Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

The men sat silently on the bench for a long time.

“So what’s the deal?” Joe said. “You want to pull the plug? Because the others won’t, I can tell you that.”

“Can you guarantee us that our people will be the first ones in?”

“Guarantee?” Joe said. “What do I look like, Sears and Roebuck? I can tell you that your man Geraci is the best person we have on this, though. He was the first to get his facility organized, and he has the best people. I have it from the top that they’re the most ready to go. I have to be honest with you, I’m wondering if some of your competition here is just taking the money with no intention of doing anything ever. So, yes, I’m confident our people will be first, but I won’t guarantee you the sun will come up in the morning. If and when Geraci’s men are dispatched, I’ll let you know. A promise, not a guarantee.”

“Understood,” Michael said.

They discussed the details of what would happen when the men got to Cuba until Michael was satisfied that he should go ahead and let what was going to happen happen.

“I never thought we’d have men on our side as good as the ones we’re going up against in Cuba,” Joe said. “Not because our men are inferior-they’re not-but because our people just work for money. If something goes wrong, they’re out some cash, a promotion, what have you. But the men that SOB in Cuba has, if they fuck up, they know he’ll kill them. That’s what makes his intelligence so good. But your people?” Joe shook his head in admiration. “With them, we’ve got the best of both worlds.”

Michael didn’t know what else to say but to thank him.

Joe got up to go.

“Whoever thought of the pizza parlor thing, by the way,” he said as Hagen untied the boat for him, “it’s a hell of a good idea. I’m not saying what I’m saying, but we have the same kind of thing. Fairly new. Most Special Fellows, they’re called. Doesn’t matter if I tell you, because, believe me, you’ll never hear about it. The Company sets them up, makes sure they prosper, but for the most part we leave ’em alone for years until we need ’em for something. I’m not involved with it at all, but mark my words, there will come a time when the American president will be a Most Special Fellow. Of course, you won’t know it when it happens.”

As Michael watched the boat pull away, the flicker of a smile played across his face. Already, he knew of at least three such Fellows, including the man who lost to Jimmy Shea in the last election; the son of a senator on the Family’s payroll, now bumbling around in Texas, pretending to be an oilman; and Peter Clemenza’s son Ray, the shopping mall magnate.

“It’s time,” Michael said to Hagen. “Go see Russo. This gives you a reason.”

“You’re sure?”

Michael nodded. “Geraci’s men are either going to succeed or fail, and we have it worked out either way. This news of Joe’s throws us a curve, but it’s nothing we need to worry about. It just means that we need to move forward. The only thing that’s not ready is our canary in the Justice Department, but we know Billy used the chance to betray us as a means of getting the attorney general’s trust. He needs a little more time there before he’ll know enough for it to be worth turning him to our advantage. So, yes. Start with Russo. Presuming you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“It’s a big step.”

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Tom said, “I don’t know how long. A long time.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” Michael said, kissing his older brother on the cheek and then trudging up the lawn to his empty house.

L ESS THAN a year after the facility on Geraci’s land was built, a crew came to tear it down. Your tax dollars at work. Geraci said he had demolition guys who could do the job for a reasonable price, but “Agent Ike Rosen” said they had to do it to certain specifications. Also, there were security issues. The remaining trainees had been sent home, to be called upon when needed to a staging area at a villa in the Bahamas.

Three Cuban expats were the first to be dispatched, apparently on the orders of CIA Director Allen Soffet himself, the logic being that the Cubans knew the country and if something went wrong they’d be better able to disappear than Geraci’s men would. Geraci was furious. He’d wanted a Cuban (for the language and general navigation) and two Sicilians (so the job would get done right the first time). Do it that way, Geraci told his contacts, and nothing will go wrong. The Cubans landed on an unnamed coral island just outside Cuban waters, were picked up in a speedboat that had been seized from the estate of Ernest Hemingway, and were killed on the way to shore, when the boat exploded under suspicious circumstances. The thinking was that the pilot had been a spy for the Cuban government, but everything Geraci heard about it was far from firsthand. Geraci told Agent Rosen he’d told him so. Geraci didn’t want to lose a man, but he also didn’t want one of the other operations to be the ones to murder that thieving dictator, and there seemed to be no reliable way to find out what was going on in those other camps. Why even train his men, Geraci said, if they were only going to send the Cubans to do the job?

About a week later, Rosen told Geraci he’d been authorized to send another three men in, this time on a low-flying seaplane, under the radar, delivered right to a trusted operative who’d be waiting on the beach. Geraci was told he could recommend one man. Geraci insisted on two. One or nothing, the agent said. Geraci picked Carmine. The Sicilian soldato told Geraci not to worry; he was as good as two men, any two.

A few days after that, Geraci was out in his office behind the pool, reading the same two-volume history of Roman warfare that had been defeating him off and on for seven years, when Charlotte knocked on the door. “There was a call.” She was ticked off. The longer they’d been married, the more she seemed to resent taking messages for him, especially from callers who didn’t identify themselves. “Whoever it was, he wanted me to tell you that they’re in. That’s it. ‘They’re in.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“Yes.” In Cuba, of course. And from where he sat it meant everything.

“How’s that book coming?” she said.

“ Books, ” Geraci said. “Two volumes. When’s the last time you read anything that wasn’t flashed up on a television screen? And as a matter of fact, I’m making headway.”

It was still dark outside as Tom Hagen left the Palmer House and caught a cab to go see Louie Russo. Theresa was asleep in their hotel room upstairs. Later this morning she had a meeting at the Art Institute of Chicago-some kind of national museum board consortium. Tomorrow they’d drive over to South Bend, to see not just Andrew but also Frankie Corleone, Sonny’s oldest kid, who was starting at middle linebacker for the Fighting Irish and had gotten them tickets for the last home game of the year, against Syracuse, Theresa’s alma mater. Hagen had been looking forward to this weekend for a long time.

Hagen would have rather taken a limo, but he couldn’t risk taking anything so prearranged. The cabbie was classic Chicago, spewing profanity and cheerful complaints about some sports team. Hagen had a lot on his mind. He’d had only two cups of coffee. He was sweating. He didn’t feel nervous, and it wasn’t hot in the car. Probably it had to do with his blood pressure, so high his doctor might not have been joking when he’d said that one day Hagen might just pop, like an engorged tick. The driver kept yapping. Hagen did nothing to discourage it. The more the guy talked, the less he’d remember his passenger.