“He had a son. Not many people know that.”
“I’m one of those people.”
“The point is that there’s a line coming down through history from the emperor. A man named Luca Bonaparte, one of Napoleon’s direct descendants, is the reason I’m here.”
“Oh, yeah. The new head of France or some shit like that.”
“That’s my boy. He’s creating very serious problems for your country and mine.”
“In that case, he’s a dead man. You want some wine?”
“It goes without saying.”
“I’ll get us a nice Barolo. Or a Barbaresco. Any wine that starts with ‘B’ is good Italian wine. I told you that before, right? Tell me more about this Bonaparte guy.”
“He murdered his father. In Paris, thirty-five-odd years ago. Langley stumbled on an old Deuxieme file when digging into Bonaparte’s past. You’ll see it later, I checked it with my hat. I’m actually here at the specific request of your CIA director, Patrick Kelly.”
“So you knew I got promoted?”
“I did not. What exalted status do you now occupy?”
“You said CIA is all. I’m now the Senior NYPD guy on the Federal Anti-Terrorist Advisory Council. ATAC. Which makes me sort of a half-assed fed myself. But with command of all the active-duty cops. Where in Paris did this murder occur?”
“At Napoleon’s Tomb in 1970.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Yes. At least two. A fellow named Ben Sangster. And his business associate, a chap by the name of Joe Bonanno. Both Americans.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“I assure you, Mooch, that is the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Benny Sangster and Joey Bones, sure. I oughta know those two birds, I sent ’em both up. But I do recall at the trial some crap about them working a job in Paris. Something with the Union Corse. You know much about them?”
“A little. You can read much more in the file.”
“Tell me what you know about the Corse.”
“The French Mafia. Brutal, even older than the Unione Siciliano. Started in Corsica, birthplace of Napoleon, as you know. Back in the sixties and seventies, the Corse syndicate had extensive operations right here on the East Coast, mostly smuggling and drug operations. They sometimes worked as tools for European corporations, rather like the Yakuza does for Japanese businesses. The Corse is the only Mafia organization with a political agenda.”
“Political?”
“Yes. They funded and organized terrorist actions against non-Euro corporations. That’s where my boy Bonaparte first made a name for himself. Back then, the American families had a turf war going with them.”
“I see.”
Congreve said, “Are Sangster and Bonanno still incarcerated?”
“Incinerated for all I frigging know. I think they got ten to fifteen, something like that. Took a little time-out up at Attica. They’re probably out, far as I know.”
“I’d very much like to speak with both of them.”
“And when exactly would you like to have this little chat?”
“You think you can find them?”
“I can find anybody, Ambrose. Except Hoffa. Him I can’t fucking find to save my ass. Doesn’t mean I won’t find him, however. Lemme go make a call. When would it be convenient for you to interview these two jailbirds?”
“Tonight would be ideal.”
“So there’s really some kind of crisis looming?”
“Always, Captain,” Ambrose said, “History, as H. G. Wells once remarked, is always a race between education and catastrophe. Right now, catastrophe appears to be ahead by a furlong.”
Mariucci just looked at him, a smile in his eyes before he spoke. “I’ll make the call. Shouldn’t take five minutes. And don’t touch your steak until I get back, either. As Mrs. Mariucci of Brooklyn once remarked, ‘It ain’t polite.’”
The Bide-a-Wee Rest Home was on a dark side street off a major thoroughfare called Queens Boulevard. It was a squat three-story building with peeling stucco walls and a steeply pitched wood-shingled roof in need of repair. Congreve and Captain Mariucci had left the uniformed officer sitting behind the wheel of the brand-new Chevy Impala cruiser. They’d parked half a block away and walked. The captain’s idea, and a good one.
“Play your cards right, Ambrose, and you, too, can end up here,” the captain said as they made their way up the cracked and heaving pavement of the rest home.
“Depressing old pile, isn’t it? It’s mob run, did you say?”
“Yeah. Lot of grizzly goombahs in diapers playing pinochle and rehashing the good old days. Hey, you wanna hear a funny joke?”
“Why not?”
“These two ninety-nine-year-old geezers are sitting in their rockers on the front porch of a joint just like this, see, and one says to the other one, he says, ‘Paisano, let me get this straight. Was it you or your brother that was killed at Anzio in World War II?’”
“Quite good.” Ambrose laughed. He climbed the sagging steps and the captain was right behind him.
“Pisser, ain’t it? Okay, who’s doing the talking at the door? You or me?”
“It’s my investigation, I believe,” Ambrose said, and rapped on the cracked and peeling front door. There were a few lights on downstairs and one or two on the second floor. A window tucked up under the eave was dark. After a moment, a large man in green scrubs appeared at the door. He opened it, but just barely.
“Good evening, sir,” Ambrose said, holding up his credentials. “I’m Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard. And this is Captain Mariucci of the New York Police Department. May we come in?”
“What’s this all about?” the man said, closing the door a fraction.
“I’ll tell you when we’re inside,” Congreve replied, shoving the door open and stepping over the threshold. The captain followed him inside and the three of them stood in a small hallway under the pale yellow light of a dusty ceiling fixture.
“What you want?” the man said. “I ain’t done nothin’. I’m just the orderly here.”
“What’s your name?” Mariucci asked.
“I’m Lavon, sir. Lavon Greene.”
“Is there a manager on the premises, Mr. Greene?” Ambrose asked.
“He don’t sleep here. He leaves at eleven and goes home. I’m just the night man.”
“I see. Where is his office?”
“Down the hall there. Last door on the left.”
“And the files for all the—patients? Are they kept in that office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a resident here by the name of Ben Sangster?”
“Yes, sir, there is. He’s upstairs now. Sound asleep.”
“Good. Captain Mariucci is going to get his file for me. You’re going to show me to Mr. Sangster’s room.”
“Yes, sir, right this way. Mr. Ben’s on the top floor. Only one up there. He’s asleep, though, like I said. He takes his meds at six. Man is lights out after that. He don’t wake up till orange juice.”
“Captain,” Ambrose said, “I’m going to accompany this very nice gentleman upstairs and look in on Mr. Sangster. Won’t you join us once you’ve retrieved his file from the office?”
“Certainly, Chief Inspector,” Mariucci said with a mock bow, “I’ll get on that right away, sir.” He ambled off down the dingy hallway, mumbling something under his breath. Lavon pointed to a narrow staircase across the hall and Ambrose started up ahead of him, taking the steps two at a time.
