Omerta - Mario Puzo [46]
Nicole had been dazzled by Marriano Rubio and his courtship. She had never really recovered from Astorre’s betrayal of her when she was a young girl, when he had elected to obey her father. Though she had had some prudent short affairs with powerful men, she knew that men would always conspire against women.
But Rubio seemed an exception. He never got angry with her when her schedule interfered with their plans to be together. He understood her career came first. And he never indulged in that ridiculous, insulting emotion of many men who thought their jealousy was proof of true love.
It helped that he was generous in his gifts; it was even more important that she found him interesting and enjoyed listening to him talk about literature and the theater. But his greatest virtue was that he was an enthusiastic lover, expert in bed, and aside from that did not take up too much of her time.
One evening Rubio took Nicole to dinner at Le Cirque with some of his friends: a world-famous South American novelist who charmed Nicole with his sly wit and extravagant ghost stories; a renowned opera singer who at every dish hummed an aria of delight and ate as though he were going to the electric chair; and a conservative columnist, the reigning oracle on world affairs for The New York Times who took great pride in being hated by liberals and conservatives alike.
After dinner Rubio took Nicole home to his opulent apartment in the Peruvian consulate. There he made love to her passionately, both physically and with whispered words. Afterward, he lifted her naked from his bed and danced with her while reciting poetry in Spanish. Nicole had a wonderful time. Especially when they were quiet and he poured them champagne and said sincerely, “I do love you.” His magnificent nose and brow shone with truthfulness. How brazen men were. Nicole felt a quiet satisfaction that she had betrayed him. Her father would have been proud of her. She had acted in a truly Mafioso fashion.
As head of the New York FBI office, Kurt Cilke had far more important cases than the murder of Don Raymonde Aprile. One was the broad investigation of six giant corporations that conspired illegally to ship banned machinery, including computer technology, to Red China. Another was the conspiracy of the major tobacco companies perjuring themselves before a congressional investigating committee. The third was the emigration of middle-level scientists to South American countries such as Brazil, Peru, and Colombia. The director wanted to be briefed on these cases.
On the flight down to Washington, Boxton said, “We have the tobacco guys nailed; we have the China shipments nailed–internal documents, informers saving their asses. The only thing we don’t have is those scientists. But I guess you become a deputy director after this. They can’t deny your record.”
“That’s up to the director,” Cilke said. He knew why the scientists were down in South America, but he didn’t correct Boxton.
In the Hoover Building, Boxton was barred from the meeting.
. . .
It was eleven months after the killing of Don Aprile. Cilke had prepared all his notes. The Aprile case was dead, but he had better news on even more important cases. And this time there was a real chance that he would be offered one of the key deputy director’s jobs in the Bureau. He had made his mark with good work, and he had put in his time.
The director was a tall, elegant man whose descendants came to America on the Mayflower. He was extremely wealthy in his own right and had entered politics as a public duty. And he had laid down strict rules at the beginning of his tenure. “No hanky-panky,” he said good-humoredly in his Yankee twang. “By the book. No loopholes in the Bill of Rights. An FBI agent is always courteous, always fair. He is always correct in his private life.” Any bit of scandal—wife beating, drunkenness, too close a relationship with a local police official, any third-degree antics—and you were out on your ass even if your uncle was a senator. These had been the rules for the last ten years.