“So, how was the ride?” asked Foster Dulles, as he sat in the guest chair in Mac's office.
“Interesting,” said Mac. “That man has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I feel sorry for him.”
“He is a strong man. You would think that he would have had enough after two terms. God knows some of us had hoped that he had enough. The Depression, the New Deal, all the infighting with Congress. He was made for it, I guess. As much as we were hoping for a Republican, who could have picked up where he left off, what with war on the horizon? I now say, ‘thank God’ he accepted a third term.”
“He is so pensive, always thinking. He seems like he is four steps ahead of everyone else.”
“Let's hope so, Mac. That is why he wants to be immersed in intelligence, from every direction. He knows more than anyone on the face of the Earth. He wants to be prepared to make the right decision, from a position of knowledge.”
“He wants me to go to Sicily, Foster, to take pictures, talk to the people, find out how Americans would be received if we were to land there. Apparently, this General Eisenhower favors a southern Italy landing. We take North Africa first, then use that as a base of operations to head off into the soft underbelly of the Axis.”
“We are not even in the war yet, and these Generals are already considering the possibilities. Leave it to an old West Point football coach to come up with a playbook before the season even starts.”
“I understand that the president told you he wants me to go talk to Charlie Luciano?”
“Yes, he mentioned it. He feels it prudent to try to get them involved, before you go there, to Sicily. He understands there is no love lost between the Costra Nostra and the fascists. He is hoping, with a little diplomacy, that they will pave the way for the acceptance of our troops, if and when that happens.”
“Well, I told the president that we would have to get Luciano moved closer to home, or he will never even talk to me. I had promised to make it happen,” said Mac, lighting up a cigarette, offering the pack to Dulles.
“What did he say?” asked Dulles, waving off the cigarettes.
“He said he would make it happen. By Monday, he should be moved to Comstock.”
“Great, are you going to see him?”
“I need to get in touch with his lawyer, that Polakoff character, to make the arrangements. I will do it today, so they know it was me that got it done. Next Wednesday, I guess would be good. I am flying back to Europe on the fifteenth of July, the following week.”
“Do you need Hogan there?”
“No, thank you. That would be counterproductive. I need to talk to Luciano in Italian, without Hogan trying to be a bully. He likes that, and he hates Hogan. He knows the DA did nothing to get him out of Dannemora after our last visit.”
“You are better off. I’m sure Hogan would not be pleased that you went over his head to get Luciano moved, to the president, no less.”
“Well, he never kept my promise after Luciano helped us last time. A man is only as good as his word, said a wise old Italian.”
“Do it your way, Mac. You have proven to be resourceful, and successful, partner.”
“Thank you, Foster.”
That evening, Mac took Hallie to La Mirabelle for dinner, fascinating her with all his stories of Rome, the Vatican, and the President of the United States. They took an after dinner walk through the park, acknowledging the ancient golf pro, walking hand in hand around the Reservoir. Mac told more stories, Hallie told some of her own, having Mac in stitches over how she had met Alfredo. The two old friends were still very much smitten with each other, despite the necessity of resisting any carnal desires they might still have. Mac kissed Hallie on the elevator, maybe a little more passionately than he had intended, but he left her at her door with a brief, albeit sweet, goodnight.
The following week, Mac went to the partnership meeting at the India House, at Foster's insistence, so that he could graciously accept the congratulations of his now fellow partners. He spent much of his time in the office, mostly reading newspapers, and looking at the Brooklyn Bridge, as he had nothing else to do. He wrote letters to the Pontiff, and to Carla, but he figured that he would most likely be back before his mail arrived in Rome. He was ready to return.
Operation Barbarossa was now in full swing, the Germans having secured the southern Russian oil fields, and they were marching on Leningrad. The fighting in the north was brutal, according to both sides, and independent sources. The Germans and the Russians both lost incredible numbers of men and machines. The analysis in the newspapers had the Germans marching into Moscow by the end of the year, but there were those who had their doubts. The general feeling was that the Germans started their offensive too late in the year, and that if they did not move quickly through the Soviet troops, they would get bogged down in the Russian winter. If that happened, felt the military analysts, the Germans would be doomed, unable to secure their supply lines, their troop replacements, and their munitions replenishments, in the snow.
The following Wednesday, after Mac had made the arrangements with Polakoff, Luciano's lawyer, Mac got a driver from the firm to take him up to Comstock, a little over a hundred miles from the city, where Luciano had been moved by the Department of Corrections at the president's insistence. The walls were tall, the towers were manned by serious looking men with rifles, the gates clanged when pulled closed, just like at Dannemora, except everything was different to Luciano, because he was closer to home, and to his compatriots. The Warden was not as cooperative as the Warden at Dannemora, particularly after he had Charles Luciano thrust upon him on short notice, by order of the President of the United States, no less. Nevertheless, he found a room that Mac could meet with his new star inmate, and he even provided coffee to Mac, to Luciano, and to his lawyer.
Charlie Luciano was brought into the room, with a big smile on his face. He kept looking at Mac with that smile, shaking his head, as the officers removed his handcuffs and shackles, without even being asked to do so. Luciano sat at the metal table, across from Mac, next to his lawyer, free to move around unimpeded. He took a sip of hot black coffee, acting like he was in a café in Milan.
“Tommaso, you are a man of your word, paisan!” said Luciano, in Italian, still shaking his head at the young man.
“I am sorry it did not happen sooner, Mr. Luciano, but I just got back from Italy,” replied Mac, also in Italian. “When I found out that you were still in that hell hole, I did my best to get it moving.”
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“That the President of the United States got me moved?”
“It is true, Mr. Luciano. I told him that I had given you my word, and he said he would make it happen. Just like that!”
“Nice! So, what does he want?” laughed Luciano.
“Yeah, no one does nothing for nothing,” laughed Mac, using Luciano's vernacular.
“So? To what, or should I say for what, do I owe this honor, Tommaso?”
“I am going back to Italy next week. The president wants me to contact the Costra Nostra in Sicily, to make friends, you know, butter them up. Just in case.”
“In case of what, Tommaso? And what were you doing in Italy in the first place?”
“In case your country needs to get involved in this war, and we have to get to Germany through Italy. He wants to make sure we have friends over there, should we need to take down the fascists. That is why I was sent to Rome, in the first place, to get the lay of the land. As it turns out, I have been working for the Vatican, and I have gotten very close to the Pontiff. I am going back to work for the Pope, and to talk to the Italian people, to gauge their mood, I guess.”
“Well, that should not be a problem. The Sicilians hate that son of a bitch Mussolini, and his fascist pigs. He tried to wipe us out over there. Nice try, the bastard! Anything that results in the removal of the fascists will be most welcomed by the people over there.”
“I know, Mr. Luciano. Help us make friends with your friends.”
“What is in it for me?” laughed Luciano. “See, Tommaso, you have taught me well.”
“Your enemy is our enemy, as they say. That should be enough, but I will talk to Hogan about getting you out of here. Would you be interested in going to Italy if I can get you out? It would look better if you were being deported, rather than just released.”
“I would go to hell, to get out of here!”
“Mr. Polakoff, make your motion before the court for early release. I will talk to Hogan about not opposing it. It might take some time, but if you can get the right Judge, and Mr. Luciano helps his country here, maybe we can get it done.”
“I will do that, Mr. Martini,” said the lawyer. “We have papers prepared already. Would you sign an affidavit as to Mr. Luciano's stepping up for his country?”
“I will, but I think it would be better if you subpoena me to a hearing. I will answer questions truthfully, and they will not have a heads up beforehand. No sense giving those opposed to the motion an opportunity to come up with an attack on my credibility. They would never give you the heads up.”
“Smart guy,” said Luciano, pointing at Mac. “Listen to him.”
“Yes, Mr. Luciano, but he is obviously more concerned about his reputation than your freedom.”
“As he should be. I wish I had more people like him around me,” said Luciano, insulting his own lawyer. “If Tommaso does not blow his reputation, he can be of more use to us in the future, no?”
“True, Mr. Luciano, very true. I gave you my word last time; I give it again to you now. I will do whatever it takes to get you out of here as soon as I can. Just give me something I can take with me to Sicily, a reference letter, or something.”
“Consider it done, Tommaso. I will handwrite something out right now. You got paper and a pen?”
Mac reached into his briefcase, and retrieved a pen and paper, setting it in front of the old gangster.
“Dear Don Corelli,” said Luciano aloud, as he wrote. “This is our good friend Tommaso Martini. Please give him all the courtesies you would give to me and provide him with the information he seeks. He comes with the blessing of the President of the United States, and with my people here in America. He will be a good friend to you, as well. Thank you for your consideration and respect. Respectfully, Charlie Luciano.”
“Thank you, Mr. Luciano. So, I should go to see Don Corelli?”
“Yes. He is in Palermo. Just ask for him. Word will get there to expect you.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” said Mac, purposely using his first name. “You are doing the right thing. A true patriot!”
“Bullshit,” laughed Luciano. “I do this because you are a man of your word, a man to be respected, Tommaso, and you have come to me for a favor. I not only owe you, but I also honor you with my respect, and the respect of my people. Be careful over there. We have many enemies among our own people. The sooner we can rid my homeland of these fascist pigs, the better off we will all be.”
“Thank you, sir. I will be careful, but I am confident because I carry you with me,” said Mac, patting the pocket in which he had placed Luciano's letter of introduction.
Mac once again cringed as he heard the iron gate slide closed behind Luciano, after he left the room. Different prison, same sounds, but perhaps not the same feeling of hopelessness.