A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘Only what the Bureau has communicated to the police in Palermo and, since the murders, to Italian Interpol: that he probably had links with organised crime. He owned a gun with its licence number filed off.’

  Bill Hampton took a copy of the file on Rocco Fedeli from his briefcase and handed it to Ferrara.

  ‘It’s all here, Chief Superintendent,’ Holley said. ‘This copy’s for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But these Calabrians,’ Bill Hampton asked, ‘are they still the same Mafia we’re familiar with?’

  ‘They’re a bit different. Relations between the Sicilian Cosa Nostra and the Calabrian Mafia - the so-called ’Ndrangheta - have always been good, ever since they got together to traffic contraband cigarettes, back in the sixties.’

  ‘So in what way are they different?’

  Ferrara went into detail about the ’Ndrangheta, which he described as the most dangerous criminal organisation in Italy. Over recent years, they had acquired an almost absolute monopoly over the European cocaine market. Globalisation had affected crime, too, and the ’Ndrangheta had developed its own strategy, spreading its field of operations first to the rest of southern Italy and then to the outside world: Australia, Canada, the United States, Germany, Spain . . .

  ‘We pointed out the danger they represent in our last report to Parliament,’ Ferrara said.

  Bill Hampton was looking at him, intrigued.

  The ’Ndrangheta, Ferrara continued, was no longer entirely structured around families deeply entrenched in their native territories, but now consisted of interdependent groups with a top echelon over and above the individual ’ndrine.

  ‘’Ndrine?’ Bill Hampton cut in.

  ‘’Ndrine. It’s a synonym for “gang”. It’s actually a Calabrian dialect word deriving from ancient Greek. In Greek, it means an upright man, a man who doesn’t bend. In ’Ndrangheta circles it indicates a family controlling an entire village or an entire city neighbourhood.’

  Agent Hampton nodded.

  Bob Holley remarked that he had participated in a conference in Reggio Calabria about the ’Ndrangheta. ‘They’re a world power these days!’ he commented.

  ‘Yes, they are. For example, right now we’re cooperating with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on an investigation into the Siderno Group, a Canadian branch of the ’Ndrangheta.’

  At this point, Bill Hampton mentioned that the FBI had contacted the RCMP to check up on Rocco Fedeli’s links with figures in the Siderno Group.

  Ferrara nodded. For more than a decade the Siderno Group had been running the drugs trade in Canada in cahoots with the Colombians.

  ‘I’m curious about one thing, Chief Superintendent,’ Detective Bernardi said - the first time he had spoken.

  ‘Go ahead, Detective.’

  ‘What does ’Ndrangheta mean?’

  Ferrara explained that it was not even an Italian word, and was generally only used by investigators, crime reporters and criminologists. The organisation’s own members preferred to talk about ‘societies’ or ‘families’.

  ‘If it isn’t Italian, where does the word come from?’ Bernardi asked.

  ‘Again, it’s derived from a Greek word - andragathia, meaning the virtue of being able to take advantage of events. From that, it’s come to mean a grouping of valiant men.’

  Bernardi shook his head ruefully.

  ‘If the ’Ndrangheta are behind the murders in New York,’ Ferrara said, ‘then we’re dealing with something new.’

  ‘Why?’ Hampton asked.

  ‘Because it would be the first time the ’Ndrangheta have operated abroad in such an open manner.’

  ‘There’s always a first time!’ Holley said. ‘Maybe they wanted to send a message.’

  ‘Who to?’ Ferrara asked.

  ‘If we knew the answer to that question,’ Hampton said with a slight smile, ‘we’d be a lot nearer to solving this case.’

  ‘Did Rocco Fedeli have a criminal record in Italy?’ Holley asked.

  ‘We can check that right now,’ Ferrara said, standing up and walking over to his desk.

  He bent over the computer and tapped out the name Rocco Fedeli and his date of birth.

  ‘Yes, he has a few priors, from the beginning of the eighties: attempted extortion, illegal possession and transportation of explosives. Arrested, released, tried in his absence, acquitted for lack of evidence.’

  ‘Why “in his absence”?’ Bill Hampton asked.

  ‘He simply didn’t show up at his trial. But tell me, how’s the investigation going at your end?’

  Holley took a memo from the brown leather case that accompanied him everywhere. It contained the information on the murders and on Rocco Fedeli which Dick Moore had gleaned from the mystery caller’s letter, without making any reference to the phone calls or to his own involvement, which he still preferred to keep secret. Holley handed it to Ferrara, who flicked through it quickly, then proposed another meeting, expanded to include the heads of the Squadre Mobili of Palermo and Reggio Calabria and the director of the SCO, the Central Operational Service. Teamwork was always useful.

  The Americans agreed that they would meet again at four o’clock the following afternoon, in the same place. Ferrara shook hands with them and repeated his invitation to dinner, and the three of them left the room with smiles on their faces.

  Alone now, Ferrara took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and collapsed into his chair. He sat back and closed his eyes for a moment. The first questions were running through his mind. Why had the ’Ndrangheta, who had always maintained a low profile, decided to raise their game? What were they planning to do now, after such an unprecedented settling of scores? Because that was what it must have been - a settling of scores.

  Finally he lit his cigar and took a long drag. The room filled with the acrid odour, and clouds of smoke wafted up towards the ceiling.

  13

  Saturday, 8 November

  New York, 9 a.m.

  Dick Moore was sitting at his desk, trying to reconstruct Rocco Fedeli’s past, however distant. The illegal possession and transportation of explosives and the gun with the filed-off licence number both suggested connections with organised crime. Moore put on his gold-framed glasses and started reading the ballistics report and the preliminary post-mortem findings on the six victims.

  As they had suspected from the start, Rocco Fedeli and his guests and domestic staff had been killed at about the same time as the doorman. This was shown by the rigidity of the muscles (rigor mortis), the stabilisation of the hypostatic stains (livor mortis), and the lack of food in the victims’ stomachs, duodenums and jejunums.

  But the findings also indicated something else: the Puerto Rican man had suffered a - non-fatal - trauma to the skull, probably caused by a blow with the grip of a pistol. This suggested that the killers had knocked him out as soon as he had opened the door to them, and killed him later, probably before leaving the apartment. The ballistics report contained significant data on the trajectories of the bullets: the other victims of the massacre had been shot by at least two people firing from opposite sides of the room, first from a distance, then at close range.

  The facts were clear. Moore took a piece of paper and began writing.

  The killers, at least three of them, enter the building. One stays in the doorman’s booth to keep an eye on the doorman. The others go up to the nineteenth floor. There, they don’ t need to force the door, but are admitted, perhaps because they’re recognized or they’re considered above suspicion. The Puerto Rican who works there opens the door and is knocked out with the grip of a gun. They then enter the dining room and surprise the victims, who have not yet started to eat. They fire at them from different positions, then move in closer to finish them off. Then they go into the den, where they find Rocco Fedeli. He has time to fire one shot before he, too, is killed. The killers open the safe (or find it open?), take the contents and go. Before leaving the apartment, they kill the Puerto Ric
an, presumably because he has recognized them, or could be a potential witness.

  Moore stopped. What had the anonymous caller told him? Take a good look at the material found in Fedeli’s apartment. Don’t forget the photographs. You could learn a lot from them.

  It was time he paid a visit to the scene of the crime.

  He phoned Lieutenant Reynolds and arranged to meet him on the nineteenth floor.

  An officer removed the seals and they went in. The smell of death still hung in the air.

  Followed by Reynolds, Moore began inspecting the rooms. On the dining-room floor and the study floor there were still chalk outlines where the bodies had fallen. Moore focused his attention on the paintings and photographs, examining them one by one. The paintings seemed to be originals, and were all signed. Apart from one painting of a small church in the mountains.

  ‘This is the only one that’s unsigned,’ Moore said out loud.

  From the desk, Reynolds picked up the photograph showing Rocco Fedeli beside a church, and held it out to him. ‘It’s the same church as in this photograph, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ Moore replied. ‘Why are they so interested in that church? Strange people, these Italians . . .’

  ‘The niece said it’s the church of a Madonna that her uncle and all the family are very devoted to. It must be in Calabria.’

  Moore was lost in thought for a few minutes, then ordered his men to take away both the photograph and the painting.

  Situated on the Ionian side of the province of Reggio Calabria, San Piero d’Aspromonte nestled in the foothills of the Aspromonte, one of the principal mountain ranges in the region, extending as far as its southern tip. With a population of just over a thousand, a high percentage of them members of the ’Ndrangheta and an equally high percentage unemployed, it was not very different from countless other Calabrian villages.

  Crumbling houses, apparently long abandoned. Non-existent house numbers. Narrow, neglected streets. It certainly didn’t give the appearance of a wealthy community, and the statistics bore out the impression of poverty. With an annual pro capita income of just under five thousand euros, San Piero d’Aspromonte was among the poorest municipalities in Italy. No cinema, no theatre, no hotel, no street with shop windows displaying designer goods, just a few bars, the church, the pharmacy, the Carabinieri barracks.

  Appearances, of course, can be deceptive. And perhaps even deliberate. It seemed unlikely that there would be much more than petty crime in these alleys, where even by six o’clock in the evening it was pitch black. It certainly did not seem the kind of place where a Mafia-style organisation could possibly flourish.

  At ten in the morning that Saturday, the funeral of the four victims began in the parish church. As soon as the NYPD had completed the formalities, the bodies had been handed over to the family, and they had finally landed in Italy the previous evening. News of their arrival had spread throughout the region, and the church was packed with people paying their last respects. It was so crowded that some people had to remain outside on the steps or in the square. The mahogany coffins were lined up in the central nave.

  The women, dressed all in black, formed separate groups from the men. None of them wore a trace of make-up, and almost all of them were clutching handkerchiefs. The oldest among them threaded rosaries through their fingers and prayed under their breaths, grief etched on their wrinkled faces. A small group huddled around the next of kin. The mother of the Fedeli brothers was easily distinguished: an old lady who was clearly even more grief-stricken than the others. In one fell swoop, she had lost her three sons. Now there was only Angela left, and she’d be going back to New York in a few days. The one consolation was that, at least until her strength abandoned her, she could go to the family chapel every day, lay flowers and pray.

  Angela sat next to her in the front pew, holding her mother’s thin hand in hers and staring straight ahead at the coffins. She, too, was dressed all in black. The silk shawl round her neck left uncovered the small gold chain with the sacred image. Unlike most of the women, she was not wearing a veil. And there was something else that distinguished her from the others: her behaviour. Not only was she not crying, she was very composed. It was unusual, even unnatural, given the situation. But to anyone who knew the customs of the area and could interpret gestures, it was immediately clear that she would be the one to take over as head of the family.

  Most of the men had remained outside. Among those standing in the little square was Francesco Puglisi, known as Ciccio the Knife, a nickname he had been given as a small child because of the thin knife he always carried in his pocket.

  He had just turned sixty. Short and thin, he had very white hair and a rugged, olive-coloured face with deep-set sky-blue eyes. For the occasion he had put on a black corduroy suit and a waistcoat with a gold watch chain hanging from the pocket. On his head was the traditional cloth cap, also black. He held a stick in his right hand, to support himself on his unsteady legs.

  Francesco Puglisi, Don Ciccio, was the undisputed boss of the ’ndrina of San Piero d’Aspromonte. He was surrounded by his most trusted men, and everyone bowed to him as if he were a sultan.

  When the crowd began to disperse, he was approached by Antonio Russo, an ambitious local boss, who was always very smartly dressed. Today he was wearing a white shirt, a dark grey suit and a matching silk tie. The two men walked a few yards away from the crowd.

  ‘Don Ciccio,’ Russo said, ‘please accept my sincerest condolences. ’

  ‘Thank you, ’Ntoni. And thank you for coming.’

  ‘It was my duty, Don Ciccio. I’m really sorry about what happened. You know how fond I was of Rocco.’

  ‘He was one of the best in the family. I was pleased when he agreed to move to New York for me.’ Don Ciccio’s voice seemed to crack, perhaps with grief.

  ‘I know, Don Ciccio. Remember, I’m always at your disposal.’

  ‘I thank you with all my heart, ’Ntoni.’

  ‘For anything at all.’ He emphasised the word anything.

  Don Ciccio was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke again there was bitterness in his tone. ‘This kind of thing never used to happen! It’s all the fault of global . . . What do you people call it? Oh yes, globalisation!’

  ‘I know what you must be feeling, Don Ciccio, but everything has its price.’ Russo looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘And we’re the ones who are paying it! But let’s not talk any more about that, it’s too late now.’

  Francesco Puglisi knew he had lost. Deep down, he had known it for a long time, ever since, at the annual meeting in Aspromonte in 1986, some of the bosses, including Antonio Russo’s father, had established a new strategy for the ’Ndrangheta. Don Ciccio had not agreed with assigning so much importance to the international drug trade, but he had been forced to fall in line. And it wasn’t only drugs: the ’Ndrangheta had also developed an interest in the traffic in toxic waste and radioactive material. Don Ciccio was still allowed a few kidnappings for ransom, but outside the region, and so he had decided to launder the income from the kidnappings by investing in Europe and the United States.

  ‘As you wish, Don Ciccio. Don’t forget I’m entirely at your disposal.’

  ‘Thank you. We must meet.’

  ‘Not this evening, if that’s all right with you.’

  That evening, Antonio Russo had something else he had to do.

  Alone again, Don Ciccio was next approached by Rocco Fedeli’s brother-in-law, Alfredo Prestipino.

  ‘Alfredo, I need to talk to you later.’

  ‘Whenever you wish, Don Ciccio.’

  ‘My house, after the funeral.’

  ‘I’ll be there, Don Ciccio.’

  For a few moments, Antonio Russo stopped to watch the two men. Something struck him as odd. He looked on as Don Ciccio walked away with unsteady steps and entered the bar that looked out on the little square. Alfredo Prestipino, meanwhile, had made his way through the crowd and wa
s entering the church. Antonio Russo continued watching him. Something wasn’t right.

  14

  At 4 p.m. they were all there.

  The conference room at DIA headquarters was on the ground floor, in the wing furthest from the offices. It was a quiet place. On the walls were the insignia of the world’s leading investigative agencies and a few paintings. A large framed black and white photograph showed the two anti-Mafia magistrates, Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino, murdered by Cosa Nostra in 1992.

  Michele Ferrara sat down at the head of the solid walnut table, with the heads of the Squadre Mobili of Palermo and Reggio Calabria on one side and, on the other, Chief Superintendent Stefano Carracci, director of the Special Operational Service, the SCO. The Americans took their places opposite.

  Stefano Carracci coordinated the activities of the Squadre Mobili in all the cities of Italy. A contemporary of Ferrara, he was a tall, sturdy man with thick fair hair. Unlike Ferrari, he was on good terms with Armando Guaschelli, the head of the state police.

  Ferrara made the introductions, and explained the reason for the presence of his American colleagues. After a brief pause, just long enough to catch his breath and clear his throat, he continued, ‘One lead in the case points to Italy, and I’d like to ask the legal adviser of the US Embassy, Mr Holley, to present it.’

  ‘Thank you, Chief Superintendent Ferrara.’

  All eyes turned to him.

  Bob Holley distributed photocopies of the FBI memo, and said, ‘Assistant Director Moore believes this information is reliable. He is confident that we will receive all due cooperation from the Italian police, from your sections in particular. He would like to thank you for that right now.’

  They all nodded, then silence fell over the room as they read the memo, some of them for the second time. The one who showed the most interest was the head of the Squadra Mobile of Reggio Calabria, Lorenzo Bruni. A tall, athletic-looking man of thirty-nine, with jet-black hair and a dark complexion, he had been running the Squadra Mobile for more than two years, having risen though the ranks, and was currently one of the few people in the state police with an expert knowledge of the ’Ndrangheta.