Boss of Bosses (21 page)

‘All the guys involved in implementing the changes called him
tabula rasa
, “clean slate”,’ said the
pentito
Salvatore Barbagallo (whose indiscretions in the arms of his mistress had caused so much trouble). Barbagallo added reverentially that he never heard Provenzano called anything so informal as ‘Uncle Binnu’.

Investigators first learned of the new strategy through a police informer, Gino Ilardo. On his early release from prison on grounds of ill health in 1994, Ilardo had agreed to be an informant for Michele Riccio, a maverick colonel in the organized crime section of the carabinieri, known as the ROS (Ragruppamento Operativo Speciale). Ilardo, aged forty-three, from Catania, was a pedigree mafioso: his cousins the Madonia family were one of the strongest Mafia dynasties; Piddu Madonia, until his recent arrest, had been regent of Caltanissetta. Ilardo would not consider joining the witness protection programme – he was afraid his wife and children
would never accept his defection. He could not face a scene like those terrible wailing women who disowned and denounced their husbands for treachery – he would wait until his wife was onside. But Ilardo was profoundly disillusioned with Cosa Nostra, as he said in a statement:

I decided to collaborate formally with Justice after realizing what I have lost over these years apart from my family and my children, in the hope that my example will be of some help to young boys who feel that nothing can equal the honour of joining an organization such as this, just as I did . . . I hope that my collaboration will bear witness to how hollow and false it is, how the only reality is the wickedness that a depraved minority perpetrates, destroying everything that was good about this organization. Cosa Nostra has become an instrument of death, of lies and machinations. The evil deeds of the few at the head of the organization cast their guilt and shame over all the other members, for sadly, Cosa Nostra now consists of nothing but murderers and criminals . . . I decided to collaborate willingly with the Law, because I want to make a break with my past and hope to spend what remains of my life in peace, with my children.

This idyllic image of a family life beyond the reach of Cosa Nostra’s fearsome revenge was the last thing that a Mafia informer could reasonably expect, and Ilardo was no exception. But as long as he remained beyond suspicion, as second-in-command of the Caltanissetta Mafia, he was an extremely well-placed informer. Diligent, pushy and proactive, he would ring his handler constantly from pay-phones or secure lines and meet him in bars, in waiting-rooms, in busy streets, to report the latest development, plot or rumour. Over the months he would try to draw Provenzano out of hiding to attend a sit-down, where the carabinieri could grab him. Riccio, whose high-risk strategies had occasionally won him rewards, could not put Ilardo on an official footing but allowed him to risk his life to bring about the result they both desired.

Ilardo revealed for the first time Provenzano’s chief means of communication. The boss never used mobile phones, which he believed were too easily intercepted and could lead the police straight to him. He certainly did not like computers, and never used e-mail. He had
perfected a secure means of communication: short letters closely typed on exercise book paper, folded as small as they would go, and sealed with Sellotape. The addressee would be marked as a number or a letter, and the
pizzino
, not much bigger than a cigarette butt, would be passed via a handshake along a sequence of trusted ‘postmen’ until it reached its destination. Ilardo gave Provenzano’s postman, Simone Castello, his messages folded but not sealed, to make them easier to destroy (rip up, flush down the lavatory or swallow) if he’d been caught. Once Castello had safely met up with the next link in the chain, he sealed the letter with tape.

When the security forces were particularly active, the postmen would have to lie low, and a letter could take days to reach its destination, but because Provenzano had a close circle of trusted handlers it was still the most secure means of communication he could devise. (The recipients were always supposed to burn the letters when they had read and absorbed the contents, but some kept them safe. Giuffré stored a couple of dozen in a box in the farmhouse he called his ‘office’. He claimed he needed to keep a record of agreed payments; in case of an eventual dispute, the parties could review the ‘contract’. The letters were also an investment for the future: they might come in useful for blackmail, or revenge.)

Provenzano had left school at just seven years old, barely literate, but with his manual typewriter he could slowly bash out these closely typed letters, full of schoolboy errors, which his correspondents politely repeated. If anyone sent a scribbled note, he begged them to get hold of a typewriter, as he struggled to read handwriting. He showed great attention to detail, answering correspondents punctiliously, point by point.

The letters demonstrate how Provenzano brought about a change in leadership style. The following extract from a letter to Ilardo shows his emphasis on patience, negotiation and forbearance. A problem had arisen with an industrial plant in Catania: the manager was asking the Mafia for protection (from criminal damage and trade unionists), claiming he had already paid out. Various Catania mafiosi were accusing each other of appropriating the plant’s money, and Ilardo was trying to sort out the mess. Provenzano writes:

Mio carissimo G. I received your letter with great joy, I am so pleased to hear you are in Good Health. I can assure you the same of myself. I know you were supposed to meet with MM [code for Mimmo Vaccaro, acting boss of Caltanissetta] and now I need you to confirm that you have indeed seen him, to sort out your situation. I hope you have an honest and straight collaboration. Even if we have a great deal against us, inside as well as outside ourselves, do try to salvage what you can from the present situation.

I hear what you say about someone trying to portray you in a bad light, telling lies about you, but I know nothing about this. I can’t give you an exact response. I will try to help you in any way I can.

You ask me about the other question: the Riesani appropriating large sums, without asking permission. But listen these are things you must sort out between you, you know all about it and it’s your business, besides I know nothing at all . . .

For the rest, it looks to me as though you’re doing the right thing, just keep an eye on the situation.

The tone of the letter shows what a profound cultural change Provenzano was demanding. In contrast to his hectoring, dictatorial predecessor, he comes across as avuncular, pious, forbearing. He requires his men to resolve disputes and refuses to get drawn into their conflicts, but demands that parties sit down in a civilized manner to resolve their differences and find a peaceful solution.

He wrote to Ilardo, who had refused to attend a ‘sit-down’ with a Catania capo in the well-founded belief that he would be in danger:

Listen I have been informed about the appointment, and that you don’t want to go. I can see your point, but since my aim is to restore peace wherever I can, and clear up any problems so we can continue to respect each other, this conflict is an absolute disaster.

Go and meet him, take 15 million with you and establish whether you have any genuine points of difference. Sort out the conflict between you, make peace with each other, and drink on it – but do it now. Send me your confirmation that this has been done, because they’re expecting an answer from me.

I would love to see you before Christmas but I don’t know how you’re fixed, if we can, we’ll see each other, if not, we should definitely
be in touch, but in case you don’t hear from me, Happy Christmas to everyone.

Provenzano used his fugitive status to great advantage: the letters carried his authority, and it was difficult to dispute his rulings by post. He could also claim (as in the Catania situation) to know nothing, when in fact he knew the whole story and was secretly working on behalf of one of the complainants. He finally confesses to Ilardo: ‘It’s true, I do know all about it, but I wasn’t behind it, I kept him [the Catania mafioso in dispute with Ilardo] informed the whole way through. The fact is, that when I sent him my final solution, he didn’t read it. His brother sent it back to me unopened, and you can check that with him.’

The art of
tragedie
could be most effectively practised in writing. For reasons of security Provenzano didn’t hold big meetings and banquets, and was only ever seen in person by a few of his closest advisers. His elusiveness added to his reputation among mafiosi, who received his carefully worded instructions but never saw the Phantom.

Ilardo thought he could entrap the old man, but there were mysteries surrounding Provenzano that Ilardo could not have dreamed of. When Provenzano summoned him to a meeting, in the autumn of 1995, to expound his new directive, the carabinieri had an extraordinary opportunity to arrest one of Italy’s most wanted criminals. A series of failures meant that the Boss of Bosses would remain beyond the grasp of the law for another decade.

Ilardo received his instructions from Provenzano’s messenger, Catania mafioso and eye doctor Salvatore Ferro, to meet at the Mezzojuso junction in the early morning of 31 October. He called his handler, Colonel Riccio, telling him to come and meet him straight away, as this could potentially be a meeting with Provenzano himself.

Riccio took a plane from Rome and arrived in Catania the following evening. When they met, Ilardo was agitated by the magnitude of what he was about to do: to bring a company of carabinieri to the door of a meeting with the Boss of Bosses. He was risking his own life if the raid went wrong and his cover was blown. They agreed
that Riccio’s men would observe the other men of honour arriving at the junction and follow them to the meeting, but they would hold back if there was any sense that they knew they were being watched.

The following morning, early, Ilardo drove along the Palermo–Agrigento road, to the Mezzojuso turn-off. He pulled off the main road into the broad junction where two country roads joined the main drag, and parked behind another car. An old farm building loomed above the road, its windows dark. There were already two other cars in the lay-by, and two figures sitting in one of them to keep warm. The mountains lowered on either side, the shadows shortening as the sun climbed. Far away a village perched on its rocky slope, guardian of the valley. In the deep countryside there was no sound but the wind in the grass, and the occasional roar of a farm truck.

One of the men came over and introduced himself, and signalled to Ilardo to get in his car. Ilardo shuffled in behind Lorenzo Vaccaro, brother of the Mimmo in the letter and one of Provenzano’s most assiduous attendants. The two men shook hands wordlessly. They drove towards Agrigento in silence for a few miles, then turned off a sharp right-hand bend onto a dirt road. A flock of sheep was grazing near by, their bells making the familiar tinkling sound as they trotted along, as much part of the ancient landscape as the stones themselves. The car bumped over a winding farm track, which dipped downwards before climbing towards the mountains. The driver pulled up outside a farmhouse that stood on the crest of a hill, with a sweeping view of the countryside all around: across the fields down to the main road, and over the rocky outcrops to the village above. No one could come anywhere near this place without being spotted. Ilardo wondered, would Riccio’s men make it on foot?

Ilardo was shown into the farm building. In an upstairs office, sparsely furnished with a table and plastic chairs, an elderly man was waiting for them, dressed in simple country clothes: a polo shirt and V-neck sweater, working trousers and a heavy jacket. Ilardo realized with a shock that it was Uncle Binnu. He hadn’t seen him face to face for years; he had grown old and thin, with sunken eyes and temples. His light brown hair was going grey and receding. The men joked about his excellent farmer’s disguise, and the Boss agreed that he
made such a convincing peasant that he could go pretty much anywhere without being spotted. In fact, he boasted, just a couple of days earlier, getting treatment for his prostate, he had had his catheter removed, and had driven 25 km for an important meeting without getting stopped. He did not say where he was living, but other shreds of information convinced Ilardo he was staying in Bagheria, his long-time centre of operations.

Salvatore Ferro, who had originally contacted Ilardo to make the arrangements, arrived at 10 a.m., apologizing for his lateness, having stashed his Mercedes in a barn down the road and picked up an old banger to make the last part of the journey. All morning the four men shut themselves in that small office and discussed some urgent issues; the principal of these was the apparently unstoppable ambition of Giovanni Brusca. The stocky scion of the San Giuseppe Iato clan was throwing his weight around. Since Bagarella was arrested, he had lost his brother in arms, his battering ram, who intimidated everyone into submission – but he was not going to be left out in the cold. Brusca was making moves to take over Agrigento, a strategically vital Mafia stronghold. While they talked, Ilardo tried not to look at the door.

Provenzano was calling for the restoration of relations with Bagarella’s contacts in business, as a matter of urgency. Since Bagarella’s arrest a lucrative source of income had been lost, and it was vital to get these onstream.

During the morning shepherds and farmworkers turned up from time to time, some of them on foot, bringing food and drink. They were all involved in organizing Provenzano’s summit, and by lunchtime there were three or four of them in the next room preparing pasta, lightly cooked greens and cheese. Provenzano always relied on shepherds, a tight-knit community closed to the outside world, for support. They were completely trustworthy and held it as part of their tradition to help a Mafia boss in need. The shepherds were Provenzano’s hidden army.