by David Hewson
It was Sciarra who told him the meeting was on the cards, though he hinted that it might not happen in the way the Bergamotti planned. Whatever game Mancuso and his crew were playing they weren’t going to let on, not to him.
In the square, mid-morning, around the table, Gabriele had told Maso he could take the Fiat on an errand to the coast. That was it. ‘An errand’.
Watching the stranger manoeuvre the white cinquecento with the red stripe out of the square Santo couldn’t help but feel a flicker of anger burning inside him.
‘Who is that Leoni guy?’ he wondered. ‘Where the hell’s he going now?’
Rocco had followed the car bumping down the track too. ‘You heard what my father said. An errand.’
‘I heard. I didn’t understand. I thought I was the errand boy here.’
The capo’s son was always so well-dressed. Today a pink polo shirt and immaculate white trousers, shades on his head, more expensive ones than Santo could ever afford. All the same he didn’t seem himself. None of them did. The Sicilians must have been on the line to say they had the daughter. That was enough for a war in itself.
‘Since when did you need to understand anything?’ Rocco asked, squinting at him in the harsh morning sun.
It was hard to keep quiet. ‘So this new guy killed a couple of punks and somehow got a cut on his thumb. I’ve been here years. Took me a long time to get that far. Didn’t get a cut from your old man in person either. That dumb clumsy idiot Nino did it. How come a Canadian gets what I don’t?’
‘Somehow?’ Rocco asked picking up on that stupid little slip.
‘Don’t matter,’ Santo said and told himself: shut up while you can. The uncle apart, the Bergamotti seemed as sharp as a butcher’s knife. Even the daughter. They didn’t miss a thing.
An hour passed. Rocco kept making and taking calls, relaying them to the old man who sat in the square at a table by the dry, crumbling fountain, straw hat on, dozing in the sun, a jug of iced bergamot water in front of him. The brother, the bumpkin, had come back from the stables. He was pushing a cart full of vegetables from the fields: artichokes, peppers, tomatoes, aubergine. He didn’t seem right. Not happy like usual.
Gabriele had a phone in front of him. It rang just the once. Afterwards he nodded, lifted his hat and beckoned with his hands. ‘Boys. A word. Both of you.’
Pale hands, Santo noticed when they joined him. Didn’t look as if they’d ever done a day of labour. Nor was there any sign of a cut beneath the thumb. Maybe those scars healed when you got that old. Maybe a capo was above getting cut.
Vanni was on an old stool peeling artichokes, throwing the hearts into a bucket of water laced with vinegar to stop them going brown. He didn’t even seem to hear a word they said. That was funny too, Santo thought. The older brother was smart enough and bold enough to run the biggest ’ndrina in the south of Calabria and never let a soul know who he really was for years. While his sibling looked like any other peasant farmer, meant for nothing but the fields.
‘As you may know, we’ve guests today.’ Rocco refilled his father’s glass when he held it out. ‘Friends from the north.’ The old man smiled, a genial beam. ‘Friends from across the water, here on a rare visit. It’s been a long time since they came and gave thanks to our lady and her silver clasp.’
‘Sicilians?’ Santo asked and hoped they didn’t hear the waver in his voice.
‘You do keep asking questions,’ Rocco grumbled.
‘I’m … I’m just here to do what you want, boss. You tell me.’
The old man looked distant, a little past it at that moment. ‘Sea urchins,’ he said idly. ‘Why have I not tasted sea urchins of late? Maybe they’re out of season—’
‘Nothing’s out of season for us,’ Santo cut in. ‘I can get you ricci any time you like.’
‘Ricci for Rocco.’ Gabriele laughed. ‘Except he doesn’t like them. Just for me.’
Vanni looked up from his artichokes, the sharp knife in his hands. ‘May and June those bastards in Brussels won’t let us fish for them. You can buy them straight just now.’ He waved the blade. ‘Don’t bother taking them out of their spiny homes. I can do that.’ He thought of something. ‘Lucia knows how to do that too. I taught her one day. When she was little.’
Santo Vottari held his breath, praying he’d get out of this place real soon. Quick as he could he said, ‘You want me to go find you some ricci di mare? I know a guy who dives, all the best places, all clean and fresh. I can get them back here in an hour.’
‘Do that,’ Gabriele ordered. ‘Sea urchins. A bucket full. I’m hungry.’
His brother finished the artichokes he was paring then threw the last and the knife in the bucket. ‘Take the van. Alessia’s restaurant wants these vegetables for their guests. They get to eat home-grown. Not that usual shit full of chemicals.’
He wiped his face with the back of his hand. The dirt from the soil went all round his cheeks. He looked like a sorry clown.
‘We may be with our guests by the time you get back, Santo,’ the old man added. ‘If we’re not around just leave them.’
‘This thing in the cave,’ Santo said.
‘This thing,’ Vanni echoed.
They were always picky about who was allowed to take part. Not minions like him.
‘You want me there as well?’
Gabriele laughed and that hurt. ‘It’s not for the likes of you. Fetch what I asked. Leave it here. After that …’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Go play at whatever you want.’
They’d be gone to the Chapel of the Holy Clasp when he got back with the urchins. He just knew it. After which Santo Vottari would get the hell out of there. Hide out somewhere. Maybe even the Zanzibar with its new black guy behind the counter, a slave who now answered to him.
‘Sure,’ he said and went for the van.
‘There’s something wrong with that one,’ Vanni said as the van vanished down the hill. ‘He never looks you straight in the eye.’
Rocco was busy chewing on a cigar. Gabriele had resumed half-slumbering in his chair, hat over his eyes.
Vanni got up and went over to him. ‘Did you hear what I said?’
A noise drowned out his words, one they rarely heard in that remote slope of Aspromonte. The sky darkened for a moment as a huge helicopter, khaki with army markings, soaring over the hillside like a gigantic insect blotting out the sun. They kept their peace, all three of them, until it vanished over the bergamot orchards, down towards the coast. As the racket diminished something else took its place. A black saloon driving into the piazza very slowly, as if each cobble needed to be approached with care.
‘So many guests,’ Gabriele said in a languid voice, almost bored. ‘Such a busy day. Well …’ He struggled to his feet, stretched his long arms, tipped back the fedora and squinted at the sky. ‘I imagine it’s only to be expected. The last act has begun.’
The car came to a halt by the fountain. Another of Rocco’s foot soldiers was at the wheel. From the back a priest emerged, a tall, dignified man with the craggy face of a minor movie actor. He wore the white mantle known as a cope over his shoulders, with scarlet borders and a large gold cross visible on the back. The legs of his black suit trousers poked out incongruously at the hem, a pair of heavy boots beneath.
Gabriele tottered over, bent forward and kissed his hand. ‘Welcome to our mountain home, Father. My son Rocco. My brother Vanni.’
‘Rocco I have met,’ the priest said. ‘A few times of late. You, sir, are something of a hermit. Six services I’ve taken in Our Lady’s chapel and never once has the capo … have you graced us with your presence.’
‘Needs must.’ He took the priest’s arm. ‘A man is required to play the role God gives him. I prayed for you, for our Holy Mother, for everyone all the same.’ He felt the fabric of the cope. It was old and fraying in parts. ‘This robe looks a little sorry if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘We’re a poor parish. I’d rather spend money on my flock t
han clothes.’
‘Very decent of you. We’re both shepherds in our different ways.’
There was the sound of another car, a weaker engine struggling against the hill. Then the white cinquecento lurched into the piazza and stopped behind the priest’s saloon.
‘I will help a little with both—’
‘That would be very welcome,’ the priest said, suddenly cheery.
‘Of course,’ Gabriele replied. ‘We all have a price.’
Two men got out of the Fiat. One familiar, the other a tall, aristocratic-looking stranger.
‘We have guests from afar this time,’ Gabriele said as they approached. ‘Maso is from … Canada. Yes that’s correct. Maso, meet our parish priest.’ They shook. ‘And you …’ A smile. ‘You must be his Roman friend. Welcome to Manodiavolo. Welcome to our holy place in the hills.’
The priest kept smiling. The newcomers said nothing.
‘Rocco? I think it’s time you went to greet our other visitors. The lady and her clasp have waited long enough.’
They watched him walk to the scarlet Alfa and drive slowly out of the square.
‘My son will make sure they know the way,’ Gabriele added. He looked directly at Falcone. ‘We have everything in hand. Everything organized, as we promised. And you?’
‘As agreed,’ Falcone told him.
‘I’ve been to Canada,’ the priest cut in. ‘Whereabouts—’
‘Talk later,’ Vanni told him brusquely. ‘It’s time to go.’
Gabriele wound his arm through the priest’s white cope and led him to the overgrown cemetery behind the ruined church. A lively breeze was beginning to blow dead leaves over the cracked and crumbling headstones. As they walked ravens began cackling in the cypress trees.
‘A short and pleasant walk,’ he said, ‘and then a short and pleasant service.’
The control van had a team of four specialists, three men, one woman, watching the monitors and following the communications channels. Teresa Lupo was familiar with the procedures, some of the equipment, none of the people.
It was almost eleven. Live links into security cameras at the ferry, at Reggio airport, on the main routes in and out of Aspromonte had been feeding into the bank of monitors in front of them since dawn.
‘What do you want of me?’ she asked.
‘They say you’ve got a good eye and a good head,’ Lombardi replied. ‘Use them.’
She went through the logs. The van had been following all the traffic through Villa San Giovanni since six. It had access to the names of drivers buying tickets for the ferries. None of them came up on watch lists.
‘They can’t be coming today, Lombardi. If Nic’s right about the timing they’ve left it too late.’
‘I am,’ he said, ‘aware of this.’
‘So they’re here already.’
‘Probably.’
He asked the female officer monitoring the video feed from the helicopter to tell the crew to make another sweep of the mountain over Manodiavolo.
‘No.’ Teresa put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t do that.’
The woman held off, waiting for instructions. She didn’t seem to have much confidence in him either.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘They may be used to having helicopters buzzing round there. Doesn’t mean they won’t get scared off if you do it all the time. You have to be patient.’
He hesitated for a moment then told the operator to stand by. ‘All we need do is locate their vehicles. Once we have that we can move. There’s no need to wait for some damned pagan service in a cave. We find them. We move. And—’ he nudged the man handling the radio links – ‘get me Casale.’
That was the name of the captain in the team Peroni had joined. One of the few things Lombardi had confided.
She reached over and grabbed the mike before he could say a word.
‘You’re not helping, signora,’ Lombardi said. ‘I invited you here to watch and advise when necessary. Your assistance is welcome when I ask for it—’
‘We agreed a process with these people. They go to that service. The Bergamotti leave one way with Nic and Leo. Mancuso and the rest leave the other and you take them there—’
‘Bergamotti’s an old man. Once it gets out he’s betrayed these people he’ll be begging us to take him into custody. The rest are ours when we want—’
‘No!’ Her voice was loud, her manner unmistakable. ‘Listen to me, Lombardi. You’re a jumped-up pen-pusher playing cops and robbers here. We have lives on the line. Men in the middle of these criminals. Screw with these people and they will turn on us. We will be burying colleagues and I promise you this—’ she grabbed the mike right out of his hand – ‘if there’s one drop of needless blood up there in those hills I will pursue you to the bitter end. I’ll make damned sure you get hauled in front of the nastiest, most brutal internal inquiry you’ve ever witnessed. And I will crucify you there.’
The mike went down on the desk. The nearest desk jockey, a man in his fifties with a greying beard and sharp eyes, picked it up and placed it out of Lombardi’s reach. ‘She knows what she’s talking about. So do I. Only a fool or an amateur starts improvising in operations like this. You do that if you have to.’ He pointed to the nearest monitor. ‘Right now we don’t. Look.’
He’d put up the feed from a camera on the autostrada. A line of identical black Mercedes people carriers, was working its way onto a narrow winding road that led to the tracks behind Manodiavolo.
‘Jesus,’ Teresa whispered, ‘they might as well put up a sign.’
She counted them. Six vehicles, all seemingly occupied. ‘There could be fifty men there. We’ve got sixteen. And Peroni.’
‘I could – I could call for local backup,’ Lombardi stuttered.
She just looked at him and he didn’t say another word.
‘We watch, we let them go there,’ she said. ‘We let them walk to the place they’re going. When they come out …’
Peroni was terrible around guns and violence. Not least because his heavy, imposing presence made him such an obvious target.
‘Am I allowed to talk to Casale now?’ Lombardi asked with mock politeness.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said and made the call.
It was hard to push from his memory that first visit with Lucia, to stop thinking about her, wondering why she’d vanished so quickly and without a word. Then they followed the narrow winding track into the cavern and dodged beneath the narrow entrance behind the wheezing but determined Gabriele. As they entered the quiet and the dark all thoughts of anything but the task ahead soon vanished.
The chapel was already prepared for the service, by Vanni that morning he guessed. Candles stood in alcoves he’d never noticed, washing the cavern in a warm and smoky light. The faintest breeze was stirring the flickering flames, fanning the persistent fragrance of burning incense over the smell of damp and mould. From the frescoes on the walls the eyes of a succession of martyred saints seemed to glitter, like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise. An electric lamp had been set up above the altar, illuminating the precious silver clasp there and the sarcophagus of Carcagnosso. Around the three holes in the stone coffin Vanni had set rings of mountain flowers, yellow and purple and white, garlands for the ceremony to come.
And the place was full, every chair before the altar occupied, while more men stood in silence at the sides. All in dark suits, mostly middle-aged, a few older. In the crowded semi-dark it was hard to guess at numbers. But it could have been fifty or more. Those seated waited patiently, a few with hats on their laps, some swatting away flies and the heavy humid heat of the cave with what looked like coppola caps. A couple turned and looked at Gabriele Bergamotti as he entered, muttered a few words in a dialect he still could barely interpret. Then said nothing more. The summit was meant for the restaurant in Cariddi, a private occasion where the politics of organized crime in Calabria, Sicily and beyond would be on the table for discussion. Not that it wou
ld ever happen.
‘Gentlemen,’ Gabriele announced in a booming, theatrical voice, as he strode to the altar, the priest behind him. ‘Welcome to the Chapel of the Holy Clasp. To the resting place of a man called Carcagnosso who sailed here centuries ago from his native Spain.’ He beckoned at the stone sarcophagus then clicked his fingers at his brother. ‘Him we honour. We have wine from our vineyards, milk from our cows, honey from our hives.’ Vanni walked forward and placed three small brass jugs in front of the altar. His brother gestured at the shining silver clasp. ‘But most of all we give thanks for this precious object. A gift from Heaven to a man called Apollinario back when the world was different. Father …’
The priest stepped forward, nervous in the yellow light.
‘They have already chosen,’ Gabriele went on. ‘One among them, the most venerable, has been picked for the task. With your guidance he will touch the clasp then feed our brother in his tomb. This is a rare occasion, one to be remembered and shared. I believe most of you in our humble congregation have never witnessed it before.’ He waited and there was no murmur of dissent. ‘Good. Now …’
He reached out and held onto the priest for support. ‘I’m too old to read the passage as I once used to. My brother too dim. My son too young. For that we require …’ Returned from the altar, Vanni let his hand fall on Falcone’s shoulder at that moment. ‘A new friend from afar.’
‘I’m not a man for reading—’ Falcone objected.
‘Oh, come, sir.’ Gabriele laughed from the front. Vanni urged Falcone forward until he stood beside the tomb. ‘You’re a cultured soul. I hear it in your voice. The book …’ The priest passed over a bible, open at the page. ‘Just a short passage. That’s all.’
Trapped in front of the audience of dark suits there was no way he could escape.
Gabriele tapped the page. ‘This is no ordinary service, friend. Not a mass. Not like any you’ll find back home. The priest here will perform the ritual. But first an ordinary man, a sinner, must say the words.’ He patted Falcone’s shoulder. ‘You’re a sinner, sir. As are we all. The book …’
Falcone looked at the sea of faces in front of him. The man was surely there, the one chosen to touch the clasp and make an offering to the tomb. Mancuso. It had to be.
