A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘It was your people’s fault, not ours,’ the Colombian replied after a moment’s silence. He opened and closed his fists, and thumped the table. Antonio Russo had never seen him look so angry or heard his voice sound so tense. It was clear he had no intention of taking responsibility for what had happened.

  ‘No, it wasn’t our fault, Diego.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re completely wrong!’

  ‘Diego, it seems the drugs weren’t properly insulated before they were stored.’

  ‘That’s not possible. My men are professionals. They don’t make mistakes.’

  ‘But the drugs arrived wet. You have to believe me.’

  Suddenly they fell silent. They had seen the waiter approaching. They drank their sherry, looking at each other in silence.

  When the waiter had walked away, they began talking again.

  ‘It must have been your divers,’ said Diego. ‘They may not be as skilled as they should be.’

  Antonio Russo shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Let’s eat, ’Ntoni,’ Diego said.

  Silence fell again. The place was starting to fill with customers.

  ‘I have a proposal,’ Diego resumed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ll send two of our chemists to Calabria to save the drugs. That’s all I can do. You can’t ask more of me than that.’

  It was his final offer.

  Antonio Russo knew that. ‘How can they save them?’ he asked.

  ‘By treating them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With microwave ovens, acetone filters . . . In practical terms, they turn the stuff back into base cocaine and then again into cocaine hydrochloride. They’ll handle it, ’Ntoni. But you have to pay. There can’t be any discounts. That’s the one non-negotiable condition if you want to continue doing business with us.’ His tone had become even more determined.

  ’Ntoni seemed to reflect for a few moments. Then he said, ‘If the drugs can be saved, there won’t be any problems about paying. But in future we’ll have to be more careful.’

  ‘It’s not me you should be saying that to, ’Ntoni.’

  ‘I’m saying it to both of us.’

  Russo gave him his assurance and declared himself in agreement.

  ‘All right,’ Diego said at last.

  Their relationship would continue. They were still friends, perhaps even closer friends than before. The next consignment would be even bigger than the previous ones.

  ‘Have you brought the money for the new supplies?’ Diego asked. ‘After what happened, my people want a good advance before they’ll send it out. More than the other times. Otherwise they simply won’t do it.’

  ‘Yes, of course I’ve brought it. That’s what I’m here for, Diego.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In my hotel room.’

  In the meantime, a flamenco show was starting. Two guitarists, a singer and a group of six female dancers, dressed in traditional costumes, had already appeared on the stage. Music filled the room with the sound of castanets. The dancers moved to the rhythm, their skirts, held in at the waist, swishing about as they leapt from side to side. It was a thrilling spectacle.

  Both men were staring at the dancers, Russo winking insistently at them. After a while, he gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Diego, we have to go. It’s getting late.’ He smiled. ‘I have an appointment.’

  ‘The usual?’ asked Diego.

  ‘Yes. Natalie.’

  The Colombian paid the bill and they left.

  ‘All right, ’Ntoni. As always, you have kept your word. You’ve done a good job. Is there anything else?’

  ‘That’s all, for the moment. You’ll receive the rest on delivery. ’

  They were in Antonio Russo’s suite at the hotel.

  The briefcase, full of American dollars in hundred-dollar bills, was open on a little side table. They were sitting on two armchairs, facing each other. Diego slipped his hand inside his jacket, took out a gun and pointed it at Russo’s chest.

  ‘What are you doing, Diego?’ Russo said, a look of genuine surprise on his face.

  ‘I didn’t think you were so naïve, ’Ntoni.’

  Antonio Russo made to stand up. ‘Don’t move or you’re a dead man,’ said Diego. His voice was firm and his eyes ice-cold. For a few moments Russo stared at the pistol. It had a silencer.

  ‘Listen, my friend, I’m going to pay you. I brought the money. What’s got into you?’ He looked ever more astonished.

  Diego moved the gun to his other hand and stood up. He went to the table, took the briefcase and sat down again. He was about to place it on the floor when Antonio Russo lunged at it with his hand and tried to grab it. With the gun only a few inches from Russo’s chest, Diego slowly lowered his left eyelid and, with his finger poised on the cold metal of the trigger cried, ‘Stop! If you take it, I’ll kill you. I’m not joking, ’Ntoni.’ He was in a towering rage.

  Russo, who in the meantime had stood up, immediately withdrew his hand, slightly losing his balance as he did so. He was about to say, ‘We had an agreement . . .’ when Diego kicked him in the groin, bringing him to his knees.

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth, ’Ntoni. You’ve been fucking me about.’

  Antonio Russo tried to stay calm. He got to his feet and stood there, looking at Diego, who was still holding the gun firmly and pointing it at him. His voice as steady as he could make it, he asked, ‘Tell me, Diego, what exactly are you playing at?’ There was no reply. He could feel his blood beating in his temples.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake, Diego,’ he said. ‘You fuck with me, you fuck with the whole organisation, and they won’t like it, it’s going to cause you a lot of trouble. Don’t think you can escape. They’ll track you down wherever you go.’

  Diego did not reply. His eyes were still ice-cold.

  ‘Let’s go back to what we agreed, Diego. You take the money, I take the drugs. I’ll forget the gun, I’ll forget all about this.’

  ‘Bullshit. I’m not falling for that!’ His eyes still on the man who was now his enemy, he bent and again opened the case. He began taking out bundles of banknotes and checking them. He didn’t trust Russo.

  Russo quickly flung out his right leg and hit him in the testicles. Diego let out a groan and pressed the trigger. The shot made a slight, almost imperceptible hissing sound. In a split second, Russo leapt on him and pinned him down with his knees. He grabbed the gun with both hands and took it off him. Now it was his turn to hold the gun a few inches from his friend’s face.

  ‘I’ll kill you, you moron,’ he cried. ‘Do you want to die?’

  Diego was gasping with pain. Russo put his hand to his own arm to check if he was bleeding. Then he looked at his hand: it was clean. The shot had merely grazed the sleeve of his jacket. All the same, he yelled, ‘Get down on the floor. Go on! Down! I don’t want to keep repeating myself !’

  ‘What are you planning to do, ’Ntoni?’ asked Diego, obeying.

  Russo stood over him with his legs apart, then bent and pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his neck.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ he cried again, cocking the gun. The metal click echoed in the air.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, ’Ntoni? Have you gone mad? Are you really going to kill me?’

  ‘You started this. Now shut up! Don’t move! I have something else in store for you.’ He took out his mobile phone and called his men.

  ‘Take him to your suite,’ he said when they arrived. ‘We’ll be leaving soon.’

  Head bowed, Diego was led out between the two body-guards.

  Now Antonio Russo just had time for a quick shower before Natalie arrived. She was only twenty, tall and slim with long dark hair and incredibly beautiful eyes that had apparently put a spell on him. Each time they met, he left her a thousand dollars, as well as a few hits of cocaine.

  Even if they’d only spent a couple of hours together.

  They wouldn�
�t have any longer than that tonight.

  PART THREE

  ORANGE BLOSSOM

  19

  Wednesday, 12 November

  The outlines of the mountains began to appear in the dim light of dawn.

  The sky was covered in threatening black clouds. In addition, an icy north wind was blowing, howling in the dense foliage of the trees then occasionally subsiding into deep silence.

  Captain Foti and three men from his team, wrapped in windbreakers and heavy woollen sweaters, advanced along paths that wound between tall trees. Weeds, thorns and shrubs were their only companions, apart from the music of the wind. They had set off several hours earlier. Helped through the most difficult areas by infra-red binoculars, they had made their way in the pitch dark, ears pricked for the slightest noise, the cold air freezing their faces and turning their eyes red and their lips white. Now they had almost reached the top of a hill. From here, they would be able to keep an eye on Antonio Russo’s farmhouse, a few hundred yards away as the crow flies. From now on, they would be watching it day and night. Twenty-four hours a day. In a place like this, it was an intensely boring kind of stakeout, but they were used to it.

  ‘How about some coffee?’ Foti asked.

  ‘Exactly what we need,’ the oldest of the officers replied.

  The others nodded.

  They poured the coffee, still steaming, from the camping thermos into plastic cups, and the white of the steam gradually wafted away into the air. The coffee was surprisingly tasty.

  Foti put his empty cup in a plastic bag and went over the instructions.

  ‘Any movement you see, any sign of life inside the farmhouse, write it down. Any cars that come, try to indicate the make, the model and the colour. And remember to take as many photographs as possible.’

  ‘We won’t let anything get past us, Captain,’ one of the men replied. He sounded as if he meant business.

  The wind was still howling, occasionally it seemed to be getting worse. It was a terrible autumn day.

  ‘You’ll be relieved when the time comes. Keep your eyes open, that’s the main thing. Keep your eyes open.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they all replied.

  ‘And remember to notify your colleagues should any emergency arise.’

  In the same area, though at a safe distance, another group of officers was sitting in an unmarked off-road vehicle. They were there to keep an eye on Antonio Russo’s movements, following him if necessary.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ Foti said. ‘I’d best go now, before it starts to rain. The colonel’s waiting for me.’ He set off back along the same path by which they had come.

  Meanwhile, in the DIA’s phone-tap monitoring room, the technicians had worked through the night, checking connections and making tests. Everything was in good working order. Now the officers were waiting while their computers downloaded the conversations already recorded in the monitoring room at the Prosecutor’s Department.

  As they waited, they talked about the previous night’s dinner: grilled pork and porcini mushrooms, washed down with an excellent new wine. A great way to celebrate San Martino.

  Meanwhile, officers of the Squadra Mobile were waiting for further orders in a hotel at Siderno, on the Ionian coast. They had moved there the previous evening, to avoid traffic on the Ionian Highway 106, the only road connecting Reggio Calabria and the area of their operation, which tended to become very congested during the day.

  The officer in charge, Inspector Grassi, heard his mobile phone ringing. It was Chief Superintendent Bruni. ‘Stand by. Everything’s in working order. Including the phones.’

  Operation Orange Blossom was under way.

  New York

  Dick Moore had gone back to his bachelor life.

  Over the phone, Jenny had told him repeatedly that for the moment she preferred to be alone, that she needed time to think about their future, that the life they had been leading wasn’t for her . . . Her clear resolve led him to suspect they were one step away from divorce. But he missed Jenny more than ever. He felt empty without her, as if he had lost a part of himself. And he missed Sam, too. The way he leapt for joy when Dick came home, the almost human look in his eyes, the cuddles, the walks in Central Park . . . Everything.

  That morning, he found a report waiting on his desk: the results of the lab tests on the letter left at St Peter’s Chapel. He read it. There was nothing significant in it except the confirmation that the letter had been written on a computer. As the mystery caller had said, there wasn’t even the smallest of prints.

  Neither lasers nor electrostatic detection apparatus had shown any indented impressions of handwriting on the paper.

  The results were all negative. The sheet was as clean as if it had come straight from the factory.

  There was no doubt in Dick Moore’s mind: the mystery caller was a professional - and a son of a bitch!

  As he was putting the report to one side, the phone rang.

  He picked up.

  It had been days since he’d heard from him, and he had given up hope of hearing from him again.

  It was the switchboard operator at the other end.

  ‘Director, there’s a technician from the crime lab in Washington on the line.’

  ‘Put him on . . . Hello? Dick Moore here.’

  ‘My name’s Bell, Assistant Director. I’m one of the—’

  ‘Yes, yes, go on.’

  ‘I’m working on the finds from the site of the burned-out vehicle . . . The prints are from a size-ten-and-a-half shoe, and one of the soles has an interruption in one of the patterns.’

  ‘In other words?’

  ‘The pattern seems to have been cut at that point by a sharp object. Perhaps a piece of metal or glass. We’d need to find out if there was any metal or glass at the site.’

  This sounded like an important detail, and Moore’s mind went back to the crime scene. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘I’ll certainly check, though I don’t remember the Crime Scene Unit mentioning anything like that in their report.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Bell said, ‘I have that report in front of me and there’s no reference to it.’

  ‘If you could find out a little more, like the make of the shoe, the condition . . .’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Keep me informed, please. Any time, day or night. I’ll speak to you soon.’ He put down the phone.

  He immediately called Special Agent Mary Cook. Seeing her enter his office with a smile on her face, he was briefly overcome with envy. He had always been against the idea of cohabiting, but now he was starting to have his doubts about marriage, and about the ‘wholesome’ principles with which he had grown up. Perhaps he had been wrong in his attitude to his staff. Was he starting to look at Agent Cook in a different way?

  ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, indicating the chair in front of the desk.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Mary Cook sat down.

  ‘Anything yet from the phones in Rocco Fedeli’s restaurant and hotel?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing relevant to the investigation, sir. Customers making reservations, staff phoning home, that kind of thing. I’ve been getting regular updates from the detective squad.’

  ‘And from our end?’

  ‘Nothing there either. No comments from any of the people who recently had contact with Rocco Fedeli. It’s as if nothing had happened. As if no one had ever known him.’

  ‘And yet we photographed them together.’

  ‘Obviously they don’t want to talk about him,’ Mary Cook said.

  ‘I see. Not looking too good. Carry on, all the same.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He then told her what he had just learned from the technician named Bell.

  ‘That’s something at least,’ she said. ‘How about the tyre tracks?’

  Dick Moore realised that he had forgotten all about them. ‘He didn’t mention them,’ he replied diplomatically. ‘They can’
t have found anything yet. By the way, have you spoken to Bill?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Then phone him and tell him about these developments.’

  ‘I’ll do that straight away, sir,’ she said, her eyes lighting up.

  Dick Moore watched her as she left the room, again feeling a touch of envy.

  That Wednesday evening, the Prestipinos had a heated argument, their only witness the silvery light of the moon shining through the windows.

  They were in the house they had inherited from Angela’s father, an outwardly modest dwelling built with the proceeds from the first kidnappings in the 1970s. Sitting opposite one another in the kitchen, they had been looking at each other for a while now, as if studying each other’s faces. On the table were trays of food and sweets brought by relatives and neighbours, as was the local custom. Their thoughts, though, were elsewhere.

  Their daughter was sleeping over at her maternal grandmother’s house: she hadn’t seen much of the old lady in her life; when she had, it was only for short periods. Angela felt bad about this, and would have liked to take her with her to America, even though she knew that it was not possible, given her mother’s great age, her attachment to tradition and her boundless love for Calabria.

  ‘Alfredo,’ Angela said at last, and it was like an opening round of rifle fire, ‘why did Don Ciccio stay out of things during the funeral? Why didn’t he call in at our mother’s house for a courtesy visit? Do you know?’ These questions had been eating away at her. She knew the rules of the family, and something in Don Ciccio’s behaviour wasn’t right.

  ‘How should I know, Angela? Don Ciccio’s old, and he’s not in good health. Did you see him? He walks with a stick!’

  ‘No, Alfredo, don’t give me that. This is me you’re talking to. Even if he’d been at death’s door, Don Ciccio should have come. It’s a rule that’s always observed. Respect is respect, and that’s all there is to it!’

  Her voice had become stronger and more resolute, and her eyes were full of anger. The expression on her face was one that her husband had never seen in all the years they had lived together.