Kill the Father

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Kill the Father Page 43

by Sandrone Dazieri


  Four days after the opening of the barrels, while the newspapers were beginning to debate whether the woman at the center of that story was a murderous lunatic or a misunderstood heroine, Colomba was awakened at dawn by the prison guards and hastily marched into the interview room. There she found Spinelli awaiting her arrival.

  In spite of the early hour and her weariness, Colomba displayed her usual respect for the investigating magistrates. “At your disposal, your honor,” she said.

  The prosecuting magistrate ran the back of her hand over her forehead. She, too, seemed tired and worried. “I’ve come to ask you for your cooperation, and I have to make it clear that, if you choose to accept, we’re not offering any kind of deal. My hands are tied, as far as that goes.”

  Colomba didn’t understand, but she nodded anyway. “Just tell me what you need.”

  “Six hours ago, the Rome Mobile Squad got a tip. A man who says he’d handled a real estate transaction, a property purchase, on behalf of the suspect now in detention whom we know as the German. Before you ask, in this transaction, too, he used a false name.”

  “What property is this?” Colomba asked.

  “A farmhouse near the western bypass road of Rome. The officers of the Mobile Squad entered the property and found ten industrial shipping containers. The containers had been modified with the addition of small entry hatches”—she hesitated—“and the entry hatches had been booby-trapped.”

  Colomba felt a shiver of horror. “Booby-trapped?”

  “With C-4 and detonators: handmade but extremely sophisticated. If the doors are forced or opened in any but the exact right way, all ten of the containers will blow sky high.”

  Colomba leapt to her feet and grabbed the judge’s hand. “They’re in there, aren’t they?”

  The judge didn’t pull back, and she nodded to the officer observing the conversation to stay where he was. “We . . . don’t know for certain.”

  Colomba let herself drop back down into her chair. “The children . . .”

  “Maybe,” said Spinelli. “What we’re asking you is to go to the place and provide whatever information you possess to facilitate the work of the rescue squad. It’ll take the bomb squad about six hours to finish their work. By then you’ll be there, obviously under armed guard—that is, if you give your consent.”

  Colomba was filled with hope. She did her best to push that hope away, out of fear of jinxing herself, but she couldn’t do it. She kept thinking of the children, praying they were still alive. “Of course I’ll go, your honor . . . Anything you ask. But it’s Dante you need, not me.”

  Spinelli flashed her a half smile. “He asked for you, Deputy Captain. Your presence is one of the conditions he set for being there. Among other things.”

  The other things were a Neapolitan coffeepot, a camp stove, and a sack of ground, freshly roasted single-origin arabica coffee from the Torrefazione Vittoria of Cremona, which he had been told was the best coffee roaster in the area. When she was escorted under armed guard to his hospital room, Colomba found him stretched out on the bed drinking his tenth cup with an ecstatic expression. She was handcuffed; he had a male nurse keeping an eye on everything he did. They didn’t hug, but they did smile, and Colomba saw that he was beside himself with excitement.

  “Did you hear, CC? They’ve found them.”

  “They’re not positive,” said Colomba.

  Dante sighed in exasperation. “I am. Trust me.”

  “I will when you explain to me about the bluebird.”

  He flashed his sarcastic grin. “Soon. I don’t want to talk about it before getting my thoughts organized. And I have to read a boring document in English that Roberto brought me this morning.”

  “In English?”

  “Yes, and as a language, there’s far too much of it around, I agree. I’d have already finished if they would let me have Internet access.”

  “You can forget about that,” said the male nurse.

  “You see? How are they taking us to Rome? In an armored car?”

  “Helicopter.”

  Dante lost his smile. “Not a chance.”

  “It’s an air ambulance. You’ll be asleep the whole way. We’ll sedate you here. And you’ll wake up at the airport. With me right next to you,” said Colomba.

  Dante writhed on the bed. “I can’t breathe, I need air.”

  “You’ll get plenty of air on the flight, too much, even,” said Colomba, tersely. “And try to remember why you’re doing it.”

  Dante continued to writhe for another good minute, sweating copiously. “Okay. But I want to be sedated now; otherwise I’ll change my mind.”

  “No problem,” said the male nurse. “If that would make you shut up for a minute. I’ll go call the doctor.”

  Dante was sedated, placed in a stretcher, and then loaded onto the helicopter. Boarding with him were Colomba, Spinelli, and three officers from the Cremona Mobile Squad. It seemed to Colomba that the flight lasted a lifetime, but just two hours later she was looking down on the asphalt of the Rome bypass highway as it rose up beneath her and then a ramshackle building surrounded by the earth-tone rectangles of the shipping containers, half-hidden in the trees. It was ten in the morning on the dot when they landed. Dante was brought to with an injection of stimulant. He leapt to his feet as if spring-loaded, running in his dressing gown and slippers straight toward the line of policemen surrounding the building. He was halted by the men of his police escort, handcuffed, and led with Colomba to see the director of operations, none other than Curcio, with his usual rumpled appearance.

  “Signor Torre, at last we meet. Madame Judge . . .” They shook hands; then Curcio looked Colomba in the eyes. “Deputy Captain Caselli, I’m happy to know you, even if you might well wish you were anywhere but here.”

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else for anything on earth,” she replied. “I understand you’ve taken my case to heart, sir. I’ve wanted a chance to thank you.”

  He shook his head. “Wait and see how it turns out before you say that. You’re still in a state of detention. Madame Judge, are the handcuffs really necessary?”

  “I’m afraid they are.”

  Curcio shrugged and spoke to Dante. “What can you tell us?”

  Dante looked at the containers. They were old pieces of junk covered with graffiti and rust, arranged in an irregular fan shape, each some twenty feet distant from the next. Dante decided that they were even smaller than his silo. Narrower. He felt his breath catch, but the sedative still circulating in his blood placated him. “Have you opened them yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet; we’re waiting for the bomb squad to run some last checks.”

  “The young children won’t give you any problems,” said Dante. “But you’ll have to sedate the older boys immediately.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’ve grown up in there. And they’ve learned the rules. You can’t leave for any reason whatsoever. You can’t even think of leaving. Give them chocolate. That’s the reward.”

  “The reward?” Curcio asked.

  “For when we’re good boys,” Dante explained.

  “Understood,” said Curcio, trying not to shiver.

  “And make sure Ruggero Palladino’s parents come. And Luca Maugeri’s father. Both of those boys are in there.”

  “You can’t be so certain,” Spinelli broke in. “And Stefano Maugeri is being detained under court order. We’d need the permission of the supervisory judge.”

  “Then send for his sister-in-law, Giulia Balestri.” He dictated from memory her address and phone number.

  Curcio took note. “If you’re wrong, it’s going to be a cruel trick to play on them,” he said.

  “I’m never wrong. Just ask your colleague.”

  The colleague was Colomba. She smiled. “He’s wrong quite often, but he’s not this time.”

  Curcio nodded and handed the sheet of paper with the names and details to Lieutenant Infanti, who turned purple when he
saw Colomba. She ignored him, and he hurried away.

  Half an hour later, a fiber-optic cable was inserted into the first shipping container. On the monitor they saw that it had been transformed into a minuscule prison, with its own chemical toilet. A filthy adolescent boy with long hair was shaking uncontrollably, standing with his face to the wall, hands clasped behind his back. Like a schoolboy being punished, thought Colomba.

  Dante recommended having a single man go in, without uniform, without weapons. A paramedic with an especially reassuring appearance and a degree in psychology was chosen. He entered the container after one of the bomb squad men cut the detonator wires and pried open the door. The prisoner went on staring at the wall, pretending not to notice. At Dante’s suggestion, the paramedic called him “son” and placed his hand on his shoulder. The prisoner screamed and began running in circles in the container until he could be detained and sedated. From an examination of his physical condition, the rescue team was able to determine that he hadn’t been given food or water in the past several days.

  As Dante had predicted, the younger children reacted less drastically, within the limits of their conditions. Dante recognized the symptoms of autism in three of the younger children and two adolescents, varying in gravity from individual to individual.

  The fourth adolescent greeted his rescuer brandishing a piece of wood, but he lowered it immediately when Dante called to him from outside the container: “Stop, Beast!” The boy kneeled to the ground with his head between his hands.

  Dante mentally asked the boy’s forgiveness and felt filthy inside. Then he broke into tears, as did nearly everyone present and as did many viewers later that evening as they watched footage caught by a person with a cell phone in the adjoining fields.

  The boy extracted from the ninth container was Ruggero Palladino, and his parents got out of the carabinieri helicopter just in time to give him a hug before the sedative took effect. The last boy was slightly pudgy, his eyeglasses held together with adhesive tape, and he was strangely calm. Luca Maugeri. When she saw him, his aunt Giulia fainted and had to be attended to by a doctor.

  “It’s over,” Colomba told Dante, hugging him in spite of the handcuffs.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong, but of course she didn’t know that yet.

  26

  Colomba was taken back to the Cremona house of detention and Dante to the hospital, but their situations were quite different now. Colomba realized it from the number of officers who had gone back to calling her “deputy captain” and addressing her as “ma’am” instead of just “hey, you.” Dante noticed the growing number of rubberneckers and fans crowding outside the windows of his hospital room, as the news of his role in rescuing the prisoners began to spread. If anyone had nominated him for the Nobel Prize or for sainthood, there would very likely have been a groundswell of support. There was also a drastic change in the status of Stefano Maugeri, who was released immediately once his son was found alive; there was also a corresponding change in the status of De Angelis, who was promptly and urgently stripped of all authority in the investigation of the Vivaro mountain meadows murder by the Superior Council of the Magistrature, Italy’s highest judicial body. De Angelis held two press conferences in twenty-four hours: the first to denounce the decision, the second to announce his retirement from the judiciary to devote himself to a private legal practice; both press conferences were by and large ignored.

  The investigations of Colomba and Dante were thus transferred to the Cremona district attorney’s office; that office immediately ordered Dante’s release and began laying the groundwork to do the same with Colomba once the German’s arsenal was discovered, seven days after the plastic drums were opened. The arsenal was found near the Roman farmhouse where the containers had been hidden. Not only were there handguns and rifles of various makes and provenances, there was also twenty pounds of C-4 with the same chemical signature as that used in the bombing that had killed Rovere. Along with it was a floor plan of Rovere’s apartment.

  If De Angelis had still been in charge of the investigation, he probably would have claimed that the German and Colomba were surely accomplices and perhaps even lovers, but luckily everything had changed. Colomba was released from prison on the morning of the eighth day but wasn’t even given time to enjoy a breath of fresh air before she was hastily ushered into a briefing at the district attorney’s office. Dante was the keynote speaker. It was going to be held on a sunny terrace. When Colomba saw him arrive in an impeccable black suit and with a cocky attitude, she understood that the audience was going to be treated to quite a show that day.

  Dante stopped a few yards short of the table, waiting to make sure everyone was looking at him, smiled, lit a cigarette, and then shook hands all around, announcing his name each time. There were Curcio, Spinelli, her secretary, the forensic archaeologist from LABANOF who had performed the examination of the bones, and a man in his early sixties with a beard and a buzz cut, without a hair out of place. Colomba immediately identified him as a carabiniere. His name was Di Marco, and he was a colonel in the Internal Information and Security Agency, or IISA.

  Dante shook his hand with an eager grin. “So they managed to talk you into it,” he said.

  “I hope this isn’t going to be a waste of time,” the colonel replied, grimly.

  “Actually, that’s exactly what you do hope,” Dante observed and sat down at one end of the table, sliding to the center a pile of folders that he’d brought with him. “This is a short report that I drew up in the past few days, strictly as a memo. At the end you’ll find a short bibliography concerning the principal topics.”

  Everyone took a copy: it was about twenty typed pages stapled together. Colomba already knew what was in it because Minutillo had given her an advance peek at the document before she was released from jail, to make sure she was prepared. If she hadn’t lived through what she’d lived through in the past several weeks, she would have considered it a compilation of idiocies. Instead it all made perfect sense to her.

  The man from IISA looked at the headline on the first page of the report and turned pale. It said: PROJECT BLUEBIRD.

  “Let me remind you all that today’s meeting is informal in nature and that we called it to give Signor Torre a chance to express his view of the events now under investigation by this district attorney’s office,” Spinelli began. “Can you briefly summarize what you think is at issue here, Signor Torre?”

  Dante smiled. “In two words? National interest.”

  “Maybe we’re going to need more than two words, in that case,” said Spinelli, baffled.

  “Let’s start with the established facts. You’ll find an outline on page two of your document,” Dante began in an exaggeratedly affected tone of voice: the only thing missing was a pair of pince-nez glasses to make him look like a professor of days gone by. There was a rustling of pages. “In 1975,” he went on, “the Church Committee of the US Senate certified that, beginning in 1950 and continuing at least to 1973, the CIA, with the cooperation of the FBI, carried out a series of experiments on behavioral control and the alteration of personalities by means of such drugs as LSD and barbiturates, physical violence, coercion, and sensory deprivation. The avowed purpose was to create agents capable of obeying orders even in defiance of their own free will, as well as to withstand interrogation. In their defense, they were afraid of the possibility that the Soviet Union might beat them to it,” he added ironically. “They were hoping to use the agents against Castro, along with the exploding cigars.”

  “The Manchurian Candidate,” said Roberta, the scientist from LABANOF.

  Curcio looked at her in amazement. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “They even made a movie about it,” she replied with a smile.

  “More than one,” said Dante. “But those who have made serious studies of the topic consider that the declared objective was just a cover. It’s impossible to force someone to kill if he doesn’t want to; you can’t make peo
ple obey posthypnotic commands like so many robots. And simply paying a professional killer costs less. Altering an opponent’s personality, breaking it or deleting inconvenient memories, on the other hand, is far more useful for a government and its henchmen.”

  “Who were the subjects of the experiments?” asked Curcio, his curiosity piqued.

  “First and foremost, thousands of US soldiers, who according to the rules of engagement were all considered to be ‘volunteers.’ They also used convicts from prisons, patients from hospitals and insane asylums, and unsuspecting citizens selected at random. In particular, among those who were given LSD without their knowledge, there were numerous suicides, acts of self-mutilation, outbursts of violence, and long-term cases of psychosis. We know that in one case all the clients of a house of prostitution were drugged and brutally interrogated, in the sure knowledge that none of them would file a complaint. In another case, a substance that was designed to trigger psychotic episodes was dispersed as an aerosol spray in the subway.”

 

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