Mike greeted a man in a white doctor’s coat and tie who showed them the way through the corridors. They zigzagged between shuffling elderly men and women, past rooms where the TV was on at maximum volume.
They came into a single room. It was sparsely furnished, with a TV, a bookcase with no books, and a bed made with a white crocheted cover.
At the window stood an elderly man with his hands behind his back.
“I saw you coming,” he said without turning around.
“He’s all yours,” whispered Mike, letting Milo and Benedetti past him.
They introduced themselves, and the old man turned toward them. He was of medium height and slender as an old gym teacher. His beard stubble was gray and matched the cold eyes. He had on a pair of gray pants, checked shirt and wool jacket.
Mario Marino could have walked into any bar in any village whatsoever in Italy, and only drawn welcoming nods.
“What do you want?”
His voice was rough, and he talked with an obvious accent.
“We want to talk about the Corvette F541 that went down between Tunisia and Sicily on May 23, 1977,” Milo replied.
The old man did not respond. His mouth was closed, almost clenched, and his eyes revealed no reaction. He was a man who let his face do the talking. Raised eyebrows, rolling eyes, a little smile which in various combinations expressed things like “I don’t give a damn about what you’re saying,” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and “you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Milo held his gaze and continued.
“You were the captain on board.”
Still no response. This was no surprise to Milo. What he had managed to find out about Mario Marino painted a picture of an unscrupulous, greedy man with a number of lives on his conscience.
“The ship went down between three and four o’clock in the morning, and a short time afterward you were picked up by your friends. Long before the Coast Guard was on the scene with boats and helicopters.”
Marino still had his hands behind his back, and stared with contempt at Milo, who didn’t care to wait for a comment from him. He felt himself getting furious simply by looking at the old man who stood there in front of him as if he owned the world.
“Two weeks later, on June sixth, you came to New Jersey. You came by sea, and immediately started on your new career. As a reliable employee for Tommy Galvano.”
For the first time the eyes of the former military captain revealed uncertainty. Milo was sure that right now he was wondering how the hell this Norwegian policeman had unearthed his story.
It was when he had seen the letters and e-mails from Luigi to his mother and read about the captain that made him decide to dig into the case. First he had done his own research before he called his cousin.
“Ma Milo, caro cugino. But Milo, dear cousin. Do you know what you’re asking?”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t important. This captain is alive, I’m sure of it. And one way or another he has a link to the Mafia.”
“Do you know how many Mario Marinos there are? There must be thousands. And surely he must have changed his name.”
“There must be someone you can ask. This is a guy who must have acquired many enemies in the past thirty years,” Milo had replied.
And Corrado delivered the goods. It turned out that Marino kept his name, and only adjusted his first name to the more American-sounding Marty instead of Mario. And Marty Marino had made himself extremely unpopular among several of the other four Mafia families who controlled New York along with the Galvano family. For one thing the Arradondo family was not very pleased with him after he beat up several prostitutes under their protection in the early 1980s, and a few years later he again pushed the limits by expanding the territory for the Galvano family’s narcotics sales.
But this was not enough to incite reprisals against him. Instead Carlo Arradondo used the violations in negotiations with Tommy Galvano. In the end this was only about money anyway.
When Corrado via his contacts started requesting information about Marino, it was clear however that some saw their chance to express their gratitude. In less than a day they had the address of the nursing home and a brief history of what the former captain had done after he abandoned his ship and fled to the U.S.
“We have a complete overview of what you’ve done. There are plenty of people who will inform on you. What we are wondering is why you did it,” said Milo.
The other man still said nothing.
“Why did you make sure the ship sank? And let your crew die?” Milo repeated.
But instead of answering, Marino turned toward the window again and stared out at the rain.
“It’s fine. I know why,” said Milo.
There could only be one answer to the question, and that was that the captain collaborated with the Mafia to let their boats with guns and narcotics pass. He recalled how Luigi referred to the captain as a person with an irresponsible attitude toward regulations. And if you combined that with greed, the path was short to settings where the cash flows were quick and illegal.
“Obviously we know everything about the contraband operation. But why that particular day? What happened?” Milo asked.
“He thinks he’s a man of honor. But doesn’t know he’s a man of dishonor,” said Benedetti with contempt in his voice.
They stood silently observing Marino.
“The radio telegrapher,” he said suddenly.
Still with the rough voice.
“What do you mean?” asked Milo.
“The radio telegrapher heard a message he shouldn’t have heard. About a delivery. I had to react quickly.”
Milo thought about what Luigi had written. So he was right that something did not add up when he suddenly recalled that he had not seen the radio telegrapher before the explosion.
“So you killed him?”
But Marino did not answer. It wasn’t necessary.
Milo continued. There was one more question he had to have an answer to. A question that was less dangerous for the former captain to answer.
“What did you think when you heard that Luigi Benevolesenza had survived?”
Marino breathed out heavily through his nostrils.
“I remember Benevolesenza. He didn’t like me. I didn’t like him,” he answered.
“You were here in the U.S. when he suddenly came back,” said Milo.
Marino nodded.
“That’s right. It was too risky for me to go back, but we checked him out.”
“Checked him out? What do you mean?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders. Milo thought about what Luigi had written about feeling watched.
“We let him live. His suspicions weren’t strong enough. And it wouldn’t have looked good if a national hero perished in an accident afterward,” said Marino.
“Let him live?!” said Milo contemptuously.
The old captain turned around and stared coldly at Milo.
“Let him live, yes. That’s the sort of thing we do. Decide who will live and who will die,” he said while his jaw muscles clenched.
Milo had to control himself. He stared at the sinewy old man and understood how close Luigi had been to being liquidated after he came home from Tunisia.
At the same time it was sinking in that if the shipwreck had never happened, Luigi would have come back to Italy and married his mother. And the story of the Cavalli family would have been a different one.
“Cavalli?” said the old captain. It was as if he was savoring the name. “I think I remember a Cavalli from Sicily.”
Milo did not answer, but he clenched his fists.
“He was older than me. Hung out with a couple of older boys. Errand boys for the bigger boys. Thought they were so tough in their big shoes and baggy pants.”
Milo still said nothing.
“But then he disappeared.”
Marino fixed his eyes on Milo.
“
There were rumors that he had come across a cargo. Which he sold at an unreal profit. And then he disappeared.”
They stared at each other.
“Antonio. Antonio Cavalli was his name. Are you in the family?”
Milo nodded.
“How did things actually work out for him?” asked Marino.
Not out of friendly curiosity, but more as a sadistic attempt to poke at something sore.
Milo had a desire to raise his voice. Put the old man in his place, as he tried to pull him—and his grandfather—down to his level. But he controlled himself.
“Things went extremely well for Antonio Cavalli,” he replied.
Mario Marino straightened up a notch.
“Well then,” he said.
Milo took a step backward to make room for Benedetti and his questions. He had gotten the answers and the confirmation he needed anyway. Now he knew that Luigi had been right, and that both he and his mother had balanced on a knife edge.
The Italian policeman cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
“There was a Benedetti on board. He was on his last tour with the Italian Navy before he was going to start his studies. Vicenzo Benedetti was my brother,” he said.
Milo could tell from his voice that he was concentrating on speaking as calmly as he could.
But Marino just stood and looked out the window, and did not turn to face the Italian policeman.
“I don’t remember any Benedetti,” he said in a tired voice.
Milo could see how the commissario clenched his hands, and thought that now it will happen. He’ll lose control.
But instead he simply took a step closer, so that his mouth was only a few centimeters from the old man’s ear.
“Then I’ll make sure that this is a name you remember until the day you die, and still remember while you’re burning in hell,” he said.
Marino let out a little snort. He still had not understood what was about to happen.
“Mario Marino, you can look forward to a long, difficult public trial in Italy. These nice policemen in the doorway are here to arrest you before you are deported,” said Benedetti.
Marino turned around abruptly. His eyes revealed that he had not even considered the possibility of having to stand trial for what he had done, he had gotten off so many times before.
“Arrested?”
Milo took a step toward him.
“Arrested, yes. That’s the sort of thing guys like us do. Decide who’ll be in prison, and who gets to stay outside the walls.”
44
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.”
“God have mercy on you so you can repent your sins and believe in His mercy. What do you want to talk about?”
“Do you think it’s possible to love two people at the same time?”
“Love is a strong word. Should I understand it such that you … there are two that you…”
“I’m not just thinking about me. This is a kind of recurring theme in our family.”
“I understand.”
“But if love is too strong a word for you, do you think it’s possible to feel deeply about two people at the same time?”
“I know it’s possible, my son.”
“You know? How is that?”
“I haven’t always been a priest.”
“Uh, but you haven’t…”
“Do you really think I was firmly convinced about becoming a priest ever since I was sixteen years old?”
“No, but—”
“I was a student, age twenty-one. Studied economics, philosophy and history of religion. Well then, you don’t need to say anything. A real mishmash, but that’s the way I was at that time.”
“I see.”
“And I loved a woman. Or girl, if you will. One year younger. She was a charming girl. We met each other through the choir, and before long we were a couple. She studied nursing.”
(Pause.)
“What happened?”
“We spent more and more time together. Studied together, ate together, went to the movies.”
“And?”
“No, there was no ‘and.’ That was what we did. It was enough. And we were both believers, so we weren´t in a hurry. But gradually we started talking about a future together. Our families were beside themselves with enthusiasm. I…”
(Pause.)
“Yes?”
“I was probably not quite ready for that. I was very fond of her. No doubt about that. But something held me back. The summer I turned twenty-three, I worked at a camp for the disabled. She was going to work as a home-care nurse in her hometown. We would be away from each other for two months.”
“Distance is a bitch.”
“Amen to that. Well, at this place there was another woman. Not a girl, but a woman. A twenty-seven-year-old psychologist who had recently graduated. I fell hard. I still think I have sore knees. Not because of the fall, but the way she dragged me behind her.”
“Ha! Incredible. What happened?”
“I was completely befuddled. I fell in love, and she knew it. And she enjoyed it.”
“Of course.”
“After two months I was worn out. And when my girlfriend came there, she realized that something was wrong. We talked the whole evening and far into the night. She took it well.”
“What did she say?”
“She gave me time to figure things out.”
“What about the psychologist?”
“She said she had fallen in love with me.”
“So what did you do?”
“I took a time-out. There was a third one I also loved.”
“What?! Who?”
“Jesus. The incarnation of God here on earth.”
“I see.”
“I went to France. My excuse was studies in history of religion, but in reality I was retreating. To a cloister in the south of France.”
“And how was that?”
“Like coming home.”
“But you loved two women?”
“I felt strong affection for them. But I loved God. That became my path.”
“You ran away?”
“Well. The Buddhists put it so nicely when they commit to following their path and faith. They talk about ‘seeking refuge.’ I don’t think I ran away, but it was a form of refuge.”
“What did the two women say?”
“The nursing student was very sad, but respected my decision. She’s married now with two children, and I baptized the oldest one. The psychologist is divorced for the second time and works as a relationship therapist.”
“Of course she does. But how did you know what to choose?”
“I just knew. I had a calling.”
“That simple?”
“I wouldn’t call it simple. It was the most difficult decision of my life. At the same time as it was almost a given.”
“But don’t you think it’s a bit strange? I mean, if it was God’s plan the whole time, why did he let you go through this?”
“To understand. You and others. Understand what you experience and be able to relate to it. I know what love is. I’m familiar with impossible choices.”
“And the solution is that I should enter a cloister, Father?”
“Ha, ha!”
“Because I think I’m going to disappoint you. I’m not monk material.”
“That’s fine. But who are these two girls? Or women?”
“One is a little younger than me. Theresa. She’s Italian, charming and somehow or other she’s become a part of me. We’ve grown together. She’s loyal and the one person in the world it’s most natural for me to be with. There is a feeling of belonging.”
“And the other?”
“She’s the same age as me. Kathrin. Swedish. An amazing woman. Intelligent and challenging, and completely impossible to stop thinking about. I’m strongly attracted to her.”
“Belonging versus attract
ion, in other words.”
“Yes, maybe you can put it like that.”
“And what does your heart say?”
“Everything and nothing.”
“Exactly. So what will you do?”
“Not what you did, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“You ran away. Chose neither of them.”
“So you will choose one of them.”
“So far I’m choosing both.”
“That sounds risky, my son.”
“With all due respect, Father, no riskier than your choice.”
“No, perhaps you have a point. So what will you do now?”
“Go to the airport.”
“And where will you go first?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t bought a ticket yet.”
“But you’re leaving?”
“I’m leaving.”
“And you’re coming back?”
“I’m coming back.”
“Good, my son. The peace of God.”
“The peace of God, Father.”
* * *
The gray November rain would soon turn into November sleet, but then he wasn’t going to be there. The phone had not stopped ringing the past few days, and he had not objected to the imposed leave. Both Norwegian and Italian journalists wanted a piece of him.
He thought about the court session a few days earlier. How attorney Lehman waltzed over UNE in court and had the deportation of Oriana provisionally halted. And he remembered how Oriana, during Lehman’s verbal attack on UNE, word by word had straightened her back and dared to meet the eyes of the judges. While the in-house attorney for UNE had become steadily more stoop shouldered, and occupied by the papers on the table in front of him.
Sørensen would be seeing Sigurd Tollefsen later that day. Finally the father would find out what actually happened to his children. His son, who had not fallen into bad company, but who had confronted his teacher and warned the gym that they were being pushed steroids and growth hormones. His daughter, who had uncovered the research manipulations, and been silenced by people who wanted to save their own hides. Ingrid and Tormod Tollefsen both stood up against the injustice they saw, and Milo hoped Sigurd Tollefsen at least found some consolation in that.
Personally, Milo had enough of his own. And his own thoughts.
He wound the scarf well around his neck and buttoned up his topcoat.
The Oslo Conspiracy Page 29
