The judge looked down at the file, then slowly raised his head and looked at Mills, who was still standing there stiffly. ‘From what I’ve heard,’ he said, ‘I assume you have no intention of waiving the ten-day rule.’
‘That’s correct, Your Honour. We don’t want to waive it.’
Goldstein looked at the diary on the bench in front of him and fixed the date of the hearing: precisely ten days away. Mills and the Assistant DA both noted it down. Then the judge leaned forward and asked if they had anything to say about the bail.
For the first time, Assistant DA Betty Fisher stood up. She was young and pretty and wore a sober grey suit.
She had had a long telephone conversation with Ted Morrison before the start of the hearing. He had told her how important it was to make sure that Baker was not released. She had replied that it might be worthwhile for the case to be put under Federal jurisdiction, but Morrison had disagreed. ‘We don’t want to show our hand yet,’ he had said. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she had assured him.
‘Yes, Your Honour, I have something to say. My office asks that bail should be set at sixty thousand dollars.’ She glanced across at Mills.
The judge looked up from the file in front of him and stared at her. Then, over his glasses, he squinted at Harry Baker. For the first time. And for a long time. As if, by studying him, he could understand the reason why such a high bail had been requested for the charges of receiving stolen property and larceny. It was quite without precedent.
‘I don’t understand, Miss Fisher,’ he said. ‘From the papers in my possession I don’t see anything that could justify such a request.’
Turning a pen between her fingers, Betty Fisher replied, ‘Your Honour, my office believes that the accused may attempt to escape justice. He has refused to tell the police how he came into possession of the badge. In addition to which . . .’
She paused, put her pen down on the table and leafed through some papers. They were the notes of her conversation with Ted Morrison.
‘In addition to which, there may be more serious charges against him,’ she continued in a resolute tone.
‘What charges?’ the judge asked, his curiosity aroused.
Betty Fisher seemed to hesitate. She knew that she could not go too far for the moment.
She looked down again at her notes. ‘I haven’t yet received the information I’m waiting for,’ she admitted, ‘but the police are working on it.’
Now it was the judge’s turn to reflect. He adjusted his robe over his shoulders, looked down again at the file, and began writing.
‘I’m going to be flexible in this case,’ he said, looking first at Mills and then once again, fleetingly, at Harry Baker. ‘I’m setting bail at forty thousand dollars. I’ll reduce it if the police investigation hasn’t come up with anything new in the next few hours.’ Then he closed the file, placed it on a pile of other papers on his right-hand side, and called the next case.
Looking defeated, Mills approached Harry Baker and murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. So I’ll be inside a few more days. It’s no big deal. They won’t find anything on me. And anyhow, you know they won’t abandon me.’
‘Hold out a while longer,’ Mills said by way of farewell. ‘We’ll get you out soon.’
And with that Harry Baker was taken back to Riker’s Island.
When Moore and Reynolds found out what had happened, they hoped he would stay there for ever.
There was no reason to change the plan.
The two men who had arrived that morning had not been seen leaving the farmhouse. Nor had Alfredo Prestipino.
Constantly updated by Colonel Trimarchi, Prosecutor Romeo had once again emphasised how important it was that the operation be carried out as soon as possible. It could not, and should not, be postponed. There had been no further conversations of interest on Antonio Russo’s landline since the one recorded the previous day. The telephone company had confirmed that the call had come from a location in South America, which reinforced the theory that it had referred to a drug consignment.
During the meeting, Carracci, taking his courage in both hands, made one last attempt, this time in the presence of Ferrara, to put forward his view that they should wait until the drugs arrived.
‘The Squadra Mobile,’ he said, with a scowl on his face, looking first at Trimarchi, then at Ferrara, ‘have ascertained that a ship with a cargo of bananas is due to arrive at the port of Savona on 29 November. The port of departure, as it turns out, is Turbo. It’s clear that this is the ship we’re interested in.’
Trimarchi and Foti looked at each other, then both turned towards Ferrara, as if anxious to hear what he had to say.
His judgement was not long in coming. ‘I think we should inform the prosecutor about this, too. And then we’ll do whatever he decides.’
It was now clear that Carracci was the head of the task force in name only. The man who made the decisions was the prosecutor. And no one could do anything about that, not even Ferrara. To all intents and purposes, the minister’s decree wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.
Carracci remained silent. Being humiliated by Armando Guaschelli, head of the state police, was one thing, but by a colonel in the Carabinieri? No, that was too much to bear.
Trimarchi looked at his watch. It was 4.25 p.m. ‘I’m going to see the prosecutor at his home. And this time I’d like Chief Superintendent Carracci to come with me.’
Carracci shook his head. At last he spoke.
‘No,’ he said curtly.
Diego had been feeling lousy all day.
He had been dogged by a cough and a terrible sore throat, as well as constant shivering. He must have a fever. Last night’s attempted escape had left its mark on him. He felt like a limp rag. His body was burning. And he hadn’t been able to eat anything. The hard bread and cheese which one of his guards had given him towards midday still lay on the floor. He had only been able to sip a little water from the plastic can. Towards nightfall one of the guards appeared, hooded as usual.
‘We need you alive,’ he said, in the same fake voice as before. ‘Now pull yourself together and get dressed, we’re going soon.’
These words seemed to drag Diego from his torpor.
The sense of emptiness that had dogged him dissipated a little. He put on the shirt, the sweater and then the windbreaker which they had given him as a pillow. It was quite big on him, at least two or three sizes too large. Then the guard took the chain off his ankles so he could put on his trousers, which were still damp, and his shoes. They, too, were soaked. Docilely, he let the guard place a cone-shaped hood on his head, with a little hole for the mouth. He found it difficult to breathe. For a moment, he felt as though he were about to faint. But he tried not to lose heart.
Then four strong arms lifted him under his armpits and dragged him outside. They set off along a path that climbed up into the mountains, until they reached a plateau. Here, the ground was softer. Diego could feel it. His feet sank into a carpet of grass. Then they began to descend. There were thick bushes and trees on the sides of the path. It was a brief descent, which did not last more than half an hour. Eventually, they came to a shack. They pushed him inside and took off his hood, at the same time putting on their own.
Diego was relieved to see that his new hiding place was larger than the hut they had abandoned. It was a solid construction about twelve feet by twelve feet, with drystone walls. It was also in a better state of repair, almost a suite compared with the previous shelter. There was a threadbare mattress on the floor, and a stove and an old cupboard stocked with food in the corner.
‘You’ll be better off here,’ his captor said. ‘We’ll bring you some pasta later, and a little red wine. You’ll soon be back on your feet.’
‘Thank you,’ Diego murmured.
‘We need you alive,’ the other man replied. It was the second time he had said that to him in the space of a few hours. Then he added, ‘Keep using the bu
cket for your needs.’
Diego picked it up and took a good look at it, examining it as if seeing it for the first time. It was made of iron like the previous one, but smaller in size.
Meanwhile, the DIA offices were buzzing with anticipation.
Prosecutor Romeo had again given the order, authorising the raid.
As far as the drugs went - provided Carracci’s theory turned out to be correct - all they had to do was wait. And they already knew, in this case, who the consignment was for. They would get Antonio Russo in the end.
Carracci just had to resign himself.
The operation would begin in the middle of the night, but only if they were certain they would find Russo at home.
That had been the one condition the prosecutor had laid down before giving the go-ahead.
They were preparing to leave when Chief Superintendent Ferrara’s mobile phone began ringing.
He recognised the number on the screen and immediately replied.
‘Hello, Petra.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘Actually, I’m in a meeting right now, but go on.’ He moved into a corner of the room.
‘It’s nothing, Michele, I just wanted to tell you that Anna’s here from Florence.’
‘Good. Give her my regards.’
‘She’s coming with me to the exhibition at the Capitoline Museum.’
‘What exhibition?’
‘“The Fontana Sisters: fashion in history”.’
‘Oh, yes, now I remember.’
‘I have to write an article about it for the magazine.’
‘Good, I’m pleased.’
‘I’ll call you again as soon as I get home.’
‘Yes, do that, Petra.’
‘Stay calm. Or rather, be careful . . . But when are you coming back?’
‘Soon, I hope.’
‘It can’t be too soon for me.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
New York
Before leaving the precinct house, Reynolds checked that the tap on Harry Baker’s landline was active. He hadn’t wanted to lose any more time. Even a call to a relative might turn out to be of interest.
Dick Moore, meanwhile, had ordered phone taps on the Sicilian pizzeria frequented by Baker and the Calabrians. He was still waiting for information about the latter from Italy.
The investigations in New York and Calabria were proceeding now in perfect harmony. And that was a hopeful sign.
It wasn’t just Police Commissioner Jones who wanted the killers apprehended and brought to justice. Apparently the only thing that would make New Yorkers sleep peacefully in their beds was a successful conclusion to the case - that is, if the media were to be believed. That morning, the New York Times had published another leader on the subject:MADISON HOMICIDE CASE AT A CROSSROADS?
The detectives of the 17th precinct seem at last to be on the right track. They are now focusing their attention on the gangs, arresting a number of gang members and even one of their leaders, who was found to be in possession of suspicious items. Police Commissioner Ronald Jones would not confirm these developments, but neither did he categorically deny them, and he was uncharacteristically nervous when questioned on the subject. It is to be hoped that the case can be resolved very soon and that the perpetrators of these terrible killings will at last be identified.
Though there was no by-line, Ronald Jones, when he read it, knew it had to be by that thorn in his flesh, David Powell.
It was just after 11 p.m. and everything was ready.
The DIA officers had assembled in the courtyard of the police station in Gioia Tauro, awaiting the arrival of a team from NOCS, the special forces unit, and another from Police Headquarters in Reggio Calabria. Over the top of their bulletproof vests they wore nylon jackets with the initials DIA in large white letters. In their hands, they held plastic cups filled to the brim with coffee. While waiting, they went over the operation, which had been planned down to the last detail.
‘Follow the rules and wait before going in,’ Colonel Trimarchi ordered. ‘The NOCS team will go in first, after breaking down the front door. Those are the orders. And don’t get carried away in the heat of the moment. Keep a cool head at all times.’
The officers knew the farmhouse well from having taken turns watching it, and right now their colleagues were keeping them constantly updated. The Mercedes was parked in its usual place, under a lean-to in the garden, which meant that Antonio Russo must be at home. And with him were his guests, who had arrived in dribs and drabs over the last few hours. Everything seemed to suggest that a Mafia summit was in progress inside the house.
‘What about the search warrant, Colonel?’ Chief Superintendent Ferrara asked.
‘Prosecutor Romeo issued it a couple of hours ago,’ Trimarchi replied proudly. ‘The information we provided, based on our phone taps and surveillance, was more than enough to convince him.’
‘We’re ready then?’ Ferrara asked.
‘Yes, everything’s in place.’
In the course of the next half hour, the team from headquarters arrived, followed by the NOCS team in their trademark black tracksuits. They were in unmarked off-road vehicles packed with all the tools of their trade.
Last to arrive was Carracci, looking grim-faced. As soon as he saw him, Trimarchi said, ‘Good, now we’re all here, let’s go to the conference room.’
Within a few minutes the room was full.
The officers sat in silence, like metro passengers during the rush hour. One officer was already sitting in the middle of the room next to a table with a projector on it. On the wall opposite was a white sheet. At a sign from Trimarchi, the officer switched on the machine.
The colonel introduced the Americans, then began to go through the operation in detail. Sharp images of the farmhouse began appearing on the screen: the garden, most of it given over to an orange grove, the high perimeter walls, the house itself with its wooden front door, the outbuildings.
‘Are there any dogs?’ the NOCS commander asked. He was a young deputy commissioner named Armando Greco.
‘As far as we know, just one.’
‘Do we have to put it to sleep?’
‘Yes, best not to take any chances.’
Then Trimarchi allocated tasks to the teams.
The officers from Police Headquarters would surround the perimeter wall, the NOCS team would scale it first and smash down the front door, then the other teams would inspect the house and the other buildings.
‘Please keep an eye on the outside of the house at all times. We don’t want anyone escaping, or throwing anything out, like a weapon. And be careful, there could be a summit in progress. Remember that the nearest house is half a mile away and the village two miles.’ He ordered them to tune their portable radios to a private frequency.
‘That’s all. Any questions?’
‘Are we planning on using helicopters?’ someone asked from the back row.
‘Yes. There are two NOCS helicopters ready to intervene. If necessary, they can reach us in a few minutes. They’re in a sports field nearby, awaiting orders. Anything else?’
No one spoke.
They all filed out of the station. On their faces there was hesitation and anxiety, but also courage and concentration. The men from NOCS seemed the most excited. This was understandable, because they were rarely involved in such important operations or in arresting Mafiosi. They all got into their respective vehicles, depending on which team they were part of, put on their bulletproof vests, and picked up their M12 machine pistols or their pump rifles, as well as their Beretta 92/SB service pistols.
At last, the vehicles set off.
One at a time.
The sky was a little overcast.
25
Sunday, 16 November
They were nearing their target.
Colonel Trimarchi glanced at the clock on the car dashboard: it was after 1 a.m. The night was at its blackest and everything
looked shapeless. No smells. No sounds. He radioed the men on stakeout for an update. Apparently, Antonio Russo and his guests were still in the house, even though there were no lights on and no signs of life.
Reaching their destination, the drivers parked their vehicles by the side of the road and switched off all lights. The moon was covered by clouds and gave no illumination. In silence, the officers leapt out of their vehicles, closed the doors noiselessly, and set off along the dusty dirt road leading to the farm.
The excitement was tangible.
The NOCS team led the way, with sturdy rope ladders on their backs, to be used for climbing the perimeter wall. Behind them came the men from Police Headquarters with Chief Superintendent Bruni at their head. Ferrara and the Americans brought up the rear.
They all kept their movements to a minimum, advancing deftly and professionally.
Deputy Commissioner Armando Greco was first to climb the perimeter wall, looking about him through his night-vision viewfinder. Reaching the top, he lowered another ladder and, like a trapeze artist, landed on a soft damp carpet of grass. One by one, his men went over, followed by the rest.
They made straight for the furthest part of the farm, where they were sure they would be out of range of the security cameras. It was the only exposed area of the grounds, perhaps because it hung over a deep precipice. The house was about two hundred yards away.
Silence.
No sound except the chirping of insects. No barking of dogs. Still silence.
Only shadows, darting about.
A marksman took up a position some distance from the front of the mastiff’s kennel. The rifle, fitted with an infra-red sight, emitted a slight hiss. The dog did not wake up. It wouldn’t wake up for at least a couple of hours.
A Death In Calabria Page 20