Death in Tuscany (61 page)

'That's why there was no record in the data bank. It was all calculated. They're professionals . . . Get on to the helicopter pilots. I want them up in the air now. Tell them to stay over the Pistoia area and keep in contact with Ciuffi.'

There were two helicopters, Augusta Bell 212 troop carriers, authorised for night flying. On each of them, apart from the two crew members, were six officers from NOCS, the special forces unit brought in to deal with high-risk situations. Ferrara had sent for them from Rome when he and Rizzo had worked out their plan of action and the possible variations.

They joined the tracker van and the other cars just after the Montecatini Terme tollbooth. Here, the Albanians left the autostrada, and the police vehicles did the same.

'From now on we'd better keep more of a distance. We don't want to risk being spotted at a traffic light or if there's an unexpected traffic jam.'

Rizzo passed Ferrara's instructions on to the other vehicles — especially Ciuffi's van.

'No problem, Francesco,' Ciuffi replied. 'The signal is still loud and clear.'

Montecatini, one of the best known spa resorts in Europe, celebrated for its wonderful thermal park which covers a million and a half square feet in the heart of the town, had in the past few years become a magnet for leading Mafiosi, especially from Catania. Drugs and drug money flowed freely in the local bars and at the famous race course, II Sesana.

It also attracted organised crime figures from outside Italy. It was a place where it was easy for them to merge into the background amid the fluctuating population of visitors and patients taking the waters. It was also a place where there were many nightclubs employing young girls from Eastern Europe as strippers and hostesses - useful for luring wealthy businessmen, local or otherwise.

So that's where Viktor Makregi hangs out, undisturbed,
Ferrara thought with a touch of irony. If you wanted to hide, best to hide in the most obvious place - just like in Edgar Allan Poe's story
The Purloined Letter,
which his friend Massimo had made him read in one of his endless attempts to elevate him culturally!

The messages between Ciuffi and the other cars were coming thick and fast now. The road system was getting denser, and prompt, precise directions were needed. The helicopter pilots were ordered to fly as close as possible to the built-up area of Montecatini, but not over the town itself, until further orders.

Once past the centre of town, the Albanians went in the direction of the village of Montecatini Alta. They drove a few more miles and then turned onto a dirt road which led to a small, isolated two-storey brick house, with a renovated old barn and other outbuildings adjoining it.

Hiding their vehicles in the barn, next to Simonetta Palladiani's black BMW, the men took out the overnight bags and started towards the house.

Viktor Makregi was waiting for them together with four more men and two beautiful young women, clearly prostitutes. He was tall and fair-haired, with a squashed nose - as ugly as Elisa Rocca had described him.

The Albanian who had made the decisions in the quarry put the two overnight bags on a table.
'Ne rregull, Viktor, ketu eshte malli,'
he said, indicating that he had the heroin.

Viktor embraced him. One of the men who had been waiting with him poured the contents of a bottle with the word
Konjak
on it into crystal glasses already laid out on the table.

'Gezuar!'
they cried, laughing and toasting their boss.

The only one who did not laugh was Viktor. He never laughed.

Ferrara took a pair of night vision goggles from the boot of the car and put them on. They had approached with their headlights off, shielded by the vegetation, and had stopped at a safe distance from the house. The windows on the ground floor were all lit up despite the hour.

There were no cars parked outside, and no sign of people or animals. But this had to be the place: this was where the signal had stopped, and there were no other houses in the vicinity.

'Let's get ready' Ferrara ordered. 'Francesco, give the helicopter pilots the coordinates. Tell them to come down over the target in exactly ten minutes. They'll have to light up the area and land their crews. You'll be in charge of them. Split them between the main target and the other buildings.'

The countdown had begun. This wasn't the first time he had directed an operation like this. It required split-second timing, especially in coordinating movement on the ground with that of the helicopters. In order not to alert the occupants of the house, the helicopters would have to arrive only when the target and the surrounding area were completely covered.

In the seven, or at most eight, minutes remaining, the men under his command - twenty in all - put on bulletproof vests, got ready the weapons they had been issued - some had Ml2 machine pistols, others 92/SB Berettas - and listened to Ferrara's curt, precise orders. They would have to surround the target so that all possible escape routes were closed off, and almost simultaneously break in, counting on the element of surprise.

When everything was clear and they had radio confirmation that the helicopters would be directly overhead in exactly two minutes, Ferrara gave the signal for the final phase of Operation Stella to get under way.

The young women had been sent to bed. The men were still euphoric. They sat around the long rectangular dining table strewn with empty glasses and bottles, the two open overnight bags on one side and on the other the bags of drugs. The drugs were the centre of attention, and the men stared adoringly and drunkenly at them.

But not Viktor Makregi, the only one who never lowered his guard and the only one who had time to raise his rifle -which he had propped against the table beside him - when all hell broke loose, the doors and windows were smashed open, the police yelled at them to surrender, and helicopter blades whirred deafeningly outside.

Without even shouldering his rifle, Viktor fired a first shot just as the door was broken down and a group of policemen appeared in the doorway with Ferrara at their head. The bullet missed Ferrara but hit the left arm of one of the officers behind him. Serpico, once again giving proof of his quick reflexes - the origin, along with his appearance, of the nickname - shoved Ferrara to the floor with his shoulder. There was a burst of fire from one of the M12s, which hit Viktor full in the chest, throwing him to the floor. He died in a vain attempt to get back on his feet.

When they saw that, the members of the gang decided not to offer any resistance. Some tried running into the other rooms, but were soon caught and rounded up.

Ferrara walked up to Viktor and knelt beside him.

He couldn't even count the number of bullets which had hit him. Probably the entire round. He searched in his pockets until he found his wallet.

There were no papers, which was only to be expected, and nothing else that gave the slightest clue to his identity. Only a few hundred-thousand-lire notes and a photograph of Stella beside a rustic hearth with a blazing fire. She was smiling at the camera. On the ring finger of her right hand, he noticed the ring with the fake amethyst. Then he stood up, went to Serpico and, without a word, hugged him tight. He had saved his life.

AUTHOR
'S
NOTE

Like A
Florentine Death,
this is a work of imagination, but with a basis in fact: that of my own professional experience. The methods and procedures depicted are those of the Italian police, with one exception: it would not be permitted to send an undercover police officer into prison in order to gain information. I could have changed the particular episode by again resorting to the device of a bugged cell, which in fact I use elsewhere. I preferred to use the idea of an undercover officer because it made for a more effective narrative, and also to demonstrate that in such cases, the law could be made more flexible, giving wider possibilities to the investigators while still respecting the rights of those under investigation. I have also introduced into this novel certain episodes which I actually experienced, although I have transposed them in time and otherwise changed them for the purposes of the narrative. Apart from these, any reference to real people or events is purely coincidental.