Code 13 (9 page)

But the party line was repeated with a nod and a wink, because everybody knew how this worked.

“Look, Richardson. You're a good friend. I appreciate your support. But I've got nothing to do with the political action committees. The Supreme Court in the
Citizens United
case said corporations could make political contributions. And these super PACs were authorized under that case and can spend whatever they want, but must remain independent of candidates. That's the law, and I happen to agree with it. Otherwise we're suppressing people's First Amendment rights, and the federal government has no right to suppress the First Amendment.

“The Georgia Political Victory Fund is one of these super PACs, operating under the law, and I'm not connected with them in any way.” Bobby glanced over at Tommy, who nodded his head and gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. “Now, how may I help you today, my friend?”

“Look, Bobby,” DeKlerk said, “I appreciate your help so far on our little drone project down here in Savannah. But there's an unacceptable holdup that my lawyer has just informed me about.”

“Hmm,” Bobby mused. “What kind of a holdup?”

“Jack tells me the entire project is dependent on some nameless, midlevel Navy lawyer holed up somewhere in the bowels of the Pentagon, who is supposed to be writing some sort of legal opinion declaring the whole thing legal under some sort of posse— What did you call it, Jack?”

A pause. Mumbling in the background. Sounded like Patterson's voice doing the mumbling.

“Ah yes,” DeKlerk said. “Some sort of
posse comitatus
nonsense or something like that.”

“Oh yes,” Bobby said. “That means the military can't perform police functions in the U.S.”

“I've never heard of it. And I don't care about it. I've got billions riding on this project. My future depends on it, and frankly, so does yours.” DeKlerk paused for a second. “Still there, Bobby?”

“Still here, Richardson.”

“Anyway, my patience is running thin. Look. A number of us who sent you to the senate sent you there to cut through this ridiculous baloney-of-an-excuse red tape that has made the American governmental bureaucracy so bloated that, frankly, the whole thing should be burned to the ground so we can start over. I need you to get on the phone and call the Secretary of Defense and cut through all the BS and get this done.”

“I understand.”

“Well then, if you understand, then understand this: I want this contract signed, sealed, and delivered no later than one week from today. And if you don't deliver, Senator, then I'm sure our mutual friend, Joe Don Mack over at GPVF, might have an interest in knowing that. After all, the GPVF is interested in finding candidates who oppose big government and who can cut through red tape and make things happen. Are we clear on this?”

Silence.

Bobby looked at Mandela, who sat in the chair across the desk with a raised eyebrow.

“Richardson, I share your frustration. The bureaucracy needs to be reined in so we can pave the way for job creation, like AirFlite is trying to do in Savannah. And I'm behind you.”

“With respect, Senator,” DeKlerk said, sharpening his tone, “we need more than you sharing our frustration. We need action.” He paused. “Now!”

Another pause.

“Tell you what, Richardson. I'll make a few calls and see what I can do.”

“Excellent. I thought you would see it my way. Call me as soon as you hear something. One week. You have one week.”

The line went dead.

Bobby looked at his chief of staff. “Tommy, if I didn't know any better, I'd say we just got threatened.”

“You know, Senator, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're right, sir.”

Bobby turned in his chair and folded his arms. “We've got to stay in good with GPVF.”

“No doubt, sir.”

“DeKlerk's got a lot of sway with Joe Don Mack.”

“When you give millions to an organization, you're going to have sway like that, Senator. You know the ole saying better than I do. Money's the lifeblood of politics.”

“Right. And Joe Don Mack's gonna follow the money. And if I don't deliver here, they could throw a primary challenger at me, and the Democrats become the least of my worries.”

“Right, boss. These super PACs are kingmakers. And incumbents are sometimes most vulnerable in the primaries, when you have a lower number coming out with an ideological purpose.”

“No kidding. Anyway, we've got to figure out a way to get the Navy moving on this. I can't afford to lose that fund. Any suggestions, Tommy?”

“Let me think.”

“Maybe I should call the Secretary of Defense.”

A wry expression crossed Tommy's face. “Nah. Doesn't feel right.”

“How come?”

“It might be more effective to call Roberson Fowler and see if he'll make the call. That way you get the long-standing chairman of the Armed Services Committee involved, and you've got plausible deniability. Fowler carries the kind of weight Jesse Helms and Ted Kennedy used to carry, even though they were from opposite ends of the political spectrum. He's more powerful at the Pentagon than any Secretary of Defense will ever be.”

Bobby felt the lightbulb come on. “Tommy, you're a genius. On all fronts.”

Mandela chuckled. “That's why you pay me the big bucks, sir.”

Bobby picked up the telephone. “Maryanne, get Senator Fowler's office on the phone. See if you can arrange a time for me to speak with him. Tell them it's a hot topic and I need to chat with the senator ASAP.”

“Yes, sir, Senator.”

CHAPTER 6

HEADQUARTERS

NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY

EAST 161ST STREET

THE BRONX

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Phillip D'Agostino kicked back behind his desk in his simple-looking offices in the concrete building down the street from Yankee Stadium, puffed on a Macanudo, and grew angrier by the word as he stared at the lower right corner of the front page of today's
New York Times
.

The madder he got, the faster he alternated between sucking on and blowing out the cigar. His wife had given him hell about oversmoking for years, but the smoking had kept him from overeating, which was a problem for many Italian men who ate too much pasta. Liquor wasn't the problem. It was the pasta. So unlike Big Sal and other godfathers whose bellies had grown rotund over the years, the smoking had kept Phil's waistline down to his fighting-weight, thirty-six-inch waist, and other than the fact that his black hair was starting to turn gray, the smoking definitely had its benefits.

But one vice the smoking did not cure was that red-hot Italian temper.

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.”