Lips pursed, Trimarchi seemed to reflect for a moment. ‘What kind of assurances do you need?’ he asked, and with a brief nod motioned him to continue.
Prestipino kept looking from Trimarchi to Ferrara and back again. After another pause, he said, ‘I’m in a lot of danger, and so are my wife and daughter. Anything can happen to me once I leave here, once I tell you what I’m going to tell you.’
‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear,’ Trimarchi replied, somewhat irritably. ‘Before you can leave here, provided the prosecutor authorises it, you will have to be interviewed formally. You will have to explain what happened to you, why you were kidnapped. Because it was a kidnapping, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I was kidnapped,’ Prestipino replied in a thin voice, shaking his head slightly. ‘Are you planning to charge me?’
‘If you don’t tell us the truth, you may be liable to the charge of aiding and abetting a crime. And if that’s the case, you could go to prison. Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s an offence that carries a sentence of up to four years. And there are aggravating circumstances.’
‘No, not prison! I’d be in even more danger there. They’d kill me for sure. And what about my daughter? No, I don’t even want to think about it.’
He ran his hand through his sparse hair, which had turned greyer than before, and slowly rubbed his forehead. His eyes filled with tears. Genuine tears. They ran down his face.
‘Come on, Prestipino, there’s no need for that,’ Trimarchi said. ‘Just tell us what kind of information you have.’
‘It’s about New York . . . My brother-in-law Rocco . . . But first you have to give me assurances.’
‘Listen, Prestipino,’ Ferrara said, intervening for the first time, ‘we may need to bring in Detective Bernardi. He’s the police officer you recognised from the 17th precinct. What do you say to that?’
‘That’s OK by me, but I want assurances,’ he insisted. ‘I won’t talk until I get them.’
Ferrara left the room.
Lost in thought, Prestipino waited for Bernardi.
Ferrara returned after a few minutes, followed by Bernardi and Bob Holley. He had found them in another office, taking a closer look at the confiscated weapons, and had brought them up to date as they walked along the corridor.
Both men greeted Prestipino as they entered the room. He returned their greeting, and asked Bernardi if he remembered him.
‘Of course I do. You’re Rocco Fedeli’s brother-in-law. We met that morning . . . on the nineteenth floor . . . and then later in the precinct house.’
Prestipino nodded.
‘Just tell us what you know,’ Bob Holley said, trying to be reassuring. ‘I may be able to talk to my superiors, including the Assistant Director of the FBI.’
With a grave expression on his face, Prestipino weighed this up in silence, then said, ‘Thank you, but it’s what happens afterwards that worries me. I’d like to talk to my wife and my daughter Maria.’
‘You can’t do that now,’ Trimarchi said, his voice rising an octave. ‘You’re in custody and, as I said, we may end up charging you. It depends on you.’ He glanced at Ferrara, who was listening impatiently.
‘No, don’t charge me, Colonel! That would be the end of me and my family!’ With his hand, he wiped away the sweat that continued to pour down his forehead.
‘There’s only one other option,’ Trimarchi said. ‘We’re being as open with you as we can.’
‘The colonel is referring to the witness protection programme, ’ Ferrara said.
‘I want to talk to my wife. I’d like to have a new life, I really would, but my wife needs to know. She hasn’t had any news of me for days. And the evening before . . .’ He broke off, his voice cracking. He felt a knot in his throat.
‘What’s the matter?’ Ferrara asked.
‘Nothing. I just need a glass of water.’
There was a brief pause.
‘What were you saying?’ Ferrara asked when the interview resumed.
‘Nothing, Chief Superintendent. The evening before they took me away, I quarrelled with my wife. That’s all. The usual family quarrel. It may be that Angela thought I deliberately went away to do something stupid. You understand what I’m saying?’
‘Of course!’
Prestipino threw a glance at Detective Bernardi, as if he expected him to intervene.
‘We’re in Italy now, Mr Prestipino,’ Holley said. ‘We have to abide by Italian law.’
Prestipino put his right elbow on the armrest of his chair and moved his hand over his forehead. He seemed to be thinking hard.
‘I’m sure, though, Mr Prestipino, that if your information is useful, Italian law could also help you, but first we have to know what it is.’
‘But I want to leave Italy and . . .’
‘And?’
‘And I don’t want to go back to New York.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d be in danger there, too.’
Silence fell again in the room.
Ferrara and Trimarchi exchanged a series of glances with the Americans, but said nothing. Alfredo Prestipino had not moved. With a sigh, he said, ‘I’d like to trust you.’
At that moment there was a knock at the door. Captain Foti put his head inside.
Trimarchi nodded, stood up and left the room.
In a quiet corner of the corridor, Foti walked right up to the colonel, almost touching him.
Anyone seeing them would have thought they were conspirators.
‘What is it, Foti?’ Trimarchi asked. ‘Has something happened? ’
‘Sir,’ the captain said gravely, ‘we left the briefcase with the cloned satellite phone in the farmhouse. I thought one of my men was going to bring it. But—’
‘Don’t tell me it’s lost. I know the men were all keyed up.’
‘No, sir, I telephoned them. Carracci has the briefcase.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘I spoke to Carracci and asked him to send it here with a driver.’
‘Well?’ Trimarchi’s face clouded over. He was getting impatient, and could not wait to get back to his office.
‘Carracci wouldn’t see reason, sir. He told me he has it and will bring it himself when the operation is over. You should have heard the way he spoke to me . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was as if it was his property. Something that’s his by right. You see what I’m saying?’
‘All right, Foti, let’s wait for Carracci to get here. In the meantime I’ll tell Ferrara.’
‘Can I be perfectly honest with you, sir?’
‘Of course, go ahead!’
‘I don’t like this Carracci. I haven’t liked him since the first time I met him. He’s behaved as if he wanted to slow down the investigation. I don’t know how to say this, sir, but . . .’
‘Come on, out with it!’
‘I just hope we find the memory on that phone intact. You know what I’m saying?’
‘I know, Foti, but we must be patient. The police, especially the higher-ups, don’t always think like us. Never mind. We’re still loyal!’
Foti nodded. ‘That’s why I’m in the Carabinieri, sir.’
‘Now go back to your men,’ Trimarchi said, patting him on the shoulder.
He stood there, puzzled, watching Foti as he walked away.
‘Where should I start?’ Prestipino asked. ‘With last night, or with New York?’
He seemed to have finally calmed down a little. Even his posture had changed, and he was no longer sitting with his shoulders stooped.
‘Let’s start with New York,’ Ferrara suggested, looking first at him, then at Bernardi, who nodded. ‘Tell us everything from the beginning. Take it slowly.’
‘It isn’t easy for me, but I’ll try . . . Anyway, I don’t have any other options, I realise that now.’
‘It’s a step you have to take. For you and for your family, and we know how much you car
e about them.’
‘Yes, I do. They’re my whole life. Especially my daughter. She’s a student, you know. She’s studying law.’
‘Carry on.’
‘It was my cousin who had my brother-in-law Rocco killed.’
These words, uttered without the slightest hesitation, created a kind of electricity in the room.
‘Who is your cousin?’ Ferrara asked.
‘He lives in New York. He’s the son of my father’s sister.’
His forehead was now drenched in sweat again, and he wiped it with his handkerchief.
‘What’s your cousin’s name?’ Trimarchi asked, breaking a silence that was becoming unbearable.
‘His name is Luigi.’
‘Luigi what?’
‘Luigi Cannizzaro.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Older than me. There’s more than five years between us.’
‘Where was he born?’
‘New York. His parents have been living there since the fifties.’
‘Who’s his father?’
‘Rocco Cannizzaro.’
‘Where in New York do they live?’
‘In Brooklyn.’
Bernardi was taking notes in his ubiquitous notebook.
‘Go on,’ Ferrara prompted.
Silence.
‘Tell us why your brother-in-law was killed,’ Trimarchi said. He didn’t want the interview, off the record as it was, to fizzle out.
This was the key question.
‘He was killed because he betrayed the code,’ Prestipino replied without hesitation.
‘What code?’
‘The code of the ’Ndrangheta. A code these people - these Americans - don’t know anything about. The same code I’m betraying now, though for other reasons. I’m betraying the ties of blood which bind us, which keep our families together.’
The two Americans looked at Ferrara. It was the first time they had heard about the code of the ’Ndrangheta, or about a betrayal of the ties of blood in the Calabrian families, and they hadn’t the slightest idea what the man was talking about. Ferrara shook his head slightly. He tried to urge him on, asking him what betrayal he was talking about. There was silence again. Then Ferrara and Trimarchi, speaking over each other, said ‘Tell us! We’ll understand! Tell us everything.’
‘It isn’t easy.’
‘We know, but now that you’ve started, you have to continue! ’
‘But these two wouldn’t understand.’ He gestured towards the Americans. ‘To Americans, the ’Ndrangheta is a whole new world. They haven’t discovered it yet. In the family, no betrayal can go unpunished. Sooner or later, they take their revenge.’
At this point Prestipino lowered his eyes. He seemed to be thinking. He, too, was breaking rule number one, the law of silence. His own betrayal would not go unpunished. The ’Ndrangheta would make him pay. And, if they couldn’t get to him, they would take their revenge by striking at his nearest and dearest, killing some family member or relative, maybe years later. From this time on, he would be a hunted man, with pursuers always at his heels.
Ferrara guessed what terrifying images were passing through Prestipino’s mind. He tried to encourage him. ‘But this isn’t a whole new world to us. We know it well. I know it well.’
‘I know that, Chief Superintendent,’ Prestipino said, looking Ferrara in the eye.
‘Tell us, then!’
Prestipino drank a little water before continuing.
‘My brother-in-law was a member . . .’ He told them something about the life of Rocco Fedeli.
‘And why were you at Russo’s last night?’ Ferrara asked. ‘Why were you being held like that?’
‘Because Antonio Russo wanted some information from me.’
‘What information?’
‘About what happened in New York and . . .’
‘And what?’
‘. . . and what happened to the three million dollars.’
Ferrara, Trimarchi and the Americans looked at each other. They had seen this figure quoted in the first memo they had received from Dick Moore. In the light of what they were now hearing, it seemed that Moore’s informant was a reliable source. Prestipino’s quoting of the same figure suggested that his testimony, too, was reliable, at least on this point.
‘All right, Prestipino,’ Trimarchi said after a pause. ‘I’ll inform the prosecutor and we’ll see what we can do. Are you ready to repeat all this, and everything else, to him?’
Alfredo Prestipino nodded his head slightly.
‘Say yes or no.’
‘Yes, if you give me the guarantees. Especially now that I’ve spoken. I’m done for in this place. I only hope I can get understanding from my family, especially my daughter.’
‘All right. I’m going to have you taken into the other room. We’ll resume as soon as possible.’ He called an officer.
By now it was almost eight in the morning.
When Diego woke up, the light of a new day was already filtering through the crevices in the stones.
He had slept all through the night. He looked around and saw that the wood stove in the corner of the shack was still lit. He felt better - he no longer had that awful cough from the day before - although his legs were aching from his misadventures in the mountains. At that moment, one of his kidnappers came in, hooded as usual, with an old wooden bowl in his hand, like those used by shepherds, and held it out.
‘Here. Drink this. It’s fresh goat’s milk. It’ll do you good.’
Diego took the bowl and lifted it to his lips. He drank the milk in two long gulps, letting a few drops fall on the mattress.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘I’ll bring you something to eat later.’
‘Thanks,’ he said again.
The kidnapper went out. In the brief time before the door closed again, Diego caught a fleeting glimpse of trees and vegetation. Then he began to hear noises which he had never heard in the other refuge. He realised he was in a different area. He heard car horns hooting, the rumble of engines, the cries of shepherds. Then a man’s voice saying through a megaphone, ‘Roll up, roll up, everyone roll up . . .’ That was all, but the noises and the voice cheered him, and he felt a new energy coursing through his veins. A few minutes later, he even heard a church bell tolling, heard it loud and clear.
He adjusted the windbreaker he was using as a pillow. Being warm and snug made it easier to bear misfortune, he told himself.
He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
27
Corso Garibaldi has always been the heart of Reggio Calabria.
A semi-pedestrian zone, it livens up for a few hours in the afternoon when it becomes a meeting place where people - especially teenagers and pensioners - come to stroll and chat.
Here, in the central bar, Colonel Trimarchi and the Americans were sipping hot coffee, while Ferrara savoured a lemon granita and a soft brioche.
It had been a particularly long and exhausting night, and one full of surprises. Now they were taking advantage of the break to get some fresh air, have something to eat and drink, and compare notes.
‘The thing is,’ Ferrara was saying to Bob Holley, ‘we’re dealing with a world where no one talks, and anyone who does knows what’s in store for him. A man of honour is someone who keeps quiet. You understand what I mean?’
‘Yes, of course, but who’s actually in charge?’
‘Well, that would take a long time to explain. And it might be better somewhere else rather than here. The thing to remember is that the ’Ndrangheta is like a parallel society, with interests everywhere, but it rarely shows its face. That way, it stays a myth. And the thing they most appreciate is not asking questions.’ He looked around, hoping that no one had heard them.
As soon as they got back to the office, Trimarchi said, ‘It seems to me, gentlemen, that everything is coming together. I think we’re soon going to see some concrete results.’
They sat down in the lounge.
Bernardi said he would inform Lieutenant Reynolds. Hampton echoed him with ‘And I’ll inform Assistant Director Moore.’
‘I’d do that immediately, if I were you,’ Trimarchi said. ‘And from your end, maybe we could get something more about Luigi Cannizzaro and his parents.’
‘Of course,’ Bernardi and Hampton said in unison.
‘Good. In the meantime, we’ll see what we can find out about Alfredo Prestipino’s father’s family.’
The others nodded, their heads tilted, their eyes half closed.
The wild-goose chase was now a distant memory.
New York
Almost simultaneously, phones rang in the homes of Dick Moore and John Reynolds.
Both were brought up to date on developments, down to the last detail.
Then they called each other and arranged to meet at FBI headquarters.
For the first time since they had begun investigating this case, they were galvanised. They could well be close to finding the crucial piece of the puzzle.
There was another reason why Reynolds was in seventh heaven. The previous evening, his daughter had told him that he was going to be a grandfather.
A grandfather! He smiled. He couldn’t believe it.
The interview began at 10.30 a.m.
Prosecutor Francesco Romeo, a short, plump, white-haired man close to retiring age, chose not to have Prestipino moved to the Prosecutor’s Department, preferring instead to interview him in the DIA offices. It provided him with an opportunity to personally congratulate not only the colonel but all the men who had taken part on the success of the operation.
Now he was in the monitoring room, and sitting facing him on the other side of the desk was Alfredo Prestipino, who appeared suddenly rejuvenated.
‘Is everything all right, Signor Prestipino?’ Romeo asked with a forced smile, peering over the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
A Death In Calabria Page 22