Rip Crew

by Sebastian Rotella

  “Look, man—I mean, Dottore—I’m not some kind of CIA black ops guy, if that’s what you’re driving at. This is a legitimate international investigation. People’s lives are at stake. That’s why I have to be careful. If you let me call DHS-HQ in Washington for approval, I might be able to talk.”

  “How do you permit yourself to make such a demand?” Maio had switched to Italian again. His voice rose, his arm waved, his fist pounded. “I don’t depend on the whims of Washington! I can charge you with homicide, assault, illegal use of firearms. Espionage, if I get inspired. I don’t like this situation. An American and a Mexican present themselves at a cybercafé in godforsaken Palazzo di Sabbia. A team of lumpen Camorra associates choose that precise spot and moment for a punitive commando expedition. Five dead, two wounded. Yes, five! We found two subjects—Martins, Sunset, and Adebayo, Alphonsus—in a Maserati, executed at close range. I ask myself: What the hell is going on? My first theory, considering that Spanish-speakers are involved: drugs. But your profile is atypical. This Mexican journalist is atypical. This Eritrean is a decent workingman, a soldier. A big mystery. I don’t like it. You—”

  A ringtone interrupted—an opera singer belting out an aria. Maio rose, pulled a phone from a pocket, and strode toward the window to answer. The caller must have asked how he was, because he declared, “Incazzato.”

  Pescatore knew that word; it meant “pissed off.” The prosecutor who holds your fate in his hands is not someone you want incazzato. Things did not look good for Valentine Pescatore, jail-wise. If this blew up into a big scandal, it would hurt everybody, especially Isabel.

  While Maio talked on the phone, Pescatore glanced around. Three detectives sat at a conference table covered with folders, piles of documents, and a box of old-fashioned ink-stamper kits. Two bodyguards—one balding, the other with shoulder-length, soccer-star hair—flanked the prosecutor’s desk. They watched Pescatore like sleep-deprived pit bulls.

  The wall above Maio’s chair displayed a black-framed photo of Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino, the Sicilian anti-Mafia judges assassinated weeks apart in 1992. The legendary duo sat at a table leaning toward each other, as if sharing a private joke. Their smiles had a weary dignity.

  In other photos on the wall, Giancarlo Maio examined a cargo container full of cocaine and perp-walked a kingpin with a coat over his head through a gauntlet of police and photographers. Framed press clippings and photos depicted Maio’s role in foiling a terrorist plot in Milan to fire a bazooka at a chemical refinery outside Lyon, France. Fatima Belhaj had told Pescatore about that case, a joint French-Italian investigation of a cell of European jihadists returned from Iraq…

  An idea flashed in his head. He must have reacted physically, because the long-haired bodyguard gave him a look. As soon as Maio sat back down, Pescatore threw the Hail Mary pass.

  “Dottore,” he said. “I know you are frustrated. I don’t blame you. But there’s someone who can vouch for me. I think you know her. Commissaire Fatima Belhaj. With the DGSI in Paris.”

  Maio’s face registered disbelief and curiosity. Pescatore’s hunch was right. Maio knew Fatima. And, being a healthy self-respecting Italian male, he was probably not indifferent to her charms.

  “Fatima Belhaj,” the prosecutor said slowly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know Fatima Belhaj.”

  “I’ve investigated terrorism with her.”

  “An exceptional investigator. A cara amica of mine.”

  “Mine too. In fact, she’s”—he searched for the word—“my fidanzata.”

  Even if marriage had never been mentioned, Italian men called a steady romantic companion a fidanzata—fiancée.

  “Bullshit.” Maio spat the word in English.

  “Call her. Ask her. Here’s her phone number.” Pescatore recited it from memory.

  The prosecutor shrugged, the corners of his mouth turning down in grudging admiration.

  “Complimenti,” he said.

  Pescatore started to repeat the number. Maio raised an imperious hand at him and worked his phone with the other. “I have it right here.”

  When Fatima answered, Maio laid it on thick. In French, he apologized profusely and playfully for waking her up so early on a Sunday morning. He murmured as if he were sitting on her bed with a hand on her shoulder. He said bella, bellissima, and carissima so many times that Pescatore wanted to say, Okay, pal, cut the hound-dog crap and get down to it. After a few minutes, Maio walked across the office to the window again and lowered his voice. The conversation lasted a while.

  Finally, Maio came back. With a flourish, he gave Pescatore the phone. He did it as if he were bestowing the grand prize in a lottery and said the word Italians use when they hand you something: “Toh.”

  Fatima’s voice was husky with sleep but alert and concerned.

  “A big shooting,” she said. “You are hurt, mon amour?”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Mainly bad guys got shot. I just hurt my ankle. The one I twisted that time we went running on the beach in Normandy.”

  He said the last sentence loudly so Maio could hear.

  “I am glad, Valentín.” She chuckled warmly. “How is my dashing Sicilian friend treating you?”

  “Not great.”

  “A good man. One of their best in antiterrorism. A bit flamboyant, but serious.”

  “Okay.”

  “I told him he has to take the utmost care of you. I told him you are highly respected and have done valuable things for the security services of Europe and the United States, and I have total faith and trust in you and whatever you are doing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also told him you are the most important man in my life, and if anything happens to you, he will have a big problem.”

  Warmth flooded Pescatore’s face. She had stepped up without hesitation when he needed her. He was not alone in the world after all. Given the circumstances, he refrained from asking if her description of him meant she had made a decision or if it was just a figure of speech intended to get him out of a jam.

  Keeping his voice low and even, he said, “That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “Take care of yourself. I hope to see you soon. Bisous.”

  Pescatore hung up. Maio leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his midsection. He raised his eyebrows.

  “So,” the prosecutor said. “Now I know who you are.”

  Chapter 12

  The worst thing about the gunfight had happened before it started.

  After Pescatore went through the window, Méndez hurried out of the office to position himself at the bottom of the staircase. It was pitch-dark because Solomon had killed the lights. Halfway down the stairs, Méndez stumbled. He caught himself on the railing, but his glasses fell off. As he searched for the glasses on the stairs and floor, all hell broke loose: Solomon’s shotgun booming in the office, the curses and screams of the attackers, the deafening return fire. Méndez was myopic. He couldn’t see a burro at three paces, as the Mexicans say. With bullets flying around him—thank God for Pescatore’s advice to shelter behind the wall-like metal railing—he tried to do his part. He fired the revolver desperately into the blur of flashes, voices and shadows.

  If I die, I will die like a man, he thought. And if I live, I will set foot outdoors again only if I’m wearing contact lenses. No more getting caught off guard like an idiot, carajo. Nadie muere en la víspera.

  While he concentrated on killing and not being killed, his mind raced. Despite his near-blind, near-deaf state, he quickly understood several things. The attack was no coincidence. Operatives working for the Blakes had been shadowing him and his family. Either they had tracked him to Palazzo di Sabbia or they had been watching Solomon Anbessa already. Or both.

  During the interrogation Sunday, Giancarlo Maio had become friendlier when he learned about Méndez’s past as a police chief. He soon released Méndez and Pescatore and offered them bodyg
uards. Somehow, Pescatore had averted disaster and transformed the prosecutor into an ally. He had been reticent with Méndez about how he had done it, mumbling about a “mutual friend.”

  It was Monday evening. The three of them were in Maio’s office talking in the Spanish-Italian-English patois with which they had become comfortable.

  “As in Tecate, they hide their role by enlisting local gangsters,” Méndez said.

  “We gotta find a connection to the Blakes,” Pescatore said. “Beyond the fact that Solomon is Abrihet’s brother, which is a pretty good start.”

  “You should look hard at Louis Krystak, the corporate security chief,” Méndez told the prosecutor.

  Sitting behind his desk, Maio said he would have investigators check the name. He followed Méndez’s gaze to the photo of the slain judges Falcone and Borsellino on the wall above him.

  “I know that picture,” Méndez said. “I have done research about the Sicilian Mafia wars.”

  “You will find that photo in the offices of most magistrates in Italy, Dottore Méndez.” He pronounced it “Mendetz.” “They are our martyrs.”

  When Maio had let Pescatore call Washington, Isabel gave instructions to cooperate with the Italians. Whether Isabel liked it or not, Maio had inserted himself into the case. Better to show good faith. The gunfight had forced her hand. She would have to tell her bosses about her secret investigation. Pescatore had said she sounded glum.

  Two problems contributed to her pessimism. Solomon Anbessa was recovering from surgery and too weak to talk, so they still didn’t know exactly where his sister was. Moreover, they hadn’t seen the information in the pen drive that had been in Solomon’s safe. The police had taken the device from Méndez while searching him.

  Although Maio’s involvement was a complication, Méndez saw it as a benefit too. The Italian justice system gave the prosecutor the power to pursue evidence across international borders. After hearing why Méndez and Pescatore were in his dominion, Maio was champing at the bit. The fact that the Blakes were fabulously influential American magnates made him more avid, not less.

  We had to come to Italy to find a guy who doesn’t have an accident in his pants when he hears that name, Méndez thought.

  “So you haven’t found any foreign links to the shooters?” Pescatore asked.

  Maio lifted his head and shoulders with a grumpy “Eh” noise. “Not yet. There are suspicious things, like the survivor, this Nigerian hoodlum Celestine. He claims the shooting had nothing to do with you. His gang hated Solomon because he harassed dealers and prostitutes around the Internet place. He says they wanted to punish Solomon for being disrespectful in front of their whores. But I don’t believe that.”

  Méndez recalled the incident in the street with the two women. “You think the confrontation was staged? To create a fake motive?”

  “Yes. Someone was behind them, manipulating. These Nigerians are mean, but they don’t kill that often. Not on the spur of the moment, and not without authorization from the Camorra boss who taxes them. The Camorra boss denies any role, and we corroborated that independently. Somebody else—an outsider—hired this bunch of low-level soldiers. He paid well, judging from the cash on them. We had wiretaps and informants in place for various investigations. It turns out this Albanian and the Nigerians were talking about you two, and mentioned Solomon’s name, soon after you landed at the airport. They followed your trail.”

  Nothing like cold confirmation to nourish your fears, Méndez thought. His first move after the investigators returned his phone had been to call his wife. She and the police in San Diego hadn’t spotted further surveillance, which was a relief. Méndez also called Athos and Porthos. They had not made progress searching for Abrihet in Tijuana. Méndez had told them he hoped to have more information about her soon.

  “Who hired the Nigerians?” Méndez asked.

  “We don’t know,” Maio said. “There is chatter about a special job for a big shot. We think he killed the guys in the Maserati to shut them up. Or to punish them for botching the job. Some clues place him in an area near the NATO base in Naples.” Maio checked his watch. “Allora. It’s late. Let’s eat. I know a fantastic place. Remember, you are my guests. Don’t reach for the check; my scorta are on high alert.”

  The scorta was the swashbuckling seven-man security detail. They escorted Maio, Pescatore and Méndez to the cars, jogging back and forth, stuffing pistols in belts, talking into radios. The two Alfa Romeos rocketed along the Via Domiziana, weaving through traffic, the sirens and lights clearing the way. The sunset lit up the Mediterranean.

  Pescatore grinned gleefully and said, “Your boys drive like maniacs, Giancarlo.”

  Sitting next to his driver, the prosecutor turned and raised his chin emphatically. “Going slow makes me nervous, Valentine. Once I got stuck in a traffic jam. Palermo. We couldn’t move, even with sirens. Just when we decided to get out and walk the last few blocks, the Mafia sent an assassin running up to the car. I was opening my door. He got off one shot before my guys neutralized him.”

  “What happened?” Pescatore asked.

  “This.” Maio pulled open his white shirt to reveal a scar near his collarbone amid gold chains and religious medals on a matted, tanned chest. “A reminder to keep the doors closed.”

  The hotel was an insipid brown tower on a spectacular promontory. Striding through the marble-floored lobby, the bodyguards carried their machine pistols in plain view. Maio paused at the entrance of the restaurant. His rakish grin made him look younger.

  “My friends, I am happy you have joined me. In this part of the world, a magistrate has to keep his distance from everyone. The local elite go to this restaurant—the elite whose city councils are dissolved because of Mafia infiltration. Whose fortunes, one way or another, have roots in crime. Not my favorite dining companions. But the food is fantastic.”

  Maio patted his receding brown hair into place. He smoothed the lapels of his snug double-breasted blazer.

  “Come on,” he said. “Facciamo la bella figura.” Let’s make a good impression.

  The corner table overlooked the water. The lights of fishing boats twinkled in the distance. Maio ordered a prodigious variety of cold and warm antipasti, pasta and seafood. Méndez did not love Italian cuisine, but the enthusiasm of his tablemates—especially Pescatore—was contagious. Méndez drank his share of the muscular Nero d’Avola red wine.

  The conversation flowed between the personal—families, childhoods, studies—and the professional. Méndez explained in more detail how his reporting and Pescatore’s sleuthing had converged. Pescatore told Maio that Isabel Puente looked forward to meeting him. The prosecutor loosened his tie. His brow relaxed.

  Getting rapidly outside a plate of cannoli, Pescatore asked why Maio had switched from prosecuting mafiosi to prosecuting terrorists and back again.

  “Good question, Valentine.”

  After the September 11 attacks, Maio explained, many anti-Mafia veterans shifted to antiterrorism. He transferred from Palermo to Rome.

  “It was exciting, different. Glamorous. Politicians threw resources at us. International press coverage. Travel. How vanity makes us weak, eh? For a while, it was fantastic. But you know what? I never really found the beef in antiterrorism.”

  Méndez liked the phrase and the elegant pantomime: thumb and fingertips rubbing together, a hint of a chewing motion with the mouth.

  The prosecutor paused while a waiter poured limoncello liqueur.

  “I got disillusioned after a trip to Algiers,” he continued. “We did an inquiry, months of wiretaps, on a terrorism-financing network linked to Algeria. I went to ask the Algerians to help identify suspects. My colleagues received me with exquisite courtesy—we had lunch on the Corniche—but they told me they couldn’t do much. Essentially, the Algerians said, ‘Listen. We lost two hundred thousand in our civil war. Car bombs, villages destroyed, terrorists slashing the throats of families like sheep. We are still very busy. We don�
��t have time for your indaginetta, your little investigation.’ I realized something: They were on the front line. I was scratching the surface. Even when I captured real terrorists, they weren’t the bosses. They were fanatics, criminals, idiots, sadists—manipulated from afar. Sometimes by masterminds, sometimes just by Twitter, Facebook, all that crap. You understand?”

  “Pawns,” Méndez said. “Remote-control killers, like robots.”

  “Exactly. Never bosses. There was no way I was going to get those guys unless I went to Pakistan or Syria or Libya. And even then, only if someone loaned me the Delta Force.”

  Maio sighed. “A year ago, I transferred back to anti-Mafia. I found myself here. The style is different. In Sicily, the model is the Catholic Church: silent, secret, disciplined. A pyramid. One boss rules for decades and no one has taken his picture since 1978. Meanwhile, the Camorra is Neapolitan. An archipelago of clans, and there’s always a hurricane. Loud, ostentatious, always fighting, always rising and falling. But I can arrest a boss. And his father was in the Camorra. His grandfather was in the Camorra! A profound cultural thing. Do you know the foundational myth of the Mafia, Dottore Méndez?”

  “Osso, Mastrosso, and Carcagnosso.”

  “Bravo.” Maio toasted him, impressed, the corners of his mouth turning down.

  “Who?” Pescatore asked.

  “Three Spanish knights in the fifteenth century who avenged their sister’s honor and went into exile in Italy,” Maio said. “According to the legend, anyway. They founded the Sicilian Mafia, the Calabrian ’Ndrangheta, and the Camorra. There is even a song about it.”

  Before Maio could sing the song, Pescatore’s phone rang.

  “It’s Isabel, my boss, calling from Washington,” he said, standing up.

  Pescatore returned to the table ten minutes later. He looked like someone had died.

  “Giancarlo,” he said. “I need to talk to Leo in private. It’s an emergency.”

  Méndez followed Pescatore into the lobby, thinking in a panic that it might be bad news about his family. Pescatore led him into the driveway of the hotel, favoring his injured left ankle. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders high, teeth clenched.