Don Corleone settled into an armchair puffing his Di Nobili cigar. Hagen kept a box of them in his room. He had tried to get the Don to switch to Havanas but the Don claimed they hurt his throat.

“Do we know everything necessary for us to know?” the Don asked.

Hagen opened the folder that held his notes. The notes were in no way incriminating, merely cryptic reminders to make sure he touched on every important detail. “Sollozzo is coming to us for help,” Hagen said. “He will ask the family to put up at least a million dollars and to promise some sort of immunity from the law. For that we get a piece of the action, nobody knows how much. Sollozzo is vouched for by the Tattaglia family and they may have a piece of the action. The action is narcotics. Sollozzo has the contacts in Turkey, where they grow the poppy. From there he ships to Sicily. No trouble. In Sicily he has the plant to process into heroin. He has safety-valve operations to bring it down to morphine and bring it up to heroin if necessary. But it would seem that the processing plant in Sicily is protected in every way. The only hitch is bringing it into this country, and then distribution. Also initial capital. A million dollars cash doesn’t grow on trees.” Hagen saw Don Corleone grimace.The old man hated unnecessary flourishes in business matters. He went on hastily.

“They call Sollozzo the Turk. Two reasons. He’s spent a lot of time in Turkey and is supposed to have a Turkish wife and kids. Second. He’s supposed to be very quick with the knife, or was, when he was young. Only in matters of business, though, and with some sort of reasonable complaint. A very competent man and his own boss. He has a record, he’s done two terms in prison, one in Italy, one in the United States, and he’s known to the authorities as a narcotics man. This could be a plus for us. It means that he’ll never get immunity to testify, since he’s considered the top and, of course, because of his record. Also he has an American wife and three children and he is a good family man. He’ll stand still for any rap as long as he knows that they will be well taken care of for living money.”

The Don puffed on his cigar and said, “Santino, what do you think?”

Hagen knew what Sonny would say. Sonny was chafing at being under the Don’s thumb. He wanted a big operation of his own. Something like this would be perfect.

Sonny took a long slug of scotch. “There’s a lot of money it that white powder,” he said. “But it could be dangerous. Some people could wind up in jail for twenty years. I’d say that if we kept out of the operations end, just stuck to protection and financing, it might be a good idea.”

Hagen looked at Sonny approvingly. He had played his cards well. He had stuck to the obvious, much the best course for him.

The Don puffed on his cigar. “And you, Tom, what do you think?”

Hagen composed himself to be absolutely honest. He had already come to the conclusion that the Don would refuse Sollozzo’s proposition. But what was worse, Hagen was convinced that for one of the few times in his experience, the Don had not thought things through. He was not looking far enough ahead.

“Go ahead, Tom,” the Don said encouragingly. “Not even a Sicilian Consigliere always agrees with the boss.” They all laughed.

“I think you should say yes,” Hagen said. “You know all the obvious reasons. But the most important one is this. There is more money potential in narcotics than in any other business. If we don’t get into it, somebody else will, maybe the Tattaglia family. With the revenue they earn they can amass more and more police and political power. Their family will become stronger than ours. Eventually they will come after us to take away what we have. It’s just like countries. If they arm, we have to arm. If they become stronger economically, they become a threat to us. Now we have the gambling and we have the unions and right now they are the best things to have. But I think narcotics is the coming thing. I think we have to have a piece of that action or we risk everything we have. Not now, but maybe ten years from now.”

The Don seemed enormously impressed. He puffed on his cigar and murmured, “That’s the most important thing of course.” He sighed and got to his feet. “What time do I have to meet this infidel tomorrow?”

Hagen said hopefully, “He’ll be here at ten in the morning.” Maybe the Don would go for it.

“I’ll want you both here with me,” the Don said. He rose, stretching, and took his son by the arm. “Santino, get some sleep tonight, you look like the devil himself. Take care of yourself, you won’t be young forever.”

Sonny, encouraged by this sign of fatherly concern, asked the question Hagen did not dare to ask. “Pop, what’s your answer going to be?”

Don Corleone smiled. “How do I know until I hear the percentages and other details? Besides I have to have time to think over the advice given here tonight. After all, I’m not a man who does things rashly.” As he went out the door he said casually to Hagen, “Do you have in your notes that the Turk made his living from prostitution before the war? As the Tattaglia family does now. Write that down before you forget.” There was just a touch of derision in the Don’s voice and Hagen flushed. He had deliberately not mentioned it, legitimately so since it really had no bearing, but he had feared it might prejudice the Don’s decision. He was notoriously straitlaced in matters of sex.

Virgil “the Turk” Sollozzo was a powerfully built, medium-sized man of dark complexion who could have been taken for a true Turk. He had a scimitar of a nose and cruel black eyes. He also had an impressive dignity.

Sonny Corleone met him at the door and brought him into the office where Hagen and the Don waited. Hagen thought he had never seen a more dangerous-looking man except for Luca Brasi.

There were polite handshakings all around. If the Don ever asks me if this man has balls, I would have to answer yes, Hagen thought. He had never seen such force in one man, not even the Don. In fact the Don appeared at his worst. He was being a little too simple, a little too peasantlike in his greeting.

Sollozzo came to the point immediately. The business was narcotic. Everything was set up. Certain poppy fields in Turkey had pledged him certain amounts every year. He had a protected plant in France to convert into morphine. He had an absolutely secure plant in Sicily to process into heroin. Smuggling into both countries was as positively safe as such matters could be. Entry into the United States would entail about five percent losses since the FBI itself was incorruptible, as they both knew. But the profits would be enormous, the risk nonexistent.

“Then why do you come to me?” the Don asked politely. “How have I deserved your generosity?”

Sollozzo’s dark face remained impassive. “I need two million dollars cash,” he said. “Equally important, I need a man who has powerful friends in the important places. Some of my couriers will be caught over the years. That is inevitable. They will all have clean records, that I promise. So it will be logical for judges to give light sentences. I need a friend who can guarantee that when my people get in trouble they won’t spend more than a year or two in jail. Then they won’t talk. But if they get ten and twenty years, who knows? In this world there are many weak individuals. They may talk, they may jeopardize more important people. Legal protection is a must. I hear, Don Corleone, that you have as many judges in your pocket as a bootblack has pieces of silver.”

Don Corleone didn’t bother to acknowledge the compliment. “What percentage for my family?” he asked.

Sollozzo’s eyes gleamed. “Fifty percent.” He paused and then said in a voice that was almost a caress, “In the first year your share would be three or four million dollars. Then it would go up.”