A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  Ferrara was aware of this, and when they had all finished reading he turned to him. ‘What do you think, Chief Superintendent Bruni?’

  ‘This memo is more interesting than it may appear at first sight. Fascinating, in fact.’

  In a calm, professional tone, he reported that an investigation currently being carried out by the Reggio Calabria operations centre of the DIA had revealed links between members of the ’Ndrangheta and Colombian drug dealers.

  The silence that followed was broken by Carracci.

  ‘We know there are a few gangs who work with the Colombians,’ he said, with the air of somebody who knows everything about everything. ‘But there’s no evidence that drugs are transported in the way described in this memo.’

  ‘But at least it’s a starting point,’ Ferrara said. ‘This man Fedeli may provide the key to breaking open any trafficking operation he may have been involved in and which may have led to his murder.’

  He proposed setting up a task force, based at the Reggio Calabria operations centre of the DIA.

  They all agreed, including the Americans. Only Carracci appeared to waver.

  ‘I need to speak to the head of the state police,’ he said, ‘before I can authorise personnel from the Squadra Mobile and the SCO to be part of this task force.’ His tone was curt, brooking no debate.

  A dubious expression appeared on Ferrara’s face, but he said nothing, merely nodded grimly.

  There followed a long silence.

  ‘I understand what you’re saying, Chief Superintendent Carracci,’ he said at last, ‘but I’d ask you to give me an answer as soon as possible.’

  Though he could not understand Carracci’s reservations, it would not do to appear too negative in front of their American guests.

  That evening, Ferrara and the Americans had dinner at Dal Bolognese in the Piazza del Popolo. It was the most heavily booked restaurant in Rome, but they always managed to find a table for Ferrara. It was a relaxed evening, and the Americans were impressed with the excellent cuisine. The first course of home-made pasta - tortelloni with sour cheese and spinach and tagliatelle al tartufo - was enough to make them forget all about the investigation.

  When Ferrara got back to his service apartment, he was holding a package in his right hand.

  Petra was lying on the sofa. She was wearing a turquoise tracksuit, the kind of thing she tended to wear at home. With her blonde hair gathered in a ponytail, she was reading a German novel. In the background, he could hear the voice of Vasco Rossi, a singer-songwriter she liked a lot.

  Michele kissed her on her lips and then, with a boyish smile, handed her the package.

  ‘For me?’ Petra asked.

  ‘Open it.’

  Petra gave him a knowing smile and unwrapped the package. She had guessed what it contained: a large slice of St Honoré cake! It wasn’t the first time Ferrara, coming home from a working lunch or dinner, had brought her dessert. He knew how much she liked it.

  Petra got up and headed to the kitchen to fetch a small plate and a fork. In the meantime, Ferrara went to the bedroom to take off his suit, but above all his tie, which, after a long day’s work, tended to make him feel as if he was being slowly strangled.

  They sat down next to one another on the sofa.

  Petra was savouring her cake.

  ‘You know what I think, darling?’ he said, sipping a glass of Slyrs whisky, a Bavarian speciality produced in limited quantities. It was a gift from a close friend of theirs in Germany, and he allowed himself a glass only on special occasions.

  This was one of them.

  ‘What, Michele?’ Petra asked, always very sensitive to her husband’s moods.

  ‘I’m afraid I may have to go to Calabria.’

  Her hand, holding the fork, stopped suddenly in mid-air. ‘What?’

  Petra had very pleasant memories of the Calabrians, especially their neighbours, about whom she thought often. She remembered the morning they had moved out, their neighbours looking on from their windows with tears in their eyes. At the same time, she was convinced that it was dangerous for her husband to return to such a high-risk place, where he had had such a difficult time - a time she had shared.

  Like Sicily, Calabria was a beautiful, fascinating region, an amazing place to live - but not for a policeman, especially not one who was always on the front line. ‘If you’d been a teacher, we’d have been able to stay there,’ Petra would say every time the subject came up.

  ‘What?’ she repeated, putting the plate down on the coffee table.

  ‘There’s an ongoing investigation with the Americans. I may have to go there to coordinate it.’

  Petra said nothing more, nor did she ask for details. She was accustomed to not asking him questions about his work, having refrained from asking him any in all these years. But she could not conceal her anxiety.

  Vasco Rossi’s voice was still resonating through the room.

  ‘But, Michele, if you’re working with the Americans, why don’t you go to America?’

  ‘That hasn’t been ruled out, Petra. I may end up having to go to New York. If that happens, then I’d like you to come with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to do what you did when I was in South America.’

  Petra screwed up her eyes, as if remembering. That terrible time was still vivid in her mind: Michele away and her at home alone, eating her heart out with a thousand thoughts going through her mind!

  ‘Do you think I could?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. It wouldn’t have to be like that time in Peru . . . when the phone in my hotel room never stopped ringing because you were worried. No, you’ll come too.’

  ‘OK, as long as my boss will let me go. But promise me you won’t go to Calabria. I’m afraid.’

  ‘If I can possibly avoid it, I will, I promise.’

  Petra looked at her husband, moved closer to him and gave him a long, passionate kiss. Her green eyes were even brighter than usual. She picked up the plate again. Michele continued sipping his whisky, lit a Mezzo Toscano cigar, and started thinking.

  What intrigued him was that the ’Ndrangheta was no longer the organisation he had known in the early eighties. They were operating at an international level now, and that was a whole new ballgame.

  Meanwhile, on the stereo, Vasco Rossi was singing ‘We’re Alone’.

  He took a last gulp of whisky, put down the glass and extinguished his cigar in the ashtray, even though he had only smoked half of it. Then he stood up and went to the bedroom, soon to be followed by Petra.

  That night Ferrara thought several times about Carracci’s objections. He recognised the signals: Carracci hadn’t trusted him when he was in charge of the Squadra Mobile of Florence, and he still didn’t. Nor did Armando Guaschelli, the head of the state police. And the feeling was mutual, particularly where Guaschelli was concerned. The image of the man’s shark-like smile, the last time the two men had met at the Ministry, was still engraved on his mind. It was the smile of a man who wasn’t merely petty-minded but treacherous and vindictive too.

  Eventually he fell fast asleep, with one arm over his wife’s shoulder. But he did not dream.

  That night, the god Hermes left him alone.

  Antonio Russo had inherited from his father, who had died a few years earlier, the leadership of the ’ndrina of Castellanza, a small village on the Tyrrhenian side of the province of Reggio Calabria. He was not yet forty and was already widely considered a rising star, both intelligent and tough. He was of medium build and height, with a dark complexion and sparse chestnut hair.

  That same night Antonio Russo got into his big Mercedes with its Catania plates, parked outside his farmhouse. The house was a large two-storey stone building with a wide portico, dating from the eighteenth century, which had once been an oil mill. The first floor, which had been completely refurbished, contained the bedrooms, each with an en-suite bathroom. The ground floor, on the other hand, had been
left in its rough state, and comprised a large living room and a vast kitchen. There were outbuildings on either side, used as store-houses, and extensive olive and citrus groves. On the left-hand side there was an enclosure for the horses. Everything was monitored by high-definition security cameras.

  He had a briefcase with him. He opened it. Inside was a cloned satellite phone, home-made by a young engineer in Milan, an electronics expert. Following the usual procedure, he inserted a coded number. When that number appeared on the screen, he pressed the delete key, then dialled the number of a foreign mobile phone and pressed the star key. After a couple of rings there was an answer at the other end.

  ‘Hi, ’Ntoni, how are you?’

  ‘Not too good.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘In fact, not good at all. And you?’

  ‘Not good either. I heard.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘You know they want their money, ’Ntoni.’

  ‘I know, no one gives anything for nothing.’

  ‘’Ntoni, it’s a serious problem.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But how was I to know . . . You understand?’

  ‘I do, but I’m not so sure about the others. The problem that occurred . . .’

  ‘Yes. I know, I know.’

  ‘We have to meet, ’Ntoni.’

  ‘I’ll send someone.’

  ‘No,’ the other man replied in a resolute tone. ‘You and I have to meet.’

  ‘I can’t come to see you, and you know why.’

  ‘We’ll meet in Spain, then, ’Ntoni. Usual place.’

  ‘All right. When?’

  ‘Tuesday evening. The eleventh.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And you’ll bring what we need?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘’Bye, ’Ntoni.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  Both men hung up simultaneously.

  It was five minutes to midnight.

  15

  Sunday, 9 November

  Don Ciccio Puglisi and his wife were in their dining room.

  In the middle of the table, spread with a pure linen tablecloth with embroidered edges, were two crystal carafes, one containing clear spring water, the other red wine. Glasses, plates and cutlery had been neatly laid out, and displayed in the middle on a silver tray was a good-quality bone china coffee set.

  Their house was on the edge of the village, a large but outwardly modest one-storey detached villa. It was surrounded by olive groves and there was also a vegetable garden for seasonal produce. The nearest houses were a hundred yards away. But that did not affect security. Quite the contrary. Don Ciccio’s most loyal associates lived in the area, as did various relatives, including relatives by marriage, who always kept their eyes and ears open.

  That Sunday the Puglisis were not alone.

  The mayor, Franco Giardina, and his wife Vanna were dining with them. The food was excellent: highly seasoned lasagne al forno followed by kid cooked slowly over an open fire and served with potatoes.

  The atmosphere was intimate and relaxed.

  Don Ciccio and Franco Giardina were old friends. They had been constant companions when they were young men, frequenting the best-known restaurants in Reggio Calabria, always in the company of different women. Don Ciccio was almost always the one who took out his wallet and paid. Even then he had had a lot of money.

  Franco Giardina had been mayor for a number of years, and was certain to continue as mayor well into the future. At least as long as Don Ciccio was still alive.

  Now Don Ciccio and the mayor were discussing the latest events over steaming cups of coffee and slices of mimosa cake brought by friends.

  The tone was calm.

  ‘Rocco’s death is a terrible loss for the Fedeli family,’ Franco Giardina said. He was a short, plump man, someone who liked his food, to judge by his appearance.

  ‘You’re right, Franco . . . A terrible loss.’

  ‘A good son . . .’

  ‘He was . . . Or he used to be . . .’ He raised his hand, as if to summon a past that was now over and done with.

  ‘Why do you say “used to be”, Ciccio?’

  ‘I’m old now, maybe I don’t express myself correctly. Let’s have a nice game of cards.’

  They settled down to a game of tressette.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Franco reprimanded him after a while, looking at the card his opponent had just thrown down on the table. A mistake like that was completely out of character.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where my head is today.’

  It was true: Don Ciccio’s mind was on other things.

  Meanwhile, the women were gossiping in the kitchen. Grazia and Vanna were also lifelong friends. They had grown up together and both had realised their dream of marrying a man of honour. Grazia was short and slim, with dyed black hair gathered in a huge bun on the top of her head, the same hairstyle she had always had - her attempt, perhaps, to appear a little taller. She was wearing a pearl necklace. The pearls were genuine, and she only wore them on special occasions. Unlike her friend, she wore no make-up.

  ‘Did you see how dignified Angela was in church? She wasn’t even wearing a veil . . .’

  It was Vanna, her contemporary, who was speaking. She, too, was short, and somewhat overweight: a perfect match for her husband! Her hair was completely white. She was wearing matching diamonds: ring, necklace, earrings. She was helping out in the kitchen, taking the plates Grazia had just rinsed under the tap and putting them in the dishwasher.

  ‘Of course, Angela is a woman of honour,’ Grazia replied. ‘Didn’t you know that? I wasn’t surprised by anything. I’ve known her since she was a babe in arms . . . Just like you . . .’

  ‘She didn’t shed a single tear! I mean . . . Three brothers . . .’

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t you know that weeping for the dead is a waste of tears? When you talk like that, I don’t recognise you any more . . .’

  Vanna nodded approvingly.

  It was possible that Angela Fedeli was trying to wipe out the cliché of the ’Ndrangheta woman who stood on the sidelines and said nothing. Perhaps she would become a major player on a level with the men, taking over leadership of the ’ndrina. A woman of respect.

  Vanna and Grazia changed the subject and started gossiping about mutual friends in the village. They always did the same whenever they met, and they met almost every Sunday, sometimes at Grazia’s house, sometimes at Vanna’s.

  In the meantime, the men continued their game of tressette.

  It was a gorgeous day, and the sun flooded the sky with its limpid, serene light.

  Alitalia Flight Z1155 from Rome Fiumicino began its descent. After a few minutes, the blue of the sea could be seen through the windows. Then the plane flew low over the Sicilian coast and the city of Messina, which looked so small, you could see the whole of it at a glance. It crossed the straits, heading straight for the airport at Reggio Calabria.

  The airport is situated between the sea and the hills. Not an ideal position, especially when the sirocco is blowing hard from Africa. At such times, it can be very difficult for planes to land and passengers feel they are on a roller-coaster. When landing becomes impossible, aircraft are diverted to the nearest airports: Catania or Lamezia Terme. But the sight that greets the traveller is remarkable.

  Today, the Sicilian coast looked transparent, and Etna was majestic with its peak covered in snow. When it is inactive, the volcano is like an old man who has fallen asleep, but when it suddenly awakes it becomes like a fiery-eyed demon, with incandescent lava pouring from its mouth: a dazzling spectacle, but a source of terror to the inhabitants of the nearby villages.

  As they came in to land at Reggio Calabria airport, the passengers could make out the houses, almost all of them seemingly half finished, devoid of external decoration, as if construction was still in progress. But those who were familiar with the region knew they had been that way for a long time, and would stay like that a lot longer. Unauthorised bui
lding was a routine occurrence in the city, an almost physical need in an area with a high rate of organised crime.

  The plane, which was almost an hour late, at last taxied towards the landing gate. When it came to a halt, the travellers had to walk to the terminal exit. Among them were the Americans, two DIA officers from Rome and Stefano Carracci. Carracci had obtained permission from Armando Guaschelli for his men to be part of the task force, on condition that he himself coordinate it and communicate every significant development direct to the secretariat of the Department of Public Security.

  However reluctantly, Ferrara had accepted Guaschelli’s condition in the interest of avoiding rifts which might create a bad impression on their American colleagues. He himself had decided to remain in his office in Rome, keeping in touch with his men by telephone.

  The small group were picked up and driven in two cars to the DIA’s Operations Centre, a short distance away. On this at least, Guaschelli had yielded. The task force would be based there.

  The Operations Centre was in a detached building on the outskirts of the city. It was close to the beach, and some distance from any other buildings, although not quite far enough to avoid prying eyes and ears. Here, even the walls did not provide the requisite security.

  Outside the front entrance of the building, the director of the Centre, Felice Trimarchi, was waiting for them. He was a colonel in the Carabinieri, a tall, imposing man of sixty, who had been decorated for his many DIA operations, first against the Sicilians, then against the Calabrians.

  ‘Glad to have you with us,’ he said to each of the men as he introduced himself and shook their hand.