Code 13 (10 page)

“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.

On the other hand, life would have been simpler if he'd taken that assignment to teach military law at the Naval Academy. If he'd gone to the Academy, or gone to a carrier, it was doubtful he would have been assigned a project that would cause him to lose sleep. He was sure he'd go to bed tonight sweating bullets.

“Good evening, sailor.” Her velvety-smooth words coincided with a soft hand touching his left shoulder and an unexpected fluttering in his chest cavity. He stood, catching another whiff of her perfume, which proved more dizzying than the buzz from his Heineken. Her figure in civilian attire, in this case a nicely cut little black dress that accentuated her reddish hair and green eyes, achieved an instantaneous
wow
factor. She also wore heels just high enough for a glamorous, statuesque form. Her appearance caused him to lose temporary command of his ability to concentrate.