“Yes.”
“Hold for Mr. Lloyd Tracey.”
The White House! Tracey was President Garrison Cross’s chief of staff and Ana was curious. Her handling of legal matters for the State Department often gave her the kinds of official details she was interested in, but since moving in with Quinn, the amount of knowledge she had accumulated tripled. It had taken Quinn a long time to begin confiding in her about operational goings on at the CIA, but then, as if his trust in her suddenly bloomed, he opened up. Ana knew Quinn enjoyed dealing out intriguing details of some ongoing clandestine operation like cards in a poker hand, causing her to sweat them one at a time. Ana would remember every nuance until she could get back to her office the next morning and dictate it all into a flash drive. She stored the drive in a small floor safe under her desk, to which only she had the combination. But Quinn had not been saying much in recent weeks, and it was clear she had gotten about all the spy scoop she was going to get from him. She had liked Quinn for himself at one time. His CIA stories were a bonus. But she was glad the relationship outlasted them.
“Hold on,” Quinn said to the speakerphone. He left the bedroom and walked to his study down the hall. When he picked up the call there, Ana continued to hear both men’s voices on the speakerphone. The CIA director had neglected to put the line on Hold.
“You there, Lloyd?” she heard him say.
“Sorry, Austin. It’s about Frank Gallardi.”
“Gallardi!”
“Shot dead couple hours ago. Got his security man, too. Professional hit according to the police. That’s all I’ve got right now.”
Quinn was silent for a moment. “Why are you calling me?”
“President wanted me to notify you and Stern. Oh, and General Scrubb at the Pentagon. Mostly as a matter of courtesy, I think.” Ana knew Stern was the president’s national security advisor.
“How’d you get it?”
“The Bureau.”
Ana had met Gallardi a few years earlier at the celebration and roast for Quinn at Gallardi’s casino in Atlantic City, and knew he had lofty connections in the government, but his murder was not of more than general interest to her. When Quinn hung up, Ana got out of bed, took a hot shower and got dressed. She heard the phone ring again while she was showering, but she’d turned off the speaker. She put on a robe and sauntered down to the study where Quinn was scanning the morning reports on the Langley computer terminal he’d ordered installed in his home.
“I heard Tracey’s call, Austin. You left the speaker on. What do you make of Gallardi?”
Quinn glanced at her peripherally. “Doubt if it’s anything as sinister as Tracey implied.”
“You knew him well?”
“We worked on the New Jersey casino bill together years ago. Pretty much a business relationship.”
Ana was leaning nonchalantly against the door, arms folded and ankles crossed. “Gallardi involved in the mafia?”
Quinn still hadn’t looked up from the monitor. He grunted and shook his head. “Stayed out of it.”
“Anything for you to do?”
Quinn shrugged. “Met his wife couple of times. She’ll expect me to do something.”
Ana knew there was little Quinn could do. The CIA had no investigative powers inside the U.S. That was the FBI’s bailiwick. Quinn would promise Mrs. Gallardi he would make some phone calls to encourage the FBI and state authorities to take special interest, but given Gallardi’s high profile in gambling, that would happen without Quinn’s input. And Quinn wasn’t one to demand a Congressional investigation every time a squirrel scampered across a street somewhere in Washington.
The next morning, Monday, Ana Koronis was in her office at the law firm at eight-thirty with The Washington Post. The paper said there were no suspects, no murder weapon and no clues in the Gallardi case. The story credited the wealthy casino owner, working with then state-senator Austin Quinn, for the state laws and regulations that enabled casino gambling in New Jersey. Gallardi had been rewarded with the first casino license, and Quinn with election to the U.S. Senate. This set him up for his subsequent appointment by President Cross to his present post as Director of Central Intelligence.
The paper referred to Gallardi’s high-profile clientele as the envy of the other Boardwalk casinos.
The article said police also were investigating the murder of known underworld figure Matthew Figueriano, killed on the same night as Gallardi. Police didn’t think the murders were related since Gallardi was not believed to have been involved with the mob. Power struggles between mob boss Joey Domino and Figueriano were legendary.
Ana leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling. Her talk with Quinn about ending their relationship would have to wait a while longer.
It was a quarter past seven Monday morning when President Cross got Austin Quinn on the phone.
“Too bad about Gallardi.”
Quinn was sitting in the middle rear seat of his black SUV. “For sure.”
“Where are you?”
“Heading to Langley.”
“Looks like a hit, but I just talked to Fullwood at the Bureau. He says Frank wasn’t involved with the mafia.”
“Could be anybody. You know, big loser at the tables. Somebody Gallardi fired,” Quinn said.
“They’ll look at that.”
“Right.”
“Listen, Austin, hate to ask this but someone needs to represent me at Gallardi’s service. He did a lot for me, others in the party. You being from Jersey—”
Quinn interrupted. “Be glad to, Garrison.”
The CIA’s Security Protective Service met Quinn at the Atlantic City airport with three cars and a dozen security officers for the trip to the chapel. Even though going to a memorial service in Quinn’s home state didn’t seem to be particularly risky, Quinn didn’t mind the highly visible security. He was a career politician and to be seen surrounded by men whose job it was to protect his life with theirs did nothing to detract from an image of power. Especially in his home state, thought Washington newspaper reporter Tommy Phelps, usually soft on Quinn in his articles, who was ushered into Quinn’s vehicle for the ride to the memorial.
The tree-lined boulevard curved in a way that afforded a view of the Gothic architecture of The Cathedral of the Good Shepherd several blocks before they got there. Quinn instructed that the government cars were to wait in a remote corner of the parking area to leave space for others to park closer to the building.
The bright, sunny day with birds chirping all around seemed determined to belie the occasion, Phelps thought. Reverent mourners in black, some blotting their eyes, crossed the exquisitely manicured church grounds in silence as they approached the tall stone entrance. Even the city streets were empty, as if the citizens of Atlantic City took time from daily routines to pay their respects to Frank Gallardi, a home-town boy who grew up poor, pulled himself up by sheer determination and will, fought a long but not universally popular battle to bring in casinos, risked everything he had before it bore fruit, and then returned so much of it to the people: New symphony center, children’s hospital, the new park, endless funding for the homeless shelter, and the list went on. Even casino critics could find nothing negative to say about Frank Gallardi.
The live acoustics inside the old church were excellent for music but the echoing words of the speakers lost the glue that held them together before reaching straining ears. Gallardi’s widow Rose, their grown children, and Frank’s sister Molly sat in the first row. Molly’s son and Frank Gallardi’s nephew Lenny Magliacci sat in the second with other family members, and Quinn was escorted to the reserved third row. Phelps noticed two or three U.S. Congressmen, several military officers in uniform and a few show business personalities he recognized. Not present was Ana Koronis.