Omerta - Mario Puzo [117]
Kurt Cilke had been staking out the warehouse throughout the day. Sitting in his blue Chevy with nothing but a pack of gum and a copy of Newsweek, he waited for Astorre to make his move.
He had come alone, not wanting to involve any other federal agents in what he believed might be the end of his career. When he saw Portella and Tulippa enter the building, he felt the bile rising in his stomach. And he realized what a clever foe Astorre was. If, as Cilke suspected, Portella and Tulippa attacked Astorre, Cilke would have a legal duty to protect him. Astorre would be free and would clear his name without breaking his silence. And Cilke would blow years of hard work.
But when Cilke saw Aspinella Washington storm into the building toting an assault rifle, he felt something different—cold fear. He had heard about Aspinella’s role in the airport shooting. It sounded suspicious to him. Just didn’t add up.
He checked the ammunition in his revolver and felt a distant hope that he would be able to count on her for help. Before leaving the car, Cilke decided it was time to inform the Bureau. On his cell phone, he dialed Boxton.
“I’m outside Astorre Viola’s warehouse,” Cilke told him. Then he heard the sound of rapid gunfire. “I’m going in now, and if things go wrong, I want you to tell the director I was acting on my own. Are you recording this call?”
Boxton paused, not sure whether Cilke would appreciate being taped. But ever since Cilke had become a target, all of his calls were being monitored. “Yes,”he said.
“Good,” Cilke responded. “For the record, neither you nor anyone else within the FBI is responsible for what I’m going to do now. I am entering a hostile situation involving three reputed organized-crime figures and one renegade New York City cop who is heavily armed.”
Boxton interrupted Cilke. “Kurt, wait for backup.”
“There isn’t time,”Cilke said. “And besides, this is my mess. I’ll clean it up.” He thought of leaving a message for Georgette, but he decided that would be too morbid and self-indulgent. Better to let his actions speak for themselves. He hung up the phone without saying anything more. As he left the car, he noticed he was illegally parked.
The first thing Cilke saw when he entered the warehouse was Aspinella’s gun digging into Tulippa’s neck. Everyone in the room was silent. No one moved.
“I am a federal officer,” Cilke announced, waving his gun upward. “Lay all your weapons down.”
Aspinella turned to Cilke and spoke with derision: “I know who the fuck you are. This is my bust. Go collar some accountants or stockbrokers or whatever the hell it is you suits spend your pansy-ass time on. This is an NYPD matter.”
“Detective,” Cilke said calmly, “drop your weapon now. If you don’t, I will use force if necessary. I have reason to believe you are part of a racketeering conspiracy.”
Aspinella had not counted on this. From the look in Cilke’s eyes and the steadiness of his voice, she knew he would not back down. But she was not about to give in, not as long as she had a gun in her hand. Cilke probably hadn’t fired on anyone in years, she thought. “You think I’m part of a conspiracy?”she yelled. “Well, I think you’re part of a conspiracy. I think you’ve been taking bribes from this piece of shit for years.” She jabbed Tulippa again with the gun. “Isn’t that right, señor?”
At first Tulippa didn’t say anything, but when Aspinella kneed him in the groin, he folded and nodded.
“How much?” Aspinella asked him.
“Over a million dollars,” Tulippa gasped.
Cilke controlled his fury and said, “Each dollar they wired into my account was monitored by the FBI. This is a federal investigation, Detective Washington.” He took a deep breath, counting down, before he told her, “This is my final warning. Put down your weapon or I’ll fire.”
Astorre coolly watched them. Aldo Monza was standing unnoticed behind another of the machines. Astorre saw a twitch in Aspinella’s face. Then, as if it were happening in slow motion,