A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

His grip was firm, the grip of a man accustomed to command.

  New York

  It was almost seven in the morning when Dick Moore took the call. That Sunday, he was due to leave for Vermont, where he and his wife would be spending a few days together. They went there every year in the fall, when nature produced one of its most beautiful spectacles, carpeting the roads and meadows and maple woods with leaves in every shade of yellow, orange, red and brown. It was an extraordinary display of colour, a unique work of art.

  Lifting the receiver, he did not yet know that his plans would have to change. It was the switchboard operator from his office, telling him that there was someone on the line who insisted that he had something urgent to tell him, something he could tell only him.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say, but he asked me to mention St Paul’s Chapel.’

  ‘Put him on . . . Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On the road from Mount Cisco, where they hold the rally, there’s something that’ll interest you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Go and find out.’

  ‘Where exactly? It’s a long road!’

  ‘Go along it for a few miles. There’s a side road, a dead end, where you’ll find something that’ll interest you.’

  ‘Look, you’re going too far this time,’ Moore said, in a tone that was both irritable and as cold as steel. ‘I’m tired of this game.’

  ‘Don’t say that. You need to understand. You know, nothing in life goes the way we’d like it to. That’s all I can do right now.’

  ‘Don’t you think—’

  He heard a click. The other man had hung up.

  Moore stared expressionlessly at the receiver for a while, then muttered, ‘Fucking son of a bitch,’ and put it down. After a few moments he picked it up again and dialled the number of his office.

  ‘Do we know where that last call came from?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, a public phone booth in Brooklyn.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Shall I send a car to check it out, Director?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, although he did not sound convinced. He knew perfectly well that the phone call had been very short and that it was very unlikely whoever had made it was still around.

  Carracci was going over the facts.

  It was 5 p.m. and the meeting at the DIA’s Operations Centre in Reggio Calabria had only just got under way. Also present were two captains of the Carabinieri with a great deal of experience of places and people connected with the ’Ndrangheta, and vivid recall of their past activities.

  One of the two now spoke up. He was Captain Pasquale Foti, forty-four years old, a man of regular build and dark complexion. His hair was dark, too, cut short in the military style. He said he had been told by a Mafioso who had turned State’s evidence that the cocaine arrived from Colombia by sea, hidden beneath the water line.

  ‘Excuse me, I don’t understand,’ Carracci said, in a tone both sceptical and curious. ‘Where exactly is the cocaine hidden?’

  ‘In the rudder space. To get to it from the interior of the ship, you have to open a trapdoor. From the outside you need divers.’

  ‘I see,’ Carracci replied, sounding unconvinced and thinking to himself that this was all bullshit. He shook his head slightly and continued looking at Foti with a certain scepticism.

  ‘The drugs are in containers,’ Foti continued, ‘which are tied to the hull with synthetic fibre rope.’ He stopped for a moment to take a sip of water, while the Americans exchanged a few comments. Perhaps they, too, were thinking this was all bullshit.

  Foti resumed. He explained that the cocaine, having been broken down into loaves, was placed in plastic canisters.

  ‘What kind?’ Carracci asked.

  ‘Like the inner tubes in coaches and tractors.’

  ‘And how are they removed?’

  ‘By divers.’

  This was a new technique in the experience of the Italian anti-drug authorities - if it existed, and wasn’t just some fantasy dreamed up by Foti’s Mafia informant.

  Carracci waited until Foti had finished and then, making an effort to conceal his true feelings, asked, ‘Can we speak to this person? Maybe he can give us more details.’

  ‘He’s being kept incommunicado, we don’t even know where,’ Colonel Trimarchi said. ‘We’d need authorisation from the Prosecutor’s Department to see him.’

  ‘In that case, I wonder if it’s worth it,’ Carracci said.

  ‘We can get a request to the prosecutor today.’

  ‘Today’s Sunday, Colonel.’

  ‘No problem. We can reach him at home. He’s always available.’

  Trimarchi’s eyes seemed to be saying, Here in Calabria, there are no days off, and no one ever rests.

  It was only now, even though they had come to the end of the meeting, that Carracci handed the colonel a copy of the order from the Ministry of the Interior authorising the setting up of the task force. To Trimarchi it seemed another example of unfounded police suspicions where the Carabinieri were concerned.

  16

  New York

  Sitting in the passenger seat of the white Chevrolet Impala, Dick Moore lit yet another cigarette. It was the third one since the driver had come to pick him up from his apartment just before eight. Or maybe it was the fourth - he was losing count. He took a deep drag. Anxiety was etched on his face. His whole body was tingling with pins and needles as if in response to the state of his nerves. The deep grooves in his cheeks made his mouth more pronounced. He thought again of his altercation with Jenny. She had not forgiven him for wrecking the prospect of three days of freedom, three days that were now lost for ever. He thought again of the telephone call, the surprise awaiting him.

  One sentence in particular continued ringing in his head: You know, nothing in life goes the way we’d like it to . . . you know, nothing in life goes the way we’d like it to . . . you know, nothing in life goes the way we’d like it to . . .

  He couldn’t get the words out of his mind. It was becoming an obsession. One more element in a perverted game.

  You know, nothing in life goes the way we’d like it to . . .

  What exactly had the caller meant? He couldn’t figure it out. It was a real mystery. Perhaps he would find the answer now, when he located what he was looking for.

  The roads were still half deserted. They came to the start of the narrow, dusty road out of Mt Kisco, where the Turkey Tour Rally was held every year. During the rally, spectators lined the route, cheering and taking photographs. He ordered the driver to stop for a moment, opened the road map, and spread it on his lap. Then he said, ‘Drive on, but slowly.’ They set off again. They stopped at the corner of every side road and peered down it as far as they could. Some of the longer ones they turned on to and explored in their entirety. But there was nothing to be seen. Just trees and dust. Not a soul about. But that wasn’t surprising. It was a road that only came alive once a year. After a little more than a mile, they turned on to yet another side road. After about a hundred yards, the vegetation grew thicker. Beyond a bend, they at last saw something: the burned-out shell of a car. A four-door sedan, now completely black.

  Moore took his cellphone from the inside pocket of his jacket and called the office. There was no doubt in his mind: this car was what the mystery caller had wanted him to find.

  Was it because it had been used by whoever committed the murders on Madison? Or was it a red herring? What exactly was the son of a bitch playing at? Was he trying to take advantage of the new balance of power in the underworld? Or was he hoping to get money from the FBI’s secret funds? The theories were piling up in Moore’s mind.

  The Crime Scene Unit arrived, along with a team from the FBI. They examined the inside of the car and found nothing. There were shoe prints nearby, as well as wheel tracks, probably made by a motorcycle. They set about taking casts.

  Moore threw a la
st glance at the shell of the car, then ordered the driver to take him back to the office. He would wait there until the man contacted him.

  He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long.

  Italy, 11.30 p.m.

  The place was safe, well camouflaged and inaccessible. Not many people were ever admitted. And only in special circumstances. Like now.

  Antonio Russo had summoned his most loyal associates. It was a habit he had got into of late, whenever he had to leave the area for a few days.

  The air was cold, sharp and damp. Not a single star in the sky. Silence all around. Even the large mastiff crouching on the ground seemed to respect it. Thick banks of fog had been descending for hours, covering the surroundings like a pall. Sporadically, gusts of wind would disperse them, revealing a few of the orange trees in the grove outside the farmhouse.

  The four of them were in a cramped space in the basement. They were sitting in a circle on bamboo stools with their caps on their laps in the dim light of a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘They’re fucking us around,’ Antonio Russo began angrily, scratching his temples. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression tense. He was wearing a burgundy woollen smoking jacket and blue cashmere trousers.

  His loyal associates looked at him with intense curiosity, anxious to know why they had been summoned.

  ‘They’ve put together a task force and are planning to give us a hard time, just so they can look good to the Americans. So expect to have your houses searched and your belongings confiscated. Expect to be kept under surveillance. The worst of it is that it’ll jeopardise relations with our Colombian friends . . .’

  He was really furious. He leapt to his feet and began pacing nervously. Then, approaching a small table, he poured some cognac into a glass so violently that it spilled over the brim. He lifted it to his lips and drank it all down in one go. It tasted bitter in his mouth.

  His three associates were leaning forward, wide-eyed, hanging on his every word, their lined faces lacking their usual self-confidence. No one spoke. They knew that their boss’s sources had always proved reliable. They sipped their cognac in silence.

  ‘I don’t want to see a repeat of what happened in the eighties and nineties,’ Antonio Russo went on, ‘when the police and the Carabinieri flooded our territory to put a stop to the kidnappings. I’ve already sent a message to the person concerned . . . the person concerned . . . I told him there’s a risk that the peace we’ve had for the past few years may be shattered. And you all know what that means.’

  The men nodded. They knew exactly what he meant. They all had vivid memories of those years when they had been forced to go to ground, either in their homes or in safe refuges, for days on end.

  ‘I’m leaving for Spain. That’s why I wanted to let you know that things might change overnight. You must be on the alert, prepared for whatever may happen, and standing by for my calls. Don’t say anything yet to the foot soldiers, but please keep an even closer eye on them than usual.’

  The three nodded again.

  ‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about. A matter that needs to be resolved as soon as possible.’

  Nobody breathed. Their expressions were unequivocal: again, they knew perfectly well what he was referring to.

  New York, 6 p.m.

  He hadn’t called!

  He hadn’t left a message!

  Dick Moore was shaking his head from side to side.

  He had finished going through the list of calls.

  He had gone through it again and again.

  Again and again . . .

  Nothing.

  He hadn’t found the call that mattered most to him.

  Now, in his office, with his face in his hands and his elbows on his knees, Moore was thinking back over that morning. A long, deep sigh escaped his lips. His intuition had let him down. The day had brought no further word. The mystery caller had retreated back into the shadows. Obviously he was craftier than Moore had thought.

  His phone calls home had gone unanswered. He wasn’t surprised: during their quarrel, Jenny had threatened to leave him. She had said that kind of thing before, of course, but this time it had been more than a threat.

  He wasn’t alone at headquarters. The few agents on duty were busy writing reports on the burned-out car and consulting records to ascertain if it had been reported stolen. The telephone rang. Before picking up, he switched on the tape recorder. He was sure it was him.

  But it wasn’t. It was a member of the Crime Scene Unit.

  ‘It was a taxi,’ the man announced. ‘That’s right, a taxi.’

  He read out the licence number and the name of the owner, who lived in Brooklyn.

  ‘Ah-hah!’

  ‘It was stolen.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On the morning of the first of November.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the Bronx.’

  ‘When was it reported stolen?’

  ‘The same morning.’

  ‘Have you found anything useful?’

  ‘Unfortunately nothing significant yet. There’s hardly anything left of it, barely even a scrap of upholstery.’

  ‘How about near the car? Any prints?’

  ‘Yes, shoe prints, definitely a man’s. And the tracks of a motorcycle, starting where the shoe prints trail off.’

  ‘Any results yet on those?’

  ‘A few. The shoe prints are nearly three feet apart.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning the guy was probably in a hurry . . . or at any rate was moving fast. We’ve sent all the findings to the crime lab in Washington. They may be able to identify the make and model of the motorcyle.’

  ‘That’s going to take time!’

  ‘A few days, if we’re lucky.’

  Instead of hanging up, he immediately called Bill Hampton. It was almost one in the morning in Italy, but his colleague answered at the first ring of his cellphone.

  ‘Bill, they found a taxi.’ He brought him up to date on the latest developments, and told him he would shortly be e-mailing the inventory of what had been found in Rocco Fedeli’s apartment.

  ‘Try to find out what church that is, Bill. It must have had a special significance to the victim. The Italians should be able to help you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Bill Hampton then told Moore about the confidential information Foti had obtained from his Mafia informant.

  ‘That confirms what was written in the letter!’ Moore said, before hanging up.

  The news provoked a wave of optimism in him. So the mystery caller knew one of the ways cocaine was transported to Italy. That meant he was someone on the inside.

  He went to the window, and looked down at the street and the traffic. It was as busy out there as ever. He checked the time: 7.05 p.m. Since the mystery caller still hadn’t phoned, there was nothing to do but go home.

  All kinds of ideas were whirling around in his head.

  Sam, who was always waiting for him behind the door, wasn’t there to greet him today.

  A bad sign.

  What he found, prominently displayed on the console table in the hall, was a note.

  It was short and to the point.

  I’ve left, and I’ve taken Sam with me.

  He stood there, breathless, sweating. He felt as though a door had been slammed in his face. He had expected it, but actually experiencing it was another matter. The emptiness was devastating.

  17

  Monday, 10 November

  They were waiting for him.

  The atmosphere in the room was calm but oppressive.

  It had been a long wait.

  Captain Foti, Carracci and Detective Bernardi, who had arrived from Reggio Calabria that morning, were in Ferrara’s office, ready to meet the informer Annunziato Spina.

  Spina entered stiffly, accompanied by two officers from the witness protection squad. He was fifty-five years old, short and very thin, with smooth,
dyed black hair and a moustache. His small, bright eyes could not keep still, but darted all over. He sniffed, as if in the grip of a perennial cold. He was chewing a sweet. For some months, he had been in the programme reserved for those who have turned State’s evidence. There were a number of criminal proceedings pending against him: one at the court in Rome for international drug trafficking and money laundering, others in Reggio Calabria for criminal conspiracy relating to the traffic in arms and drugs.

  His eyes fell on Ferrara. ‘How nice to see you again,’ he said in a fairly sardonic tone. ‘Have you changed cities?’ Spina was an old acquaintance of Ferrara’s. The latter had arrested him years earlier during a drug investigation that had encompassed both Florence and Milan.

  ‘I’ve been transferred,’ Ferrara replied curtly, motioning him to a chair in front of the desk.

  Annunziato Spina sat down, crossed his legs, and placed his bony hands on his corduroy trousers. Then he looked at Foti, who was sitting next to Ferrara.

  ‘Hey, what is this? Tell me, Chief Superintendent. There must be a reason why you’ve brought me here.’ His tone was now decidedly provocative.

  ‘Yes, there is a reason,’ Ferrara replied. ‘A very specific reason.’ Very calmly, he told him why he had been summoned. When he had finished, Annunziato Spina gave Captain Foti a piercing look, then pursed his lips and swallowed the sweet he had been chewing. His teeth remained clenched for a few moments. He felt betrayed.

  Foti ignored him.

  ‘So,’ Ferrara said, breaking a silence that had become unbearable, ‘can you tell us anything about drugs transported on ships coming from Colombia and bound for Italian ports?’

  ‘Of course I can tell you something. Why, did you think I couldn’t?’ His eyes kept darting from Ferrara to Foti and back.

  ‘And what about the drugs being hidden beneath the water line? What can you tell us about that?’