The Death Mask Murders

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘The eternal conflict? Good and evil?’ Cesaria speculated.

  ‘Sometimes almost impossible to tell apart.’

  ‘I know what you mean. This Mafia court case is a bit like that. Good and evil sitting side by side at the kitchen table; sleeping in the same bed.’

  ‘What’s Donizetti like?’ asked Jack, changing the subject.

  ‘Tough, like Grimaldi, and just as determined. A very courageous woman. We call her the Iron Lady. There have been several attempts on her life. She lives under constant police protection.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  Once again, Grimaldi had to use all his contacts and influence to get permission for Jack to meet with Giuseppina Giordano, one of the star witnesses in the upcoming Mafia trial. But what had finally made it all possible was Cesaria’s relationship with Nicola Donizetti, the lead prosecutor, and head of the investigation that was behind the sensational trial due to start in Lamezia Terme.

  Cesaria and Donizetti had worked closely together for several months, collecting intelligence and evidence about the Giordano family’s operations in Florence and other parts of Italy. In fact, it was Cesaria’s secret collaboration with Giuseppina after her son’s assassination that had finally persuaded the wife of one of Italy’s most notorious Mafia bosses to turn against her husband and her family, break the code of silence, and agree to testify about the Mafia and its complex web of corrupt business interests and influence in high places, which not only protected the criminal empire, but also made it possible.

  This in turn had been the beginning of the Vedo, Sento, Parlo – I see, I hear, I speak – movement, which had assumed momentum once Giuseppina’s cooperation with the police, and the reasons behind it, had become public. Suddenly, dozens of Mafia wives, mothers and daughters turned against the Mafia that had ruled their lives for generations, and said ‘enough is enough!’

  ‘But everything comes at a price,’ continued Cesaria as the plane prepared for landing. ‘The Mafia hit back with ruthless acts of violence that ripped families apart and left mutilated bodies of mothers and grandmothers lying in the fields and on the steps of churches after Sunday mass. Instead of cowing the rebellious women into submission, this only hardened their resolve, and more women came forward and joined the movement.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ said Jack, finding it difficult to believe the picturesque capital of Calabria that looked so peaceful and inviting from above, hid such dark secrets.

  Prosecutor Donizetti met them at the airport with two heavily armed police officers by her side, and quickly ushered them into a secure corridor leading to another part of the airport where an army helicopter – its engines running – was waiting.

  ‘I want us to get away from here quickly,’ she said, handing Jack and Cesaria bulletproof vests. ‘Here, put these on. Airports are dangerous places, difficult to control. Especially now.’

  Impressed, Jack watched Donizetti – a petite, energetic woman in her fifties – climb into the helicopter while the two police officers stood guard. Moments later, the chopper took off and turned north towards the hills.

  After a short flight, the helicopter descended and landed next to a remote farmhouse on top of a hill. Armed police met the chopper and stood guard while everyone got out and hurried into the house, the whole operation taking only a few minutes.

  ‘You can take these off now,’ said Donizetti, undoing her flak vest. Inside, the farmhouse was welcoming and cosy. Giuseppina, a stocky woman in her seventies, was in the kitchen, cooking. ‘I made us some lunch,’ she said, embracing Donizetti and Cesaria. ‘Almost ready.’ It was clear the women had formed a close bond during difficult times, and appeared totally at ease in each other’s company. Donizetti introduced Jack and began to set the table. Cesaria poured some wine into a rustic jug and rummaged around for some glasses in the old kitchen dresser next to the stove.

  ‘I hope you like pasta,’ said Giuseppina, speaking passable English with a heavy Italian accent. She took off her apron and looked at Jack with interest.

  ‘What’s there not to like, when it smells so good,’ said Jack, smacking his lips. ‘What are you making?’

  ‘Ravioli Calabrese. Ravioli filled with – how do you say? – a mix of Provola cheese, soppressata salumi and pecorino, with a spicy tomato sauce.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘Good. First we eat, then we talk.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Cesaria told me what happened in Venice,’ said Giuseppina after Jack had finished a second helping and devoured half a loaf of bread. ‘My heart, it bleeds.’

  Jack put down his spoon and looked at Giuseppina. ‘Lorenza was an outstanding cook, just like you. She would have loved your pasta.’

  Giuseppina nodded, sadness in her eyes. ‘Somehow, we must break free from this violence. That’s why you are here, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack.

  ‘One of my sons is dead. Gunned down in the middle of Florence. The other is lost to me as well. As for my husband …’

  Cesaria stood up, walked over to Giuseppina and put an arm around her shoulders. It was a spontaneous gesture of comfort and empathy between two women who knew pain and loss. ‘You have already taken the first step,’ she said. ‘It will get easier from now on.’

  Jack was wondering what Tristan would have made of all this: The mother of the man, who most likely arranged the hit – ordered by his autocratic father while sitting in a Calabrian jail – denouncing violence and talking about loss. A hit that was meant for Tristan, but had killed the love of his life instead.

  There are no winners in this, thought Jack, searching for a way to introduce the subject that had brought them to Calabria to meet this extraordinary woman. That’s when Donizetti came to his rescue and met the subject head on, well aware that the helicopter would return shortly and take them to the airport so that Jack and Cesaria could catch their flight back to Florence. The less time they spent in Calabria, the better. The eyes and ears of the Mafia were everywhere, and mortal danger just around the corner.

  ‘Giuseppina, you know a lot about the matters we talked about,’ she said. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about Spiridon 4 and these Death Mask Murders?’

  Giuseppina stood up, walked over to the dresser and took a notebook out of a drawer. ‘Yes, I think there is. At the time, none of this made any sense, but after we spoke the other day, all the pieces fell into place,’ she said in Italian, sounding alert and strangely energised.

  The helicopter landed just as the passengers began to board the flight to Florence. Jack and Cesaria were cutting it fine, but this was intentional, as Donizetti wanted them to spend as little time as possible at the airport, which she considered high risk and dangerous.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ said Jack and shook Donizetti’s hand. ‘Let’s see where all of this takes us.’

  ‘Please keep me informed,’ shouted Donizetti, trying to make herself heard over the roar of the rotor blades. ‘You must hurry, your plane is leaving shortly. Follow me!’

  ‘Will do.’ Jack and Cesaria climbed out of the helicopter and looked around. Flanked by two armed bodyguards, Donizetti walked quickly across the tarmac towards the terminal. Jack reached for Cesaria’s arm and followed close behind.

  The trained eye of the bodyguard on Donizetti’s right saw it first. A man pushing a baggage trolley stopped, unzipped a sports bag and pulled out what looked like a sawn-off shotgun. ‘Gun! Two o’clock!’ shouted the bodyguard and reached for the gun in his shoulder holster.

  Years of working on the front line as a war correspondent in Afghanistan had taught Jack how to react to imminent danger. Without thinking, he hit the ground and pulled Cesaria down with him. Moments later the shotgun went off, followed by several shots from a handgun.

  As Jack looked up, he could see the man with the shotgun slumped against the baggage trolley. The shotgun had slipped out of his ha
nds, and half his face was missing. Gun at the ready, the bodyguard was walking towards him and kept firing. When Jack looked ahead, he could see Donizetti lying on the ground. He was unable to tell whether she was dead or alive, but the other bodyguard lying next to her was bleeding from a huge wound to the back of his head.

  ‘We must get out of here!’ shouted Jack and pulled Cesaria to her feet. ‘There could be others.’

  ‘Where’s Donizetti?’

  ‘Over there!’

  Cesaria ran across to Donizetti and knelt down next to her. She could see she was bleeding from a shoulder wound. ‘Get on that plane! Quickly!’ said Donizetti.

  ‘I can’t just leave you!’

  ‘You must. I’ll be fine; just a scratch,’ said Donizetti and pointed with her chin to the dead bodyguard lying next to her. ‘He took the bullet meant for me. Now leave! This is an order!’

  Despite the commotion on the tarmac outside, and the chaos and confusion inside, the plane took off on time. The airport had been sealed off, and dozens of police rushed to the scene. Siren’s blaring, ambulances kept arriving.

  ‘Can you believe what has just happened?’ said Jack as the plane began to climb and turned north, heading for Florence.

  Cesaria just stared out the window, her face ashen. Jack reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘I need a drink; what about you?’

  Cesaria nodded but didn’t reply.

  Jack knew from experience that in stressful situations like this, humour was the best way to deal with the unthinkable.

  ‘One of the best pastas I can remember, served in a stunning location guarded by armed police, and prepared by the wife of the man who most likely ordered the murder of a close friend of mine. And then we almost get killed at the airport. Some breadcrumbs, eh? I don’t think Calabria is for us, what do you reckon?’

  Slowly, Cesaria turned and looked gratefully at Jack, a hesitant little smile creasing the corners of her mouth. ‘Thanks, Jack.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For reacting so quickly. God knows what would have happened if—’

  ‘Hush. We are both here, and Donizetti will be fine.’

  ‘I hope so. I told you, she’s special.’

  ‘Courage always is.’

  ‘Do you think it was worth it?’ asked Cesaria. ‘Coming here, I mean?’

  ‘Giuseppina gave us all she could.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘I know. Well, let’s have a closer look: she overheard only snippets that could, I stress could, be relevant.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s no doubt that Teodora was the go-between. She visited the Giordano villa in Florence often; we know that. Spiridon 4 was involved, so much is clear. The question is, what were the assignments all about? Were the Death Mask Murders part of it and, more importantly, who was behind it all? Who was the client paying the bills? Right?’

  ‘Yes. But there was more,’ said Cesaria.

  ‘There was. This intriguing video she mentioned.’

  ‘Exactly. Remember what she said? She walked into the study to serve lunch to her husband and her son—’

  ‘That’s when she saw it,’ interjected Jack.

  ‘A gruesome video of a shocking murder.’

  ‘And overheard the one thing that could help us here.’

  ‘Correct. Something about making money on the dark web through gambling involving death?’

  ‘Ritual murder. What does that remind you of?’ asked Cesaria.

  ‘Ars moriendi?’

  ‘Exactly! It’s very similar, don’t you think? Theatrical killings just like those we witnessed at that farm outside Florence in the Gambio and Belmonte matter. Gambling and violent death.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Jack as he remembered the evil life-and-death game involving real people, which they had raided on that fateful night in June two years earlier. It was the night they had rescued Tristan and Lorenza from the deadly grip of the Mafia.

  ‘I wonder what all this means?’ said Jack. ‘Making money on the dark web?’

  Cesaria reached for Jack’s hand. ‘I’m sure you’ll find out, Jack. If anyone can, it’s you, and I know just the person who could help you do it.’

  ‘You do? Who?’

  ‘Someone you’ve met before.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Someone who helped us trace Tristan in Venice that time after he had been abducted.’

  ‘Clara Samartini!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How did Conti introduce her; can you remember?’ said Jack. ‘I think he called her the youngest and brightest member of the Florence Forensics team.’

  ‘That’s her. Now, let’s try to relax and have that drink, shall we?’

  ‘Coming up! Let’s make it a large one.’

  ‘I’ll call Dr Samartini as soon as we arrive in Florence and arrange a meeting,’ said Cesaria, feeling better.

  ‘Good idea. I can’t wait.’

  ‘You and your breadcrumbs,’ teased Cesaria and squeezed Jack’s hand. ‘You live a dangerous life, Jack Rogan.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way; would you?’

  29

  Havana: 2 July 1664

  Captain Cordoba knew how to impress. As soon as the Santo Cristo de Tobar – a spectacular man-of-war displaying the maritime might of Spain – sailed into Havana Harbor in the morning and docked, word about the capture of ‘Mad Dog’ Regan, the feared pirate, spread like wildfire through the town.

  Soon, cheering crowds lined the shores, hoping to catch a glimpse of the notorious buccaneer, who had terrorised the Caribbean for years and made a mockery of the authorities trying in vain to capture him, and bring him and his cutthroats to justice.

  Cordoba didn’t disappoint. Looking beaten and dishevelled, his red coat in tatters, Regan was marched off the ship by a contingent of armed sailors. With his hands tied behind his back and a rope around his neck, Regan certainly did look like a beaten man. But looks can be deceptive. Deep down, Regan was far from beaten, and anyone taking a closer look would have noticed the defiant expression on his scarred face, and the hatred and danger lurking in his eyes. The crowd erupted in cheers when Cordoba and his officers came ashore in their splendid uniforms looking like sea battle-hardened victors, radiating confidence and success.

  Cordoba couldn’t have timed his arrival better. The annual treasure fleet returning to Spain had already assembled and was ready to depart. Hundreds of sailors and merchants were in town, preparing for the journey, their ships loaded with precious cargo: emeralds from Colombia, gold and silver from the Andes, and mahoganies from Cuba and Guatemala.

  Havana, designated the ‘Key to the New World and Rampart of the West Indies’ by the Spanish Crown, was not only a wealthy trading port, its fortified harbour also provided much-needed protection from marauding pirates. Pirates were a constant threat and challenge to the authority of the Captain General, the Spanish governor of the island who was responsible for the safety of the city, and the protection of its lifeblood, commerce.

  Guarded by impressive fortifications like the Castillo San Salvador de la Punta, which protected the west entrance to the bay, and the Castillo de los Tres Reyes Magos del Morro – Morro Castle – which guarded the eastern shore with a chain strung across the mouth of the harbour to the fort at la Punta, Havana provided a safe destination for the hundreds of trading ships bringing New World treasure to Cuba for the journey back to Spain.

  Cordoba went straight to the governor’s residence to present his report.

  As soon as the governor heard that the notorious ‘Mad Dog’ Regan – a thorn in his side for years – had been captured, he was overjoyed. A quick trial followed by a public execution, just before the fleet was due to depart, was exactly what was needed to give his reputation and standing a much-needed boost, and instil confidence in the safety of the treasure fleet travelling back to Spain under the protection of the navy and courageous captains like Cordoba
.

  The loss of the San Cristobal, while disappointing, could be blamed on a storm, and not on a pirate attack. The sinking of The Templars Revenge was an added bonus, which could be attributed to the valiant fight put up by Captain Medina and his crew, who had sacrificed their lives for the common good. That would be the official version of events recorded in the relevant dispatches going back to Spain with the fleet.

  ‘You must be congratulated, Captain,’ said the governor. ‘This is an outstanding result under difficult circumstances. And you say there is an eyewitness who saw it all and can testify?’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency. Father Navarro, a Jesuit priest. A well-connected one as it turns out,’ said Cordoba. ‘According to Captain Medina, he even had a letter of introduction from the king himself ...’

  ‘I see. Not only respectable and reliable, but well-connected in high places as well. In short, the perfect witness. There were no other survivors?’

  ‘Not as far as we could tell. Apart from Regan and Father Navarro, only a boy from the pirate ship.’ Cordoba shook his head. ‘After a storm like this, it’s a miracle anyone survived.’

  ‘Quite. I will prepare a report, and no doubt so will Father Navarro. You can rest assured, Captain, that you and your crew will be appropriately mentioned and your exemplary conduct duly acknowledged.’

  Cordoba took a bow, well pleased with himself. ‘Thank you, Excellency.’

  ‘Where is the wretch now?

  ‘Where he belongs. In chains. In a dungeon in Morro Castle.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘A quick trial then, and a very public execution. We must make a spectacle of it. The people will love it!’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘As a deterrent, of course, and to show the world that Spain rules these waters, no-one else.’

  ‘The admiral will be pleased, Excellency, and no doubt so will the king.’

  ‘I expect so,’ said the governor, stroking his beard.

  Regan sat up as soon as he heard the key turn in the lock. He slipped the amulet he had been working on into his pocket, and hid the nail he had found on the floor of his cell, in the rotting straw of the rat-infested bedding. Shielding his eyes from the cone of light creeping into the dark cell, Regan looked at the burly gaoler towering above him.