of her grasp and crashed to the floor. She knelt by his body. Half his throat had been blown away. Then she took her throwaway gun from its ankle holster, placed it in Heskow’s hand, and stood up. She could hear the door being unlocked, and then the two screen men rushed in with guns drawn.
“I had to shoot him,” she said. “He tried to bribe me and then he pulled a gun. Call the terminal medical van and I’ll call homicide myself. Don’t touch anything, and don’t let me out of your sight.”
. . .
The next night Portella launched his attack. Cilke’s wife and daughter had already been spirited away to a restricted heavily guarded FBI station in California. Cilke, at the director’s orders, was at FBI headquarters in New York with his full staff on duty. Bill Boxton had been given the overall command of the special task force and would spring the trap at Cilke’s house. The rules of engagement were strict, however. The Bureau didn’t want a bloodbath that would cause complaint from liberal groups. The FBI team would not fire unless it was fired upon. Every effort would be made to give the attackers a chance to surrender.
As an assistant planning officer, Kurt Cilke met with Boxton and the special task force’s commander, a comparatively young man of thirty-five whose face was set in the rigid lines of command. But his skin was gray and he had a regrettable dimple in his chin. His name was Sestak and his accent was pure Harvard. They met in Cilke’s office.
“I expect you to be in constant communication with me during the operation,” Cilke said. “The rules of engagement will be strictly observed.”
“Don’t worry,” Boxton said. “We have a hundred men with firepower that exceeds theirs. They will surrender.”
Sestak said in a soft voice, “I have another hundred men to establish a perimeter. We let them in but we don’t let them out.”
“Good,” Cilke said. “When you capture them you will ship them to our New York interrogation center. I’m not permitted to take part in the interrogation, but I want information as soon as possible.”
“What if something goes wrong and they wind up dead?” Sestak asked.
“Then there will be an internal investigation and the director will be very unhappy. Now, here’s the reality: They will be arrested for conspiracy to commit murder, and they will get out on bail. Then they will vanish into South America. So we have only a few days to interrogate them.”
Boxton looked at Cilke with a little smile. Sestak said to Cilke in his cultured tone, “I think that would make you terribly unhappy.”
“Sure, it bothers me,” Cilke said. “But the director has to worry about political complications. Conspiracy charges are always tricky.”
“I see,” Sestak said. “So your hands are tied.”
“That’s right,” Cilke said.
Boxton said quietly, “It’s a damn shame, they can attempt the murder of a federal officer and get off.”
Sestak was looking at them both with an amused smile. His gray skin took on a reddish tinge. “You’re preaching to the choir,” he said. “Anyway, these operations always go wrong. Guys with guns always think they can’t be shot. Very funny thing