A Quiet Vendetta

TWENTY-FOUR

Hartmann was not sure. Perhaps still stunned by the events of the previous night, perhaps frustrated at the fact that much of their evidence was now destroyed, and beneath that the feeling that whatever investigation might have been ongoing was bearing no fruit, it seemed that any sense of accomplishment or forward progress had been obliterated in one swift and effective act.

There was no way, at this early stage, to determine anything regarding the bombing of the Field Office, save that it had been done by someone who was aware of Perez’s existence, someone who wanted Perez to disappear and did not care who might disappear with him. Hartmann himself suspected Feraud. The man had the authority, the wherewithal, and the people to carry out such an attack, and Hartmann also believed that Feraud would have seen the deaths of innocent bystanders and federal agents alike as merely casualties of war, even as some sort of bonus. And then there was Ducane – Charles Ducane, the governor of Louisiana. And if Perez’s word was anything to go by, this man had been working hand-in-glove with organized crime for at least forty years. Ducane was now in his sixties, perhaps the same age as Perez himself, but had worked officially on the other side of the law, the acceptable side where everything as it actually was and everything as it appeared to be were very different. At least with people like Perez the world was black and white. What they did was straightforward: murder, extortion, blackmail, violence, drug-running, arms-dealing, pornography, prostitution, racketeering. In politics it was called public relations, fundraising, political leverage, lobbying, strengthening the vote and ‘exercising one’s peccadillos’. They were all the same thing, and Hartmann was not so naïve as to believe that people like Ducane were incapable of exactly the same things as Perez and his Alcatraz Swimming Team. It was not a difference of action, more a question of terminology.

That evening, the evening of Saturday 6 September, a day that marked the two-week disappearance of Catherine Ducane, a day that should have seen him in Tompkins Square Park with his wife and daughter, Ray Hartmann – he of the bruised heart and broken mind – lay on his bed in the Marriott Hotel. He could have transferred to the Royal Sonesta just as Schaeffer and Woodroffe had done, and it was not the threat of another bombing that had kept him away. It was simply the fact that he was attempting, seemingly against all odds, to maintain some distance between himself and what was happening. If he woke, showered, shaved and dressed in the same hotel where he had to speak with Perez, then it would feel as if that was all there was to his life. The Marriott was not home, could never have been anything even close, but at least it gave him the impression that there was a division between what he was doing and who he was. Now he believed that even if he had been given the choice to walk away he could not have done so. Even if someone had called and told him it was okay, that he could go back to New York and see his wife and daughter today, he imagined there would have been a question in his mind as to whether that was the right course of action to take.

Nineteen murders. Ernesto Perez had detailed to them nineteen different murders. Right from the encyclopedia salesman here in New Orleans to the Cuban constabulare who had been stabbed and burned in September of 1991, there were nineteen lives, nineteen people who no longer walked and talked, who no longer saw their husbands, wives, girlfriends, brothers, sisters, parents, children. Nineteen people who had vanished from the physical reality of life, who would never come back, who would never have another thought or feeling or emotion or passion. And beyond that, there were the additional eleven unnamed victims that had been summarily despatched when Perez worked for Giancarlo Ceriano. All killed by one man. Ernesto Cabrera Perez. A psychopath, even a homophobe, but at the same time strangely eloquent and cultured, considerate of feelings and the necessity for family, the power of loyalty and the giving of one’s word. A paradox. An anachronism. A mystery.

Hartmann found that all he believed in had been in some way challenged. The importance of his job, his so-called career. The value of friendship. The necessity to be trusted, to trust others, to make a promise and keep it. Just as Jess had asked him – would he now keep his promises? He believed he would. The deaths of Ross and the others, even the deaths of those who had been murdered by Perez, seemed to do nothing but highlight the importance of making every moment count for something, however insignificant it might seem at the time.

He had been an asshole, and it had not been because of his father, and it had not been because of genetics or some hereditary trait; it had been because of himself, he alone.

Perez had asked him whether circumstance governed choices, or if choices governed circumstance. Hartmann, now – perhaps in the most meaningful change of heart he had experienced since Carol and Jess had left him – believed it was the latter. He had made choices: to work, to stay late, to give too little credence and weight to the little things that Carol and Jess had considered important; and he had chosen to drink, whether it had been with Luca Visceglia or alone, he had nevertheless been in a situation where he could have said no. But he had not. Despite his word he had not. And this was the price he had paid. Choice governed circumstance, of that he was sure, and he knew that now, after all of this, his choices would be different.

During those early hours of Sunday morning, as New Orleans went through its routines; as people walked and laughed and danced down Gravier and through the districts of Arabi and Chalmette; as they ate at Tortorici’s Italian and Ursuline’s; as they drove along Chef Menteur Highway and the South Claiborne Avenue Overpass; as they talked their words out, expressing what was in their hearts and minds and souls; as they ran barefoot through Louis Armstrong Park, slowing down as they passed Our Lady of Guadalupe Church because they could not be sure, could never be sure that there wasn’t a God, and God didn’t mind the drinking, but the blaspheming and rowdiness around His house might just piss Him off enough to fly a thunderbolt through your heart; as they lived life in the vague hope that there might be something better just around the corner, and if not that corner then perhaps the next one, and everything came to those whose tongues were silent, whose hearts were patient, whose thoughts were pure and clean and simple; as people throughout the city went about the business of being frail and uncertain, impulsive and cautious, headstrong, passionate, unfaithful, honest, loyal, childlike, innocent and hurt… as all these things unfolded in darkness around him, Ray Hartmann believed that possibly – in some small and awkward way – what had happened here in New Orleans had been a second chance. If he came out of here alive, if he just remembered to keep breathing, then there might be a chance he could rescue his life from the depths to which it had fallen.

He hoped so. God, he hoped so.

And it was with that thought that finally, gratefully, he folded down into sleep.

Sunday morning Sheldon Ross did not come to collect him from the Marriott, because Sheldon Ross was dead.

That, above all else, reminded Ray Hartmann of the transient fragility of it all.

Hartmann arrived at the Royal Sonesta alone, but in ample time for his appointment with Perez. Yet even as he approached the front of the building he sensed that something was very different. There were cars outside that he had not seen before, men also – two of them, dark-suited, one with sunglasses – but there was something about their manner that told Hartmann they were not part of Schaeffer’s little family. He paused on the other side of the street, intuition telling him that something was altogether awry. The taller of the two men watched him intently as he cleared the road and started down the sidewalk. When he reached the main entrance of the hotel a federal agent stepped out and raised his hand at the two men and Hartmann passed inside.

‘New kids on the block?’ Hartmann asked.

The agent smiled warily. ‘You don’t even wanna know,’ he said, almost under his breath, and indicated that Hartmann should speak to a second agent at the reception desk.

‘First floor, second room to the right,’ Hartmann was told. ‘Mr Schaeffer and Mr Woodroffe are up there waiting for you.’

Hartmann paused once more. He looked at the man behind the desk but it was obvious there was nothing further to say.

Hartmann crossed the lobby and started up the stairs. He made it to the first floor landing, and as he turned he could hear voices. There was no-one in the corridor, and he hesitated before making himself known.

‘-don’t know. That’s the plain truth of it… we just don’t know yet.’

It was Schaeffer’s voice – clear as anything.

‘But Agent Schaeffer,’ another voice said, ‘you are paid to know. That is the entire purpose of your existence… to know things that no-one else knows.’

Hartmann frowned and took another step towards the doorway of the hotel room.

The second voice started up again, the sort of voice that belonged to someone who very much liked the sound of it.

‘You have entrusted almost every chance of success to a burned-out alcoholic from New York-’

The hairs on Hartmann’s neck rose to attention.

‘-and this man, this Ray Hartmann, has already failed to secure a deal with this maniac Perez. I don’t understand it, Agent Schaeffer. I just don’t understand how a man of your background and experience could have entrusted the most important and delicate aspect of this matter to someone such as Hartmann.’

‘Because Ray Hartmann has earned Perez’s confidence, Governor-’

Hartmann, standing there in the narrow hotel corridor, no more than three feet from the room where these people were speaking, realized who was inside. Ducane. Governor Charles Ducane.

‘And when you are dealing with a man such as Ernesto Perez,’ Schaeffer went on, ‘you use whatever leverage or foothold you can find. We are not dealing with a rational man, Governor. We are dealing with a multiple murderer, a homicidal psychopath. The laws and rules and regulations that dictate the manner in which business is undertaken at Capitol Hill do not apply to situations such as this. What we have here is an entirely different world-’

‘I do not appreciate the facetious attitude, Agent Schaeffer. I am here because my daughter has been kidnapped, and I am in personal communication not only with the attorney general himself, but also the director of the FBI. I can assure you that there will be no quarter given if it is discovered that any aspect of this operation has been mishandled by yourself or the men under your command-’

‘And I can assure you, Governor Ducane, that every single thing that can be done is being done.’

Hartmann, his fists clenched, his teeth gritted, took three steps forward and appeared in the doorway of the hotel room where Schaeffer, Woodroffe and Ducane had been talking.

Ducane was standing facing Schaeffer. Woodroffe was seated. Schaeffer appeared more vexed and agitated than Hartmann had ever seen him. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his hair was uncombed. Ducane, however, seemed the epitome of composure. He possessed the air of a man who always achieved his own ends and never had to explain either what he did or why he did it. His eyes were sharp and unforgiving. His hair – silver-gray and full – his tailored suit and overcoat, even the deep burgundy scarf around his neck: these things spoke of a man who had never envisioned the idea of going without. He did not, in Hartmann’s estimation, appear to be a man deeply disturbed and distressed by the absence of his only child.

He turned as Hartmann entered the room. ‘Mr Hartmann,’ he said slowly.

Hartmann nodded. ‘Governor Ducane.’

‘I have come to ensure that all progress that can be made is being made-’

‘I understand,’ Hartmann interjected. The last thing he wanted was a lecture.

Ducane shook his head. ‘I am afraid, Mr Hartmann, that I am not sure you do understand.’

Hartmann opened his mouth to speak but Ducane raised his hand.

‘You have a daughter, do you not, Mr Hartmann?’

Hartmann nodded.

‘How old is she? Eleven? Twelve?’

Ducane looked at Hartmann for an answer but continued speaking without waiting for it.

‘Then you perhaps understand some small aspect of how this must feel for someone like me. My daughter is nineteen years old. She is barely more than a child herself. This man-’ Ducane glanced up towards the ceiling; he knew Perez was in the building on an upper floor. ‘This animal… this insane criminal psychopath that you have secured inside this hotel… he has taken my daughter. My daughter, Mr Hartmann, and I am in a position where I can do nothing but wait while you people fall over your own feet trying to find out what he has done with her. How would you feel if it was your child, Mr Hartmann? How would you feel then? I am sure that there would have been an awful lot more progress in finding her. Where is she? No-one knows but this man. Is she alive or dead? Huh? Is she dead, Mr Hartmann? Well, whaddya know… the only person that knows is this man Perez.’

Ducane glared at Hartmann, and then he turned and fixed Schaeffer and Woodroffe in turn with his gaze.

‘To hell with this!’ he suddenly said. ‘I am going up there to deal with this man myself!’

He made for the door.

Hartmann backed up a step, closed the door and stood in front of it.

‘Out of my way, Hartmann!’ Ducane snapped.

Hartmann said nothing.

Schaeffer looked like he was ready to implode. Woodroffe rose from his chair and joined Hartmann at the door.

‘You cannot go up there, Governor,’ Hartmann said quietly.

Ducane grimaced. ‘I can do any goddam thing I goddam well please. Now out of the way.’

Schaeffer stepped up behind Ducane and took his arm by the elbow.

Ducane turned suddenly. He wrenched his arm free and pushed Schaeffer back against the edge of the desk.

He started shouting, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You people!’ he screamed. ‘You people think you can come down here and play with my daughter’s life as if it holds no importance at all? You think you can do this to me? I am Charles Ducane, Governor of Louisiana…’

Ducane stopped suddenly. He turned back towards Hartmann. ‘You… you get out of my way right now!’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘No, Governor. I am not going to get out of your way. You are not going anywhere except back to Shreveport. You are going to leave us to handle this with the correct protocol and procedure. The director of the FBI has sent the people he considers best fit for this task, and they have done everything they are capable of doing, and will continue to do everything they can, until they have found your daughter and returned her safe to you. We have sixty men down here. Honest and capable men. They have spent every waking hour searching for any clue that might indicate where your daughter is being held. Already we have seen four men die as a result of this investigation, and we have no intention of adding your daughter’s name to the roster of dead. I am not familiar with standard FBI procedure in these matters, I am not in a position to judge whether everything has been done to the letter, but I can guarantee that in all my years working in such situations as this I have never seen a more dedicated and committed group of people. These people have given up their own lives for the duration of this investigation, and nothing, absolutely nothing, has dissuaded them from doing what they believe to be right. Now you have to leave, because if I let you go up there then I can guarantee that Ernesto Perez will say nothing further and he will let your daughter die.’

Ducane was silent for a moment, and then he backed up a step and looked down at the floor.

He turned and looked at Schaeffer. Was there a flicker of something apologetic in his expression? Hartmann could not be certain. He doubted Charles Ducane would ever allow himself to stoop so low as to apologize.

Clear in Hartmann’s mind were the things Perez had said regarding Ducane. The young New Orleans old-money compatriot of Antoine Feraud. Did Charles Ducane have any inkling of who Perez really was, and why he had done this? Did Governor Charles Ducane in fact know exactly why Perez had abducted his daughter? Was he here for the reason he stated – to ensure that everything was being done to find her – or was he here to ensure that the things he did not want known stayed unknown?

Hartmann was exhausted – mentally, emotionally, spiritually. He did not want to fight this man, and even as he thought those words Ducane spoke again. His voice was cold and direct. There was nothing human within it whatsoever, and in that moment Hartmann understood that what Perez had told them about this man could very well be the truth.

‘I will do as I wish, Mr Hartmann, and what I wish is to see this man-’

Hartmann closed his eyes. He clenched his fists. ‘Governor Ducane,’ he said quietly. He looked up and opened his eyes. ‘There are a great many things we do not know about this man. There have been a great many things he has spoken about, and your name has been uttered on numerous occasions.’

Ducane’s eyes flashed. Was there a flicker of anxiety there?

‘He has spoken of things that happened many years ago, in Florida and Havana, things that involved some of the most significant organized crime families in the country during the last fifty years. There has been talk of a man called Antoine Feraud-’

Again the flash of anxiety in Ducane’s eyes.

‘-and the killing of Jimmy Hoffa-’

Hartmann sensed Schaeffer go rigid. Woodroffe stepped forward. ‘Hartmann-’ he began, but Hartmann raised his hand and Woodroffe fell silent.

‘The killing of Jimmy Hoffa-’

Ducane raised his right hand and pointed at Hartmann.

Hartmann went cool and loose inside, like something had suddenly released the tension of every muscle in his body. What if he was wrong? What if everything Perez had told them was a complete fabrication?

‘Don’t you even consider threatening me,’ Ducane said.

Hartmann willed himself to keep it together. Ducane seemed to take another step forward, despite the fact that there was almost no distance between them. ‘I don’t know who you people think you are,’ he hissed, his voice growing more insistent and angered, ‘but-’

‘But nothing,’ Hartmann interjected. His heart was trip-hammering in his chest. A thin film of sweat had broken out along his hairline. He felt nauseous and afraid. ‘We are doing our job, Governor, and our job is to listen to everything this man tells us and see if there isn’t some clue, some thread of something that will lead us to your daughter. And if that means asking questions about Hoffa and Feraud and this Gemini thing-’

Hartmann was still talking, but even he did not register what he was saying, for the change in Ducane’s color and demeanor was startling. The man seemed to step back completely without moving an inch. He stepped down, more accurately, and Hartmann knew that there were going to be no further challenges from this man. Governor Charles Ducane would not be visiting with Ernesto Perez today.

There was silence for some moments after Hartmann had finished talking, and Charles Ducane – his whole body tense, his face pale, his eyes wide like a man in shock – nodded slowly and said, ‘Find my daughter, gentlemen… find her and bring her back to me, and when that is done find some way to kill this animal for what he has done to me.’

Hartmann wanted to say something but no words seemed appropriate. He watched as Ducane turned to look at Schaeffer and Woodroffe in turn, and then he stepped aside as Ducane came towards him.

Ducane left the room. Schaeffer went after him to ensure he did not try to go upstairs.

Hartmann walked forwards and sat down at the desk. His hands were shaking. His whole body was covered in sweat. He looked at Woodroffe. Woodroffe looked back. Neither of them said a word.

Schaeffer returned within moments. He was breathless, red-faced; looked like a man on the verge of collapse. ‘I didn’t know… didn’t have any idea he was going to come down here,’ he started, but Hartmann raised his hand and Schaeffer fell silent.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hartmann said, the tension and fear audible in his voice. ‘It is what it is.’ He said nothing regarding his additional thoughts about Ducane’s real motive for coming to New Orleans. He didn’t say a word regarding his belief that Ducane seemed less like a grieving and distressed father than any distressed father he’d seen before. Such things were for himself alone, and no purpose would be served by voicing them.

Hartmann looked at both Woodroffe and Schaeffer in turn; neither of them were going to say a word about what had actually happened in that room.

An agent appeared in the doorway and nodded at Schaeffer.

Schaeffer nodded back. ‘He’s gone,’ he said, the relief evident in his tone. ‘Let’s get this done, okay?’

Hartmann rose from where he was seated and left the room. They went upstairs together – all three of them – and there was a moment’s silence when they reached Perez’s room.

Hartmann knocked on the door, identified himself, and the door was unlocked. Hartmann passed inside and waited for the outer door to be locked. He crossed the carpet, and without hesitating, opened the inner door and went inside.

‘Mr Hartmann,’ Perez said. He rose from a chair near the window. The room was hazy with smoke, and Hartmann noticed how tired Perez seemed to be.

‘We are coming to a close,’ Perez said as Hartmann walked towards him. ‘Today I will tell you about New York, tomorrow how I came home to New Orleans, and then we will be done.’

Hartmann did not reply. He merely nodded and sat down at the table facing Perez.

‘It has been a long journey for both of us, no? And we have nearly come to an end that you might not have heard had the attempt on my life been successful. I have upset some people, it seems.’

Hartmann tried to smile. He could barely manage any facial expression. He felt as if everything meaningful had been torn out of him and was being held in suspension somewhere. He might get it back, he might not: no-one had told him yet.

‘It has been a life of sorts,’ Perez said, and he laughed gently. ‘It has not been the life I perhaps imagined for myself, but then I imagine that this is the way it is for most of us, wouldn’t you say, Mr Hartmann?’

‘I guess so,’ Hartmann replied. He reached into his jacket for his cigarettes. He lit one, set the box on the table, and leaned back in his chair. He wanted to tell Perez that Ducane had been downstairs only minutes before, but he did not. Every muscle in his body ached. His head felt like an overripe pumpkin, swollen with acidic fluid, ready to burst at the slightest provocation.

‘You are not well, Mr Hartmann?’ Perez asked.

‘Tired,’ Hartmann said.

‘And this difficulty with your wife and daughter?’

‘In limbo,’ Hartmann replied.

‘It will go well, I am sure,’ Perez said encouragingly.

‘There is always a way through these things, of that I am certain.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘So we shall begin,’ Perez stated, and he too lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

From the other side of the room they would have looked like two friends sharing old times, perhaps having seen little of each other for years they were reminiscing, nostalgic half-memories creeping back towards the present as they talked through the years of their very different lives. Perhaps, despite everything, they could have been father and son, for their ages were a generation or so apart, and in the dimly-lit hotel room it was difficult to distinguish their features clearly.

The last thing they appeared to be was interrogator and subject, for their manner appeared too relaxed, too friendly, too familiar altogether.

That was it surely. They were old, old friends, and after all this time they had collided in some unknown corner of the world, and for a few hours, no more, they had the chance to share their lives with one another and walk away enriched.

‘Returning to New York after all those years,’ Ernesto Perez said quietly, ‘was like going back in time.’