Code 13 Page 7

  And it certainly wasn’t stopping his blood from boiling at the moment. And the harder he blew out the stogie, the angrier he got and the more smoke-filled the president’s offices of the New York Concrete & Seafood Company became.

  Finally, after about the fiftieth blow, Phil had enough and ground the cigar into the ashtray.

  “Vinnie! Get in here!”

  “On my way, boss.”

  Phil slammed down the Times on the wooden desk, and the air from the sweeping newspaper caught the cigar ashes on the porcelain plate he’d used as a makeshift ashtray. This produced a dusting of gray ashes across the desk and onto the floor, just as his thirty-nine-year-old, right-hand man rushed into Phil’s office from the office next door.

  “What’s going on, boss?” Vinnie Torrenzano stood in front of Phil’s desk.

  Phil looked up at the disgusting excuse of a creature, standing there in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, suspenders holding up his pants, who had ascended to “right-hand man” status only because he had married Phil’s oldest daughter. Otherwise Vinnie should have been cut to pieces and thrown to the rats in the sewers of the Bronx. Actually, the Bronx sewers would have been too good for Vinnie. Harlem would have been a better fit.

  It had been nineteen years now since Phil had walked into his house, back early from a business trip to Miami, to catch the rat with his daughter, Maria—in Phil’s own bed!

  Phil remembered Maria’s bloodcurdling screams as he proceeded to beat the little piece of garbage into a living pulp. When he’d finished the first round, Vinnie was lying on the floor with blood oozing from his mouth, and Phil ignored Maria as she tugged on his arm, sobbing and pleading, “Stop, Papa! That’s enough!” He called in “the boys” to pick up the wretched scumbag by the collar, haul him out to an alleyway in Harlem, and give him another working over.

  Later that night, the boys brought him back to the scene of his premarital sin, where, with his face looking like a purple cantaloupe, Phil proceeded to inform the scumbag, “Look, punk. If you’re going to defile my daughter, you’re going to marry her.”

  There was no negotiation on that point.

  The next day the family called in Father Joe, the family priest.

  Nineteen years later, Vinnie Torrenzano remained dutifully in the role of right-hand man, alive and well only because Phil loved Maria more than he hated Vinnie for what he had done to her.

  “Have you seen this garbage, Vinnie?”

  “Seen what?”

  “There!” He pointed at the Times sitting on his desk. “It’s in the paper! Look at that front-page article in the lower right.”

  The son-in-law scumbag picked up the paper. His eyes widened as he started to read. “ ‘U.S. Navy Drone Contract Pending for Coastal Areas of U.S.’ ” He looked at Phil. “This the one you mean?”

  “Yes. That’s the one I mean. What do you think I meant?”

  “Hang on, boss.” Vinnie’s lips started moving, at first silently, as he began reading the article. A second later his vocal cords morphed into synchronization with his lips.

  “ ‘The U.S. Navy is awaiting approval of a massive military contract that will make it the largest operator of domestic drones in the world and, if approved, would award AirFlite Corp the largest defense contract in history.

  “ ‘The plan, the Times has learned, would call for the construction of 100,000 Light Maneuverable Unmanned Aircraft Drones, referred to as LMUA drones, over the course of the next five years. Finalization of the contract awaits legal review by the Navy JAG.

  “ ‘AirFlite, a South African company that has its international headquarters in Savannah, Georgia, has been awarded the contract, pending legal approval, based upon its ability to manufacture the relatively low-cost but highly maneuverable, mission-ready LMUAs at a revolutionary low cost of $10,000 per aircraft.

  “ ‘The LMUAs are smaller and less expensive than the military’s original Predator Drones, which ran upward of $4 million per unit.

  “ ‘AirFlite CEO Richardson DeKlerk told the Times that advanced technology and cost-efficient computer systems allow his company to provide the aircraft to the Navy for “pennies on the dollar in comparison to the original cost of the first-generation drone aircraft. It was a matter of time before technological improvement allowed us to build these drones cheaper than the cost of the average car.”

  “ ‘According to one Pentagon official, who asked not to be identified, the drones will provide surveillance within the coastal areas of the United States, which includes the areas just inland from the coast, and will contain a dual capability of stopping and preventing terror attacks against the homeland. The drones will share vital information with the U.S. Coast Guard and U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration about illegal drug smuggling into the country.’ ”

  Vinnie looked down at Phil, his eyes peering over his reading glasses. “That ain’t good, boss. All them drones could make it difficult on our maritime fleet bringing the stuff in from Colombia.”

  “No kiddin’ it ain’t good. You know, I underestimate you sometimes, Vinnie.”

  Vinnie laid the paper down on Phil’s desk. “Man. We’re gonna have to go up on our prices.”

  “What do you mean ‘go up on our prices’?”

  The buffoon’s eyes sparkled as if he’d just discovered the Pythagorean theorem or something. “You know what I mean, boss. I’m talking increased prices for tip money to keep our operation going. You know, like we do with TSA and DEA and border patrol. Simple, boss. We just raise the price on the streets and we’re good to go. Seems simple enough. Like a value-added tax or somethin’.”

  “On second thought, I take it back about underestimating you.”

  “What do ya mean, boss? We’ve got all kinds of federal agents on the take. Won’t be the first time the government’s come up with a dumb idea. Won’t be the last.”

  “Sit down, Vinnie.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Look, Einstein,” Phil said as his bug-eyed protégé put his skinny backside in the wooden chair on the other side of the desk. “I know we got all kinds of feds on the take.”

  “Not just feds.” Vinnie smirked. “State and local cops too. That’s my baby, ya know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Your job is coordinating payments to make sure law enforcement stays on the take. I hate to compliment you, but you ain’t done such a bad job of it.

  “But, Vinnie.” Phil stopped to strike up a cigarette, which he switched to because he suddenly needed a stronger nicotine kick than the cigars would give him, then inhaled a quick, satisfying drag. “We ain’t talkin’ about the FBI or the TSA here. We’re talkin’ about the U.S. military. And there ain’t no way we can bribe the U.S. military. You can’t even get to ’em, let alone bribe ’em. The military, they’re a different breed. They ain’t like these federal bureaucrats or these federal agents. You can’t get to ’em.”

  Phil narrowed his eyes and sucked more nicotine into his lungs. “The military, I’m tellin’ ya, Vinnie. I tried once with an Army colonel years ago. They’re the only ones who still believe in this God-and-country and Constitution stuff. Sometimes they get out of the military, and occasionally you might get to one who became disillusioned or something like that. But when they wear that uniform, most of ’em believe in God-and-country, and you can’t turn their heads. No matter how much money you wave at ’em.”

  A confused look crossed Vinnie’s face. “You’re saying it’s too expensive to get some officers on the take?”

  “What I’m saying is they can’t be bought. And even if we could buy off some naval officer here or there, there are too many of ’em. It won’t work. Like I said, they’re a different breed.”

  “Ya got a cigarette, boss?”

  “Here.” Phil pulled out a Marlboro and rolled it across the desk.

  “Got a light?”

  “Here.” He slid the lighter across the desk. “Make sure I get it back.”

  Vinnie struck the
lighter, lit the cigarette, squinted his eyes as he took a drag, then formed his lips in an O and released smoke from his mouth and nose. He slid the lighter back across the desk. “Thanks. So how we gonna stay in business if this thing goes through?”

  “Well, it’s simple. We gotta make sure this contract never gets off the ground.”

  “How are we gonna do that, boss? Are we gonna go to war against the whole U.S. Navy?”

  Phil crunched the butt of the cigarette into the porcelain plate. “That’s exactly what we’re gonna do. But we’ve got to be careful here. We’ve gotta work smart. We gotta call in every chip that’s owed us. Political and otherwise.”

  Vinnie pulled off his reading glasses and set them down on the desk. The bewildered look on his face reminded Phil that while Vinnie could take orders, he would never be a mastermind in this organization. “What do you have in mind, boss?”

  “Two things. First we call in our political contacts. We made some pretty big contributions to Chuckie Rodino’s U.S. Senate campaign. He owes his seat to us, and I intend to remind him of that.”

  “You gonna call Chuckie Rodino, boss?”

  “You’re dang straight. And I’ll remind him if he wants to get reelected, it’s time to scratch the family’s back. I’ll tell him he needs to oppose this contract on privacy grounds and that the money needs to be spent on welfare for his constituents here in the Bronx who need to stay in their places.”

  “You think he’ll listen?”

  Phil slammed his fist on his desk. “I guarantee he’ll listen. We’ve had Chuckie Rodino on the take since he was an assistant district attorney in Brooklyn. We’ve bought every seat the little weasel has occupied. He’ll listen, or it will get nasty.”

  “Remind me never to cross you up, boss.”

  “You already crossed me up. Remember?”

  “Never again, boss. I promise. That was years ago. You know you got my loyalty, boss. You know I’ll do anything for you and the family.”

  Phil stared at the weasel for a second. Yes, it was easy to hate him. But at the same time, it was hard to hate him. The weasel was right about one thing. His loyalty to the family had been unwavering since their initial disagreement.

  “Yeah, I know you’re loyal, Vinnie. I appreciate that about you. Plus, ever since you defiled my daughter, you’ve been good to her.”

  “And I always will be. But what’s the second thing we’re gonna do about this?”

  Vinnie always changed the subject whenever Phil brought up Maria and the butt-whooping the family had administered to him all those years ago.

  “Go back and read the first part of the article again,” Phil said. “The part about the Navy JAG or something like that.”

  Vinnie picked up the Times and took a moment. “Okay. I think I see what you mean. You mean the part that says finalization of the contract is awaiting legal review by the Navy JAG?”

  “That’s it. And that’s where you come in.”

  “What do you want me to do, boss? I know nothin’ about the Navy JAG.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about the Navy JAG either, Vinnie, other than I’d like to meet up with that hot-looking babe who used to play Major What’s-Her-Name on the TV show.”

  “No kidding, boss.”

  “Watch it, Vinnie. You ever mistreat my daughter and I’ll—”

  “Sorry, boss. Major What’s-Her-Name can’t hold a candle to Maria. And I’ll never mistreat Maria. Anyways, you were about to say what you wanted me to do to stop this.”

  “Yeah, right. Okay, listen. I want you to go down to Washington. I want you to be my eyes and ears and go figure out the Navy JAG thing. Now, while we might not be able to stop the whole Navy from flying all these drones around up in the air, there’s a weak link in every chain. So maybe while I work the political angle, you can nip this in the bud before it starts.

  “So I want you to go down to Washington. People talk in DC. Now, you might not have any luck getting the military to spill the beans, but the civilian bureaucrats who work for the government? Not a problem.”

  A sparkle lit Vinnie’s eyes. “You mean, like, even though I might not be able to get nothin’ out of the military, I might be able to pay off civilians that work at the Pentagon and stuff like that to get information?”

  “You’re all over it today, Vinnie.” Phil struck his third cigarette. “These civilian bureaucrats in the government, if you throw money at ’em, they’ll sing like a canary and give you whatever you want. Most of ’em want to make a quick buck for as little work as possible. The more you offer, the more they’ll sing. So I want you to go down there and snoop around, and ask questions of these bureaucrats and find out who in the Navy JAG is in charge of this contract. Then I want you to do whatever it takes to stop it. Talk to whoever you need to talk to. Spend whatever you need to spend. Just stop this contract dead in its tracks before it gets off the ground.”

  “This is an important thing, ain’t it, boss?”

  “As important a project as you’ve ever been involved with. Remember, if this project goes through, we’re gonna have thousands of these drones flying around. Even if we got to a few of ’em, there’s too many of ’em. They’ll kill our business. In fact, they’ll close down our whole export business, if you know what I mean.”

  Vinnie’s eyes widened. “Boss, did you tell the old man about this? The old man’s going to kill somebody over this.”

  By the “old man,” Vinnie meant the legendary godfather of the family, Phil’s uncle, Sal D’Agostino. Uncle Sal had been baby brother to Phil’s father, Frankie “Scarface” D’Agostino, and held Frankie in his arms as he died, bleeding from gunshot wounds from an enforcement situation when another “business enterprise” began meddling in territorial connections important to D’Agostino’s seafood operations. That was thirty years ago.

  Big Sal, being next in line after Phil’s father, ascended to the head of the family business. But he never had sons. Phil’s cousins Mimi and Marguerita had married good men the family could work with, but only a D’Agostino would ever run New York Concrete & Seafood Company.

  That’s the way it always had been. That’s the way it always would be. So when Big Sal had a heart attack requiring a quadruple bypass ten years ago, he’d passed operational control to his nephew, Phil. Still, even in his retirement, sipping liquor on the beaches in Miami and buying margaritas for hot pinups half his age, Big Sal carried a big stick in the family.

  Phil preferred keeping Sal in Florida half the year, where there was no state income tax, and keeping Sal’s big Italian nose, wild nasal hairs and all, out of the operations of the business. But Sal’s big-bellied shadow loomed all the way up the Eastern Seaboard, as evidenced in Vinnie’s question.

  “Look, let me worry about Big Sal. Sal’s no dummy. He’ll figure it out. But when the time comes to brief him on our battle plan, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about Big Sal or nothin’ else. Just go down to Washington and figure out the JAG stuff and kill this contract before it starts. You do your part, Vinnie.”

  “Will do, boss. You can count on it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE GRAPE + BEAN ROSEMONT

  118 SOUTH ROYAL STREET

  OLD TOWN

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  MONDAY EVENING

  Sitting on the outdoor patio of the popular neighborhood bar, the Grape + Bean, P.J. checked his watch and took another swig of beer. A cool evening breeze rolled in from the direction of the Potomac, which, combined with the subtle, levitating effects of the cool, full-bodied Heineken, soothed and buffered, at least slightly, the anxious feeling that had haunted him all day.

  The anxiety had twisted his stomach since that morning, but the knots had become almost unbearable as the day went on. The feeling reminded him of the saying in the Bible: “If it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.”

  Right now someone would have to pry the cup, or rather the mug, of the rich Dutch beer out of his hand.


  Victoria wasn’t yet late, but she wasn’t early either. Of course, if she didn’t show at all, he wouldn’t mind that much. He wasn’t sure he wanted to jump into anything this soon after Caroline. He and Caroline had been apart now for over three months, ever since he reported for duty in Washington. And they had decided to end it even several weeks before he left San Diego, knowing that a long-distance relationship would be difficult for them both.

  On the other hand, if Victoria didn’t show at all, he would be disappointed. Even though he wasn’t quite ready for this, he couldn’t deny the mutual chemistry.

  She felt it too. Of that he was sure.

  But why did it have to be this soon? Really, he had no time for this. But still, he needed to talk to someone. For all the time he had spent in San Diego, Caroline had been his confidante. In fact, now that he thought about it, that’s how their relationship got started. All those conversations, at La Jolla Cove, at Marietta Park, in Olde Town, at Balboa Park, all those times they spent together as friends before their relationship turned romantic, those times when he could share with her about anything.

  The next swig of beer emptied his glass, and the slight buzz to his head calmed his nerves. But he hadn’t drunk enough yet to forget that it was stupid for him to be drinking much at all under the circumstances.

  Control.

  He had to maintain discipline. And beyond one beer, alcohol and chemistry with the opposite sex offered a combustible combination.

  The good news?

  The place closed in an hour. Not a long time to do much damage. He had planned the back-end timing sort of as protection against his impetuous decision to ask her out. Besides, they both had to be back at work at the Pentagon in the morning.

  But he needed someone to talk to concerning this whole drone contract scenario. She was one of a small handful of people who would be authorized, because of her position at Code 13, to even know about it.

  Why had he taken this job?

  Yes, Code 13 was a solid rocket booster if he wanted a high-level career in the Navy. Only a handful of JAG officers would ever rub shoulders with the Secretary of the Navy.