The Godfather's Revenge Read Online Free PDF Page B

God’s perfect straight face, told the world that this deportation had been handled in strict adherence with the laws of the state of Louisiana and federal immigration statutes as well.
    “But make no mistake,” he said. He paused. He seemed to be looking beyond the cameras, to some elusive paradise that only he could see. Near baggage claim, maybe. “The matters at hand are grave. There are more men out there like Mr. Tramonti, many more, evildoers who are destroying liberty in cities all over America. All over the world, in fact. Mr. Tramonti is an archenemy of our basic American freedoms, but he’s not the only one. There are others, and we will not rest until they have been brought to justice.”
    A reporter asked the A.G. what he meant by that.
    Daniel Brendan Shea was still in his thirties, but he was a born politician. Ordinarily he discussed accomplishments and objectives by saying we did this, we believe that, we will do the other thing. He avoided the first-person singular, affixing credit to others, both to individuals and to “this administration” or “our department.” But he was visibly excited now, enough so to abandon any semblance of humility.
    “I plan to go down in history,” he said, straight into the lens of the top-rated evening news show in the world, “as the man who brought down the Mafia.”
    This claim provoked a brief, stunned silence. Then one of the reporters raised his hand. “So what you’re telling us is, the so-called Mafia—it’s real?”
    There was nervous laughter, but not from Danny Shea.
    “They’re real,” he said. “They’re among us.”
     
    AT THE MEDELLÍ AIRPORT, THE MPS TOOK CARLO Tramonti straight to a back room where VIPs went through customs. They were met by several uniformed Colombian officials and two other Americans. One wore a guayabera shirt and green sunglasses. Under the sunglasses was a pirate-style eye patch. The other man was weak-chinned with thick-framed black glasses, good posture, and a cheap black suit. He was the one who did most of the talking. He spoke Spanish and seemed to be a previous acquaintance of the Colombian official with the most medals.
    Tramonti looked dizzy. He asked if the Americans were from the embassy or the INS.
    “Pardon me,” said the weak-chinned man, “but perhaps you’d be more comfortable sitting down?” The man’s voice dripped with Waspish old money. It made the cheap suit seem like a costume. “Sir? Please.” He pointed to what seemed to be a row of seats from a dismantled stadium. Tramonti sat.
    Badges were shown and paperwork exchanged and eventually the men all started laughing, all but Tramonti. The MPs handed the keys to the handcuffs and Tramonti’s bogus passport to the American with the eye patch and then left. The Colombians and the weak-chinned man left, too, laughing all the way.
    The man with the eye patch freed Tramonti’s hands and feet and tossed the chains in the trash can. Resentment came off him like a stink. He looked like someone whose friends had gone fishing for tarpon and left him back at camp to do woman’s work.
    “Are you going to tell me who you are?” Tramonti said. “What you are? Because I think I get the picture. CIA, eh? I worked with some of your people before, you know.”
    “Then you know that if I was or if I wasn’t,” he said, “I’d say I wasn’t.”
    He had a New Jersey accent. He took Tramonti out a side door, where a battered taxi idled at the curb. A sign in Spanish welcomed them to the Land of Eternal Spring.
    They got in the back together. In Spanish, the agent told the driver to go to the Hotel Miramar and suggested a particular route.
    Darkness had fallen. Tramonti seemed to be having trouble breathing. He returned the agent’s silence with silence. Like many men in his tradition, he had a talent for waiting people out.
    Carlo Tramonti had been one of three American bosses (Silent Sam Drago and Michael Corleone were the others) who,