A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  Beside him, Petra was reading the libretto of Bizet’s Carmen.

  Suddenly, there was a glimmer of light.

  He recalled an episode from his past, a past he had tried to forget, to leave behind him for ever. Images that had lain buried for years, of an encounter with a young man in very particular circumstances, began parading in front of his eyes.

  It was the beginning of the 1980s. He had been based at Police Headquarters in Reggio Calabria, dealing mainly with kidnappings: the latest source of income for the ’Ndrangheta.

  He remembered every detail. He had been searching a farm belonging to a suspect when he had slipped like a sack of potatoes in a cold, dirty pool of mud and fallen to the ground. Two gentle hands helped him to his feet. He turned and saw a young man. One of the suspect’s sons. Thin, with an honest face. He was not smiling, but had an expression of genuine regret. No smile. Carefully, with a sponge dipped in water, he wiped Ferrara’s camouflage fatigues, getting the worst of the mud off. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured a number of times . . .

  Ferrara could still smell the mixture of hay, manure and goats that hung in the air.

  Petra had fallen asleep. But he was still wide awake.

  He remembered that face perfectly. And the voice, too. It was in his office, the door was open.

  ‘Can I say hello, Chief Superintendent?’

  He had looked up and seen a young man carrying some sheets of paper, smiling at him. He did not recognise him at first.

  ‘Of course you can say hello.’

  The young man came in, still smiling. ‘What is it, Chief Superintendent, don’t you remember me? That fall brought you luck, Chief Superintendent. Now I’m going to prison, but I didn’t do what’s written in these papers.’

  Ferrara remembered the fall, although he found it hard to recall the young man. The face wasn’t so honest any more. It was a face that had lived. ‘I thank you for what you did then,’ he said. ‘You can mention it to the prosecutor when you are questioned.’ As the young man left Ferrara’s office, two of Ferrara’s men had handcuffed him and led him away.

  18

  Tuesday, 11 November

  Ferrara woke up. He looked at the time. It was 5.45.

  The lamp on the bedside table was still on. He switched it off.

  Next to him, Petra was still in a deep sleep and did not hear him. He looked at her for a moment: her half-open lips, her hair spread over the pillow. He delicately stroked her cheek.

  Then he got out of bed. He did not wait for breakfast. He wanted to get to the office early. He left the apartment without making a noise.

  The offices were still empty at this hour. Even the bar on the ground floor was closed. He got a coffee from the machine. Carrying a plastic cup, he walked to his room and immediately got down to work.

  He took out the files from his past. It was time to rummage in his memories. The files were carefully arranged by year and place of posting. He started looking for the documents relating to the police operation that had led him to search that farm.

  As he looked through, he found a letter he had received in the eighties. The vague memory of it had come back to him as soon as he had woken up. It was still there, at the back of his mind. He couldn’t remember the sender. Perhaps there hadn’t been any indication of one. But the contents, yes, he remembered those. A threat. A genuine threat. The last he had received, before leaving Calabria.

  It was in the file relating to the year 1987, along with other documents: reports, notes, carefully folded press cuttings - articles about himself - and photographs of places and people. And two white envelopes edged in black. On them, an unsteady hand had written: Chief Superintendent Ferrara - Police Headquarters, Via Santa Caterina - Reggio Calabria.

  The first envelope was postmarked 10.10.87 and the second 29.10.87, both posted in Reggio Calabria itself. He opened them. They were both empty, just the way he had received them at the time, sixteen years earlier: he remembered them well. He read the report he had sent to the Commissioner, in which he had concluded: I attach two of the many black-edged envelopes I periodically receive, clearly meant as death threats. Unfortunately, I cannot attach the threatening telephone calls, naturally anonymous, which I also receive.

  He continued searching.

  His eyes now fell on a photocopy of a handwritten letter. This one wasn’t completely anonymous. The initials A.R. appeared at the bottom of the page.

  He read it.

  . . . I don’t want to play the victim, but I intend to do all I can, to use every means possible, even unlawful ones, to expose the offences committed by you and your squad to frame me for a crime I did not commit. A simple reading of the trial documents would be sufficient to realise the slapdash nature of the investigation into my case. For the crimes with which I have soiled my hands, I have paid my debts to justice, but I have absolutely no intention of serving time for what other people have done.

  Dear Chief Superintendent, please make every effort to ensure that truth wins out, or it will mean that the responsibility for whatever may happen will not be mine alone.

  He could not take his eyes off that sheet of paper. And a current of adrenaline went through him. Another threat. With an abrupt gesture, he put the letter away. Then he went further back in the files. In the one for 1985, he finally found the report he was looking for. It referred to Operation Farmhouse: the raid on the property of Giuseppe Russo of Castellanza. He read through it at the speed of a Ferrari. The fall . . . the name of the owner’s son . . . Antonio . . . Antonio Russo. There it was. He was sure of it now. It was as if a powerful beacon had been lit in his mind.

  It was the same Antonio Russo that Annunziato Spina had talked about. He carefully folded all the documents, closed the files and put them back in their places.

  Daylight, filtering through the windows, struck his mind as a sign of victory.

  Darling, I’m at the office. Everything’s fine.

  The note was in full view on the table in the kitchen.

  Petra read it as soon as she entered.

  When she had woken up and found that her husband was not beside her, she had become anxious. The note seemed to reassure her for a moment.

  Then, pensively, she grabbed the receiver and dialled her husband’s mobile number.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked when she heard his voice.

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘You went out without telling me.’

  ‘You were sleeping like an angel, Petra. I knew you didn’t have to go to work this morning. Your first appointment is at midday.’

  ‘That’s right, I have a business lunch. But you could have woken me for breakfast.’

  ‘I’ve already had it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here, in the office.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you call that breakfast?’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Six o’clock.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ She prayed to herself that he would answer no.

  ‘No. I needed to find a file in the office.’

  ‘About the Calabrians?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are we going to the theatre this evening if I don’t work late?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  Petra put the phone down. She felt a shudder go through her and held her breath. She was afraid he was going away.

  Lost in thought, she forgot to make breakfast.

  She couldn’t stand this ’Ndrangheta business. It seemed to her that she had gone back in time, to those terrible years in the 1980s when her husband would be woken in the middle of the night to rush to the scene of a murder, a kidnapping, or a bomb attack.

  No, she really didn’t like to relive those times.

  And she decided that this evening she would broach the subject.

  ‘Sit down!’


  Captain Foti and Detective Bernardi entered and the door closed behind them. They had come back from Rome on the first morning flight, together with Carracci.

  It was three o’clock on a damp rainy afternoon, and a meeting was about to start at the DIA centre in Reggio Calabria. Waiting for them were Captain Trimarchi, Bill Hampton, Bob Holley and the head of the Squadra Mobile, Bruni.

  ‘Any news from the capital?’ Trimarchi asked.

  ‘Yes, good news,’ Foti replied, handing him a transcript of the interview with Annunziato Spina.

  ‘We’ll need to check with the harbour authorities about ships arriving from Turbo with cargos of bananas,’ Trimarchi said when he had finished reading. ‘Then I’d say it’d be a good idea to tap the phones of the victims’ relatives.’

  They all agreed.

  ‘Any other ideas?’ he asked.

  ‘Even if we don’t find any direct link,’ Foti said, taking back the transcript, ‘it could be useful to put a tap on Antonio Russo’s phones.’

  Detective Bernardi nodded his approval.

  ‘It’s worth a try, even if only for a few days,’ Trimarchi agreed.

  At that moment, someone knocked at the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  Stefano Carracci put his head round the door and then came in, a steaming paper cup in his hand. The room filled with the aroma of hot chocolate.

  ‘Hello!’ he said. He looked around and his face clouded over. They had not expected him, even though it was a meeting of the task force.

  ‘So what do you think, Chief Superintendent Carracci?’ Trimarchi asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About this Antonio Russo. Should we tap his phones or not?’

  ‘I suppose we could do that,’ he replied casually, almost as if he was not really interested. But he could feel the blood rushing to his head. His hand shook and a few drops of chocolate spilt on his trousers. Irritably, he put the cup down on the floor and tried to dry them with a sheet of paper. ‘We could try, anyway,’ he added in a weak voice, holding his hand against his trousers.

  ‘Is there a problem with that?’ Trimarchi asked.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. I’ll take them to the laundry.’

  ‘I think you misunderstood me. I was referring to the phone tap.’

  ‘Oh, yes! No problem. Except that these Mafiosi never discuss business over the phone. They’re too clever for that. It’s usually a waste of time.’

  ‘We know that, of course, but sometimes they drop their guard. Just a few words can tell us a lot. And it’s useful to know who they’re in contact with.’

  ‘All right, Colonel,’ Carracci replied, indifferently.

  ‘Good,’ Trimarchi said, obviously annoyed. ‘So let’s divide up the tasks.’

  They decided that Captain Foti and his team would keep an eye on Antonio Russo’s activities, including those on his home territory, and that the officers of the DIA would remain at the centre, listening in to the tapped phones. As for the men of the Squadra Mobile of Reggio Calabria and the SCO, they would handle the surveillance operation in San Piero d’Aspromonte, as well as checking with the harbour authorities.

  ‘Do you people have - I don’t know what you call it - we call it “sneak and peek”?’ Bill Hampton asked, looking to Holley for help.

  ‘Under US law,’ Holley explained, ‘the FBI can search a house when the occupants are out, reserving the right to inform them only when the investigation can no longer be compromised.’ This was one of the exceptional measures introduced in the Patriot Act, the law approved after 9/11, which widened the FBI’s powers in the fight against terrorism.

  ‘No,’ Carracci replied. ‘We don’t have that here. We can enter premises under false pretences, but only in major investigations, and only to place bugs without the occupants’ knowledge. But it always has to be authorised by a public prosecutor.’

  The Americans nodded. They had that same option, but sneak and peek was something different and gave them greater autonomy.

  We’re not in America here, the colonel thought, and fortunately we haven’t had a 9/11!

  ‘Any developments at your end?’ Trimarchi asked, turning to Bruni.

  ‘We didn’t find much on Rocco Fedeli either at headquarters or at the police station in Siderno. Just a few documents going back to the 1980s. Nothing we don’t already know.’

  ‘Any links with Antonio Russo?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Hasn’t he ever been stopped at a roadblock?’

  Bruni shook his head.

  ‘How about the other victims?’ Trimarchi asked.

  ‘Nothing there either. None of them had criminal records. All we found were official papers, like passport application forms.’

  ‘What shall we call this operation?’

  Several ideas were put forward, but Foti’s prevailed.

  Operation Orange Blossom.

  The orange blossom is the scented flower of the bergamot plant, whose most favourable habitat is the narrow strip of land between Villa San Giovanni and Monasterace, bordered on one side by the furthest foothills of the Aspromonte, and on the other by the Ionian and Tyrrhenian Seas. It was here that San Piero d’Aspromonte was located.

  Yes, a powerful earthquake had been reported in America, but the epicentre seemed to be located here in Calabria, where the earth was fragrant, not only with the smell of the sea and the scent of orange blossom, but also with the blood of many victims.

  Some time later, the Americans again came to Trimarchi’s office.

  Bill Hampton was holding a small bundle of photographs in his hand.

  ‘Colonel, my colleagues would like to see this place,’ Bob Holley said, showing him a copy of the photograph of Rocco Fedeli in front of the little church.

  Trimarchi took it.

  He only had to give it a quick glance.

  ‘It’s the shrine of the Madonna of Aspromonte,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Bernardi said, ‘that’s what Fedeli’s niece told us.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Bob Holley asked.

  ‘In a deep valley, one of the wildest and most inaccessible areas in the region.’ It was a place surrounded by pines, beeches, oaks, chestnut trees and bracken, Trimarchi explained, where every year, by age-old tradition, people came as pilgrims: young and old, rich and poor, saints and sinners. Among the sinners, the ’Ndrangheta. It was there that they met, coming from all over, even from across the ocean, to review their recent activities and establish a common programme for the following year. It was their parliament, and also their courthouse.

  ‘You can’t go there, at least not now,’ Trimarchi said, by way of conclusion.

  The Americans looked at each other.

  Trimarchi stood up. ‘A new face would be spotted immediately. ’

  Barcelona

  They had talked in code.

  Short sentences, hints, nothing spelled out.

  But they had understood. They were to meet in Barcelona. As they had so often before.

  Antonio Russo and Diego Lopez were friends and brothers.

  Russo had arrived in Barcelona after a non-stop journey in the Mercedes in the company of two of his closest associates, who had taken turns at the wheel, just as they had on other occasions.

  They proceeded to Senyor Parellada, a restaurant they favoured for its relaxing atmosphere. Antonio Russo liked everything about it: the little table lamps of red and white glass, the yellow, white and blue walls, the staircase with wooden banisters of the same colours.

  A good meal of paella and sangria refreshed them after their journey. When they had finished eating, they went to their usual hotel, which was in a street off the Ramblas.

  The receptionist greeted Russo as courteously as ever.

  ‘Welcome to Barcelona, Señor Russo. We’ve reserved your suite.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Russo with a smile, handing him a hundred-dollar bill.

  ‘Many thanks, señor. Would you like some comp
any tonight?’

  ‘Yes, the same girl, at midnight.’ He smiled again.

  ‘Midnight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course, señor.’

  They met at a flamenco tablao called El Cordobés, bang in the centre of town, conveniently close to the hotel.

  When Antonio Russo entered, Diego Lopez was already sitting at a table, dressed in an elegant grey suit. He was always very punctual. He was about forty, of medium height, thin and dark-skinned, with jet-black hair, and he was the head of the Cali cartel, which exported cocaine to Europe. He was a very wealthy man. He had had some hair-raising experiences in his life, but had never given up, never retreated into himself, never questioned what he was doing. As soon as he saw his friend come in, he stood up and went to him, and the two men embraced and slapped each other on the back, as if they had not seen each other for a long time.

  ‘Isn’t Pedro here?’ Antonio Russo asked.

  Pedro was Diego’s brother, a few years his junior. He had been present at their last meeting.

  ‘No, ’Ntoni, I’m alone. Pedro stayed in Cali. He can’t always come with me. Someone has to keep an eye on the boys.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure you understand that!’

  ‘Of course,’ Russo replied, also smiling.

  He knew that Diego had what amounted to an army under him, with fast motor boats, arms . . . Who better than his own brother to stand in for him?

  In the meantime a waiter approached them with two glasses of sherry.

  The two men ordered tapas.

  ‘House wine?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ they replied.

  They knew it was of excellent quality.

  ‘We’ve had a heavy loss,’ Antonio Russo began, without too much preamble. ‘Almost a hundred kilos got damp, but most was completely soaked. My backers don’t want to pay what they agreed. And this is a great problem for me.’

  Diego’s face abruptly clouded over. He had heard about the problem, but now it was a question of money. That was why they had arranged to meet.