BORIS
I’ll be a son of a bitch, the ambassador thought.
The press and public were barred from the trial. The prisoner remained stubborn to the last, continuing to deny he was in the Soviet Union on a spying mission. The prosecution promised him leniency if he would divulge who his bosses were, and Judge Lawrence would have given his soul to have been able to do so, but alas, he could not.
The day after the trial there was a brief mention in Pravda that the notorious American spy Judge Henry Lawrence had been convicted of espionage and sentenced to Siberia for fourteen years of hard labour.
The American intelligence community was baffled by the Lawrence case. Rumours buzzed among the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service and the Treasury Department.
‘He’s not one of ours,’ the CIA said. ‘He probably belongs to Treasury.’
The Treasury Department disclaimed any knowledge of the case. ‘No, sir. Lawrence isn’t our baby. Probably the fucking FBI butting into our territory again.’
‘Never heard of him,’ the FBI said. ‘He was probably run by State, or the Defence Intelligence Agency.’
The Defence Intelligence Agency, as much in the dark as the others, cannily said, ‘No comment.’
Each agency was sure that Judge Henry Lawrence had been sent abroad by one of the others.
‘Well, you’ve got to admire his guts,’ the head of the CIA said. ‘He’s tough. He hasn’t confessed and he hasn’t named names. To tell you the truth, I wish we had a lot more like him.’
Things were not going well for Anthony Orsatti, and the capo was unable to figure out why. For the first time in his life, his luck was going bad. It had started with Joe Romano’s defection, then Perry Pope, and now the judge was gone, mixed up in some crazy spy deal. They had all been an intrinsic part of Orsatti’s machine – people he had relied on.
Joe Romano had been the linchpin in the Family organization, and Orsatti had not found anyone to take his place. The business was being run sloppily, and complaints were coming in from people who had never dared complain before. The word was out that Tony Orsatti was getting old, that he couldn’t keep his men in line, that his organization was coming apart.
The final straw was a telephone call from New Jersey.
‘We hear you’re in a little trouble back there. Tony. We’d like to help you out.’
‘I ain’t in no trouble,’ Orsatti bristled. ‘Sure, I’ve had a couple of problems lately, but they’re all straightened out.’
‘That’s not what we hear, Tony. The word’s out that your town’s goin’ a little wild; there’s no one controlling it.’
‘I’m controlling it.’
‘Maybe it’s too much for you. Could be you’re working too hard. Maybe you need a little rest.’
‘This is my town. No one’s takin’ it away from me.’
‘Hey, Tony, who said anything about taking it away from you? We just want to help. The Families back east got together and decided to send a few of our people down there to give you a little hand. There’s nothing wrong with that between old friends, is there?’
Anthony Orsatti felt a deep chill go through him. There was only one thing wrong with it: the little hand was going to become a big hand, and it was going to snowball.
Ernestine had prepared shrimp gumbo for dinner, and it was simmering on the stove while she and Tracy waited for Al to arrive. The September heat wave had burned itself deeply into everyone’s nerves, and when Al finally walked into the small flat, Ernestine screamed, ‘Where the hell you been? The fuckin’ dinner’s burnin’, and so am I.’
But Al’s spirits were too euphoric to be affected. ‘I been busy diggin’ the scam, woman. An’ wait’ll you hear what I got.’ He turned to Tracy. ‘The mob’s puttin’ the arm on Tony Orsatti. The Family from New Jersey’s comin’ in to take over.’ His face split into a broad grin. ‘You got the son of a bitch!’ He looked into Tracy’s eyes, and his smile died. ‘Ain’t you happy, Tracy?’
What a strange word, Tracy thought. Happy. She had forgotten what it meant. She wondered whether she would ever be happy again, whether she would ever feel any normal emotions again. For so long now, her every waking thought had been to avenge what had been done to her mother and herself. And now that it was almost finished, there was only an emptiness inside her.
The following morning Tracy stopped at a florist. ‘I want some flowers delivered to Anthony Orsatti. A funeral wreath of white carnations on a stand, with a wide ribbon. I want the ribbon to read: “REST IN PEACE”.’ She wrote out a card. It said, FROM DORIS WHITNEY’S DAUGHTER.
PhiladelphiaTuesday, 7 October – 4:00 P.M.
It was time to deal with Charles Stanhope III. The others had been strangers. Charles had been her lover, the father of her unborn child, and he had turned his back on both of them.
Ernestine and Al had been at the New Orleans Airport to see Tracy off.
‘I’m gonna miss you,’ Ernestine had said. ‘You sure set this town on its ass. They oughta run you for people’s mayor.’
‘Whatcha gonna do in Philly?’ Al had asked.
She had told them half the truth. ‘Go back to my old job at the bank.’
Ernestine and Al had exchanged a glance. ‘They – er – know you’re comin’?’
‘No. But the vice-president likes me. There won’t be a problem. Good computer operators are hard to find.’
‘Well, good luck. Keep in touch, ya hear? And stay out of trouble, girl.’
Thirty minutes later Tracy had been in the air, bound for Philadelphia.
She checked into the Hilton Hotel and steamed out her one good dress over the hot tub. At 11:00 the following morning she walked into the bank and approached Clarence Desmond’s secretary.
‘Hello, Mae.’
The girl stared at Tracy as though she were seeing a ghost. ‘Tracy!’ She did not know where to look. ‘I – how are you?’
‘Fine. Is Mr Desmond in?’
‘I – I don’t know. Let me see. Excuse me.’ She rose from her chair, flustered, and hurried into the vice-president’s office.
She came out a few moments later. ‘You may go in.’ She edged away as Tracy walked towards the door.
What’s the matter with her? Tracy wondered.
Clarence Desmond was standing next to his desk.
‘Hello, Mr Desmond. Well, I’ve come back,’ Tracy said brightly.
‘What for?’ His tone was unfriendly. Definitely unfriendly.
It caught Tracy by surprise. She pressed on. ‘Well, you said I was the best computer operator you had ever seen, and I thought –’
‘You thought I’d give you back your old job?’
‘Well, yes, sir. I haven’t forgotten any of my skills. I can still –’
‘Miss Whitney.’ It was no longer Tracy. ‘I’m sorry, but what you’re asking