The Death of a Mafia Don
The Death of a Mafia Don
MICHELE GIUTTARI
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE - THE ATTACK
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
PART TWO - THE INVESTIGATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
PART THREE - OBSTACLES
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART FOUR - THE BASILISK
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
The Death of a Mafia Don
MICHELE GIUTTARI
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Published by Hachette Digital 2009
Copyright © Michele Giuttari 2007
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without
the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those
clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 0 7481 1199 2
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE
Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
An Hachette Livre UK Company
For my parents, Tindara and Giovanni.
And for Zanego, where I finished this book
looking at the sea
PART ONE
THE ATTACK
According to Pliny the Elder, the basilisk is a
small snake, less than eight inches long,
but by far the deadliest of creatures,
highly poisonous and able to kill
with a glance.
1
When Officer Franchi saw the unmistakable figure of Chief Superintendent Ferrara - the light raincoat, the impeccable blue suit, the inevitable half-smoked Toscano cigar in his mouth - leaning on the left-hand parapet of the Ponte di Santa Trinità, waiting for him, he cursed under his breath and checked the time, first by the Swatch he wore on his wrist, then on the dashboard clock in the brand new Alfa Romeo 156 from the Headquarters pool. Both showed 7:40, which meant he wasn’t late but Ferrara was early.
As usual.
He drew up at the kerb.
‘Good morning, Sebastiano,’ Ferrara said, getting in the car and shifting the pile of newspapers Franchi had left for him on the back seat.
‘Good morning, chief,’ Franchi replied, turning immediately on to the Lungarno Corsini, from where he would take the next bridge, the Ponte alla Carraia. ‘Well, maybe not so good,’ he added, seeing the banks of dark clouds advancing threateningly from the direction of the Parco delle Cascine.
‘I think you’re right,’ the head of the Squadra Mobile replied, his glance falling on the front-page headline in the Corriere della Sera of that Monday October 1, 2001:COUNTDOWN TO ATTACK ON AFGHANISTAN
British sources: Only a few hours to go
Threatening silence from USA
Blair: Conclusive evidence against Osama.
FROM OUR WASHINGTON CORRESPONDENT: The attack on Afghanistan will begin in the next 48 hours, according to British sources quoted in the London Observer. The targets will be Osama Bin Laden’s training camps and hideouts and the Taliban air force and missile positions. The offensive will begin with a massive—
‘Seems to me it’ll start before we get in.’
‘What will?’ Ferrara asked, not sure what he meant.
‘The rain,’ the driver replied, and to confirm this there came a muffled roll of thunder from the distance.
Ferrara smiled. If only the one problem facing him that day was rain!
But the day had already been ruined for him by the prospect of the mass of work waiting for him at Headquarters. The end of an investigation always leaves a long trail of reports to be completed, charges to be formalised, evidence to be sifted through, statements to be taken, all the myriad formalities and documents which reminded Ferrara of the old proverb about guests and fish stinking after three days.
Many more days than that had passed since August’s massive operation - an operation that had put an end to the drugs ring masterminded by the Mafioso Salvatore Laprua, otherwise known as Zì Turi, had seen the same Laprua arrested for the murder of the journalist Claudia Pizzi, and had swept like a cyclone through the top echelons of the Prosecutor’s Department of Florence, leaving his friend Anna Giulietti in temporary charge as Acting Prosecutor.
‘Have you seen the papers, chief?’ Franchi asked, as he turned on to the Lungarno Soderini.
‘Yes. More stormy weather there.’
‘Poor bastards. If I’d joined the Carabinieri, as I’d planned, they might have sent me over there. It gives me the shivers just thinking of it. My mother would be sick with worry.’ He chuckled. ‘She crosses herself every time she sees me in my police uniform. She’s convinced our job is the most dangerous in the world!’
‘How right you are, Sebastiano. You should tell my wife, she’
s just the same. She sees dangers everywhere, and the longer I stay in the job, the worse she gets. She keeps telling me it’s time I put on carpet slippers and did the crossword - or wrote my memoirs!’
‘For heaven’s sake, chief! I’ll tell her the head of the Squadra Mobile is living the life. The trouble is, women watch too many thrillers where the police solve everything at gunpoint. If only my mother knew the biggest danger I face is having to change a tyre!’
They had just passed the Red Cross building when Ferrara’s mobile phone rang. He glanced at the display, and saw a name he had only recently added to his address book: Laprua’s lawyer, Silverio Liuzza, who had been bombarding him with ambiguous messages lately. Ferrara was surprised. It was only 7:46, an unusual time for a phone call from a lawyer - he surely couldn’t be in his office at this hour. Better to stop the car, he thought: that way, they could talk at ease and not run the risk of losing the signal. Perhaps this time the lawyer would put his cards on the table.
‘Park as soon as you can.’
Noticing an Audi A3 that had put on its indicator and was preparing to leave a parking space on the left-hand side of the street, just before the Piazza del Cestello, Franchi braked somewhat abruptly, forcing the mail van behind him to do the same.
‘Good morning, Signor Liuzza,’ Ferrara was saying into the phone.
‘Good morning to you, my dear Chief Superintendent Ferrara,’ Liuzza began. He was a long-winded Neapolitan, who loved the sound of his own voice, and Ferrara prepared himself for the litany of high-flown civilities with which he invariably prefaced his phone calls.
But he was not destined to hear them.
It was only a matter of seconds - fractions of seconds.
The Audi had only just moved out of the space and Franchi had begun edging his way in when a huge explosion shook the buildings within a radius of several hundred yards. The thick walls of the old churches from San Frediano to Santo Spirito shook, and the windows of the shops along the Ponte Vecchio, and the window panes in the Palazzo Pitti. The shockwave caused by the explosion could even be felt on the north side of the Arno, although some of the shock was absorbed by the river, the waters of which seemed to hang back for a moment at the edge of the Santa Rosa weir, as if anxious to beat a retreat.
The Alfa Romeo 156, newly assigned to Ferrara by Police Headquarters, was pushed back by the rush of air - Franchi had just hit the clutch and the car was in neutral - and slammed into the mail van which was coming up from behind, ready to overtake. Fragments of steel, branches torn from the oaks on the square, and the heavy chain marking the boundary of the parking area all hit the windows of the car, shattering them. Ferrara watched, stunned, as a ball of fire rose into the air and the front seat came dangerously close to him. The phone he still clutched in his hand pressed painfully into his ear.
The last thing he saw was the blood on the dazed face of his driver, who had turned to him as if to apologise for not protecting him.
2
Tucked in between the Borgo San Frediano and the Arno, the Piazza del Cestello takes its name from the imposing church of San Frediano in Cestello with its rough stone façade, which is situated on the side of the square facing towards the river, along with a little theatre and a hotel. At right angles to the church on one side is the Archbishop’s Seminary, and on the other side the administration building of the Army’s Logistical Command. The fourth side of the square, the one closest to the river, shaded by age-old trees, marks the limit of the car park which fills the square, a car park which is always packed.
The first people to emerge after the explosion were a small group of soldiers led by the lieutenant on duty, who came stepping over the carpet of shattered glass in the doorway of their building.
The square was filled with a dense cloud of black, acrid-smelling smoke.
Their eyes watering, the soldiers squinted through the layers of smoke and came to a halt, stunned by what they saw.
‘But . . . but . . . oh my God, Lieuten—!’ the youngest of the soldiers, a tall, thin, fair-haired young man, exclaimed, staring incredulously at the crater and the burning hulks of cars beside it, and he stood there with his mouth open on the last syllable, lacking even the strength to close it. The lieutenant was gazing in horror at what looked like human remains adhering to the twisted sheets of metal and even to the wall of the Seminary.
Immediately afterwards, an inspector and five officers from the nearby Oltrarno police station emerged from the Via del Piaggione adjacent to the Army building. The inspector was speaking excitedly on his mobile phone to Police Headquarters in the Via Zara. On the other side of the square, three soldiers came running from the barracks of the Customs and Excise Corps on the Lungarno Soderini.
The unreal silence following the explosion was broken by the echo of the first siren, still some distance away, and then by a feeble moan. As if they were signals, the two sounds immediately set off the acoustic inferno that accompanies every atrocity of this kind: screams, cries for help, weeping and, over everything, the sinister cacophony of other sirens coming ever nearer - ambulances, fire engines, police cars - each with its own distinctive and agonising sound.
In the premises of the Operations Room on the top floor of Police Headquarters, Commissioner Riccardo Lepri was personally making sure that the emergency plan set up by the Public Safety Committee of the Prefecture was being correctly carried out. Beside him was Francesco Rizzo, deputy head of the Squadra Mobile. In the centre of the room, the operator, with a microphone in his hand, was trying frantically to reach the patrol cars scattered throughout the city. Given that they were all tied up with other things, the responses were slow in coming.
‘Operations Room to Central Patrol,’ he said, making a second attempt to reach that particular car.
‘Go ahead,’ a voice finally replied.
‘Proceed with all haste to the Piazza del Cestello - there’s been a big explosion.’
‘We’ll be right on it.’
‘Good, bring yourselves up to date when you’re on the scene.’
‘OK.’
‘Operations Room to Novoli Patrol.’
‘Receiving you.’
‘State your position.’
‘Viale Redi.’
‘Proceed to the Careggi Hospital - the wounded should be arriving. Identify yourselves and report back.’
‘Roger, we’re on our way now.’
‘Use your siren. You have authorisation.’
‘OK.’
‘Operations Room to Poli 476.’
‘Go ahead, we’re just taking off.’
The noise of the helicopter’s propellers could be heard.
Commissioner Lepri intervened at this point. ‘Fly over the area between the square and the outskirts. Notify us immediately of any suspicious movements.’
‘Anything particular to look out for? A specific vehicle?’
‘No idea. We’re completely in the dark about this. We leave it up to you, but if you do see anything suspicious, inform us immediately and wait for instructions.’
‘OK. We’re in the air now.’
The noise grew louder.
After the umpteenth fruitless attempt to get his chief, Michele Ferrara, on the phone, Superintendent Rizzo found the tension impossible to bear any longer.
It was Rizzo who had received the news of the explosion and who had guided the men in the chaos which had followed - sending some to the armoury to pick up M12 submachine guns and put on bullet-proof vests, others to the courtyard to start the cars and wait for their colleagues. He had stayed in Headquarters because he wanted to find Ferrara, who should be in charge and who was usually in his office by this time of the morning, but all he had been able to do was follow events passively alongside the commissioner. He felt superfluous.
‘Still nothing?’ Lepri asked, although he already knew the answer from the disappointed look on Rizzo’s face.
‘No reply. Not even on his home phone. Nothing but recorded message
s! I’m going to the scene, Commissioner.’
‘All right, but keep in touch. Whichever of us tracks him down first informs the other, understood? Or rather, if you find him first tell him to phone me straightaway.’
‘Of course,’ Rizzo replied, almost shouting because he already had one foot out of the door.
He rushed downstairs and got in the first car he found, which already had a light flashing on its roof.
‘Let’s go, quickly!’ he ordered, simultaneously dialling Inspector Riccardo Venturi’s number.
‘Are you at the scene?’ he asked Venturi as soon as he got an answer.
‘Just arrived.’
‘How’s it looking?’
‘Like Beirut.’
3
When the bomb went off, Ferrara’s wife Petra was just going inside the little greenhouse. She had been standing on the terrace of their top floor apartment, watching her husband’s car moving away until she had seen it cross the Ponte alla Carraia. She had also seen the storm clouds gathering, and it had occurred to her that it might be an idea to clean the plant boxes before she did the breakfast dishes, for fear she’d be unable to do so later on because of the rain.
But the thunder which made the floor and the window panes shake slightly did not indicate rain, but something far worse: the kind of thing she always dreaded, embodied in the dense cloud of black smoke rising from the Piazza del Cestello.
‘Mein Gott!’ she cried out, staggering back. Then she rushed inside the apartment, picked up the receiver and dialled Michele’s mobile number.
‘The number you are calling is unobtainable.’ The hateful automatic message echoed in her ears with the force of a sinister premonition.