Man on Fire (30 page)

"A colonel in the Carabinieri," she would have corrected frostily. That was true, and at thirty-eight he was young to have reached such a rank. This could have been due to his mother's legendary connections or to his own ability, but even his enemies-and they were numerous-would admit that the latter was more likely.

But still he was a policeman, and his mother had never ceased to wonder why he chose such a profession when she could have opened, so easily, the broad doors of politics or commerce. Her elder son had surprised her by taking up medicine and becoming a respected surgeon-a profession she thought worthy, but infinitely dull. Far more acceptable, though, than being a policeman. Satta himself often wondered what had attracted him to the Carabinieri. It could be his cynicism -the dominant ingredient of his character. How better to observe the foibles, follies and conceits of a corrupt society?

In spite of this cynicism, or because of it, he was a good policeman. Honesty or abundant private wealth put him outside personal corruption, and a sharp analytical mind, allied to restless energy, had brought success.

His job was one of four passions that dominated his life. The others were good food, beautiful women, and backgammon. For Mario Satta, a perfect day would begin with a satisfying piece of detective work, followed by lunch at one of Milan's top restaurants; an afternoon in his office, sifting and collating his extensive files; then cooking dinner himself in his elegant apartment for an equally elegant lady, who would have the intelligence to later offer some resistance on the backgammon board. Later still that resistance should melt away in his huge double bed, where she should apply herself to less mental pursuits.

The last four years of his career had been deeply satisfying. He had requested and received a transfer to that department which specialized in organized crime. The members of that fraternity fascinated him, and he spent long hours learning the intricacies and secrets of their weblike organization.

For three years it had been a mostly academic exercise: collecting information-comparing and evaluating, putting names and faces together. Cross-referencing between cities in the north and the south; between a prostitution ring in Milan and a wine-adulterating group in Calabria or a drug-smuggling syndicate in Naples.

After three years, he knew more about the Italian Mafia than anyone outside that secretive cabal, and many within it. His assistant, Bellu, had joked that if Satta ever changed sides, he could slip into his new job without a single day's delay.

For the past year Satta had been putting that knowledge to use. He had spearheaded the investigation into the great steel plant scandal in Reggio and had even seen Don Mommo himself go behind bars-albeit only for a two-year stretch. During the past few months he had concentrated on the two main Families in Milan, led by Abrata and Fossella, patiently accumulating evidence on prostitution, coercion, and drugs. He had set up an elaborate network, comprising telephone tapping, surveillance, and stool pigeons. He looked forward over the coming months to getting enough evidence to put away some of the big boys-perhaps even Abrata and Fossella themselves.

His work had been made easier during the past year by a ground swell of public opinion. People were finally getting fed up with the arrogance and apparent immunity of the organized criminal. Surprisingly, the rise in fortune of the Communist party had been a help. Their support of the government had brought about a stiffening of the laws. There was still far to go. Prison sentences were woefully inadequate and witnesses were always hard to find and harder still to protect.

But matters were improving. Every time the Mafia committed a particularly outrageous and flagrant act, public opinion hardened further against them.

After lunch he was to visit a young actress. They had met at a reception the evening before. She was small and delicate and fragile and very beautiful-and she played backgammon. She had invited him to her apartment-to play backgammon. So at lunch this day he had ordered for dessert gelato di tutti frutti.

Satta had a sweet tooth and particularly liked the combination of candied fruit and ice cream. Conscious of his tightly cut suit, he permitted himself a dessert only at weekends. Strictly speaking, he was cheating, because today was only Friday. But he was feeling expansive, anticipating the afternoon. The headwaiter approached, but instead of carrying the dessert, he held a telephone.

"Your office; Colonel." He plugged the jack into a wall socket.

It was Bellu. Satta listened for a few minutes and said, "I'll be there in half an hour," and hung up. He summoned the headwaiter, and with a trace of grimace canceled the gelato di tutti frutti. Then he phoned the young actress to cancel the rendezvous. She was desolate. He consoled her-he would cook dinner himself for her on Sunday night in his apartment.

As he paid his bill, he said to the headwaiter, "Tell the chef that the cappon magro had a trace too much rosemary."

Satta believed that a chefs skill derived from the sum total of complaints received.

The body of Giorgio Rabbia lay face up in a drainage ditch beside an access road to the Milan-Turin motorway.

An ambulance and several police cars were grouped on the roadside. A large, black-plastic bag lay folded on a stretcher. A police photographer was moving around between flashes.

Satta stood next to his assistant, Massimo Bellu, looking down at the body.

"So the collector was collected," he commented dryly.

"Some time last night," said Bellu. "The body was found an hour ago."

"One bullet in the head?"

"That's right-very close range." He pointed to the face. "Burn marks around the point of entry."

"What happened to his hand?"

Bellu shook his head. "Pierced right through-by what, I don't know."

The photographer had finished, and a policeman approached.

"Can we take him away now, colonel?"

"Yes," answered Satta. "I want the pathologist's report as soon as possible."

The ambulance attendants started easing the plastic bag over the corpse, and Satta turned away to his car.

Bellu followed.

"You think a war has started?" he asked. Satta leaned back against his car and his analytical mind slipped into gear. He thought aloud for Bellu's benefit.

"There are three alternatives: first, Abrata and Fossella have started a territory war. It's unlikely; they have the city neatly divided and they're getting on well together. Besides, Conti, and ultimately Cantarella, would have to sanction it, and for sure they don't want a war right now. Second, Rabbia was dipping his fingers into the till and got caught." He thought silently and then shook his head.

"It makes no sense. Rabbia has been a collector for fifteen years and he was loyal-stupid, but loyal. -Third, it was done from outside."

Bellu interjected, "But who-and why?"

Satta shrugged and got into his car and said through the open window, "I want Rabbia's file and the transcripts of all telephone intercepts for the past seventy-two hours-all of them-understand?"

Bellu looked at his watch and sighed.

Satta said, "You can forget whatever plans you have for this evening." A look of irritation crossed his face.

"I've already canceled an interesting meeting myself." He thought for a moment. "And increase the surveillance on all those on the red list."

He started the engine.

"I'll see you back at the office."

Bellu stood watching the car drive away. He had worked as Satta's assistant for three years. For the whole of the first year, he had tried to think up a plausible reason to ask for a transfer. It wasn't that he hadn't liked Satta-he had loathed him. There had been no single reason. Not his cynicism, or his sardonic humor, or his extravagant good looks; not even his aristocratic background and casual arrogance. It was just that Satta represented everything that Bellu considered was unsuitable for a senior Carabinieri officer-and perhaps he was jealous.

Two things had changed his mind. The first was that after working for a year he had begun to appreciate Satta's persevering but subtle mind-in fact, to understand him. The second concerned Bellu's younger sister. She had applied to enter Catanzaro University to study medicine. She was well-qualified, but his family had no connections, and her application had been turned down. He may have mentioned it in the office, he couldn't remember, but a week later she received a letter from the university, reversing its decision. Only after starting the course did she discover that a certain Professor Satta, senior surgeon at Naples' Cardarelli Hospital, had intervened.

Bellu had confronted his boss, who had looked surprised.

"You work with me," he had said. "Of course I had to do something."

Bellu had no more thoughts of a transfer. It wasn't so much what Satta had done, but the way he had expressed it.

You work "with" me; not "for" me. Over the past two years they had developed into a good team. Satta was still cynical, sardonic, and arrogant, and had certainly not become any uglier. But Bellu understood him and even began to absorb some of his characteristics: He took more interest in his food, paid more for his suits, and treated his women with a touch of arrogance-and they liked it. But he drew the line at backgammon.

Satta read the pathologist's report out loud. "Time of death, between midnight and six a.m. on the thirteenth." He looked up at Bellu and said, "He left the Papagayo just after midnight, right?"

Bellu nodded. "That's what they tell us. And he never reached the Bluenote, which was next on his usual schedule."

Satta went back to the report.

"Cause of death, massive brain damage, presumably brought about by the passage of a projectile."

He looked up in disgust. "Presumably brought about the passage of a projectile." He snorted. "Why can't the idiot simply state that he had his brains blown out by a bullet?"

Bellu smiled. "That would make him sound like everybody else."

Satta grunted and went back to the report.

"Scorch marks below subject's right eye around projectile entry point indicate that said projectile was fired; very close range."

Satta rolled his eyes but carried on. "Large exit hole, approximately fifteen centimeters diameter at back of cranium, indicates that said projectile was a large caliber, soft-nosed bullet."

"Hooray!" He looked up triumphantly. "At last the projectile has become a bullet."

But now, as he continued, his voice contained an edge of interest. "Subject had incision through left hand. Shape of said incision, and skin fragments within incision, indicate that cause was from a sharp indent driven through the back of the hand with exit through the palm. Fine wooden splinters embedded in his palm suggest that the hand was pinned to a wooden face (exhibit: splinters sent to lab, for analysis). Extent of blood-clotting indicates that incision was inflicted within two hours before subject's death."

Satta sat back in his chair, a slight, sardonic smile on his lips. "Seems like friend Rabbia was half-crucified."

Bellu smiled back. "But I doubt he'll be rising from the dead in three days."

His boss shook his head.

"Not after passage of said projectile through said brain." He went back to the report, and his voice sharpened again with interest: "Traces of an adhesive substance were found on subject's wrists and ankles and around subject's mouth."

Satta closed the folder and leaned back, thinking deeply. Bellu sat patiently, waiting for the pronouncement.

"Rabbia was picked up when he left the Papagayo," Satta said finally, "taken somewhere quiet, and taped to a chair. Then they asked him some questions." He smiled thinly. "Rabbia was probably reluctant, so they stuck a knife through his hand to encourage him. After learning all they wanted, they shot him through the head and dumped him."

He leaned forward, picked a file from his desk, and scanned it.

"Rabbia's car was found at two p.m. this afternoon in a side street near the Central Station-nothing in it of interest except"-the sardonic smile came again- "a plastic dachshund with a bobbing head!"

Next Satta studied the transcripts of the phone intercepts. He didn't expect to find much of interest because, although phone tapping is practically a national industry, the targets themselves are well aware of it.

As he skimmed through the pages, Bellu said, "Nothing much except a flurry of calls early this morning-trying to locate Rabbia."

Satta tossed the file back onto his desk.

"The 'Union Corse,'" he said firmly. "It's the only explanation-there's been bad blood since that final drug deal." He looked at Bellu speculatively. "If they're behind it, we can expect trouble, and it does follow a pattern. They pick up a small-time member of the group and pump him about the activities of the others-then they plan an all-out attack."

"It fits," Bellu agreed. "Surveillance shows that, since this morning, Fossella and his boys are taking extra precautions-more bodyguards, and not moving around too much."

Satta reached a decision.

"Get me Montpelier on the phone in Marseilles-he might know something."

The main strength of the "Union Corse," the French equivalent of the Mafia, was in Marseilles and Montpelier was Satta's opposite number in southern France.