A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘Maybe it’s time we put in an official request for the results of Operation Orange Blossom, especially a transcript of Alfredo Prestipino’s statement.’

  ‘Sure, that could be very useful.’

  ‘And there’s another reason we should involve the DA’s office.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They could take steps to have Alfredo Prestipino sent back over here.’

  Reynolds nodded. ‘I think that would be a good idea.’

  He stood up and went out. He was in a hurry. He’d arranged to meet his wife at a restaurant called Salute on Madison Avenue.

  Moore lifted the receiver and dialled Ted Morrison’s cellphone number.

  I have to do it! I have to . . .

  Diego was trying to saw through a link in the chain.

  He was rubbing it with the stone his kidnapper had left him for lighting matches, which was quite sharp at the sides. At first, he was not sure he would manage it, but then, as he went on, he realised that he had made some progress.

  Yes, I have to do it. And I will do it . . .

  He continued to rub determinedly.

  I can’t stop now . . . I’ll do it . . . It’s now or never!

  29

  Monday, 17 November

  GIUSEPPE FERRANTE, ON THE RUN SINCE 1991, CAPTURED. BOSS SURPRISED IN FARMHOUSE DURING COMBINED OPERATION BY DIA AND FBI.

  On the front page of Monday’s edition of the daily paper La Gazzetta del Sud, a six-column headline announced the outcome of Operation Orange Blossom.

  In the early hours of Sunday morning, DIA and FBI agents interrupted a summit meeting being held in a farmhouse belonging to the entrepreneur Antonio Russo. The biggest surprise awaiting them was the discovery of the Scarlet Pimpernel of Calabria, Giuseppe Ferrante, known as Don Peppino.

  Don Peppino Ferrante had been sought since December 1991 after escaping a police raid which had decimated the higher echelons of the ’Ndrangheta in Reggio, an organisation held responsible for a long series of murders which had steeped the streets of the capital and several towns in the province in blood.

  A curious aspect of this brilliant police operation was the participation of agents of the USA’s Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  The police commissioner of Reggio Calabria has declined to comment, other than to say that he was not aware of this participation.

  Our own sources, however, have confirmed that FBI agents were indeed present during the operation. Apparently this collaboration between the FBI and the DIA is linked to several murders which took place in New York on 1 November . . .

  The article went on to list the names of the victims and provide background detail on the New York killings.

  In the dining room of his hotel, Chief Superintendent Ferrara closed the newspaper angrily. The bastards! There wasn’t even a by-line. Who the hell had written this and who were their sources?

  Ferrara took his mobile phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and dialled Colonel Trimarchi’s number. It was unobtainable. He glanced at his watch: 7.50. His driver would be here soon.

  There had been a leak. There was no doubt about it. Well, that was only to be expected. What was unexpected, and what worried him, was the reference to the presence of the FBI. That was sure to make the investigation more complicated.

  He left the hotel and stood outside the main entrance, waiting for the driver. He did not want to waste time.

  Just then, a young man drove by at high speed, his car radio blasting out the song ‘Vita spericolata’ by Vasco Rossi. Ferrara’s thoughts went back to the beginning of the 1980s, and the evenings he and Petra had spent at a discotheque in Taormina.

  By the first light of dawn, Diego had finally managed to free himself.

  He had sawn through the ring holding the chain, which now hung from the hook on the wall.

  He was exhausted. It did not even occur to him to also saw through the padlock which kept his ankles chained together. That would have been asking too much of his strength. At least he could now move, if only with short, shuffling steps. He rolled up one side of the chain and put it in the right-hand pocket of his windbreaker. Then, almost crawling across the ground, he edged towards the door. Slowly, he opened it. There was no one about, and no voices to be heard. He looked around. No ray of sunlight. Only clouds. Straight ahead, he glimpsed a mountain road disappearing round a bend.

  He started moving down a slope thick with bushes and holm oaks.

  Within a few minutes, he was swallowed up by the vegetation.

  By the time Ferrara reached the DIA centre, Colonel Trimarchi was already in his office.

  He was reading the article.

  ‘Good morning, Colonel,’ he said, brusquely.

  ‘Good morning, Chief Superintendent. I’m reading—’

  ‘I read it at the hotel and tried to call you. What do you think, Colonel?’

  At that moment Stefano Carracci arrived. They had not seen him since they had left the farmhouse.

  ‘Good morning!’ he said.

  Look who’s here! Trimarchi thought. Back from the dead!

  ‘Hello there, Chief Superintendent Carracci,’ he said. ‘Did you see the article?’

  ‘What article?’

  ‘This one!’ He handed him the newspaper.

  ‘So, Colonel, what do you think?’ Ferrara asked again, his tone now commanding, while Carracci started to read, his curiosity aroused.

  There was tension in the air.

  ‘It’s obvious there’s been a leak,’ Trimarchi replied, and stopped for a moment, Ferrara’s eyes still on him. ‘I rule out the possibility that the source is in my office.’

  ‘I don’t want to accuse your office, Colonel, but it’s clear that not many people knew about the presence of the Americans.’

  ‘But everyone saw them during the meeting at the police station,’ Trimarchi replied. ‘We introduced them . . .’

  Ferrara nodded. ‘I know it’ll be difficult, if not impossible, to trace the source . . .’

  The colonel nodded.

  ‘This leak,’ Ferrara continued, ‘doesn’t only put us in a bad light with our American colleagues, it could also damage the progress of the investigation. Whoever leaked the information could cause more damage - possibly irreparable damage - if he also finds out that Alfredo Prestipino is willing to cooperate. ’

  ‘No one outside the DIA knows he’s cooperating,’ Trimarchi replied. ‘It’s the fact that it hasn’t appeared in the press that leads me to rule out my colleagues.’

  Ferrara nodded. The thought occurred to him that Angela Fedeli also knew. The damage might already have been done.

  ‘I still think you should conduct an internal inquiry,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. But right now I’m going to San Piero d’Aspromonte.’

  Carracci had still not taken his eyes off the newspaper.

  New York

  The telephone on the night table rang at 3.05 a.m.

  Luigi Cannizzaro picked up at the fourth ring. ‘Yes?’ he said in a sleepy voice.

  ‘Gigi, did I wake you?’ someone asked at the other end, in Italian.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Go on!’

  He had recognised one of his relatives. He was phoning from Italy.

  ‘They told me to tell you . . . You know who . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That your cousin . . . is singing like a canary to . . . you understand?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘And another thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In today’s Gazzetta, it says there are people over here from where you are.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘FB—’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘That’s all. A lot have been drunk.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Watch out for the gates. ’Bye.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  Angrily, Luigi Cannizzaro put the phone down. He knew that a lot have been drunk meant that a lot of people had been
arrested, and that the gates meant prison.

  Cannizzaro got out of bed. He had to leave before it was too late.

  There was no time to lose.

  Uh-oh. The two-note cry of a bird rose in the air.

  Diego opened his eyes. His lips were numb with cold. He was lying on a carpet of grass under an oak tree that had been split by a bolt of lightning some time in the past. He had slept for several hours. He was hungry and thirsty, and his head and stomach hurt. His pale fingers were as stiff as pieces of iron. He tried unsuccessfully to get to his feet. He looked up at the clear sky and saw an eagle owl hovering between the trees. It had finished its night’s hunting and, with its big wings outspread, was returning to the nest. He rubbed his eyes and followed the owl until it was just a distant dot in the sky.

  He was breathing more easily now. Slowly, he set off, still crawling along the ground. Clutching at roots, he managed to move from one bush to another, from one tree to another.

  After a few minutes, he came to a stream. The water, swollen by the rains, coursed between rocks and stones, pounding against the banks and gurgling amid the branches. Careful not to let himself be carried away by the flow, he crouched and drank great gulps of water. Stooping like that, his back bent, he was like a panther. He collected the water in the hollow of his hands and threw it over his face. He repeated this several times until he felt better, then set off again.

  From here, he would have to climb the ridge until he reached the point where he had glimpsed the road.

  The road was his only hope of salvation.

  He tried several times to climb, but couldn’t manage it: too much mud. He slipped, got up again, slipped again, and finally gave up. Soaking wet, he kept trying to find a way through, but continued to stumble. After a few steps, he always ended up back where he had started.

  The runway was close to the sea, and the sirocco blowing from the African desert had covered it with a layer of yellow sand.

  The officers of the Flight Group had taken the Augusta Bell 212 helicopter from the hangar. By the time Colonel Trimarchi and Captain Foti arrived, the propellers were already turning, slowly at first, then more rapidly, and the pilot had finished the routine checks. Everything was ready.

  We really could have done without this wind, Trimarchi thought as he got out of the service car and walked towards the helicopter, followed by Foti.

  The young police inspector in charge stood to attention by the door of the helicopter.

  They got on board and sat down in the first seats, just behind the pilot and the navigator.

  ‘We’ll fly along the coast,’ the inspector said into Trimarchi’s headphones. ‘It’ll take a few minutes longer, but it makes for a more comfortable journey.’

  ‘OK.’

  After a few minutes, they were two hundred feet over the Ionian Sea, and some six miles out from the coast. Half an hour later, the pilot veered inland.

  At the most convenient point on the banks of the river, the commander of the barracks of San Piero d’Aspromonte was waiting for them with his men.

  In the meantime, Chief Superintendent Ferrara had gone to see Alfredo Prestipino.

  He looked drawn, and barely smiled at Ferrara. He had not slept a wink during the night.

  ‘Chief Superintendent, something doesn’t seem right,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all night.’

  ‘What doesn’t seem right?’

  ‘In all this time, I haven’t had any news of my wife or my daughter. I don’t see why. There’s something you people aren’t telling me.’

  ‘But, Signor Prestipino, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet!’ Ferrara replied. ‘These things take time, with all the bureaucracy . . .’

  ‘I know all about bureaucracy, but . . . What’s bureaucracy got to do with my wife?’

  ‘Colonel Trimarchi has gone to talk to her. He’s in San Piero right now. Don’t worry.’

  Alfredo Prestipino’s face appeared to relax. ‘Then let’s wait for him to come back with my wife and daughter. I won’t carry on with my story until they’re here.’

  ‘Yes, let’s wait, and don’t worry.’

  On the way out, Ferrara advised the officers guarding Prestipino not to give him any newspapers.

  Especially not the Gazzetta del Sud.

  After about an hour, Diego had managed to climb to a point that was overgrown with weeds. He grasped at the roots and hauled himself further up.

  At last, he reached the road. It was like a mirage.

  He sat down on the low wall bordering the road, close to a bend.

  He waited, hoping a car would come.

  When he heard the roar of an engine approaching, he got abruptly to his feet.

  He kept his eyes peeled on the bend. After a few moments, an Alfa Romeo appeared.

  He waved his arms.

  More and more conspicuously.

  But the driver ignored him, passing without even slowing down, without even looking at him. It was as if he hadn’t seen him at all.

  ‘Fuck!’ he yelled after the car. ‘What am I, a ghost?’ Instinctively, he touched his chest, his legs, his head.

  He sat down again on the same wall. During the following half hour, other cars passed. Their drivers also ignored him.

  What kind of place is this? Don’t they see I have a chain on my feet? Or maybe they’re ignoring me because I have a chain?

  In the end, he had to resign himself.

  Slowly, he set off along the road, accompanied only by the noise of the chain dragging on the ground.

  New York

  ‘Here he is! Yes, it’s him.’

  Mary Cook had the target in her sights through the blacked-out window.

  Simultaneously, she heard the muted voice of one of the fake vagrants coming through her headphones, informing her that Luigi Cannizzaro had just come out of the pink building. She watched as he slowly looked right and left, like a cautious pedestrian, then crossed the street.

  It was just before five in the morning.

  She was not at all surprised to see him; in fact, she had been expecting him. Even though the phone conversation had not been in standard Italian, the interpreter had guessed that it had been about something unlawful.

  Luigi Cannizzaro, a tall, athletic, distinguished-looking man, was dressed as he had been when they had seen him come home the previous evening. The same long overcoat. The same hat, tilted slightly to the right. Reaching the other side of the street, he walked to a black Ford Mustang GT with a decal of a boxer dog next to the rear licence plate. He opened the door, took another look around, and got in. He started the engine and pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator.

  The Feds’ portable radios started to crackle.

  And their cars set off in pursuit on the almost deserted streets.

  At about the same time, Colonel Trimarchi was talking to Chief Superintendent Ferrara on the phone from San Piero d’Aspromonte, updating him on the situation.

  The only person he had found in Angela’s house was her mother, and all she had said was that her daughter and granddaughter had left early that morning. The village, as always, was blind, deaf and dumb. There was no point asking if anyone had seen them.

  ‘What shall we do?’

  Ferrara did not reply immediately.

  He was thinking.

  Something told him the investigation was about to become more complicated. First that leak to the press, now the disappearance of Prestipino’s wife and daughter. There was a real possibility that Prestipino would refuse to cooperate any further. And that would make them look really bad in the eyes of their American colleagues.

  ‘Chief Superintendent?’ he heard down the phone line.

  ‘Yes, Colonel, I’m still here.’

  ‘What shall we do?’ Trimarchi was becoming impatient.

  ‘We need to know what’s happened to Prestipino’s wife,’ Ferrara said. ‘Let’s keep an eye on her mother, have her tailed, see if she takes us to her. She mus
t still be around. She didn’t make any call that suggested she was leaving. But I’ll have the passenger lists checked in case she caught a flight from Reggio Calabria or Lamezia Terme.’

  ‘Good idea, Chief Superintendent. I’m with you, I don’t think she’s left.’

  ‘Good. Stay there for a while, Colonel, and coordinate activities on the spot. I’ll see to the rest.’

  ‘OK.’

  They hung up.

  There was a feeling that the operation had ground to a halt.

  Ferrara headed for the office where the Americans were. They seemed excited. Bill Hampton had just come off the phone to New York. Bob Holley smiled, and said, a touch smugly, ‘Things are moving on Luigi Cannizzaro. He got a call from Italy early this morning, and has just left home.’

  After an interminable walk, Diego had come within sight of a built-up area.

  From a shoulder at the side of the road, he was now looking down at a small group of houses below him, a few hundred yards as the crow flies. He had made it. Not much further to go, and he’d find someone to help him.

  After a while, his eyes fell on a sign. It was not only brown with the sun and rust, but also riddled with holes from bullets and shotgun pellets until it was little more than a sieve. He tried to read the name that must once have been written there. All he could make out were a few letters: AST. . .Z. The other letters had completely disappeared.

  He set off again, gradually nearing the first houses. Rounding a bend, he saw a detached house surrounded by a courtyard. In front of it was a sign that jutted out into the street. On it was the word CARABINIERI. He came to an abrupt halt, his heart in his mouth.

  He summoned up his courage and continued walking.

  He saw a tall, thin young man in an impeccable dark uniform emerge from the house and walk quickly in his direction.

  ‘Who are you?’ he heard the young man say.