Omerta - Mario Puzo [97]
An hour later Astorre and Nicole were ushered into Cilke’s office. It was a large corner office with Polaroid bulletproof windows that could not be seen out of, so there was no view.
Cilke, standing behind a huge desk, was waiting for them. There were three black leather chairs facing his desk. Behind it, oddly enough, was a schoolroom blackboard. In one of the chairs sat Bill Boxton, who did not offer to shake hands.
“Are you going to tape this?” Nicole asked.
“Of course,” Cilke said.
Boxton said reassuringly, “Hell, we tape everything, even our coffee-and-doughnut orders. We also tape anybody we think we may have to put in jail.”
“You’re a pretty fucking funny guy,” Nicole said, deadpan. “On the best day of your life you couldn’t put me in jail. Think another way. My client Astorre Viola is meeting you voluntarily to give you an important piece of information. I’m here to protect him from any abuse after he does so.”
Kurt Cilke was not quite so charming as he had been in their previous meetings. He waved them into chairs and took his seat behind the desk. “OK,” he said. “Let’s have it.”
Astorre felt the man’s hostility, as if being on his own turf didn’t require his usual businesslike friendliness. How would he react? He looked directly into Cilke’s eyes and said, “I received information that there will be a heavily armed assault on your home tomorrow night. Late. The purpose is to kill you for some reason.”
Cilke did not respond. He was frozen in his chair, but Boxton sprang up and stood behind Astorre. To Cilke he said, “Kurt, keep calm.”
Cilke rose. His entire body seemed to blow up with rage. “This is an old Mafia trick,” he said. “He sets up the operation and then sabotages it. And he thinks I’ll be grateful. Now, how the hell did you get such information?”
Astorre told him the story he and Nicole had prepared. Cilke turned to Nicole and asked, “You witnessed this incident?”
“Yes,” Nicole said, “but I didn’t hear what the man said.”
Cilke said to Astorre, “You are under arrest now.”
“For what?” Nicole said.
“For threatening a federal officer,” Cilke said.
“I think you better call your director,” Nicole said.
“It’s my decision to make,” Cilke told her.
Nicole looked at her watch.
Cilke said softly, “Under executive order of the president, I’m authorized to hold you and your client for forty-eight hours without legal counsel, as a threat to national security.”
Astorre was startled. In his wide-eyed, childish way, he said, “Is that really true? You can do that?” He was really impressed by such power. He turned back to Nicole and said cheerfully, “Hey, this is getting more and more like Sicily.”
“If you take that step, the FBI will be in court for the next ten years and you’ll be history,” Nicole said to Cilke. “You have time to get your family out and ambush the attackers. They won’t know they’ve been informed on. If you capture any, you can question them. We won’t talk. Or warn them.”
Cilke seemed to consider this. He said to Astorre with contempt, “At least I respected your uncle. He would never have talked.”
Astorre gave an embarrassed smile. “Those were the old days and that was the old country, and besides, you’re not so different, with your secret executive orders.” He wondered what Cilke would say if he told him the real reason. That he had saved the man simply because he had spent an evening in the presence of his wife and had romantically and uselessly fallen in love with his idea of her.
“I don’t believe your bullshit story, but we’ll go into that if there is really an assault tomorrow night. If anything happens, then I lock you up, and maybe you, too, counselor. But why did you tell me?”
Astorre smiled. “Because I like you,” he said.
“Get the hell out of here,” Cilke said. He turned to Boxton. “Get the commander of the special tactical force in here, and tell my secretary to set up a call to the director.”
They were kept another two hours to be interrogated by Cilke’s staff. Meanwhile, Cilke in his office talked