Omerta - Mario Puzo [49]
Cilke said, “We can’t let anyone kill our agents and get away with it.”
“That attitude is not acceptable in a federal officer,” the director said.
Cilke tried not to show his outrage. “Then all our agents will be endangered,” Cilke said. “That’s how it is on the streets. The agent was killed trying to save the hostages. It was a cold-blooded execution. Setting the killer free is an insult to the life of that agent.”
“There can be no vendetta mentality in the Bureau,” the director said. “Otherwise we’re no better than they are. Now, what do you have about those scientists who’ve emigrated?”
At that moment Cilke realized he could no longer trust the director. “Nothing new,” he lied. He had decided from now on he would not be part of the agency’s political compromises. He would play a lone hand.
“Well, now you have a lot of manpower, so work on it,” the director said. “And after you nail Timmona Portella, I’d like to bring you up here as one of my deputies.”
“Thank you,” Cilke said. “But I’ve decided after I clear up Portella, I’m taking my retirement.”
The director gave a deep sigh. “Reconsider it. I know how all this deal making must distress you. But remember this: The Bureau is not only responsible for protecting society against lawbreakers, but we must also take only the actions that, in the long run, benefit our society as a whole.”
“I remember that from school,” Cilke said. “The end justifies the means.”
The director shrugged. “Sometimes. Anyway, reconsider your retirement. I’m putting a letter of recommendation in your file. Whether you stay or go, you will receive a medal from the president of the United States.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cilke said. The director shook his hand and escorted him to the door. But he had one final question. “What happened to that Aprile case? It’s been months and it seems nothing has been done.”
“It’s NYPD, not ours,” Cilke said. “Of course, I looked into it. So far no motive. No clues. I would think there’s no chance of it being solved.”
That night Cilke had dinner with Bill Boxton.
“Good news,” Cilke told him. “The tobacco and the China machine cases are closed. The attorney general is going after financial sanctions, not criminal. That frees a lot of manpower.”
“No shit,” Boxton said. “I always thought the director was straight. A square shooter. Will he resign?”
“There are square shooters and there are square shooters with little nicks on the edges,” Cilke said.
“Anything else?” Boxton asked.
“When I bring Portella down, I get to be the director’s deputy. Guaranteed. But by then I’ll be retired.”
“Yeah,” Boxton said. “Put in a word for me for that job.”
“No chance. The director knows you use four-letter words.” He laughed.
“Shit,” Boxton said, in mock disappointment. “Or is it fuck?”
The next night Cilke walked home from the railroad station. Georgette and Vanessa were in Florida visiting Georgette’s parents for a week, and he hated taking a taxi. He was surprised not to hear the dogs barking when he walked up the driveway. He called out for them but nothing happened. They must have wandered off into the neighborhood or the nearby woods.
He missed his family, especially at mealtimes. He had eaten dinner alone or with other agents in too many cities all over America, always alert to any kind of danger. He prepared a simple meal for himself as his wife had taught him to do—a vegetable, a green salad, and a small steak. No coffee, but a brandy in a small thimble of a glass. Then he went upstairs to shower and call his wife before reading himself to sleep. He loved books, and he was always made unhappy when the FBI was portrayed as heavy villains in detective novels. What the hell did they know?
When he opened the bedroom door he could smell the blood instantly and his whole brain fell into a chaotic jumble; all the hidden fears of his life came rushing in on him.
The two German shepherds lay on his bed. Their brown and white fur was mottled red, their legs tied together,