Omerta - Mario Puzo [33]
“Now, understand, everything I’ve said is theory. You will have to investigate and confirm. And then, if I am correct, you must strike with all your might.”
“One thing more,” Astorre said. “Are the Don’s children in danger?”
Craxxi shrugged. He was carefully peeling the skin off a golden pear. “I don’t know,” he said. “But don’t be too proud to ask them to help. You yourself are undoubtedly in some peril. Now, I have a final suggestion for you. Bring your Mr. Pryor from London to run your banks. He is a supremely qualified man in every way.”
“And Bianco in Sicily?” Astorre asked.
“Leave him there,” Craxxi said. “When you are further along, we will meet again.”
Craxxi poured anisette into Astorre’s coffee. Astorre sighed. “It seems strange,” he said. “I never dreamed I would have to act for the Don, the great Don Aprile.”
“Ah, well,” Craxxi said. “Life is cruel and hard for the young.”
For twenty years Valerius had lived in the military-intelligence world, not a fictional world like his brother’s. He seemed to anticipate everything Astorre said and reacted without any surprise.
“I need your help,” Astorre said. “You may have to break some of your strict rules of conduct.”
Valerius said dryly, “Finally you’re showing your true colors. I wondered how long it would take.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Astorre said, somewhat surprised. “I think your father’s death was a conspiracy that involved the NYPD and the FBI. You may think I’m fantasizing, but that’s what I hear.”
“It’s not impossible,” Valerius said. “But I don’t have access to secret documents in my job here.”
“But you must have friends,” Astorre said. “In the intelligence agencies. You can ask them certain questions.”
“I don’t have to ask questions,” Valerius said, smiling. “They gossip like magpies. That ‘need to know’ is all bullshit. Have you any idea what you’re after?”
“Any information about the killers of your father,” Astorre said.
Valerius leaned back in his chair, puffing on a cigar, his only vice. “Don’t bullshit me, Astorre,” he said. “Let me tell you something. I did an analysis. It could be a gangland act of retaliation or revenge. And I thought about you being in control of the banks. The old man always had a plan. I figure it like this. The Don made you his point man for the family. What follows from that? That you are trained, that you were his agent in place to be activated only at a crucial moment in time. There is an eleven-year gap in your life, and your cover is too good to be true—an amateur singer, a sporting horseman? And the gold collar you always wear is suspicious.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “How’s that for analysis?”
“Very good,” Astorre said. “I hope you kept it to yourself.”
“Certainly,” Valerius said. “But then it follows that you are a dangerous man. And that therefore there is an extreme action you will take. But some advice: Your cover is thin; it will be blown before much longer. As for my help, I live a very good life and I’m opposed to everything I think you are. So for now my answer is no. I won’t help. If things change, I’ll get in touch.”
A woman came out to guide Astorre into Nicole’s office. Nicole gave him a hug and a kiss. She was still fond of him; their teen romance had left no bitter scars.
“I have to speak to you in private,” Astorre said.
Nicole turned to her bodyguard. “Helene, can you leave us alone? I’m safe with him.”
Helene gave Astorre a long look. She was impressing herself on his consciousness, and she succeeded. Like Cilke, Astorre noted her extreme confidence—the kind of confidence shown by a card player with an ace in the hole or a person holding a concealed weapon. He looked to see where it could be hidden. The tight trousers and jacket molded her impressive physique—no gun there. Then he noted the slit in her trouser leg. She was wearing an ankle holster, which wasn’t really that smart. He smiled at her