Impatiently, Spina said that he had already talked about this to Captain Foti in the strictest confidence.
‘Now tell us,’ Ferrara said.
‘If I really have to . . . A while back, I saw the cocaine being packed and hidden on a ship going to Italy. Later, I supervised the divers who removed it.’
‘Where was this organisation based?’ Ferrara asked.
‘In Colombia, in a forest. There was a warehouse where the drugs were stored. Big piles of them like sacks of corn.’
A smile at last appeared on his face. His eyes shone with a new, more intense light. They moved several times from Ferrara’s face to Foti’s and back again, like a pendulum.
‘Where exactly was this warehouse?’ Ferrara insisted.
‘I told you. In a forest.’
‘But where?’
‘Near the town of Turbo.’
Ferrara exchanged a brief knowing look with Detective Bernardi.
‘And then?’
‘Then I went to Turbo . . . It’s a big port, very noisy, just like Naples . . . That was where I saw them hiding the drugs on the ship.’
‘What did they do exactly? I need you to be as specific as possible.’
Suddenly talkative, Spina told them how he and a group of Colombians had gone out to the ship at night on a motor boat. Two divers had gone down several times and tied the inner tubes containing the drugs to the ship with synthetic fibre ropes.
‘Did they have accomplices on the ship?’ Ferrara asked.
‘No, none of the crew knew anything about it.’
‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘The organisation had a few customs officers in its pocket. It was a no-risk operation.’
‘Where was the ship bound for?’
‘It was supposed to arrive in a port in Liguria, but then there was some snag and it ended up on the southern cape of the Istrian peninsula.’
Ferrara and Bernardi again exchanged knowing glances.
‘What was the ship’s official cargo?’
‘Bananas.’
‘And whose drugs were they?’
‘Mine. I had them removed by a pair of divers at night. That’s the charge I’m up for at the court in Rome.’
He emphasised the word mine. Perhaps to shift responsibility from anyone else. He was a traitor, a snitch, but in his mind he was still a man of honour.
‘Are you aware of any other methods used to transport drugs?’
‘I know of another one, but I’ve never actually seen it.’
‘Can you tell us what it is?’
‘Yes, I heard about cocaine being carried in containers with blocks of granite from Brazil, bound for Salerno and Naples.’
‘Who was it intended for?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The Colombians, your suppliers, who were they?’ Ferrara asked.
‘I only ever knew my contact. He lived in Rome and was arrested in the same police operation as me. They tracked him down to a house in Ostia.’
Captain Foti looked at Ferrara and nodded.
‘One last question.’
‘All right.’
‘How were the payments made to the Colombians?’
‘In dollars. I exchanged lire for dollars in Milan and then gave them to an emissary of theirs, usually in Spain or in Switzerland . . . Have we finished, Chief Superintendent? . . . At last! Can I go?’
He was about to stand up.
‘Sit down, we haven’t finished yet. I have another question . . . about money laundering.’
‘At least let me smoke a cigarette, have a coffee, drink some water,’ he said, moistening his dry lips.
‘All right, let’s take a break,’ Ferrara said. ‘We’ll start again in half an hour.’
They were sitting in the same places, but the atmosphere was more relaxed now.
‘So,’ Ferrara said, ‘what can you tell us about money laundering? ’
‘I found out that some of the others were going to Switzerland to make payments into an account at a subsidiary of a Panamanian bank.’
‘What account?’ Foti said. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘No, I can’t, Captain. I don’t know anything . . . I don’t know . . . anything.’ His tone was tense again.
‘Calm down, Spina,’ Ferrara said. ‘The calmer you are, the easier it is for us to understand you.’
‘All right, but as long as it’s about things I know. I’m not going to make anything up.’
‘This really is the last question.’
Spina looked at him, visibly annoyed. He had never imagined they’d want so much from him.
‘Of the Calabrians involved in the drugs trade with the Colombians, who’s the top dog these days?’ Ferrara asked in a curt tone, convinced that the time had come to go straight to the heart of the matter. ‘I’m sure you know, so why not tell us?’
Annunziato Spina fell silent, his lips curled in a bitter sneer. He’d had enough of playing the snitch. What he had told them already was water under the bridge. They shouldn’t expect any more from him.
Ferrara and Foti exchanged an imperceptible sign of understanding. As good investigators, they knew you often obtained more by being indirect.
‘Annunziato,’ Foti said, ‘you can’t do this. You’re supposed to be cooperating with us, and you have to answer, even in a simple interview like this. In fact, with all the more reason in an interview like this, because what you say here won’t be used in any legal procedure, but only to help us with our investigations. We’re not under any obligation to inform the public prosecutor.’
‘What do you mean?’ Spina asked, frowning.
‘I mean that nothing you tell us now can be used against you in court. It’s strictly confidential.’
‘I don’t believe that . . . I know all about your confidentiality. ’ He smiled slightly. ‘But all right, all right. I’m going to give you a name . . . off the record . . .’
‘Completely off the record,’ Foti said, encouragingly. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Antonio Russo.’
‘Antonio Russo from Castellanza?’
‘That’s the man, Captain. They call him Don ’Ntoni. He’s the son of Giuseppe Russo, who died a couple of years ago. The father was a real ’Ndranghetista.’
‘And the son?’
‘Even more of an ’Ndranghetista than the father. He’s the man in charge of the cocaine trade, and not only in Italy. When the other organisations, including Cosa Nostra, have something big going down and need help, he’s the one they turn to.’
There was a pause.
The captain knew that Antonio Russo was suspected of drug trafficking, but had no idea that he was so important internationally. The phone taps had never suggested that degree of involvement.
To break the silence, Ferrara asked, ‘Did you ever meet Rocco Fedeli?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s from San Piero d’Aspromonte, too. Or at least he was. He’s been murdered.’
Spina looked surprised. ‘No. Never met him. And I didn’t know he’d been murdered, until you just told me.’
‘So you don’t know if there was ever any connection between this Russo and Rocco Fedeli?’
‘No.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Antonio Russo?’
Annunziato Spina thought a moment before replying. Then he said, ‘He’s someone who might have been underestimated in the past, but he always had good contacts.’ He glanced at Ferrara, and raised a hand to his forehead.
‘And who might these “contacts” be?’ Ferrara asked.
‘How should I know? Now you’re asking too much of me. You’re overestimating me.’
‘We’re grateful to you, Spina,’ Foti cut in. ‘Now we really have finished.’
At last something concrete, Ferrara thought as Spina went out, accompanied by two officers.
Only Carracci showed no reaction. For the whole meeting he had maintained a frozen indifference,
sitting a little apart from the others in an armchair in the lounge area of Ferrara’s office, as if what Spina was telling them did not really interest him.
Was it because the word ‘contacts’ still hung in the air?
‘He’s free, Chief Superintendent Carracci, just knock and go in.’
Armando Guaschelli’s private secretary knew the superintendent well and knew how good his relations were with her superior. He was one of the boss’s blue-eyed boys. He was never kept waiting, not even for a few minutes.
Less than an hour after the meeting at the DIA, Carracci was on the second floor of the Interior Ministry.
He knocked and went in. Guaschelli looked up from the papers on his desk. As soon as he saw who it was, a big smile spread over his face, and he stood up and went to greet him. He was only a little over five feet tall, a height that often surprised those who met him: How did they ever hire him? He must have had connections!
‘What a pleasure to see you, Stefano. Let’s sit here.’ He indicated the long black sofa by the window, from where there was a view of the Piazza del Viminale. They sat down side by side. ‘So, what do you have to tell me?’
His tone, as usual, was confidential, almost familiar.
Carracci told him how the investigation was going.
‘Stefano, I want you to follow the case personally, I repeat, personally. Don’t let that Chief Superintendent’s men take over on this. You know who I mean - Ferrara. We’ve had more than enough trouble from him in the past.’ He placed his arm on Carracci’s shoulder.
Carracci nodded. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see to it.’
Carracci was one of the few people who didn’t call Guaschelli ‘sir’.
He told him about the meeting with Annunziato Spina. Guaschelli abruptly changed expression. He had a gaunt, pale face, a chain smoker’s face.
‘I want you to keep me informed about this Russo,’ he said in a resolute tone. ‘I need to know every development. Including anything you hear about these “contacts”. Or about any other Mafia snitches. You know I have to watch my back with the minister . . .’
‘Of course.’
‘Stefano, we have to avoid the usual nasty rumours, the usual fuss about nothing. These snitches aren’t to be trusted.’ Guaschelli clearly knew a thing or two - or even quite a lot - about snitches. He leaned towards Carracci and whispered something in his ear.
‘Yes, of course,’ Carracci said. ‘You can rely on me.’
‘Now go back to Calabria.’
‘I’ll take the first plane tomorrow morning.’
They embraced by way of farewell.
As Carracci passed the private secretary, she looked at him and screwed up her eyes knowingly.
New York
Dick Moore was staring up at Frederick Warren Allen’s three statues depicting Law, Truth and Equity on the pediment above the ten granite Corinthian columns. The pediment itself bore the words of George Washington: The true administration of justice is the firmest pillar of good government.
It was just before noon and he was outside the New York State Supreme Court at 60 Centre Street. He had an appointment with Ted Morrison. Moving his eyes down from the pediment, he saw him walking beneath the columns and coming down the steps. He waved and came towards him.
‘Hi, Dick. Punctual as ever.’
They shook hands warmly.
‘So, what do you have for me?’ They had already started walking towards the little garden opposite.
‘What I have is a burned-out taxi. Believed to be connected to the homicides on Madison.’
‘Any proof of the connection?’ Morrison asked dubiously.
Moore hesitated a moment, as if uncertain. He wondered if he should mention the anonymous calls, and decided against it. This might not be the right moment. Maybe it would never be the right moment.
‘It’s just a hunch, but based on confidential information received by the Bureau,’ he replied in a resolute tone.
‘I get it: you have a source! I hope it’s reliable and you soon hit your target.’
Moore looked him straight in the eyes, neutrally, without nodding.
‘But remember,’ Morrison said, ‘getting close to the target is not the same as hitting it bang in the middle.’
Moore nodded. ‘It’s still too early to draw conclusions, but we should have a clearer idea very soon.’ He preferred to stick to generalities. He hadn’t the slightest intention of hinting at the subtle game he was playing with the mystery caller.
‘Good. I have confidence in the Bureau. This morning I phoned the national anti-Mafia prosecutor in Italy. He assured me of his full support for your men and the DIA in Rome. He told me they’re already working together, in Calabria.’
‘Thanks, Ted. That’s good to know.’ He reported what he had heard from Hampton.
‘What can you tell me about Rocco Fedeli?’ Morrison asked.
‘We’re working with the cops. We should soon have a fuller picture of his activities, and we’re also taking another look at the Susan George murder.’
‘Has the material you removed from the apartment proved useful?’
‘They’re still looking at it. I think it may be of great use.’
‘And the safe?’
‘According to our source, there should have been a lot of money in it,’ Moore replied, spontaneously.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so, our source is reliable.’
‘If he knows that much, he must know a lot more!’ Morrison commented.
Moore nodded.
‘Let’s go eat something, Dick,’ Morrison suggested.
They headed in the direction of Elizabeth Street, with its many Chinese restaurants.
The gym was the size of a warehouse.
It had a very high ceiling, from which the plaster was peeling. The walls were permeated with different smells, but one predominated: sweat. Right now, there were about thirty young men in the gym, mostly African-Americans, all of them regulars, some warming up, some fighting, their bodies well protected.
One muscular young man was engaged in a training bout with a dark-skinned, grey-haired man. He was kicking his opponent repeatedly in the legs and chest and on the head with all the force of an ancient gladiator, while the grey-haired man urged him to hit even harder. The bout finished with the ritual bow and the young man headed for the changing rooms, while his opponent remained at the edge of the ring.
It was two in the afternoon, in Brooklyn.
Lieutenant Reynolds had watched the bout. There were several reasons why he was here. The discovery of the burned-out cab, the fact that the driver was from Brooklyn, the anonymous call to Moore from a public phone booth in Brooklyn . . . Brooklyn had changed a lot in the last few years, from a dormitory borough to the true heart of New York. Organised crime had taken over in a big way, and a lot of that was Italian. Italians had gradually abandoned Little Italy, with the continual spread of the adjacent neighbourhood of Chinatown.
He approached the grey-haired man, and they shook hands. The man had a grip of steel.
‘What are you doing in these parts, John?’ he asked.
His name was Rusty Sheridan.
He was a veteran of the Marines, and a martial arts expert. On each forearm, pumped up by physical exercise, he had a large tattoo: on the right, a dragon, and on the left, barbed wire and a few words. A souvenir of the war, perhaps.
He had been eighteen in 1967 when he had volunteered to go to Vietnam and fight in what had seemed to him, as it had to a lot of young men, a just war. There he had discovered the other side of the coin: unimaginably violent reprisals, massacres of women and children, murders among his fellow soldiers, all the fear and cruelty and madness of that terrible conflict. On returning home he had been decorated and had joined the police. He had taken part in peace demonstrations, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Put an end to this insane war!’ It was all very topical again, given what was happening in Iraq.
‘I�
��m here on business,’ Reynolds said, rubbing his chin with his hand.
‘What are you working on?’
‘A tricky case. We found a burned-out vehicle on the road where they hold the rally. A taxi, stolen in the Bronx, but the owner lives here.’
Sheridan took off his protection and wiped his face and neck with a towel, which he then placed around his shoulders. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘You want to find out about the Brooklyn gangs. It won’t be easy. These guys are tough cookies, and they’re smart, too. They don’t let anyone get close. And besides, that road is no man’s land. You should know that.’ There was sarcasm in these last words, which he made no attempt to conceal.
Reynolds chose to ignore it. ‘I know. That’s why I came to see you.’
‘You also know they know my past. I’d have even more customers here if I wasn’t an ex-cop.’
‘That’s the risk we have to take,’ Reynolds replied with a smile.
Sheridan returned the smile. ‘You, maybe, not me, not any more.’ Then he was silent for a few moments. He grabbed the towel and again rubbed his face and neck with it. It might have been Reynolds’ request for help that had made him sweat.
‘OK, John, I’ll see what I can do. If I find out anything, I’ll get in touch.’ It was as if he could feel the police uniform on his skin. He wrung out the towel with both hands.
‘I knew I could count on you,’ Reynolds said. ‘You’ve always been a good friend.’ It was an allusion to the many tip-offs Sheridan had given him in the past.
They hugged, and Reynolds walked away with the smell of sweat on him. At the door, he turned back to look at Sheridan. His friend had already jumped into the ring again, ready for the next bout.
The love of his life! Reynolds thought.
It was true: these days Rusty Sheridan lived only for his gym.
The name wasn’t new to him. From the first moment he’d heard it, he’d had a vague feeling he’d come across it before, but somehow couldn’t place it.
When?
Where?
Who had he heard use it?
He was in bed, his mind in turmoil.
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