A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘But—’

  The line had gone dead. It was clear the anonymous caller liked calling the shots.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ Moore muttered. He sat there motionless for a moment with the receiver in his hand, then replaced it and pressed the Stop button. He wound back the tape and listened to the call. Once, twice. He scrutinised every word, but it was no use. He hadn’t the faintest idea of the man’s identity. Even though he knew the place well, he memorised the directions he had been given, Then, taking the Glock from his desk drawer and slipping it into his shoulder holster so that it was covered by his jacket, he put on his coat and almost ran out the door. Alone.

  He didn’t hear his cellphone ringing.

  He didn’t have far to go. Just fifteen minutes on foot, walking at normal speed.

  St Paul’s Chapel is the oldest church in Manhattan. It was to this chapel, close enough to the Twin Towers that it was a miracle it was untouched, that the first 9/11 casualties were taken. It wasn’t long before it became a place of pilgrimage, which made it the ideal spot to leave a message - and to make sure that it was picked up by the right person.

  As he walked, Moore kept wondering what exactly the anonymous caller wanted from him. Tip-offs were invariably motivated by self-interest, and were usually offered in the hope of getting money in exchange.

  When he got to the chapel, he saw a long line of people by the railings, waiting their turn in religious awe and looking at the messages and the photographs of those who had disappeared on 11 September.

  He passed the queue and made his way down the left-hand side between the benches and the beginning of the little cemetery.

  The treetops were wreathed in mist and even the graves seemed blurred in outline.

  Reaching the rear of the chapel he stopped for a moment to look at Ground Zero opposite, a huge empty space still reeking of innocent blood. Then he turned his gaze to the large bell, with the sign saying BELL OF HOPE. It was on a large stone pedestal directly facing the rear door of the chapel, almost in the centre of the cemetery, and was there as a memorial to the victims.

  Propped on the pedestal was a garland of white and red flowers.

  There was no one nearby. The visitors were all inside, praying or reading the pieces of paper fixed to the walls, each of them bearing the name of someone who had disappeared in the attack, mementoes left by relatives and friends so that the victims should not be forgotten.

  Discreetly, Moore approached the bell. As he advanced, he kept his hand on the grip of the Glock. He had not ruled out the possibility that the mystery man was luring him into a trap. It would have been the perfect place for it.

  Reaching the pedestal, he kneeled, pretending to tie a shoelace, and took a last glance around. Then he looked inside the garland and saw a little plastic envelope. There seemed to be something in it. He slipped on a latex glove, deftly grabbed the envelope and popped it into a specimen bag, which he then placed in the inner pocket of his coat.

  He took another quick glance around. He couldn’t see anything suspicious. And yet he was sure someone was watching him, perhaps from the other side of the street, beyond the iron railings around the cemetery. He made his way back into the chapel through the rear door, passing under the flags that hung from the ceiling and the cloths with their patterns of stars, flowers and trees and the words HOPE and PEACE FOR YOU, stitched by adolescent hands. Keeping to the left-hand side, where there were fewer people, he walked the entire length of the chapel until he came to the altar, which was at the entrance - in other words, at the opposite end to the traditional church layout. Glancing at the small group standing in front of the pew where George Washington had sat and prayed, he sidestepped the visitors who were coming in and exited through the main door.

  He turned on to Fulton Street and continued as far as Church Street before stopping for a moment in front of the Millennium Hilton to gaze at the construction site where once the Twin Towers had risen majestically. Then he walked the outer perimeter of the chapel, but could see nothing suspicious and no one behaving in a way that attracted his attention. He carried on slowly along Church Street until at last he felt it safe to lower his guard - although he knew the game had only just started - and allow himself a cup of coffee and a doughnut. Then he headed for Worth Street.

  Less than an hour after leaving Federal Plaza, he was back in his office.

  It was a cat-and-mouse game.

  But which of them was the cat and which the mouse?

  Moore took off his coat, sat down at his desk and took a deep breath. He put on a new pair of latex gloves, then took the envelope out of the little specimen bag and opened it. It contained a letter, probably written on a computer. It was addressed to him.

  Assistant Director Moore

  Thank you for coming. Don’t waste time trying to find out who I am. I think you’ve already wasted a lot of time, perhaps too much. When the time is right, you will understand who I am or, if the conditions are favourable, I’ll be the one to identify myself. Don’t worry. I know very well how generous you are to those who help you.

  I want you to take what I’m writing very seriously. Don’t disregard it, the way you did last time. I think you know what I mean.

  The killings were ordered by the Italians, but not only the Italians, to punish Rocco Fedeli, a traitor, a man of dishonour.

  They say revenge is a dish best served cold, don’t they?

  Fedeli had got his hands on a considerable quantity of cocaine which failed to reach its intended destination.

  You know, Moore, when there’s too much money, people go crazy, they destroy the delicate balance of things, they forget commitments they’ve made, old vows they’ve taken.

  Take a good look at the material found in Fedeli’s apartment. Don’t forget the photographs. You could learn a lot from them.

  One thing I can tell you is that the cocaine was being carried on ships leaving Colombia, bound for Italian ports via the Straits of Gibraltar. The drugs were hidden beneath the water line.

  Investigate those journeys and you will discover who killed Fedeli and why.

  By the way, you won’t find the people who actually killed him. It’s too late for that now - others have dealt with them. But I may be able to tell you something else about that over the next few days.

  One word of advice: don’t waste time looking for fingerprints on this paper, I took every precaution. And don’t waste time trying to figure out who my relative is, because he doesn’t exist. He was just a trick to reel you in, but he turned out to be useless, given what happened.

  But now you really have to get cracking, and when the time is right you’ll have a chance to show me your gratitude.

  I almost forgot. The ships from Colombia left from the port of Turbo and were sailing under Japanese or Ecuadorian flags. This is an important clue.

  One more thing: there were three million dollars in the safe!

  Now it’s up to you.

  Good luck!

  The bastard! Moore thought when he had finished reading. The fucking bastard! He knew too many things, too many details. Were they true? But he’d been right about the killings.

  He read the letter again. Then again. He felt as though he was missing something, but couldn’t see what.

  He made a couple of photocopies, underlined some words on one of them and transcribed them into a notebook:Italians, but not only Italians . . .

  A traitor, revenge, old vows . . .

  Colombia, Turbo, Japanese or Ecuadorian flags

  Safe, three million dollars . . .

  And then:Don’ t forget the photographs. You could learn a lot from them . . .

  Which photographs? How could they help him to solve the case?

  He read the letter once more. Then he put it away in the top drawer of his desk. As soon as possible he would send it to the CSU lab: perhaps the precautions the stranger said he had taken had not been sufficient and some fingerprints remained.

  Finally he close
d his notebook and called Bill Hampton.

  His voice cold and tense, he summoned Bill to his office.

  ‘What’s happened, sir?’ Bill Hampton asked as he entered the room.

  Moore’s tone of voice had alerted him to the possibility that some significant development had come up. He found Moore standing behind the desk, looking angry.

  ‘Read this!’ he said, handing him one of the photocopies.

  Bill Hampton sat down on one of the visitors’ chairs. Silence descended over the room.

  ‘How did this get here, sir?’ he asked when he had finished reading.

  ‘The son of a bitch phoned again and told me where to go . . . Saint Paul’s Chapel.’ He switched on the tape recorder and played him the conversation.

  ‘No doubt about it, sir, it’s him. I recognise the voice. And I’m sure now the accent is Brooklyn.’

  Moore nodded.

  ‘He sounds like someone who knows what he’s talking about, sir.’

  ‘How far have you got with tracking him down?’

  ‘I’ve been checking the phone records of Grand Central Terminal, but haven’t found anything useful so far.’ From his face, it didn’t seem he was likely to succeed.

  ‘Bill, I think this letter is pointing us in one direction. It’s time you took a trip to Italy. What we’ve learned to date needs corroboration, and I can’t see anywhere else we’ll find it.’

  Bill Hampton nodded. ‘I think you’re right, sir. Italy is where the answers are.’

  ‘OK, Bill. Contact Detective Bernardi. He may want to go with you.’

  ‘I’ll do it today, sir.’

  ‘All right. And keep me posted.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Bill Hampton went out.

  The prospect of a trip to Italy was one that appealed to him. His one regret was that Mary Cook wouldn’t be able to go. There was no question of asking Moore: the assistant director didn’t even like his agents living together, let alone travelling abroad together on official business, especially such a long way . . .

  PART TWO

  MISSION TO ITALY

  12

  Friday, 7 November

  Three days later.

  It was just before ten in the morning when a blue luxury sedan belonging to the US State Department entered the car park of the DIA, Italy’s Anti-Mafia Investigation Department, in Rome’s Via di Priscilla, just off the noisy Via Salaria.

  The DIA, established in 1991, had its headquarters in the architectural complex known as Il Cenacolo. Built near the Catacombs of Priscilla at the end of the 1920s for the order of Our Lady of the Cenacle, Il Cenacolo now housed both the DIA and the Police Training School.

  Part of the large garden had been given over to the DIA’s motor pool and parking for the staff; there was no admittance for the general public. The high surrounding wall was equipped with sophisticated surveillance cameras and other security devices. The place was a fortress.

  Inside the sedan were FBI Special Agent Bill Hampton, Detective Michael Bernardi and Bob Holley, the FBI’s legal officer at the US Embassy. Holley, a short, plump man of fifty, had been working in Rome for a couple of years and had managed to establish an excellent relationship with the upper echelons of the Italian police.

  Hampton and Bernardi, having arrived at Fiumicino Airport the previous evening on a direct flight from New York, were already over their jetlag. After a delicious dinner at the restaurant La Fontana, not far from the famous Via Veneto, they had spent the night in Embassy accommodation. During the car journey, they had sung the praises of Roman cuisine. The bucatini all’amatriciana and the suckling lamb al forno with a side dish of artichokes alla romana had quickly won them over - not to mention the copious antipasti: buffalo mozzarelline, aubergine and roasted peppers, Calabrian olives, meatballs, dried peppers in oil.

  A smartly dressed plain-clothes officer was waiting for them outside the front door of the small red building. He greeted them and immediately led them to the office of Director of Investigations Michele Ferrara.

  Bob Holley, who already knew Ferrara, made the introductions.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Ferrara, these are my colleagues from New York . . .’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Welcome to Rome. Bernardi? That’s an Italian name.’

  ‘Yes, my parents are Sicilian. But I was born and brought up in the States.’

  Ferrara smiled. His face was framed by thick dark hair, greying now at the sides.

  ‘My colleague Detective Bernardi speaks Italian quite well, Chief Superintendent,’ Holley said. ‘But when it comes to work, he prefers to speak in English.’

  ‘That’s fine with me. There are shades of meaning in any language, and in our line of work, it’s important that we all understand one another.’

  The office could not be described as austere. There was an area for Ferrara’s desk, a lounge area, and an area where Ferrara held meetings with his team. A large window looked out on a quiet, well-tended inner garden. One wall displayed the insignia of various European police forces, commendations for successful operations, and commemorative plaques for fallen officers.

  Ferrara ordered four coffees from the bar, and while they waited for them they talked about terrorism. A few days earlier, on 4 November, there had been two terrorist acts: one in Rome, the other in Viterbo. In the first, an explosive device had gone off in a video case delivered to a Carabinieri barracks. The commanding officer who opened the package had suffered serious injuries to his hands and face. A second device, made of the same explosive, had been found at the post office in Viterbo. Nobody had claimed responsibility for either attack.

  ‘So is this some kind of new wave of Italian terrorism?’ Holley asked.

  ‘It’s not real terrorism,’ Ferrara said, taking a Mezzo Toscano cigar from a brown leather case and holding it, unlit, between the fingers of his right hand. ‘Real terrorists always claim responsibility. It’s always been that way. There were letter bombs last month, too, in Rome and Sardinia, but they have nothing to do with the Red Brigades.’

  ‘What’s it all about, then?’

  ‘The strategy of tension, Mr Holley.’

  ‘Ah-hah!’

  ‘I think you know what I mean. Italy is the country that invented the strategy of tension, and it’s also a country where people feel nostalgic for the good old days, the old revolutionary struggles . . . But once we get started on that subject, we’ll never stop.’

  ‘Then let’s change the subject and talk about cooking,’ Holley proposed with a smile. ‘My colleagues have been appreciating your cuisine.’ He glanced across at Bill Hampton.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Ferrara said. ‘And I’d be happy to invite you out to dinner while you’re here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Hampton said, and at that moment his eyes fell on a silver trophy on a low table, bearing the inscription: To Chief Superintendent Michele Ferrara. With deep respect and sincere friendship. His colleagues in the Squadra Mobile of Florence.

  Florence, 10 July 2002

  ‘It’s a memento from my men in Florence,’ Ferrara said, noticing his interest.

  Chief Superintendent Michele Ferrara had been replaced as head of the Squadra Mobile in Florence by his deputy, Francesco Rizzo.

  After the bomb attack that had taken place on the morning of 1 October 2001, he had had to leave Florence for ‘security reasons’. That was the official explanation, and it was consistent with the career path of a public official who had been very successful in the Tuscan capital. Ferrara, though, suspected that there was another reason: his presence at Police Headquarters in Florence had become a nuisance to some people. And he could no longer count on the support of his friend, Deputy Prosecutor Anna Giulietti, who had been killed in a Mafia attack a few days after the one that had targeted him.

  When he had read the telegram informing him that he was being transferred to Rome, his first thought had been that it was a kind of punishment from the State Police Department. Of course, bein
g the loyal officer that he was, he had obeyed unhesitatingly, as he had always done. Ultimately, he knew that, whereas men change over time, institutions always stay the same, and he had sworn loyalty to the State, not to men. In his heart, though, he still hoped that he would be able to return to Florence when the supposed ‘security reasons’ had faded from memory.

  His transfer had taken him to the capital, where he had a small service apartment in Il Cenacolo, but he lived with one foot in Florence and one in Rome.

  His German-born wife Petra had followed him. To make the new apartment welcoming, she had hung the walls with paintings and photographs of their past. She thought it was important that they have happy memories of their life together constantly in front of them. In Rome, Petra had also been able to realise a long-term dream of hers, finding a job on the editorial team of a leading women’s magazine. In the morning, though, before going out, she continued to prepare her usual copious and very German breakfast: a breakfast which, as had been the case in Michele’s other postings, was often the only meal husband and wife managed to eat together. At weekends, when they could, they went to their apartment in Florence, where Petra patiently and lovingly tended the flowers she kept in the part of the terrace she had transformed into a greenhouse. She never gave up on the idea that one day they would go back there for good.

  After coffee, Bob Holley launched into a full account of the murders in Manhattan, some of the details of which were known to Ferrara. It took him just over half an hour.

  ‘It certainly bears the hallmarks of a Mafia killing,’ Ferrara said when Holley had finished. ‘And the perpetrators in this case, or rather those who sent them, could well belong to the Sici—’ He broke off and corrected himself. ‘—Italian Mafia. What do you know about Rocco Fedeli?’