His shirt drenched in sweat after leading the brigade on a two-day hike over mountain trails, Roberto Escalona found Jack stretched out on the lengths of cardboard covering his army cot (to absorb humidity) in the coffee-grading barn. "Hombre," he said, shaking Jack awake from his siesta.

His Cossack mustache sticky with perspiration, Jack propped himself up on an elbow. "How'd it go, Roberto?"

"Great. Aside from three sprained ankles and a squad that read the map coordinates wrong and missed a rendezvous, everyone came through with flying colors. Having snakebite serum with us made a big difference-the men weren't afraid of walking the trails at night. Coming back, without me saying a word, the pace picked up. It was like horses breaking into a trot when they smell the barn. The men with coupons for your bordello washed in the finca pool and made a beeline for the Phoenix Quonset."

"You need to get it into your head that it's not my bordello, Roberto."

Escalona sat down on the next cot and started unlacing his boots, which had lost their spit-shine. "It's not just the wh.o.r.ehouse, Jack. It's the refrigerators you got us to keep the Pepsi cold. It's the showers behind the Quonset huts. It's the Hollywood movies you show every night on the big screen in the canteen. It's the crates of M-1 ammunition-everyone's getting two hours of target practice a week now. Morale is soaring. The men are starting to understand we're not alone in this thing. Now that Kennedy's been elected President, they're beginning to think America's behind us. With America behind us we can't lose."

"We can lose, Roberto. America will supply you with B-26s and train your pilots and give you a lifetime supply of M-1 ammunition. But you've got to defeat Castro on your own. If you get into trouble on the beach, America won't lift a finger to get you out of trouble."

Escalona smiled knowingly. "I know the official line as well as you do."

Jack was wide awake now and shaking his head in dismay. "It's not an official line, Roberto. It's official policy. It's the name of the game. We'll help you covertly but not overtly."

"Sure thing. Jack."

"d.a.m.nation, I hope to G.o.d you don't have to find out the hard way that I'm telling you the truth."

2.

NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1960.

"WE KNOW THIS JACK KENNEDY INDIVIDUAL AWRIGHT. WE KNOW his father, Joe, awright also," Johnny Rosselli was saying. "What we don't know-"

The consigliere lazily turned his head and gazed through horn-rimmed shades at the Fallen Angel, who was leaning against the fender of the Sorcerer's dirty-orange Chevrolet parked on President Street outside the small park, his angelic face raised toward the sun, his eyes closed. "What didja say was his name again?"

"I didn't say," Harvey Torriti replied. "His name is Silwan II."

"That don't sound completely American."

"He's Rumanian. We call him the Fallen Angel."

"What'd he do to fall?"

The Sorcerer wondered if Rosselli's interest was purely professional; one killer appreciating another, that kind of thing. Tall, silver-haired, impeccably dressed with a silk handkerchief spilling from his breast pocket, Rosselli looked like someone Hollywood would cast as a mortician. He had started out in the Cosa Nostra working for Al Capone in Chicago; along the way he'd been involved in more than a dozen gangland murders. "It's not the kind of question I'd encourage you to ask him," Torriti finally said. "Curiosity has been known to lower the life expectancy of p.u.s.s.y cats." He nudged the conversation back on theme. "You were talking about Jack Kennedy, you were saying how you knew him-"

"Like I was saying, Jack's got his head screwed on right. What we don't know is his kid brother. Who is this Bobby Kennedy? What ideas are rattling around between his ears, makes him go around the country shooting off his mouth about how he's gonna go and shut down organized crime? Maybe the Micks are jealous of Italians, maybe that's it."

"It's not about race," Torriti said. "It's about politics."

Rosselli shook his head. "I do not understand politics."

"The way I see it," the Sorcerer said, "politics is the continuation of war by other means."

"Come again!"

The Sorcerer surveyed the park. Except for five of Rosselli's hoods scattered around the benches, it was empty, which was odd. It was lunch hour. The sun was shining full-blast. At this time of day old men speaking Sicilian would normally be playing bocce on the dirt paths. Which meant that Rosselli, a man with connections in South Brooklyn, had requisitioned the park for the meeting. The hood nearest the Sorcerer leaned forward to scatter breadcrumbs to the pigeons milling around his thick-soled shoes. Under a loud checkered sports jacket, the leather harness of a shoulder holster was visible coming over the narrow collar of the man's shirt; for some reason it reminded Torriti of the times he'd caught a glimpse of Miss Sipp's garter belt.

The meeting with Rosselli was supposed to have taken place in the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan. When the Sorcerer turned up in the lobby, a slight man had approached him. One of his eyes had looked straight at Torriti. The other had stared off over his shoulder. "You need to be Torriti."

The Sorcerer could feel the Fallen Angel slip around to one side, his right hand fondling a five-inch switchblade in the pocket of his windbreaker. Across the lobby, at the newsstand, Sweet Jesus watched over the top of his newspaper. "So how'd you pick me out, sport?" Torriti asked.

The slight mans wild eye seemed to take in the Fallen Angel. Not at all intimidated by the presence of Torriti's bodyguard, he said, "Like I was told to look for a gentleman who oughta go on a crash diet real quick."

He handed Torriti a note. "PLAN B," it said in block letters. "WAITING FOR YOU IN SOUTH BROOKLYN IN CARROLL PARK CORNER OF SMITH AND CARROLL USE THE GATE ON CARROLL." There was a crude diagram on the reverse side showing how to get there from the Brooklyn Bridge.

Coming off the bridge into Brooklyn, Torriti immediately recognized the turf. Young toughs in leather jackets lounged around on stoops, sizing up with insolent eyes everyone who pa.s.sed. Brownstones had statues of the Virgin visible in their bay windows. President Street, Carroll Street, Smith Street-this wasn't a low crime neighborhood; this was a no crime neighborhood. And it wasn't the police who enforced law and order. At the entrance to Carroll Park one of Rosselli's hoods frisked the Sorcerer (he was obviously looking for wires as well as weapons) just as a blue-and-white patrol car from the 76th Precinct cruised by; the two officers in it kept their eyes fixed straight ahead. Rosselli's hood came away empty-handed. Torriti had left his guns in the Chevrolet. He didn't like people he didn't know fingering them.

"I hope the last-minute switch did not p.i.s.s you off," Rosselli said now.

"It was good tradecraft," Torriti said.

"What's tradecraft?"

"It's when you take precautions."

Rosselli laughed. "Precautions is how come I am still alive."

"Before the revolution," the Sorcerer said, "you used to run the Sans Souci casino in Havana."

"Nice town, Havana. Nice people, Cubans. All that ended when Castro came down from the Sierra Maestras." Without a change in tone or expression, the consigliere added, "I do not know Castro."

"Aside from the fact that he closed down the casinos, what don't you know about him?"

Sunlight glinted off Rosselli's manicured fingernails. "I do not know what makes a Commie tick. I do not know what they got against free enterprise. Free enterprise has been good to we Italians."

Torriti thought he knew what Rosselli meant by free enterprise. After the Chicago period he'd been the mob's man in Hollywood. He'd been caught trying to shake down some film companies and been sent up-for three years, to be exact. These days he ran the ice concession on the Strip in Las Vegas. Judging from the alligator shoes, the platinum band on his wrist.w.a.tch, the diamond glistening in the ring on his pinkie, he must sell a lot of ice.

"I represent a joker who represents some Wall Street people with nickel interests and properties in Cuba," Torriti said. "My clients would like to see free enterprise restored in the island."

Rosselli watched him, the barest trace of a smile on his lips. It was evident he didn't swallow a word of this. "For that to happen Castro would need to disappear," he said.

"You have contacts in Cuba. You ought to be able to get ahold of someone who could disappear him."

You want us to knock off Castro!"

"There'd be a packet of money in it for you, for the hit man-"

Rosselli's mournful face wrinkled up in an expression of pained innocence. "I would not pocket a thin dime," he said with vehemence. "The United States of America has been good to me and mine. I am as patriotic as the next guy. If whacking Castro is good for the country, that is good enough for me."

"There might be other ways of showing our appreciation."

Rosselli's muscular shoulders lifted and fell inside his custom-made suit jacket. "I ask for nothing."

"Are you saying you can organize it?"

"I am saying it could be organized. I am saying it would not be a pushover-Castro is no sitting duck. I am saying I might be able to fix you up with a friend who has friends in Havana who could get the job done."

"What is your friend's name?"

Out on President Street a pa.s.sing car backfired. Rosselli's hoods were on their feet and reaching inside their sports jackets. The pigeons, startled, beat into the air. The concigliere raised a forefinger and c.o.c.ked a thumb and sighted on one and said "Bang bang, you just won a one-way ticket to bird heaven." Turning back to the Sorcerer, he said, "People who are friendly with my friend call him Mooney."

Martin Macy waved a palm as the Sorcerer appeared in the door of La Nicoise, an upper Georgetown restaurant popular with many of the Company's mandarins. Torriti slalomed between the crowded tables, stopping to shake hands with d.i.c.k Bissell and his ADD/O/A, Leo Kritzky, before he lowered himself onto a seat across from his old FBI pal.

"So is there life after retirement, Martin?" he inquired. He signaled to the waiter and pointed to Macy's drink and held up two fingers for more of the same.

Macy, a wiry man with a square d.i.c.k Tracy jaw and cauliflower ears, the result of a hapless welter-weight college boxing career, shook his head in despair. "My pulse is still beating, if that's what you mean," he said. He threaded his fingers through his thinning hair. "Getting tossed to the dogs after twenty-nine years of loyal service-twenty-nine years, Harvey-really hurt."

"No question, you got a rough deal," Torriti agreed.

"You can say that again."

"What'd Hoover hold against you?"

Macy winced at the memory. "One of Bobby Kennedy's people wanted the file on Hoffa and the Teamsters, and I made the mistake of giving it to him without first checking with the front office, which had already refused the request." Macy polished off the last of his drink as the waiter set two new ones on the table. "Hoover hates the Kennedys, Harvey. Anyone who gives them the time of day winds up on his s.h.i.t list. I had to hire a lawyer and threaten to sue to collect my pension."

"Kennedy wasn't born yesterday. If Hoover hates them so f.u.c.king much, why is Jack keeping him on as Director?" Macy rolled his eyes knowingly.

"He has something on him?" Torriti guessed.

"You didn't hear it from me," Macy insisted.

"What kind of stuff?"

Macy looked around to make sure they couldn't be overheard. "Broads, for starters. There's that Hollywood s.e.x queen, Marilyn Monroe. One of Sinatra's girlfriends, an eyeful name of Exner, is bed-hopping-when she's not holding Kennedy's hand she's thick with the Cosa Nostra boss of Chicago. When the regulars aren't available the President-elect invites the girls who lick envelopes up for tea, two at a time."

"Didn't know Jack was such a h.o.r.n.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Torriti said with a certain amount of admiration; in his book it was horniness that was next to G.o.dliness. "What are you up to these days, Martin?"

"I do some consulting for district attorneys who want to make a name for themselves going after local Cosa Nostra dons. If Jack listens to his father and names Bobby Attorney General, I'll do some consulting for him, too- Bobby's going to take out after Hoffa and the Teamsters, bet on it."

Torriti fitted on a pair of reading gla.s.ses. "Figured out what you want to eat?" he asked. They glanced at the menu. Torriti crooked a finger and the waiter came over and took their orders.

Macy leaned across the table and lowered his voice. "Isn't that your house paranoid sitting over there?"

The Sorcerer peered over the top of his eyegla.s.ses. Sure enough, James Angleton was holding the fort at his usual table, his back to the restaurant, a cigarette in one fist, a drink in the other, deep in conversation with two men Torriti didn't recognize. While he talked, Angleton kept track of what was going on behind him in the large mirror on the wall. He caught Torriti's eye in the mirror and nodded. The Sorcerer elevated his chins in reply. "Yeah, that's Angleton, all right," he said.

"Doesn't sound like there's any love lost between you."

"He's ruining the Company with his G.o.dd.a.m.n suspicions. A lot of good people are being pa.s.sed over for promotion because they're on Angleton's long list of possible moles, after which they say 'f.u.c.k it' and head for the private sector, where they make twice as much money and don't have an Angleton busting their b.a.l.l.s. Trust me, Martin, this is not the way to run a G.o.dd.a.m.n intelligence shop."

For a while they both concentrated on the plates of ca.s.soulet that were set in front of them. Then Macy raised his eyes. "To what do I owe this lunch, Harvey?"

"Do you think you could fit another consulting client into your schedule?"

Macy perked up. "You?"

"My money's as good as Bobby Kennedy's, isn't it?" Torriti uncapped pen and scratched the dollar sign and a number on the inside of the matchbook, then pa.s.sed it across the table.

Macy whistled through his teeth. "Retirement's looking rosier by the minute."

"I'll pay you that every time we have a conversation. In cash. No bills. No receipts."

"You could have picked my brain for free, Harvey."

"I know that." The Sorcerer scratched his forehead in embarra.s.sment. "We go back a long way, Martin."

Macy nodded. "Thanks."

"My pleasure. Does the name Mooney mean anything to you?"

Macy's eyes narrowed. "You're not rubbing shoulders with the Mafia rubes again, Harvey? I thought you got that out of your system in Sicily during the war."

The Sorcerer snorted. "I had a conversation with a joker named Rosselli in a park in Brooklyn. He's fixing me up on a blind date with another joker called Mooney."

"Make sure you're armed," Macy advised. "Make sure someone's backing you up. Mooney goes by the alias of Sam Flood but his real name is Sal 'Mo-Mo' Giancana-he's the Cosa Nostra boss of Chicago I told you about, the one who's sharing the Exner woman with Jack Kennedy."

"Like they say in Hollywood, the plot thickens!"

Macy, who had been one of the FBI's experts on the Cosa Nostra, leaned back, closed his eyes and recited chapter and verse: "Giancana, Salvatore, born 1908. On his pa.s.sport application he listed his profession as motel operator. Motel operator, my foot! He's a foul-mouthed Cosa Nostra hit man who murdered dozens when he was clawing his way up the mob's ladder. Eventually he reached the top of what people in Chicago call The Outfit. He's the G.o.dfather of the Chicago Cosa Nostra-they say he has six wards in his hip pocket. Back in the fifties he skimmed millions off mob-run casino operations in Havana and Las Vegas. When he's not in Chicago he hangs out with Sinatra, which is where he met Judy Exner." The Sorcerer's small eyes burned with interest. "There's more," Macy said. "We've been bugging Giancana for years- his telephones, his home, his hotel rooms when he's on the road, also a joint called the Armory Lounge, which is where he hangs out when he's in Chicago. We have miles of tape on him. That's what Hoover really has on Kennedy. It's not the women-even if he leaked it n.o.body would print it. If's the Giancana tapes."

"I don't get it."

"We have Joe Kennedy on tape asking Mooney to get out the vote for his boy's election. Joe owns the Merchandise Mart in Chicago; when he talks people listen, even people like Giancana. Mooney s hoods turned to in his six wards. Jack Kennedy won Illinois by nine thousand or so votes. He won the election by a hundred thirteen thousand out of sixty-nine million cast. It was no accident that the three states where the Cosa Nostra rule the roost- Illinois, Missouri and Nevada-all wound up in Kennedy's column."

"The mob doesn't work for free. There must have been a quid pro quo."

"Papa Kennedy promised Giancana that if his son became President, he'd appoint Bobby Attorney General. On paper at least, Hoover reports to the Attorney General. Joe indicated that Bobby would take the heat off the Chicago Cosa Nostra." Macy reached for the bottle of Sancerre in the bucket, refilled both of their gla.s.ses and took a sip of wine. "Hoover has other tapes. Last August, a few weeks after he won the nomination in Los Angeles, Jack disappeared from the Carlyle Hotel in Manhattan for twenty-four hours. The Secret Service guys a.s.signed to him went crazy. We happened to pick him up on tape-he was in Judy Exner's hotel room. There was the usual s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. At one point Jack told Judy that if he didn't win the election he was probably going to split with Jackie. The tryst turned out to be coitus interruptus-the doorman called up to announce a visitor named Flood."

"Kennedy met with Giancana!"

Macy nodded. "It was all very innocent. Judy excused herself to use what she called the facilities. Jack opened the door. The two men chatted in the living room for a few minutes. They talked about the weather. Mooney described Floyd Patterson's knockout of Johansson in the fifth-turns out he had a ringside seat. Jack said he'd heard from his father that Sal-"