As always, on his way to the club Mansutti mulled over what he could do with the girl that evening. He was the methodical type and didn’t like to improvise. The prospect excited him almost at once and not even the dense white fog could distract him from his thoughts.
On reaching the Bulli & Pupe nightclub, he went to the toilets to spruce himself up a bit, comb his hair and spray on a bit of deodorant. The girl, whose name he hadn’t yet learned, was waiting for him, perched on a barstool, sipping fruit juice. As far as she was concerned, Mansutti was no weirder than the others. He was one of many. She watched him walk towards her, grinning broadly, his eyes riveted on her thighs. The hostess could have placed a bet that this evening he would want to bury his nose in her armpit while she gave him a hand-job. It was a while since he had asked for that one.
It was just as she had thought, and an hour or so later Mansutti walked out of the club satisfied and slightly tipsy. He had drunk more than usual, in an attempt to stop himself thinking about the investigation at work that threatened to mess things up for him. He got into his car, a Fiat Bravo he hadn’t yet finished paying for. He waited for it to warm up and for the film of ice on his windscreen to melt. He would have liked another cigarette but had sworn not to smoke inside the car, not wanting it to smell like an ashtray.
The corporal was relieved to see that the freezing cold had dispersed the fog. He pulled out of the parking lot and took the main road for Treviso. When he reached Ponte di Piave he would turn off for Noventa and then take the autostrada for Venice.
Rossini, who was following him in a Mercedes with German plates stolen from a hotel lot in Pordenone, also knew that route. Rossini drove along, fidgeting incessantly with his bracelets. He would have just one opportunity to eliminate the corporal. And it would only work if that stretch of road was completely deserted. Nobody should ever suspect that it was anything but an accident. After a gentle bend, there was a long, straight section of road, lined on either side by huge trees. Rossini scoured the darkness up ahead for oncoming headlights, then floored the accelerator. He drew alongside Mansutti’s Fiat, forcing it towards the edge of the road. The corporal hit his horn and started gesticulating confusedly. Rossini switched on his inside light so Mansutti could recognize him. He didn’t like killing if his victims couldn’t look him in the face. It struck him as cowardly and underhand. Mansutti recognized him and was seized with panic. The Mercedes suddenly darted out in front. To avoid hitting it, Mansutti swerved hard and crashed straight into the trunk of a plane tree. Rossini braked hard then reversed back. Mansutti was badly injured but he wasn’t dead. The safety belt had seen to that. The old gangster sighed, then took Mansutti’s head by the hair and smashed it hard against the steering wheel until he was certain the prison cop was dead.
The news of the fatal accident filled a few lines in the local paper. At the prison, the corporal’s colleagues drew lots to decide who should serve as official pall-bearers. Even the collection for the man’s separated widow was decidedly meagre. Nobody had ever much liked Vincenzo Mansutti.
Max’s plan to blackmail the cops into negotiating with us relied on an element of surprise. And when Stefano Giaroli, late one night, opened the door of his apartment to find three masked men facing him, one of whom was armed with a twenty-two-calibre Ruger fitted with a silencer, he was momentarily speechless.
‘Don’t even think of playing the hero,’ Rossini advised, removing Giaroli’s police-issue handgun from his underarm holster.
Max motioned Giaroli towards the only armchair in the apartment. ‘Sit down, Marshal. We need to talk.’
Giaroli did what he was told. He took a good look at us, without saying a word. A skillful cop, he was trying to pick up some detail that would help him identify us. Then he reached for his cigarettes. ‘If you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t have bothered with the balaclavas. So what are you after?’
Max took a chair and sat down opposite him. ‘We know all about the special operation to dismantle the super-ecstasy ring, involving Silvestrin, Boscaro, Kupreskic, your corrupt colleague, and the school caretaker. We also know where the drugs factory is located.’ Max had deliberately omitted to mention Celegato, not wanting to give Giaroli any clues as to what had led us to our discoveries.
Giaroli inhaled the smoke rather nervously. ‘Are you part of the same organization?’
That made the three of us chuckle. ‘No, we’re not. That’s not our line of business,’ I assured him.
‘So what the fuck are you after?’
‘Tone down the attitude, pig,’ Rossini warned.
‘We haven’t yet reconstructed every detail of your operation,’ Max lied, ‘but it appears your investigation was triggered by the arrest of a Colombian drugs trafficker, one Guillermo Arías Cuevas, who was arrested on his way through Venice airport with a considerable quantity of cocaine in his stomach. Then, in the euphoria of the moment, you inadvertently arrested someone who had nothing whatever to do with the organization you are seeking to dismantle, accusing him of being the Colombian’s accomplice. We would like to see the innocence of the party in question recognized, otherwise . . .’
‘Otherwise?’ Giaroli challenged.
‘Otherwise we’ll have no choice but to expose and demolish the entire operation.’
‘You guys have got to be crazy.’
Max heaved a sigh. ‘That may well be. But we still want an answer.’
Giaroli finished his cigarette. ‘I’ll try to make things clear for you. I don’t know who you are, but you talk like a lawyer and could even be a consigliere to the mob,’ he said, addressing Max. ‘Be that as it may, sooner or later I’ll find out who you are and throw you all into jail because no one, I repeat no one, can get away with forcing their way into the home of a member of the Guardia di Finanza, threatening him with a firearm, and blackmailing him. My answer is as follows: Corradi is fine where he is. While it’s true he has fuck-all to do with drugs peddling, he does have a little debt outstanding to the police force for the killing of two patrolmen, and it’s a debt he is going to have to pay. You can be quite sure that when it comes to trial the judges won’t look favorably on him. He’ll be lucky if he gets out of prison alive.’
‘I get the impression you don’t have the slightest intention of negotiating,’ Max said, using his friendliest tone of voice.
‘Negotiating? You can go fuck yourselves. And stay away from the operation we’re conducting or you’ll be looking at something much worse than prison.’
‘You’ve got balls, pig,’ Rossini said, in a flattering tone of voice. ‘But you’re making a mistake if you think all you have to do to change our minds is play the hard man. We made you a fair proposal, you turned us down, and now you’re going to have to wave bye-bye to this special operation you’re so crazy about.’
Giaroli shook his head. ‘You’re not going to do anything.’ Max played our last card. ‘It’s not just the Guardia di Finanza’s special anti-narcotics unit that’s involved here. It’s a joint operation involving the police. Are you quite sure you’re authorized to take this kind of decision? Don’t you think it might be an idea to consult your superiors?’
‘You can rest assured that the only consultation necessary will focus on precisely how much in the way of extra resources we should devote to discovering your identities.’
Max shrugged. The conversation was over. Beniamino took from his pocket a small bottle and chucked it at Giaroli.
‘Drink that dry. It’ll put you to sleep till tomorrow morning.’ Giaroli couldn’t make up his mind whether or not to unscrew the cap. ‘Drink it down, pig,’ Rossini said. ‘Don’t force me to shoot you in the knee.’
He knocked the sleeping draught back in a single gulp.
‘Now get the fuck out of here, you bastards,’ he whispered, collapsing in the armchair.
Negotiation had proved a failure. We now had to demonstrate
that our attempt at blackmail wasn’t an empty bluff by a bunch of amateurs. We spent an entire night discussing the best way to sabotage the special operation. My proposal was to bring in the media. We could send an envelope containing pictures of the Brenta Mafia mobsters in the company of the Croatian chemist, along with a page of detailed information, to the main dailies, weeklies and TV newsrooms. My associates felt it wouldn’t do the trick.
‘Basically, a special operation is a secret investigation conducted by a clandestine body unknown even to the law enforcement agencies,’ Max explained patiently. ‘To leak information to journalists would mean getting tangled up in a maze of claims and counterclaims. What we need to do is create an event that compels the police and the Finanza to proceed with arrests on the basis of the evidence already gathered. The press will come in at a later stage, by which time we’ll have landed the cops in the shit and had Celegato arrested. It would throw everything out of kilter and might just work in Corradi’s favor.’
‘What precisely do you mean by “create an event”?’ I asked, feigning indifference but with one eye on the handgun Rossini had placed on the table. It was the one he had taken off Giaroli.
‘Like using a cop’s handgun to take out some piece of shit, making sure the weapon is found at the scene of the crime.’
It was one hell of a plan. The murder investigation would quickly trace the gun back to the officer and would demand all manner of explanations, above all how on earth the gun wound up in the possession of a killer. Such an event would be viewed with exceptional gravity. Also, it would be on the lips of every cop and every investigating magistrate in the land. The special operation would no longer be secret and therefore no longer viable.
‘They’ll hunt us down,’ I objected.
‘They don’t have the faintest idea who they’re looking for,’ Rossini replied.
‘They’ll put Corradi’s balls in a vice,’ I insisted.
‘He’ll never talk.’
‘Maybe not today. But what about tomorrow? Prison drags and every new day brings fresh temptation. Solving a murder is a great way of getting out.’
‘He’ll never talk,’ Old Rossini repeated wearily.
Two days later I found myself driving a Ford Focus, stolen a few hours previously in Mestre, along the main road to Trieste. Beside me sat Beniamino. We were both wearing latex gloves and my associate was holding Giaroli’s 9mm. Beretta between his legs. Max was a couple of kilometers ahead of us in my Skoda. We stopped off in the poorly lit car-park of a shopping mall outside San Donà di Piave, where Rossini stole a couple of car plates, switching them with those of the Focus.
When we reached Trieste, it was almost time for dinner. Max, with the city plan spread out on the seat next to him, led the way to Via Nicolò degli Aldegardi. At number four, on the second floor of an elegant apartment block, lived Vlatko Kupreskic’s Italian lover. According to the information we had received, Kupreskic visited her three times a week–Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. He arrived at about nine in the evening and left early the following morning. It was a Wednesday evening when we turned up.
Max left for home in my Skoda. We parked the Ford just a few meters from the gate. The street was quiet. Apart from a girl out walking her dog, we didn’t see a living soul. It was now dinnertime and far too cold anyway to want to go out for a stroll. The Croatian chemist arrived punctually. He stopped his BMW just behind us. Rossini waited until he had walked past our bonnet, then got out.
‘Vlatko Kupreskic,’ he called out, in a strong, clear voice. The man turned around. Rossini pointed the gun at his heart and pulled the trigger. Kupreskic dropped to the ground without a murmur. Beniamino placed Marshal Giaroli’s police-issue handgun on the man’s bespattered chest.
We left, tires screeching, but after a couple of hundred meters reduced our speed so as not to attract the attention of any passing police cars. We left the Ford in a lot near the station, immediately getting rid of the parking ticket to eliminate any possible link with the car used for the murder.
The Intercity train for Milan was waiting at the platform. We punched the first-class tickets I had bought that morning at Padova’s central station. The second-class carriages were full of Serbs and Romanies arriving in Italy in search of work and fortune. As always, it was on them that the railway police would focus their attention. The first-class carriages, on the other hand, were almost deserted. We sat down facing one another. I kept glancing at my watch but the minutehand seemed frozen. Rossini lit a couple of cigarettes and stuck one of them in my mouth.
‘Relax, Marco. The police’s quick-response team and the Carabinieri will be along to check out the station in about an hour at the earliest. We know how they work.’
‘How do you feel?’ I asked.
‘I’ve just killed a chemist who made his fortune refining heroin and manufacturing super-ecstasy. I’d say it was a day well spent.’
‘I feel uneasy.’
‘Do you know what your problem is, Marco?’
‘Out of all those you know about?’ I tried to joke.
‘You haven’t yet understood that things have changed. If you want to continue in this line of work, taking on cases involving the criminal underworld, you’re going to have to get used to the idea of playing dirty, bending the rules. All the time, systematically.’
‘We’ve bent the rules before,’ I replied.
‘Sure. But on all previous occasions, we did it to save our skins. This time it was a matter of choice.’
‘Declaring war on the cops is pure madness.’
‘It would have been once, when there were precise rules to follow, but things are different now. With the arrival in Italy of all the foreign-based syndicates, the underworld has changed, and the cops and magistrates have changed too. They don’t play by the old rules anymore.’
The station-master blew his whistle and the train moved off. We travelled in silence, smoking and peering out at the night. We got off the train at Mestre, picked up Rossini’s car and drove to join Max, who was eager to hear how things had gone.
We found him sitting in front of his computer. He looked up at us. ‘Everything all right?’
‘As smooth as oil,’ Rossini replied.
‘Then all we have to do now is sit back and watch.’
The next day, the evening news bulletins all devoted a great deal of space to a decisive swoop by the joint forces of the Guardia di Finanza and the police who, according to the reports, had succeeded in rooting out a criminal organization that had been manufacturing and retailing super-ecstasy. The twelve arrests included those of a Guardia di Finanza marshal and his wife, stopped as they were driving at high speed away from their home. In the trunk of their car were found twenty-eight small cellophane bags, containing a total of thirty thousand tablets of a synthetic drug. All the other people arrested resided in Rome. According to the investigators, the drugs were bound for the capital’s discotheques and nightclubs.
Something had gone wrong, but we had to wait till the following morning to read the local newspapers, which ran more detailed reports. Rossini woke me up, tossing a paper on my bed. Most of the front page was given over to the story.
EXPOSED. THE DOUBLE LIFE OF
DRUG-DEALING FINANZA OFFICER
Arrested in possession of thirty thousand ecstasy tablets, a respectable couple beyond suspicion: she was employed as a primary school janitor, he as a marshal in the Guardia di Finanza.
I read every single article, even the interview with the mayor of Tricesimo and the head of the village’s municipal police force. There wasn’t the slightest hint of any arrests in the Veneto region, nor any mention of Ennio Silvestrin, Alcide Boscaro or Bruno Celegato. Furthermore, the murder of Vlatko Kupreskic was covered in another section of the paper and no link was made with the police and Finanza drugs swoop. The Carabinieri, charged with the investigation int
o the murder of Kupreskic, stated that they suspected score-settling within the emerging Croatian underworld.
I got up. ‘What’s going on?’
Beniamino shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Max is sifting through the papers, but they’ve all got the same story.’
I pulled on my trousers and a fleece and followed Rossini into Max’s apartment. Max was scrolling through the papers on the internet, dunking one biscuit after another into his cappuccino. I wasn’t fully awake yet. I grabbed a cup in the kitchen and poured out equal amounts of coffee and Calvados.
‘They’ve fucked us, right?’ I asked.
‘Good and proper,’ Max replied. ‘They’ve kept Celegato and the old-timers from the Brenta Mafia well out of it, and instead have pulled in the Roman branch of the organization headed by Raffaele Bonavita, the drug-peddling Guardia di Finanza marshal.’
‘And they’ve also taken care not to suggest any link between the drugs gang and the late lamented Kupreskic,’ Rossini added.
Max nibbled at another biscuit. ‘Evidently the special operation was a lot broader than we thought. It may well have consisted of two or more distinct lines of enquiry. Celegato must have infiltrated the gang’s nucleus, so to avoid irreparably compromising the entire investigation they decided not to arrest him.’
‘Giaroli realized we had only found out about half of their operation, doubtless the less important half,’ Rossini remarked.
I finished my coffee. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘We try to work out why they left Bruno Celegato out of the net,’ Max replied.
‘I don’t think it would be a great idea to start tailing Celegato all over again. If Giaroli suspects it was Celegato who led us to the Corno di Rosazzo drugs factory, we’ll walk straight into a trap.’
The Colombian Mule Page 14