To Free a Spy Page 5

  “What about Matty Figueriano?”

  O’Malley had kept Gallardi up to date on the investigation, which was moving fast. “Here’s what I know so far,” Gallardi said. Matty Figueriano had become high-profile in recent years, squabbling with Atlantic City mob boss Joey Domino over drugs and for bringing a lot of attention down on him. Joey Domino, who turned thumbs down on the drug business after his own son died from a cocaine overdose, found out Matty was running a drug op on the quiet. Joey Domino had no use for Matty Fig anyway because he was with Joey’s son when his son O.D.’d and died, and wanted to kill him as soon as he found out. The feds and local cops were watching too closely and Joey decided to wait, but now this discovery of Matty Fig’s DNA and gold bracelet in a burial pit with a dead woman’s belongings was the last straw for Joey. Joey knew the feds would try to connect him to the girl’s murder because of his known association with Matty Figueriano. With this new evidence, they were likely to trace it to Karly. So Joey Domino sent Matty a message to take the rap all by himself—not for that suspected murder alone, but also for two others they’d been trying to pin on Joey. Matty denied everything but Joey’s messengers told Matty that life without parole, even the death sentence, would be better than the consequences of not bailing Joey out, and Matty Fig had no reason to doubt that was true. “That’s all I know,” Gallardi said.

  Jag had stood at the window overlooking the city as Gallardi talked. “They find anything besides the gold bracelet?”

  “That’s about it, but it all points to my place.”

  “She lived at your hotel. So what?”

  “Loose ends. I don’t like it.”

  The man shook his head. “Where do you get all this information, Frank?”

  “Never mind where I get it. I get it.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Finally the visitor said, “Worried aren’t you, Frank?”

  “I don’t worry but it’s a problem to deal with,” Gallardi said. “If Figueriano confesses to Karly’s disappearance and those two murders as well, he can get himself off the hook with Joey Domino.”

  “And go to prison for life? You don’t have to worry about that. He’ll take his chances with Domino. Tough guys think they’re invincible.”

  Gallardi looked at the man in disbelief. “You know damn well it won’t turn out like that. Figueriano’s afraid of Joey. He’ll confess to those three hits and get off the hook with Joey Domino. Then he’ll plea-bargain with the feds to stay out of jail.”

  “Plea bargain! With what?”

  “You’re looking at him!” Gallardi said, jabbing his thumb into his own chest. “That D.A. in Atlantic City’s trying to make a name for himself. Hates gambling. Blames everything that happens on the casinos. You think he wouldn’t give his left nut to see me hanging from that flagpole on top of the Golden Touch? He’d trade Matty Figueriano for me in a heartbeat.”

  The Washington man nodded and turned back to the window. A minute later he said, “Thought about how you’d defend yourself, Frank?”

  Gallardi went over to the man, who was several inches taller than he, and spun him around. The blood vessels in Gallardi’s neck bulged as he spoke. “Listen to me! I saved your ass that night! Put my own reputation on the line! You keep me out of this like you said you’d do, and I don’t care how you do it. But you better hope nobody comes to me about this.”

  “How do you expect me to deal with it now, Frank? I’m too visible and you know it.”

  “That’s your problem. My name comes up in this, the chips fall where they fall. I warned you six years ago. You remember that, don’t you?” Gallardi was an inch from Jag’s nose now, his prominent chest bumping the visitor’s.

  Jag studied Frank for a moment and then put his hands on the casino man’s shoulders and forced a smile. “Frank, you’re tough as ever. I like that.”

  Gallardi pushed him away, in no mood to be mollified. “You’ll do well to remember that!”

  The man nodded. “Forget it, Frank. Don’t worry. You knew I’d take care of it.”

  * * *

  Jag scrolled down his list of contacts and selected a number as his driver navigated the SUV through D.C. traffic.

  The line answered after one ring. “What’re you doin’ out so late?”

  “Little problem has come up. Meet in 30 minutes.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Ana Koronis thought it must be the fiftieth time she rolled into a new sleeping position that night, and it had been like that for the last month. Today was Sunday and she had planned to sleep in, but the combination of sleeplessness and the impending end of her relationship with Austin Quinn seemed to pull her down more each day. Her productivity at the law firm was lagging and one of her partners had brought it up at lunch on Friday. “Not yourself these days, Ana.” He had ignored her denial. “Why don’t you take some time off and get it together?”

  It was more than a casual comment: Her personal life was impacting the law firm. The partner’s admonition had edged her over the threshold and now she was waiting for the right time to talk to Quinn. Couldn’t just let him come home to his place in Georgetown one day and find she had moved back across the river to her own townhouse in Alexandria, even though he too had to know it was over. He wasn’t blind.

  She was dozing again when Quinn’s official line rang. The glowing red numbers on the digital clock said it was ten past five. Had to be Langley, as she was sure no one except his lieutenants at CIA had this number. Quinn fumbled for the speakerphone button in the darkness.

  “Yeah?”

  “Director Quinn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold for Mr. Lloyd Tracey.”

  The White House! Tracey was President Garrison Cross’s chief of staff and Ana was curious. Her handling of legal matters for the State Department often gave her the kinds of official details she was interested in, but since moving in with Quinn, the amount of knowledge she had accumulated tripled. It had taken Quinn a long time to begin confiding in her about operational goings on at the CIA, but then, as if his trust in her suddenly bloomed, he opened up. Ana knew Quinn enjoyed dealing out intriguing details of some ongoing clandestine operation like cards in a poker hand, causing her to sweat them one at a time. Ana would remember every nuance until she could get back to her office the next morning and dictate it all into a flash drive. She stored the drive in a small floor safe under her desk, to which only she had the combination. But Quinn had not been saying much in recent weeks, and it was clear she had gotten about all the spy scoop she was going to get from him. She had liked Quinn for himself at one time. His CIA stories were a bonus. But she was glad the relationship outlasted them.

  “Hold on,” Quinn said to the speakerphone. He left the bedroom and walked to his study down the hall. When he picked up the call there, Ana continued to hear both men’s voices on the speakerphone. The CIA director had neglected to put the line on Hold.

  “You there, Lloyd?” she heard him say.

  “Sorry, Austin. It’s about Frank Gallardi.”

  “Gallardi!”

  “Shot dead couple hours ago. Got his security man, too. Professional hit according to the police. That’s all I’ve got right now.”

  Quinn was silent for a moment. “Why are you calling me?”

  “President wanted me to notify you and Stern. Oh, and General Scrubb at the Pentagon. Mostly as a matter of courtesy, I think.” Ana knew Stern was the president’s national security advisor.

  “How’d you get it?”

  “The Bureau.”

  Ana had met Gallardi a few years earlier at the celebration and roast for Quinn at Gallardi’s casino in Atlantic City, and knew he had lofty connections in the government, but his murder was not of more than general interest to her. When Quinn hung up, Ana got out of bed, took a hot shower and got dressed. She heard the phone ring again while she was showering, but she’d turned off the speaker. She put on a robe and sauntered down to the study where Quinn was scanning the mor
ning reports on the Langley computer terminal he’d ordered installed in his home.

  “I heard Tracey’s call, Austin. You left the speaker on. What do you make of Gallardi?”

  Quinn glanced at her peripherally. “Doubt if it’s anything as sinister as Tracey implied.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “We worked on the New Jersey casino bill together years ago. Pretty much a business relationship.”

  Ana was leaning nonchalantly against the door, arms folded and ankles crossed. “Gallardi involved in the mafia?”

  Quinn still hadn’t looked up from the monitor. He grunted and shook his head. “Stayed out of it.”

  “Anything for you to do?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Met his wife couple of times. She’ll expect me to do something.”

  Ana knew there was little Quinn could do. The CIA had no investigative powers inside the U.S. That was the FBI’s bailiwick. Quinn would promise Mrs. Gallardi he would make some phone calls to encourage the FBI and state authorities to take special interest, but given Gallardi’s high profile in gambling, that would happen without Quinn’s input. And Quinn wasn’t one to demand a Congressional investigation every time a squirrel scampered across a street somewhere in Washington.

  * * *

  The next morning, Monday, Ana Koronis was in her office at the law firm at eight-thirty with The Washington Post. The paper said there were no suspects, no murder weapon and no clues in the Gallardi case. The story credited the wealthy casino owner, working with then state-senator Austin Quinn, for the state laws and regulations that enabled casino gambling in New Jersey. Gallardi had been rewarded with the first casino license, and Quinn with election to the U.S. Senate. This set him up for his subsequent appointment by President Cross to his present post as Director of Central Intelligence.

  The paper referred to Gallardi’s high-profile clientele as the envy of the other Boardwalk casinos.

  The article said police also were investigating the murder of known underworld figure Matthew Figueriano, killed on the same night as Gallardi. Police didn’t think the murders were related since Gallardi was not believed to have been involved with the mob. Power struggles between mob boss Joey Domino and Figueriano were legendary.

  Ana leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling. Her talk with Quinn about ending their relationship would have to wait a while longer.

  * * *

  It was a quarter past seven Monday morning when President Cross got Austin Quinn on the phone.

  “Too bad about Gallardi.”

  Quinn was sitting in the middle rear seat of his black SUV. “For sure.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Heading to Langley.”

  “Looks like a hit, but I just talked to Fullwood at the Bureau. He says Frank wasn’t involved with the mafia.”

  “Could be anybody. You know, big loser at the tables. Somebody Gallardi fired,” Quinn said.

  “They’ll look at that.”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, Austin, hate to ask this but someone needs to represent me at Gallardi’s service. He did a lot for me, others in the party. You being from Jersey—”

  Quinn interrupted. “Be glad to, Garrison.”

  * * *

  The CIA’s Security Protective Service met Quinn at the Atlantic City airport with three cars and a dozen security officers for the trip to the chapel. Even though going to a memorial service in Quinn’s home state didn’t seem to be particularly risky, Quinn didn’t mind the highly visible security. He was a career politician and to be seen surrounded by men whose job it was to protect his life with theirs did nothing to detract from an image of power. Especially in his home state, thought Washington newspaper reporter Tommy Phelps, usually soft on Quinn in his articles, who was ushered into Quinn’s vehicle for the ride to the memorial.

  The tree-lined boulevard curved in a way that afforded a view of the Gothic architecture of The Cathedral of the Good Shepherd several blocks before they got there. Quinn instructed that the government cars were to wait in a remote corner of the parking area to leave space for others to park closer to the building.

  The bright, sunny day with birds chirping all around seemed determined to belie the occasion, Phelps thought. Reverent mourners in black, some blotting their eyes, crossed the exquisitely manicured church grounds in silence as they approached the tall stone entrance. Even the city streets were empty, as if the citizens of Atlantic City took time from daily routines to pay their respects to Frank Gallardi, a home-town boy who grew up poor, pulled himself up by sheer determination and will, fought a long but not universally popular battle to bring in casinos, risked everything he had before it bore fruit, and then returned so much of it to the people: New symphony center, children’s hospital, the new park, endless funding for the homeless shelter, and the list went on. Even casino critics could find nothing negative to say about Frank Gallardi.

  The live acoustics inside the old church were excellent for music but the echoing words of the speakers lost the glue that held them together before reaching straining ears. Gallardi’s widow Rose, their grown children, and Frank’s sister Molly sat in the first row. Molly’s son and Frank Gallardi’s nephew Lenny Magliacci sat in the second with other family members, and Quinn was escorted to the reserved third row. Phelps noticed two or three U.S. Congressmen, several military officers in uniform and a few show business personalities he recognized. Not present was Ana Koronis.

  * * *

  After the service, Quinn spoke with Rose Gallardi and told her the president sent his personal condolences. They hugged each other before Quinn moved on.

  Quinn stopped along the way to his car to shake hands with a few of the dozens of supporters who had gathered. Minutes later he was ready to return to the airport.

  * * *

  Leonard Antonio Magliacci had tuned out the eulogies and prayers and remained in his seat when the service was over as his mother Molly, Rose Gallardi and the others emptied out. In the days since Gallardi’s murder Magliacci had dwelled on a phone conversation that took place in Frank’s office one early evening several years ago and now possibly held some potential for Magliacci. Magliacci had been in his cubicle near Gallardi’s office that night and heard Frank get upset with a caller. A few minutes later, Frank had summoned someone to his office. When he came, Lenny couldn’t hear what was said even though he had moved as close as he dared risk.

  All of this came back to Lenny when he read the newspaper account of Gallardi’s murder. The story said an underworld character named Matty Figueriano was killed across town on the same night as Frank. Police said there was no known connection between Gallardi and the gangster known as Matty Fig, or their deaths.

  Lenny Magliacci wasn’t so sure.

  He walked out of the chapel and looked for his mother. Some of his cousins who were talking with her finished their conversations and left as he approached. He had grown up with them, played on the same little-league teams at Kimble Park, but all that was long ago and Lenny felt he and his cousins had little in common now. Lenny had gone to law school and none of his cousins made it through college.

  Magliacci skipped the family gathering at the Gallardi home and drove to the Golden Touch. Frank had moved him downstairs years earlier but he had kept a key to the executive elevator. He got off at the third floor where the executive offices were located and walked through the empty, large reception area where Gallardi’s collection of art was displayed, past the windowless room Lenny once occupied and on to Gallardi’s office suite. He half-expected the area to still be sealed off and was glad to see that the police and FBI had released it. He’d never had the courage to venture into Gallardi’s private office before, but Frank was dead now and the executive offices were officially closed for the day. So Lenny was surprised that the feelings of apprehension that had kept him away reappeared now.

  He stood in front of Gallardi’s huge desk and thought of the first and only time he sat there acr
oss from Gallardi. There had been no small talk or family news to start the meeting off, even though the two men hadn’t seen each other in months. Gallardi had opened a tan folder that held Lenny’s papers and frowned as he studied it, a deep vertical crease appearing between Gallardi’s thick brows as he spoke.

  “Molly tells me you got into a little trouble,” Gallardi said that day. Lenny remembered Gallardi’s chilling voice as he sat forward in the big leather chair and formed a steeple with his hands as they lay on the desk. Lenny understood that it was time to grovel.

  There was no doubt in Lenny Magliacci’s mind that Gallardi already knew every detail of his nephew’s problems—a malpractice case that cost him his license to practice law and put him into bankruptcy—but he wanted them extracted through Lenny’s pores in small pieces with sharp edges. Magliacci was flat broke and had no alternative to the offer Gallardi made him that day sitting at the desk he now stood in front of. Lenny’s mother Molly said she had forced her brother’s generosity, but the way Lenny saw it he had been made to pay the price by once again humiliating himself before the high-and-mighty family patriarch.

  On the rare occasions when Frank spoke to Magliacci after that, he would stand at the door to Lenny’s office, never quite entering, and deliver a reprimand over something Frank couldn’t blame on someone else. That was the way Lenny saw it. Never any small talk. The work assignments Frank’s legal staff gave him weren’t even worthy of a beginning paralegal, and over time they grew into mountains of paper seldom asked for. Once a month or so, Lenny trashed them.

  Lenny wandered around the large room now, taking in the luxury. Gallardi had selected exotic leathers and rare woods for the furnishings. One wall was all glass and took in the Boardwalk and the Atlantic Ocean. Magliacci watched the waves lap the Boardwalk below for a minute, tried Gallardi’s chair for size and then moved to one of the walls covered with photos. There were more than a hundred of them on the tall wall, Lenny estimated, showing his uncle with entertainers, government officials including President Cross, former President McNabb, Austin Quinn, numerous New Jersey politicos, local charity officials, several military officers, and members of his family. Noticeably absent to Lenny was even a single photo of himself.