The Colombian Mule (17 page)

‘They were lucky Victoria couldn't be reached on her cell phone,' the lawyer remarked.

‘That's true. But, even if she had been, they'd have made another attempt at a later date. The decision to frame Corradi had been taken. It was just a matter of time.'

‘So who killed the Colombian?' Bonotto enquired.

‘Killers from his own syndicate. They were afraid he would talk,' I replied concisely. It was better if Bonotto remained unaware of the role La Tía had played.

Bonotto selected a sweet from a silver bowl on his desk and unwrapped it slowly. ‘Can you produce evidence to document the existence of the super-ecstasy outfit and the special operation?'

‘Yes,' replied Max, who then brought Bonotto up to speed with our latest investigations.

Bonotto sucked thoughtfully on his mint. When he finally spoke, it was with great bitterness. ‘Given what we now know, I could put Celegato and the police officers on the witness stand at the preliminary hearing and make mincemeat out of the lot of them. If it weren't for the fact—and it's this I wanted to discuss with you when you arrived just now—that Corradi doesn't want to involve Bruno Celegato in the trial. He made it crystal clear to me yesterday that he's not interested in getting out of prison by pointing the finger at someone else. Even if that someone else used to be his best friend and has betrayed him in the vilest possible way. He has instructed me to defend him using nothing but the evidence that emerged during the police investigation.'

There was a long silence. Bonotto called his secretary and ordered the usual coffees. ‘My client's attitude to the trial is nothing short of suicidal,' he resumed. ‘And, quite frankly, I don't understand it.'

I poured a full sachet of sugar into my coffee. ‘Corradi is almost sixty. The fact is, he has lived his entire life according to a particular rulebook . . .'

‘I'm well aware that my client is a man of his time, but I'd like you to appreciate my position. I can't see how I can defend a client to the best of my ability—as my professional ethic obliges me—without availing myself of evidence that could acquit him.'

‘Fine. But what do you want us to do?' Max asked.

‘Try to talk him round. I've got an appointment with Victo­ria tomorrow. Maybe she can make him see sense.'

‘Does Victoria know about Celegato's part in all of this?' I asked.

‘No, not yet. Corradi hasn't yet told her anything.'

‘Then cancel that appointment, Avvocato. I know enough old crooks like Nazzareno to be sure of one thing: their code of conduct doesn't allow for the women they love to interfere in decisions of this kind.'

‘Marco is right,' Max said. ‘She'd only make matters worse. We'll find a way of broaching the subject with him. But we can't promise anything.'

‘All right,' Bonotto said reluctantly.

As we were leaving his office, Bonotto asked us pointblank, ‘In Corradi's shoes, what would you two do?'

I looked at Max, who just shrugged. ‘The same as him . . . I think,' he said.

*

Beniamino arrived at Max's apartment earlier than expected and in a foul mood. He grunted out a greeting, took off his coat and threw himself on the couch. ‘We've got a problem. A big problem.'

I thought I would try guessing. ‘Mansutti?'

‘You got it. Our prison corporal is scared shitless. I called him yesterday evening and to begin with he absolutely refused to set up any more phone conversations with Corradi. In the end I managed to calm him down and got him to explain what the fuck was going on. It seems that a team from Prisons Intelligence has gone into Santa Maria Maggiore. They're investigating the killing of the Colombian and generally poking their noses in everywhere. Today's phone call to Corradi will be our last.'

Modelled on the US experience, Prisons Intelligence teams were a recent innovation in Italy. They operated inside prisons, spying on the activities of Mafia leaders and other gangsters held at the state's pleasure. In Italy, however, the Prisons Administration Department had had the bright idea of making it the prime objective of the units to nurture a new generation of grasses and supergrasses, especially among those belonging to foreign-based criminal organizations. For several years now, the legal profession and many of the country's politicians had been demanding the disbandment of the units, claiming they were responsible for a series of outbreaks of violence that had created grave tensions among prison inmates, and above all alleging that they habitually recorded conversations between prisoners awaiting trial and their lawyers.

Max filled the pasta pan with water and placed it on the stove. ‘Do you reckon Mansutti will stand up to questioning?' For an aperitif, Old Rossini poured himself two fingers of wheat vodka. ‘I doubt it. And if he blabs, Marco and I are fucked. We're going to have to eliminate him.'

I looked at him without saying a word. There was no need to.

‘Come on, Marco, don't jerk me around. You know as well as I do what this guy is like. He's only on the take because otherwise he couldn't pay for his hookers. The man's got no balls.'

I looked to Max for his opinion. ‘The murder of a corporal in the prison police wouldn't pass unobserved. The Prisons Intelligence unit would be sure to refocus their investigations on Mansutti and it's just possible someone saw you together.'

‘Who said anything about murder?' Beniamino retorted. ‘I was thinking more in terms of a road accident. Preferably tonight. He goes to the nightclub, fools around with his Thai chick and then, on his way home, drives into a tree or ends up in a ditch.'

‘I see you've got it all worked out,' I scowled.

The old gangster got up and came towards me. ‘Certainly,' he said. ‘And I'll tell you something else, Marco. I'm happy to kill Mansutti. He's the kind of bent cop you just can't trust. You remember the time I had to slap him around? Well, I read in his eyes that night that if I ever ended up in prison, he'd see I paid. I put my money on the wrong horse. End of story.'

I nodded. Corrupt prison officers like Mansutti could be two-edged swords. ‘When's the accident? Tonight?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Do you want me to come with you?' I asked.

‘No. I'll take care of it on my own. Mansutti was my mistake.'

We ate in silence, watching the news on TV. Then it was time to phone Corradi. I turned on the speakerphone.

‘This is going to be our last chat, Nazzareno. It's no longer safe.'

‘Do you have any news?'

‘Celegato is not just any old police informant. He has infiltrated a major criminal organization and the reason he ratted on you was so he could do his job better. We've gathered enough evidence for you to leave the preliminary hearing a free man.'

‘Would I have to put others inside?'

‘Yes. Celegato, some dope peddlers, and the cops that fitted you up.'

‘Then nothing doing.'

‘You're the client.'

‘What would you do, Alligator?'

I decided to lie. ‘I'd fuck Celegato and enjoy the rest of my life.'

‘I can't do that.'

‘The alternative is prison.'

‘I'm not going to stoop to his level.'

Beniamino decided to intervene. ‘This is Rossini.'

‘I've heard of you.'

‘My answer to your question is as follows. I'd blow up the cops' special operation and then see how the pieces fall to earth. They can't just use you as a kleenex. You're a man.'

‘That's exactly the way I see it.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘What about your friend Bruno? If you ask me to, I'll take care of him.'

‘No. That's my problem. If I get the opportunity to settle that score, I'll take it. But these are not matters I can delegate to others. Alligator?'

‘Yeah, I'm here.'

‘If things go badly, I want to be sure Victoria is looked after. Will you help me?'

‘Sure. That I can do for you free of charge.'

I hung up, removed the card from the cell phone and chucked it in the bin. It was best to be rid of it. It was no use any more and once Mansutti was dead, the cops might fancy taking a look at the call records.

‘It seems Max has a plan for putting the skids under the special operation,' I told Rossini. The old gangster just grinned and made himself comfortable on the couch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Corporal Vincenzo Mansutti was a worried man. As part of their investigation into the killing of the Colombian prisoner, the men from the Prisons Intelligence unit were attempting to discover the identity of the prison officer who had reported to Bonotto the sequence of events surrounding the murder, thereby giving the lawyer the leverage to oblige the prison governor to redirect the murder enquiry. They suspected that the culprit was a low-ranking officer who had probably been attached to the Venice prison for some time and also that he had done it not for the love of justice but for money. The list that the unit had compiled comprised fifteen names, including Mansutti's. He wondered whether, under the circumstances, it was such a good idea to go to the nightclub to see the Thai girl yet again that evening, but he couldn't think of a single valid reason not to.

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?'