‘Diego Lopez. I was kidnapped and I’ve escaped.’ His voice seemed suddenly to have regained its old strength.
The young officer looked at him in astonishment. He had only been stationed in this barracks for a few months. He had heard from his colleagues that hostages of the ’Ndrangheta sometimes escaped, but he really hadn’t expected to see one standing right in front of him. He took him by the arm and said, ‘Come with me, I’ll take you to see the marshal.’
30
New York
Somewhere nearby, a dog was barking fiercely.
Luigi Cannizzaro took the key from the pocket of his overcoat.
The Feds had followed him to an apparently disused warehouse in East Brooklyn. The building was surrounded by fenced-off parking lots and machine shops. The closest building, its windows all broken, stood a few hundred yards away on the other side of the street. This was one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in the borough, even if you had a gun and a badge. It swarmed with junkies, dealers and prostitutes.
Luigi was about to insert the key in the lock when he heard footsteps behind him.
He turned.
He saw a man and a woman walking in his direction, arm in arm.
Carefully, he lifted the shutter, just as the couple, who had reduced the distance, passed behind him. He was about to enter when he felt two hands seize him by the shoulders and shove him inside, while someone else grabbed him by his trouser belt. He was pushed face down on the ground. His hat fell off, uncovering his grey, back-combed hair.
‘FBI, don’t move!’ a woman’s voice cried. He obeyed, and, as he lay in that position, hands gently frisked him all over.
He was unarmed.
‘What are you doing?’ he managed to say, his mouth still pressed to the floor.
‘You can get up now,’ the same voice ordered him, as other agents entered the warehouse. He twisted round and sat up on the ground. He raised his big, dark eyes and recognised the couple he had seen a minute or two earlier.
‘Show me your ID,’ he muttered, determinedly.
The woman took a document holder from the pocket of her jeans, opened it and held it a few inches from his face: the badge was golden, an eagle with its wings open above a shield with the words US.
‘Special Agent Mary Cook,’ the woman said. ‘Now get up and sit here. We have to search this place. Come on, move!’
He got to his feet. Looking her straight in the eye, he asked her to show him the search warrant.
Mary Cook took a sheet of paper from a pocket of her leather jacket. ‘Here it is, read it.’ Her eyes came to rest on the gold Rolex the man was wearing on his wrist.
SEARCH WARRANT. It was the warrant Ted Morrison had issued to Dick Moore the day before.
Luigi Cannizzaro gave the impression of reading it, but in fact he was just skimming through it. He knew that in order to issue a search warrant they needed a probable cause, as required by the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution. He said nothing. For a moment he was disoriented.
Mary Cook summoned a tall, well-built agent and ordered him, ‘Don’t move from here.’ He immediately took up position beside Luigi.
The warehouse was not very large.
It looked as if it had not been used for a long time. The air was stale. There were lots of objects strewn about: scraps of furniture, wooden crates, big cartons. In one corner was a room that must once have been an office. It contained a shabby wooden desk, a table, a few worn chairs, lots of cartons, and an old pool table covered in dust.
In groups of two, the Feds peered in every nook and cranny, while Luigi Cannizzaro, sitting on the chair, kept darting glances here, there and everywhere, as if trying to follow their every movement.
Men’s and women’s clothes spilled out of a ramshackle closet. Old clothes, long out of fashion. They checked each item, going through the pockets, examining the hems of pants, the sleeves of jackets. Nothing.
‘They’re my parents’ clothes,’ Luigi Cannizzaro said in a thin voice. ‘They keep everything.’
No one answered him.
In the meantime Dick Moore and Lieutenant Reynolds had arrived, accompanied by other FBI agents and some men from Reynolds’ squad. As Moore passed in front of Cannizzaro, he glanced at him and saw that he was scared. He walked on, followed by Reynolds. They took up position in a far corner. After less than half an hour, voices could be heard from the office.
‘Let’s go take a look, Lieutenant,’ Moore said. They walked back in that direction.
The agents’ faces were glowing with delight. Especially Mary Cook’s. For a moment, she even winked at Moore. From a canvas bag, which had been placed on the old wooden table, she was taking bundles of banknotes. Lots of them, all hundred-dollar bills. There must have been a good few million there.
‘Look at this, Assistant Director,’ Mary Cook said triumphantly.
Moore and Reynolds exchanged glances. Their eyes, too, were shining with a new light. They approached the table.
‘Good, boys, carry on!’ Moore said.
He walked to another part of the warehouse, where other agents had opened a wooden crate and were pulling out a couple of hunting rifles and a large number of single-bullet cartridges. The kind used for hunting wild boar - or for murder. Both rifles had had their serial numbers erased.
‘Keep looking, boys!’ Moore said, before joining Reynolds.
Luigi Cannizzaro, his head bowed over his legs, seemed lost in thought. Reynolds went up to him. ‘Mr Cannizzaro, you’re under arrest.’ Then he read him his constitutional rights. Cannizzaro did not move, did not say a word.
‘Do you want anyone to be informed of your arrest?’ Reynolds asked. ‘Do you have a lawyer?’
No reply.
‘I need to know, Mr Cannizzaro!’ he insisted.
After an interminable silence, he said, barely looking up, ‘I want to inform my parents, and my lawyer, Robert Mills.’
A shiver went down Dick Moore’s spine. It was him, he was sure of it. Yes, it was him, the son of a bitch!
He shook his head slightly, looked him straight in the eye and said out loud, ‘Nothing in life goes the way we’d like it to.’
Luigi Cannizzaro twisted his nose, cheeks and mouth into a grimace. He had been recognised. Then he lowered his gaze.
Moore did not add another word.
Reynolds had heard the sentence, and seen the expression of displeasure on Cannizzaro’s face, but did not ask for an explanation. Nor would he do so. Just like the Feds! Something had been kept from him during the investigation, but it didn’t matter now. He went to Cannizzaro and handcuffed him.
‘Take him to my car,’ he ordered two of his detectives.
Dick Moore was already outside, talking into his cellphone.
Bill Hampton was on the other end. He was giving him the news.
‘Bill, Mary was fantastic! She showed good judgement and a lot of courage. I’m going to recommend her for promotion, you can rest assured of that.’
‘If she carries on like this, she’ll soon be in charge of me,’ Bill Hampton replied, accompanying these words with a sonorous laugh.
‘You make a great couple, Bill!’ Moore said, not even trying to conceal the envy in his voice. Then, before hanging up, he said, ‘See if you can find out from Prestipino who the hit men were.’
The jigsaw was now almost complete. The crucial piece had been secured.
‘Signor Prestipino, your cousin Luigi has just been arrested in New York. They found a large sum of money on him, millions of dollars . . . You told us the truth.’
Alfredo Prestipino opened his eyes wide. ‘Yes, I told you the truth, Chief Superintendent. And now you know it.’
Ferrara nodded.
They were sitting face to face on identical chairs in the one-room apartment.
‘Now I’d like you to tell us something else.’
‘What?’
‘Who carried out the murders?’
‘That, I don’t know.’
Ferrara looked at him uncertainly.
‘You must believe me, Chief Superintendent. I really don’t know. My cousin had a lot of young guys working for him. They called him uncle. But I can tell you one thing . . .’ He paused.
‘Go on.’
‘I know for certain that on the day of the murders, my cousin waited for them in a yellow cab stolen by one of his most trusted men. Then they drove to Brooklyn . . .’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know where, but I can tell you they were killed and their bodies dumped in the ocean. You’ll never find them.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I didn’t know them, but you can find out their names by looking into the disappearances of young men in Brooklyn in the days just after the murders, or even in the hours just after the murders.’
‘Are you absolutely sure of this?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘I believe you.’
‘But you haven’t kept your side of the bargain,’ Prestipino said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it’s true. I’m still here and I haven’t heard anything about my wife and daughter. Chief Superintendent Ferrara, I want to know the truth. What did my wife say?’
Ferrara was silent for a moment or two. Finally, he decided to put his cards on the table. There was no point in prevaricating, now that they’d had confirmation of Prestipino’s statements. He told him about Captain Foti’s conversation with his wife, and about the fact that they had no idea where his wife and daughter were.
‘We’re looking for them. We’ve informed the transport police, but their names aren’t on any passenger list. Colonel Trimarchi has been in San Piero since this morning.’
Prestipino had leapt to his feet with a wild look in his eyes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘We were waiting, hoping we’d trace them. Please sit down, don’t get too excited.’
‘No, Chief Superintendent. If my wife said no, it’s no. I know her. She’s like her brother Rocco. The same character. Strong. Proud. Determined.’
‘Do you have any idea where she may have gone?’
Alfredo Prestipino started pacing up and down the room, waving his hands, and muttering words Ferrara found incomprehensible. Then, suddenly, he calmed down and went back to his seat. ‘It’s a long story, Chief Superintendent.’
‘Go on,’ Ferrara said, without taking his eyes off him. ‘We have time.’
‘No. Unfortunately we don’t have any more time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don Ciccio Puglisi must have found out about my cooperating with you,’ he said, with anger in his eyes. ‘My wife and daughter are in danger. Or at least, my daughter is definitely in danger. We have to act quickly.’
‘Then tell me, Prestipino, and we will act quickly.’
‘The convent at the shrine of the Madonna of Aspromonte. That’s where you have to go.’
‘Why there?’ Ferrara asked, intrigued.
‘Because that’s where they must have gone, or rather, where they must have been taken.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘That’s Don Ciccio’s secret kingdom. It’s where the ’Ndrangheta holds its councils. They must be deciding what to do next. Maybe they’ll try to blackmail me by keeping my daughter as hostage. They could also kill her, if we don’t hurry up . . . We have to go right now.’
‘Tell me one thing. Did Francesco Puglisi have anything to do with this business?’
‘Don Ciccio was everything, Chief Superintendent. He was the one behind the murders. Nothing happens without his say-so. Now, let’s go to the convent, before it’s too late. Believe me, my daughter’s in danger!’ He leapt to his feet again.
‘Calm down. Why didn’t you tell us about Don Ciccio before?’
‘I would have, once my wife and daughter were safe here with me. You have to understand. But let’s not waste any more time now, let’s go!’
‘You can’t come.’
‘Take me with you, I know the place, and we have to be quick!’
Now the picture was even clearer.
Every piece was fitting into place. At last!
The murders in Manhattan had been ordered by Don Ciccio Puglisi to punish Rocco Fedeli, who had betrayed the secret laws of the ’Ndrangheta.
But perhaps that wasn’t the only motive.
Perhaps the old boss, the old patriarch, who still believed in tradition, had decided to kill two birds with one stone.
His executive arm, Luigi Cannizzaro, had done everything he could to point the investigators towards the ’ndrina of Antonio Russo, the up and coming man, who wasn’t liked but had been tolerated for the sake of peace.
By doing what they’d done, they had hoped to put an end to the whole cocaine business, which had fucked everything up.
A double revenge by a master tactician!
An hour later, Ferrara was on board a police helicopter. Next to him, Alfredo Prestipino. Behind them, the NOCS commander and two of his officers.
Another helicopter, carrying Carracci, Bruni and officers from the Squadra Mobile had preceded them. They would meet up with Colonel Trimarchi and set off for the convent in off-road vehicles.
Him, too! Captain Foti thought when he saw Stefano Carracci emerge from the helicopter.
They were on the banks of the river, their point of rendezvous, where the helicopter deposited them after raising clouds of dust and stirring the nearby cane thicket.
Ferrara was talking to Trimarchi on his mobile phone. ‘Colonel, we’ll stay on the opposite slope to avoid being seen and the noise of the helicopter being heard.’
‘OK,’ Trimarchi replied. ‘I’ll let you know when we’re about to surround the place, then you can come closer.’
‘Great! I’ll wait to hear from you.’
The off-road vehicles crossed the little bridge over the river in single file and proceeded along the uneven, potholed dirt road that wound up into the mountains. They did not pass any other vehicle, or any pedestrians. It seemed like no man’s land, but the officers knew this was ’Ndrangheta territory.
They’ll be watching us even though we can’t see them, Foti thought, exchanging glances with the colonel.
Then, just as the road was starting to descend, winding ever more hazardously, Trimarchi heard Ferrari’s voice in his headphones.
‘Colonel?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘We’re in position.’
‘Good. We’ll soon be in view of the target. From there, we’ll go on foot.’
‘Fine. Let me know when you’ve surrounded it. We’ll land nearby.’
‘OK. There’s no wind and the sky’s clear. There shouldn’t be any problems.’
Less than five minutes later, the off-road vehicles came to a halt and the officers got out. Among them was Carracci.
‘From here on, we walk,’ Trimarchi said, ‘using the vegetation as camouflage.’ He turned to Foti. ‘Captain, I want you to take command.’
At this point, Stefano Carracci stepped forward in his combat fatigues. ‘I’m coming, too. I’ll take command.’
They all turned to look at him.
He’s crazy, Foti thought, glancing at the colonel. It’ll be suicide.
‘Are you sure, Chief Superintendent?’ Trimarchi said. ‘This is difficult terrain.’
‘I’m trained, Colonel.’
And he placed himself at the head of the group.
Trimarchi shook his head, then said, ‘I’ll stay here with the vehicles. As soon as you radio that you’re in position, we’ll join you.’
They got moving, and soon disappeared into the vegetation of a deep precipice.
In all, there were eighteen men.
Just over half an hour later, Carracci’s breathless voice came over the colonel’s headphones.
‘We’re here.’
The colonel ordered the drivers to set off, then gave the go-ahead to the helicopte
rs - there was another one now, with the Americans on board. Within a few minutes, they were hovering over the area around the convent, the heart of Aspromonte. The helicopter with the Americans stayed in the air, flying low to get a view through the trees, while the other slowly began to descend. It flew in a circle and touched down about a hundred yards from the target.
‘Let’s go,’ Ferrara said as soon as the door opened. He had been to this place many times in the 1980s. From a distance, it looked exactly the same as it had then, as if time had stood still. He felt a knot in his stomach. They got out and set off. The loud noise of the propellers accompanied them for a few more minutes. In the meantime, the other teams had surrounded the small group of houses in the old village and were keeping it under observation. Everything looked as if it had long been abandoned. There was no one about. When Ferrara and the others were twenty or thirty yards away, they heard a volley of rifle shots, followed immediately by a cry: ‘Police! Stop!’
‘I’m the warden of the shrine!’ another voice cried in reply.
They walked in the direction it had come from and saw a young man with his arms up in the air.
‘I’m the warden!’ the man was still yelling.
Alfredo Prestipino recognised him immediately. ‘He’s a guard!’ he said. ‘There must be others inside. My wife and daughter have to be here.’
‘Where should we go?’
‘To the cellars of the convent. Right now.’
‘You wait here.’
‘Let me come with you.’
‘No, it may be risky,’ Ferrara said, and left a couple of police officers with him as protection. Then he got moving, followed by the NOCS men and the other officers, and entered the courtyard. Soon afterwards, he was joined by the colonel. Just then, they heard more rifle shots, followed by a burst of machine-gun fire.
A real shootout.
31
The convent behind the shrine seemed to have been recently restored. Or rather, it looked as though work was still in progress.
It was on two floors. On each of them, an iron railing allowed visitors to look into the inner courtyard, at the centre of which was a stone well, its pulley now rusted. Rooms lined the high-ceilinged corridors. The officers crossed the courtyard and descended into the cellars. They did not have to break down any doors: all the doors lay on the ground in a corner.
A Death In Calabria Page 26