To Free a Spy Page 9

  Per Cosmo’s instructions, “Brows” Brickley seated himself at Cosmo’s table. “Make the face so you will remember him,” Riley had said, and Brows had asked if that meant a follow-up job later on. Cosmo knew of Brows back in Boston, doing various jobs for the mafia. When Brows was convicted of dismembering a local night club comic who had made the mistake of sleeping with an underboss’s girlfriend, the family arranged through government contacts to have Brows serve his time in the Big A. “Listen to this, Cosmo,” Doyle Riley had told Cosmo then. “Brows is gonna join us here. The boys want us to look after him.”

  When Brows arrived at the Big A, Cosmo was amused. “You never told me he was Frankenstein,” he grunted to Riley. “Seen that cliff over his eyes?”

  “Steroids.”

  Cosmo saw what he needed to see of Joplan for now. He rose from the table holding his tray and stepped behind the bench seat with his left foot. As he lifted his right foot over, another inmate rammed him from behind. Cosmo windmilled to maintain his balance but couldn’t recover and fell to the concrete floor. Food scraps and utensils pelted down on him like hail in a thunderstorm. He looked up to see a man with stringy red hair and a face to match bent over him. He was laughing. Loudly. Cosmo was agile for a big man but when he scrambled to get up the red man dumped his own tray on him—just in case anyone thought this had been an accident. By then, the floor was so slippery that Cosmo could get no traction. In one last try, his arms slid out from under him and his chest popped the floor. His humiliation was indescribable.

  The man who’d knocked him down put his foot in the middle of Cosmo’s back. “You’ve met Red Russell, old man. I heard you was tough, but now look at you down there, in all that slop and all.” Red slapped his own knees in uncontrolled derision. “You know, that’s the way we used to feed them hogs back home,” Russell whined from the top of his voice, like a TV sports announcer might call an exciting play.

  Brows was standing behind Russell waiting for some sort of signal from Cosmo. He deflated when Cosmo shook his head, the corners of Brows’s mouth turning down in a pout. As Red walked away, he looked down at Cosmo again and said, “You have a Red Russell day now, ya heah!”

  The hush in the room left no doubt that every man there saw Red’s power play. A new man had made his move and right then he looked pretty strong. It had all happened in a matter of seconds and the first guard didn’t arrive until Cosmo was back on his feet. Then two-dozen more in full riot gear stormed in and locked down the place.

  “Banana peel,” Cosmo grunted, waving a hand at the mess on the floor when the first guard got to him.

  “Don’t give me that, Terracina, I know what happened.”

  “Clumsy in my old age.” He knew the guard didn’t believe that, but that made no difference to Cosmo. After a few minutes the guards backed off but every eye in the room was on Cosmo. A low murmur replaced the hush that occupied the room minutes earlier.

  * * *

  Harvey Joplan, still wondering why the hell they suddenly transferred him here with only days until his release, sat in the seat across from Cosmo and watched this Red Russell thug make his move. Joplan was no stranger to peril but realized he was in a world that had its own hazards.

  * * *

  Red Russell couldn’t manage a straight face as he walked out of the chow hall. The feds had transferred him to Atlanta from the federal prison in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, so they could break up a gang he’d organized back there. They didn’t say that was the reason, of course, but he knew. And he loved it. He would soon be in no less of a power position in Atlanta than he was in Lewisburg, and the drug dealers he controlled in Chicago would keep on making him money. Not a month in the Big A and he had made his move. The legendary Cosmo Terracina was laughing stock now and would have trouble maintaining respect among his own men, not to mention the general population there.

  Red couldn’t wait to see Rudy. Rudy Snow had warned him against going after Cosmo. “He ain’t easy, that Cosmo, he dangerous as a snake with two heads, man.” But that made Cosmo an even more appealing target to Red. If today’s little introduction didn’t work, force would. Cosmo could stay alive if he was smart but if he resisted, well, Red would be as happy to do it the hard way. Besides, killing Cosmo Terracina would make the others fear Red more. Fear. That was control.

  In the yard later, Rudy smiled. “You looked good, man, real good. Everybody seen what you done. But sleep with your eyes open. Ain’t over ’til it’s over. Cosmo, he’s mafia, man.”

  “He’s finished, that old bastard. I’ve dealt with them mafias before. They don’t wanna die no more’n anybody else does.”

  * * *

  Later that day in the yard Cosmo described his plan to Doyle Riley in the fewest words possible. Riley had been in on Cosmo’s planning of hundreds of operations in Boston and there in Atlanta, and their simplicity always surprised him. This one had the interesting potential to fix two problems. It could settle the matter with Red Russell, and with a little luck it might fill LaRez’s order regarding Joplan at the same time. Riley liked the plan and went off to find Joplan at the next yard time.

  “Cosmo Terracina invites you to join him for dinner tonight,” he said to Joplan.

  Joplan was standing alone and continued staring at nothing. “Who’s Cosmo Terracina?” he said, showing no interest.

  “You’ll get to know him. Has a proposition he thinks you’ll find interesting. He’ll be sitting with me, southeast corner of the chow hall,” Riley said.

  * * *

  Cosmo and Riley were seated when Joplan arrived. “This your man?” Joplan asked Riley, making no eye contact with either man.

  “Meet Cosmo. Cosmo, Joplan.”

  “Saw him at lunch,” Joplan said, with a smirk.

  Neither Riley nor Cosmo showed any reaction.

  “Look, you got any idea why you’re here? In the Big A, I mean?” Riley asked.

  Joplan stared.

  “The reason you’re here is because Cosmo’s here. They wanted you to meet him. Cosmo feels bad about that because otherwise you would be in some nice new place instead of this rat trap.”

  “They?” Joplan seemed amused at this story.

  “His friends, business associates on the outside. You know how it works.”

  “So what is it they want?”

  “This is where it gets a little sticky,” Riley said, leaning closer to Joplan and lowering his voice. “They want you to, like, cooperate with the feds.”

  It was the first time Joplan showed any reaction at all. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Cooperate?” He looked at Cosmo, who didn’t bother to look up from the fries he was eating, and then at Riley.

  Riley nodded. “Completely.”

  Joplan’s eyes narrowed. “Now this is cozy. What are you two in for, bustin’ parking meters? I must be missing something. I’ll be on the street in a few days while the two of you go on rotting here.”

  Riley nodded that he understood Joplan’s confusion. “It’s like this. My client here feels a debt of gratitude to this country. He has reason to believe you’ve betrayed it. Now although he has an appreciation for men who keep their secrets to themselves, he requests that you come clean. Tell the feds everything. In return, Cosmo will see that no harm comes to you while you’re here.”

  Joplan almost laughed. “He’s going to protect me? From who? That Red Russell redneck that walked all over him today?”

  Riley put his fork down. He spoke in the level tones he had used in the paneled conference rooms in Boston when bargaining with one or another government attorney over the fate of one of his mob clients. “It’s considerate of you to worry about my client, but you might be surprised to know that he and Mr. Russell think very much alike. Cosmo holds no grudge toward him at all. It’s the way things work. You know the old saying, survival of the fittest. Same rules here as he lived under on the outside, Mr. Joplan.”

  Joplan stood up to leave.

  Riley said, “My cli
ent understands a man likes to sleep on a proposal before making up his mind. He’ll wait until tomorrow morning for your decision.”

  “He’ll be waiting when hell freezes over,” Joplan said. “Don’t come near me, either of you. You see me, you go another direction. My style is different than Russell’s, and more conclusive.”

  As Joplan walked away, Cosmo looked at him for the first time, and then at Riley. “Give this Joplan the consolation prize,” he mumbled, as he dumped more ketchup on the fries.

  CHAPTER 7

  Red Russell felt like a million dollars as he walked to the showers that evening. Cosmo was sitting alone in the rec room staring at nothing. It was all over for the old man now, since Red made a public spectacle of him in the chow hall. You could see it in his eyes. And Red was going to make Rudy Snow his number one man. Someone to watch his back, deliver orders to his other men. As Red entered the showers another inmate high-fived him and a couple averted their eyes. Their new respect for him was evident. Predictable. Fear was king. That was why all of them cleared out when he came in—fear and respect. And to give him privacy. Red Russell liked the Big A as well as he could like any prison.

  He got under the shower, made it as hot as he could take and backed up under it. This was something of a celebration and since no one else was in the room, he risked closing his eyes for a moment. He didn’t have to see the rusty pipes and crumbling plaster walls. Even the stainless steel sinks were rusty. As the water did its relaxation trick Red imagined the gold shower head in the mansion he built for himself in Chicago, the white marble floor, the inch-thick glass shower partition on which he paid an artist to etch a silhouette of Elyse. He felt Elyse’s gleaming wet skin as she sidled into the shower with him. As the steam rose from his back he wondered if everything would be the same when he got back to the Windy City. No, it’d be better! He would be stronger with a tougher rep! Meanwhile, he would enjoy life as a man to be respected. He wouldn’t allow prison to change his standing among others.

  The reverie was replaced by the shock of the metal bucket that slammed against his forehead! Several men—he couldn’t tell how many—were all over him now. They whirled him around like a top and kicked his legs out from under him. The ringing in his ears was almost as loud as the shouts of the attackers. He could see only straight down because of the bucket. He was on his back, and four or five pairs of hands scrambled to bind nylon ropes to his ankles and wrists. Hadn’t he learned anything? Never should have closed his eyes, not for one blink. And if he had signed Rudy on today he would have been there in the room with him and this would never have happened.

  Another kick to the bucket. Everyone was shouting, but Red knew the noise would attract no help. There was new pain where his limbs were attached to his body as the goons stretched him into a double Y and tied his ankles and wrists to the old cast iron plumbing pipes that ran along the walls. His torso lay on the cold concrete floor. Everything went black. He was back in the youth prison in southern Illinois. It was warm. The kid that snitched, laughing, looking down at him now, holding his very own quivering bloody arm that Red had ripped from its socket…The Roman candle. July Fourth. And then, that black bastard. The pleading, the screams, the smoke, the threat of death to the man and his family if he ever told what Red did to him with that Roman candle. The laughs at supper that night as he and his brothers told their old man. Both of his victims looking at him now, refusing to help, laughing as he cried out.

  The bucket. Someone kicked it again. The towel in his mouth muffled the screams. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes were ready to pop out. Were the droplets streaming down his face tears or were they blood?

  He struggled to maintain consciousness and thought of other tight situations he had been in from which he emerged more powerful. A few broken bones but bones always grew back. There were scars, but he liked scars: They had an impact on anyone who might be thinking of challenging him. His eyes opened to the sight of a large cockroach on the wall beyond his feet. It began to climb and then as quick as it had appeared darted into a crack in the concrete. Thousands came back out, all running down the wall to the floor and toward him. Then another kick—to the ribs this time. In the sliver of consciousness that had returned to him, he heard the others laugh. At the same time another voice said, “Don’t do that no more, man. Cosmo wants him ’live.” Another answered, “He gon’ wish he dead in a minute.”

  His eyes struggled open again and tried to focus on the inside of the bucket. All the voices were gone now. How long had he been unconscious? Beyond the rim of the bucket was the blurred shape of another man checking the knots in the rope that bound him. As his eyes focused, Red Russell knew he had seen this man before. Today. Chow hall. Sitting with that Cosmo dude! Brows, was it?

  Maybe it wasn’t too late to make some kind of deal. Offer him the Main Man job instead of Rudy. Everyone had a price. He couldn’t speak because of the gag in his mouth but he made nasal sounds and flexed every muscle in his body to get the big man’s attention. His wide-open eyes tried to convey the message that he wanted to talk. His focus improved to the point that he could see the knife blade in the man’s thick hand. Brows Brickley walked around to his side, kicked the bucket away from his head and jerked the muffler out of his mouth. “Red Russell?”

  Red talked fast. “Look, man, you and me, we can run this joint, man. You won’t be no flunky no more. You’ll be somebody. You can have all the power Terracina’s got. Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you. Anything!”

  Brows gave no indication he even heard Russell. “You Red Russell, right?”

  Russell couldn’t resist being himself any longer. “Yeah, man, untie me and I’ll show you my name tattooed on my ass. You can kiss it while you’re checkin’ the spelling.”

  Brows again seemed not to notice. He positioned himself on his knees between Red’s splayed legs and looked into his eyes. “Cosmo, he ain’t got no hard feelin’s ’bout that little accident at lunch today. Knows it wasn’t nothin’ personal.”

  Red’s attitude continued to prevail over his present circumstances. He cleared his throat and with every ounce of wind he could muster, blew the collection into Brows’s face. Brows hesitated for a moment, took a damp towel from the floor and wiped it off, held up the rusty knife blade for Russell to see and exhibited what might pass for a smile. Russell watched the serrated edge until the big man moved it to some place between Russell’s spread legs where Russell couldn’t see. He now understood why Brows had knelt there, but had little time to think about it before his body quickened. A sting at first, then pressure, then pain like nothing he could ever have imagined as the blade jerked and sawed through tender tissue and nerve endings, and pulled on other parts that were connected somewhere deep inside him. He heard himself crying. All the colors in the world flashed before him. He was hotter and more tired than he’d ever been in his life. He felt his bowels release. In less than a minute the screams died out and the bright colors faded away. What seemed like hours since he stood under the shower thinking about Elyse, about the power he held, about how he had replaced Cosmo Terracina as top dog, had been a little more than four minutes.

  * * *

  Next morning, Harvey Joplan walked over to Riley in the exercise yard. “You’re Neanderthals,” he said, his eyes bloodshot. “Not even human.”

  Riley didn’t try to hide his amusement. “Problem?”

  “You oughta live in the jungle.”

  “This is the jungle, Joplan. But smaller than you’re used to. In the spy jungle, you deal in information that affects thousands of innocent lives, millions maybe. Here in my jungle, Cosmo’s jungle, the problems are much simpler. They involve one life at a time. No innocent victims. They always earn it. And there are no newspapers, no political spin, no lawyers, no appeals, no long waits. It’s sudden, decisive justice.”

  “I understand about Red Russell. Politics. Ran for higher office and lost. But why the focus on me?” Joplan asked.

  “Cosm
o’s got a sense of right and wrong.”

  “According to whose rules?”

  “Whoever’s got the power to enforce them. In your case, it’s Cosmo.”

  Joplan thought for a moment. “What does he want, Riley?”

  “Tell the feds everything you know. Answer every question truthfully, even questions they don’t ask. Answer them too. That’s it. Any holding back or lying, Cosmo will wonder if you missed the little hint he gave you. He might decide he needs to be more direct with you next time.”

  * * *

  Warfield was in his car when Macc Macclenny called. “Got the word from LaRez. It’s all set.”

  “Joplan?”

  “Yep. Ready to talk. And you’re not gonna believe how it happened.” Macc told Warfield the story.

  Warfield shuddered. “So Joplan caved after hearing about Russell’s misfortune.”

  “Well, Joplan didn’t exactly hear about it. Woke up the next morning and found Russell’s testicles in his cell—scrotum and all—wrapped up in a bloody towel.”

  “God!” Warfield shuddered. “Russell alive?”

  “He’ll live. Warden’s got him on suicide watch, though.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Warfield wondered who else would be present at the meeting with Cross as he waited for the guard at the Northwest Appointment Gate to let him enter the White House compound. Today was sort of an official turnover of Joplan back to the FBI. After Macc called him, Warfield wanted to get the ball rolling as soon as he could. Instead of flying to Atlanta to meet with Joplan yesterday, he had asked the warden to put Joplan in a private room and arrange a phone call between him and Warfield. All Warfield wanted from the conversation was to satisfy himself that Joplan was indeed going to talk. It was the FBI’s job to download him before the seven days expired and get the judge to approve continuation of his incarceration.