Rizzo, Sergi and the two constables approached them. 'How do we know these are the real hostages?' Rizzo asked the man who had been translating.
'Him,' the Albanian replied, pointing to Laprua, who was made to get out of the car.
Laprua lifted the hood just enough to recognise Simonetta Palladiani. He nodded and returned to the car.
'Your turn,' the Albanian said to Rizzo, who, because he had taken the initiative, must have been considered some kind of big shot, or at least a man the boss trusted.
Rizzo threw a last glance at the hostages, turned round and walked to a point not far from there, where a block of marble had already been separated from the side of the mountain. It had two vertical cuts on the sides and one horizontal cut in the base. Thin metal sheets had been inserted into the cut in the base.
He shouted at the worker to start the hydraulic pumps. The metal sheets, growing thicker until they were like cushions swollen by the force of the water, slowly lifted the enormous block.
The Albanians were following the operation without understanding what was happening.
When the crack was about a foot wide, the worker shut off the pumps and slid two wooden beams in to support the raised block. Rizzo then put his hand in and started to pull out the small bags which had been hidden in a niche gouged into the base on which the block rested.
Serpico joined them, and they arranged these small bags in two overnight bags, which they then handed over to the Albanians. One of them opened one of the overnight bags, took out a small bag at random, tasted and sniffed the contents, and nodded in approval.
'Ikim!' their chief said, after the two overnight bags had been placed in the bed of the lorry.
The cars and the lorry reversed to the edge of the clearing, turned and sped away.
Finally able to come out into the open, feeling doubly liberated, Ferrara ran towards the group, screaming into the microphone of the two-way radio, 'Don't stop them! Let them pass! Alert Superintendent Giuffi!'
Rizzo almost snatched the radio from his hand when he reached him and said, 'I'll deal with it, chief. You have something else to do.'
Massimo Verga and Simonetta Palladiani stood petrified between the two constables who had untied them and removed their hoods. Massimo had thought he recognised the voice of Superintendent Rizzo, his friend Michele's deputy, and he had felt a glimmer of understanding, but he had feared it was a hallucination, and he'd had a lot of those during this absurd captivity. He had been close to death many times, and had even reached the point where he had longed for it. The one thing that may have saved him was that his tormentors had to keep Simonetta safe. For some reason they needed her. But they certainly hadn't used kid gloves with him.
Now that he could see as well as hear, he managed to get Michele's dear face in focus just for a fraction of a second, before his eyes filled with uncontrollable tears.
Ferrara, too, had come to a halt. Seeing the wounded, suffering face of the man he had feared he would never see again, looking almost ghostly in the moonlight, he had frozen, as if spellbound, as if he wanted to savour the magic of the moment. But it was only for a matter of seconds, then he broke into a run.
They embraced for a long time, in silence. And Ferrara finally realised that he had emerged from the nightmare and come back to real life.
'It's all over . . . you'll soon be good as new,' he said, separating from him at last.
'I knew you wouldn't abandon me, Michele ... I always knew it. That's why I'm alive.'
'Take them to emergency in Carrara,' Ferrara ordered the two constables, with a glance at the woman. Despite all she had suffered, she still looked beautiful. Then he ran to the car, where Rizzo, Sergi and Fanti were waiting for him.
'Ciuffi is getting the signal loud and clear,' Rizzo said, as Sergi put on speed. They were driving in the direction of Bedizzano.
Tracking devices had been hidden in both overnight bags, which would allow them to follow the path of the target on the screen of a laptop. The Florence Squadra Mobile had a van equipped for the purpose, which in the past had allowed them to follow the cars of people suspected of being the accomplices of dangerous fugitives and had eventually led them to the fugitives' hiding places.
The van, with Ciuffi and two technicians on board, had been parked in a clearing about a mile and a half from the quarry, ready for the eventuality that Viktor wouldn't come, which would have made it pointless to arrest the Albanians on the return journey. Now it was following the convoy at a safe distance, and the police cars which had been waiting near the Fantiscritti fork were following Ferrara's car.
'They've checked those licence numbers,' Rizzo said to Ferrara. 'There's no record of the vehicles being stolen. They're registered to various owners in the provinces of Prato and Pistoia. They're checking them out now.'
Ferrara had just dialled his home number, but it was engaged. 'Good, Francesco,' he said. 'But they'll probably turn out to have been stolen anyway ... If the thefts were recent they may not yet register in the data bank.'
Rizzo nodded.
Ferrara was starting to relax.
If everything went according to plan, the tracking devices would lead them to the lair of the elusive Viktor Makregi. He still had one thing to do. He redialled his home number.
Petra answered at the third ring. 'Michele? I was trying to call you . . . well?'
The words - those words he had been hoping to say to her for nearly twenty interminable days - would not come. There was a lump in his throat which held them back.
'Hello? Michele? What's happening? Mein Gott! Michele, are you still there? Sag' doch etwas, I beg you, Michele, say something!!!'
Ferrara made an effort and overcame the emotion of the moment, but his voice sounded rough and tired. 'He's safe and well ..."
'And what about you?' she asked, and burst into tears that were a mixture of unrestrained joy at the fact that their friend was safe and continued anxiety about her husband.
'I'm okay, don't worry, but I haven't finished yet. . . Take care of Massimo now. They're taking him to hospital in Carrara.'
There was a pause.
Then, almost in a whisper, 'Michele. I love you, Michele ... Be careful. . . You know you're everything in the world to me!'
And you to me.'
Suspicious by nature, the Albanians did not release Salvatore Laprua in Carrara, or even at the entrance to the autostrada.
It was not until they were about a mile past the Montecatini junction that Rizzo's mobile rang. He recognised Ciuffi's number on the screen and answered immediately.
'Yes, Luigi!'
'The signal stopped - in a service area . . . Ah, now they're starting again . . . I'm carrying on . . . I'll leave it to you . . .'
'Okay' Rizzo said and passed the message onto Ferrara, who ordered Sergi to enter the service area, which could not be far, and then immediately gave instructions to one of the cars following them to do the same, while the others would carry on and join Ciuffi.
They reached the service area a few minutes later.
Salvatore Laprua was standing in the car park of the motorway restaurant.
Ferrara and his men got out of their car and joined him.
He seemed calm.
Pointing towards the officers in the other car, Ferrara said, 'Signor Laprua, you have to go with my men.'
'Are they taking me home?' Laprua asked dubiously, catching something different in Ferrara's tone.
'No, Laprua. Unfortunately, things aren't over for you yet.'
'Shall I handcuff him, chief?' Fanti, who had never before been involved in a field operation, asked diligently.
Surprised, Ferrara nodded, and his secretary performed the task with a rapidity and professionalism which left them all speechless. Simple as the action was, it suggested he had been training for it. The faithful sergeant must have unsuspected ambitions!
Ferrara didn't have time to decide if he was amused or worried by this, because at that moment the o
ld man gave him, Ferrara, a look of such hatred, it was as if he had spat in his face.
He had betrayed his word; he was nothing but a common, despicable police officer.
In his old age, Salvatore Laprua had helped Ferrara to find his friend, who mattered more than all the police operations in the world, and the Squadra Mobile to track down a dangerous gang of drug traffickers and bring them to justice. He had not done it out of generosity, altruism or civic duty, that went without saying, but partly because he had been forced to, partly in obedience to an old code of honour and respect. But he was still a criminal. A powerful Mafia boss, a drug trafficker and a murderer.
Ferrara did not consider that he owed him any explanation but, before leaving him, he could not help saying, 'It's not what you think, Zi Turi. I'm not arresting you over the drugs, I gave you my word on that. I'm arresting you for the murder of Claudia Pizzi.'
40
'They left the autostrada at the Pistoia tollbooth, but then got straight back on it,' Ciuffi said. 'Now they're heading back in the same direction they came from.'
It was a few minutes since Ferrara's car had left the service area, preceded by the one with Salvatore Laprua on board, which had set off back to Headquarters at top speed, with the flashing light attached to the roof.
'We'll be there!' Rizzo replied, then passed Ciuffi's message on to Ferrara, adding, 'They may be smarter than we thought. They wouldn't even tell Laprua where they were going.'
While Rizzo had been talking to Ciuffi, Ferrara had received a communication from the operations room at Headquarters, telling him that the three vehicles the Albanians were using had been stolen from their rightful owners in the last twelve hours.
'That's why there was no record in the data bank. It was all calculated. They're professionals . . . Get on to the helicopter pilots. I want them up in the air now. Tell them to stay over the Pistoia area and keep in contact with Ciuffi.'
There were two helicopters, Augusta Bell 212 troop carriers, authorised for night flying. On each of them, apart from the two crew members, were six officers from NOCS, the special forces unit brought in to deal with high-risk situations. Ferrara had sent for them from Rome when he and Rizzo had worked out their plan of action and the possible variations.
They joined the tracker van and the other cars just after the Montecatini Terme tollbooth. Here, the Albanians left the autostrada, and the police vehicles did the same.
'From now on we'd better keep more of a distance. We don't want to risk being spotted at a traffic light or if there's an unexpected traffic jam.'
Rizzo passed Ferrara's instructions on to the other vehicles — especially Ciuffi's van.
'No problem, Francesco,' Ciuffi replied. 'The signal is still loud and clear.'
Montecatini, one of the best known spa resorts in Europe, celebrated for its wonderful thermal park which covers a million and a half square feet in the heart of the town, had in the past few years become a magnet for leading Mafiosi, especially from Catania. Drugs and drug money flowed freely in the local bars and at the famous race course, II Sesana.
It also attracted organised crime figures from outside Italy. It was a place where it was easy for them to merge into the background amid the fluctuating population of visitors and patients taking the waters. It was also a place where there were many nightclubs employing young girls from Eastern Europe as strippers and hostesses - useful for luring wealthy businessmen, local or otherwise.
So that's where Viktor Makregi hangs out, undisturbed, Ferrara thought with a touch of irony. If you wanted to hide, best to hide in the most obvious place - just like in Edgar Allan Poe's story The Purloined Letter, which his friend Massimo had made him read in one of his endless attempts to elevate him culturally!
The messages between Ciuffi and the other cars were coming thick and fast now. The road system was getting denser, and prompt, precise directions were needed. The helicopter pilots were ordered to fly as close as possible to the built-up area of Montecatini, but not over the town itself, until further orders.
Once past the centre of town, the Albanians went in the direction of the village of Montecatini Alta. They drove a few more miles and then turned onto a dirt road which led to a small, isolated two-storey brick house, with a renovated old barn and other outbuildings adjoining it.
Hiding their vehicles in the barn, next to Simonetta Palladiani's black BMW, the men took out the overnight bags and started towards the house.
Viktor Makregi was waiting for them together with four more men and two beautiful young women, clearly prostitutes. He was tall and fair-haired, with a squashed nose - as ugly as Elisa Rocca had described him.
The Albanian who had made the decisions in the quarry put the two overnight bags on a table. 'Ne rregull, Viktor, ketu eshte malli,' he said, indicating that he had the heroin.
Viktor embraced him. One of the men who had been waiting with him poured the contents of a bottle with the word Konjak on it into crystal glasses already laid out on the table.
'Gezuar!' they cried, laughing and toasting their boss.
The only one who did not laugh was Viktor. He never laughed.
Ferrara took a pair of night vision goggles from the boot of the car and put them on. They had approached with their headlights off, shielded by the vegetation, and had stopped at a safe distance from the house. The windows on the ground floor were all lit up despite the hour.
There were no cars parked outside, and no sign of people or animals. But this had to be the place: this was where the signal had stopped, and there were no other houses in the vicinity.
'Let's get ready' Ferrara ordered. 'Francesco, give the helicopter pilots the coordinates. Tell them to come down over the target in exactly ten minutes. They'll have to light up the area and land their crews. You'll be in charge of them. Split them between the main target and the other buildings.'
The countdown had begun. This wasn't the first time he had directed an operation like this. It required split-second timing, especially in coordinating movement on the ground with that of the helicopters. In order not to alert the occupants of the house, the helicopters would have to arrive only when the target and the surrounding area were completely covered.
In the seven, or at most eight, minutes remaining, the men under his command - twenty in all - put on bulletproof vests, got ready the weapons they had been issued - some had Ml2 machine pistols, others 92/SB Berettas - and listened to Ferrara's curt, precise orders. They would have to surround the target so that all possible escape routes were closed off, and almost simultaneously break in, counting on the element of surprise.
When everything was clear and they had radio confirmation that the helicopters would be directly overhead in exactly two minutes, Ferrara gave the signal for the final phase of Operation Stella to get under way.
The young women had been sent to bed. The men were still euphoric. They sat around the long rectangular dining table strewn with empty glasses and bottles, the two open overnight bags on one side and on the other the bags of drugs. The drugs were the centre of attention, and the men stared adoringly and drunkenly at them.
But not Viktor Makregi, the only one who never lowered his guard and the only one who had time to raise his rifle -which he had propped against the table beside him - when all hell broke loose, the doors and windows were smashed open, the police yelled at them to surrender, and helicopter blades whirred deafeningly outside.
Without even shouldering his rifle, Viktor fired a first shot just as the door was broken down and a group of policemen appeared in the doorway with Ferrara at their head. The bullet missed Ferrara but hit the left arm of one of the officers behind him. Serpico, once again giving proof of his quick reflexes - the origin, along with his appearance, of the nickname - shoved Ferrara to the floor with his shoulder. There was a burst of fire from one of the M12s, which hit Viktor full in the chest, throwing him to the floor. He died in a vain attempt to get back on his feet.
When they saw tha
t, the members of the gang decided not to offer any resistance. Some tried running into the other rooms, but were soon caught and rounded up.
Ferrara walked up to Viktor and knelt beside him.
He couldn't even count the number of bullets which had hit him. Probably the entire round. He searched in his pockets until he found his wallet.
There were no papers, which was only to be expected, and nothing else that gave the slightest clue to his identity. Only a few hundred-thousand-lire notes and a photograph of Stella beside a rustic hearth with a blazing fire. She was smiling at the camera. On the ring finger of her right hand, he noticed the ring with the fake amethyst. Then he stood up, went to Serpico and, without a word, hugged him tight. He had saved his life.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Like A Florentine Death, this is a work of imagination, but with a basis in fact: that of my own professional experience. The methods and procedures depicted are those of the Italian police, with one exception: it would not be permitted to send an undercover police officer into prison in order to gain information. I could have changed the particular episode by again resorting to the device of a bugged cell, which in fact I use elsewhere. I preferred to use the idea of an undercover officer because it made for a more effective narrative, and also to demonstrate that in such cases, the law could be made more flexible, giving wider possibilities to the investigators while still respecting the rights of those under investigation. I have also introduced into this novel certain episodes which I actually experienced, although I have transposed them in time and otherwise changed them for the purposes of the narrative. Apart from these, any reference to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Death in Tuscany Page 33
