The Colombian Mule (14 page)

La Tía evaluated the proposal while she smoked her way through a cigarette. ‘Too dangerous. It's not in my interest.'

Old Rossini nodded several times. Then he spoke in a tone of voice that I had only ever heard him use just before he killed someone. ‘Oh, but it
is
in your interest, Tía. Take my word for it. If you think it over, you'll see it makes excellent business sense.'

Doña Rosa broke into laughter, to relieve the tension. She had registered the absolutely serious nature of the threat–and Alacrán was too far away to offer her any protection. ‘Well, if he pays half up-front, the second half on delivery, and agrees to a premium price for the goods, then okay. It ought to make me more than enough to cover this trip to Italy.'

‘We'll ensure that the handover is as risk-free as possible,' Rossini said. ‘And you can certainly demand a premium. After all, the Italian state will pick up the tab, drawing on the secret slush funds they set aside for special operations of this kind.' Approaching La Tía, Rossini added, ‘To make sure you feel no temptation to hold on to the money and forget about despatching the coke, you will remain here in Italy for the duration. Along with your sweetheart, naturally.'

‘That's impossible. Our tourist visas expire in a couple of days. We'll have no choice but to leave.'

Rossini's tone hardened. ‘Out of the question. You're staying where you are. We'll get you new visas. We know the right people.'

A grimace of disappointment appeared on her face.

‘You were thinking to rip us off, right?' Rossini said, with a snigger.

Rosa Gonzales shrugged her shoulders.

‘How long will you need to bring your mule over?' I asked.

‘A week.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rossini cast his bait. He paid Toni Vassallo, the paralysed drug dealer, a second visit. As they chatted about one thing and another, Rossini casually mentioned he had recently heard that the sales rep for a major Bogotá drugs trafficker had arrived in Italy and was looking for customers. A couple of days later, Vassallo's wife turned up on Rossini's doorstep, asking if he happened to know how the coke rep could be contacted.

Rossini smoothed his moustache. ‘It's out of your league.'

‘We know that. But there's this guy, Bruno—Toni says he's already talked to you about him—who would be willing to pay good money for the information . . .'

‘Is he also willing to pay to find out the source of this information?'

Vassallo's wife turned white. ‘What are you talking about, Beniamino? You know Toni would never rat on you.'

‘There's nothing I know for sure any longer. But if he does let slip a single word, I swear I'll kill him. And I'll kill you too. Out of pity. A widow's life is just too miserable.'

Vassallo's wife was speechless with terror. In the criminal underworld, it was common knowledge that Rossini had eliminated quite a number of local gunmen belonging to the Brenta Mafia. She got up to go, but Rossini caught her arm.

‘It was only a warning. I just don't want to land in the shit on some drug-dealing rap. That's all. The Colombian woman is about fifty. Every two or three days, she has dinner at Ris­torante Barchessa, by the river at Caposile.'

I was in the livingroom, eavesdropping on the conversation. I had been staying at Rossini's place for a couple of days, while we waited for just such a visit. As soon as Vassallo's wife was out of the house, Rossini came into the room, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Celegato's walking straight into the trap,' he said.

Rossini then left for Treviso, saying he would be back at six that evening. He had to pick up the new visas for La Tía and Aisa. He had contacted a bent cop he knew in the city's passport office who had agreed to sort out the problem for a reasonable sum.

He arrived back earlier than expected and we set off for Jesolo to see La Tía. For once, Signora Gianna abstained from any comment, keeping her eyes fixed on the magazine she was thumbing through.

‘I wouldn't mind betting she's had a run-in with La Tía,' I hazarded.

I had guessed right. The landlady had had the temerity to make an unfriendly remark to Aisa as she walked past her desk one day on her way out to buy cigarettes and rum. The minute Doña Rosa heard about it, she went straight downstairs and pressed her hairpin up against Signora Gianna's throat, murmuring a phrase in Spanish which the landlady had understood imperfectly, though its general drift was clear.

La Tía related this with gusto and took offence when Rossini reprimanded her. ‘You're not in Bogotá. You can't afford to throw your weight around like that. Here, you're just another fucking third-world tourist with a forged visa. If the landlady reports you to the police, our plan is fucked.'

‘Take it easy, hombre, take it easy. Nothing happened.'

Rossini tossed the two visas on the bed. ‘Bullshit. Behave professionally and cut out the attitude crap.'

They stared each other out and I decided to intervene to prevent an exchange of slaps and hairpin thrusts. ‘Our man has swallowed the bait and will be showing up at the restaurant.'

La Tía glanced at me with contempt. ‘When?'

‘The day after tomorrow.'

‘The goods will be here in three days. Have you thought about how to do the handover?'

‘Yeah, we have. We'll use the overpass technique.'

‘I know it well. In Colombia too it's all the rage.'

‘The purchaser will want to try a sample.'

‘Claro.' She got up and went over to the bedside cabinet, crossed herself and picked up the statuette of Our Lady of Lourdes, full of holy water. She unscrewed the Madonna's head and pulled on a thread attached to the stopper. Out came an aluminium tube that had once served to safeguard the aroma of an Apostolado cigar.

La Tía waved the tube under my nose. ‘Our Lady of the narcos,' she said.

As soon as we were outside, Rossini did an impression of her. ‘Our Lady of the narcos . . . I swear the next time she says that I'll give her a good slapping.'

I stopped in a tobacconist's doorway. ‘Look, I don't like her either and, personally, I can't wait for her to go back home to Colombia. But could you try to avoid a head-on clash with her? She's accustomed to never backing down. There's a risk that one day she'll plant that goddamn hairpin in your heart.'

Beniamino chuckled. ‘Not her. Aisa is the dangerous one. While I was busy rowing with La Tía, she took up position behind me, and prepared to strike. I spun around just to let her know that trick wouldn't work with me and, well, the look on her face was not a pleasant sight.'

 

Max's study had been turned into an operations center, complete with microphones, recording equipment, radio transmitters, infrared night-vision scanners and a digital video­camera. Max listened with evident satisfaction to our account of the latest developments.

I looked him in the eye. ‘Celegato is sure to turn up for the first meeting with La Tía with the cops in tow. Then, when it comes to handing over the money and taking delivery of the coke, he'll come trailing the same gaggle of police and Guardia di Finanza. I can't understand why you aren't more concerned. I'm shitting myself.'

Max poured me out a large dose of Calvados. ‘Everything's under control, Marco. We're really going to screw them.'

‘I still don't share your optimism. This is the first time we've ever taken on the police directly, and we have no experience in this area. I'll tell you something else. When I first started doing this work, the only rule I gave myself was never to accept an investigation that clashed with official enquiries.'

‘Have you got a better idea?'

‘No, I haven't. But I don't like the direction this is heading in.'

‘It's too late. Now we've started, there's no turning back.'

‘That's exactly what I don't like about it.'

 

The choice of venue for the meeting between Celegato and Rosa Gonzales left little to chance. The restaurant was near the banks of the river Sile and the plan was for La Tía to both arrive and leave aboard a speedboat. We wanted to make sure the cops couldn't pursue her. The coke was already on its way and Doña Rosa was going to hint to Celegato that the goods were close to hand. We were going to follow the negotiations and record the conversation.

Old Rossini had got hold of a boat with a flat keel and a quiet but powerful motor enabling us, if necessary, to shake off any police or Finanza motorboats among the sandbanks of the lagoon. The owner, a professional smuggler, handed it over to us at Cortellazzo, and in under twenty minutes we had reached Jesolo, where La Tía was waiting for us at a bend in the river, hidden by a dense clump of poplars. I helped her to clamber aboard and then handed her a black raincoat with a hood. Rossini and I were both wearing black coveralls and balaclavas.

As we approached Caposile, I radioed ahead to Max, hidden among piles of crates and boxes at the back of a supermarket, from where he was keeping a watch on the restaurant parking lot using a night-vision scanner.

‘Any news?' I asked.

‘At this moment our friend is sitting at the bar. The others are hiding in a van, a white Fiat Ducato with dark-tinted windows. Given the tangle of aerials on its roof, I should guess they're planning to follow the conversation using a directional microphone.'

I explained the situation to La Tía and reminded her what to do in case of danger. ‘If the cell phone in your bag starts ringing, it means the cops are on their way into the restaurant. You just get up, go into the kitchens, slip out the back and run down to the edge of the river. Beniamino will cover you.'

Rosa Gonzales climbed out of the boat and walked towards the lights of the restaurant, about fifty meters away. Rossini picked up the stiff leather case he had brought along, extracted a Browning .300 Winchester Magnum and, using a small screwdriver, adjusted the focus on its infra-red telescope. It was a weapon designed for hunting wild elk, fitted with an enhanced ten-shot loader and bullets that weren't in the slightest bit bothered by bullet-proof jackets or the kind of steel-plating used in police cars and motorboats.

Beniamino pointed the weapon at La Tía's back. ‘If she doesn't run fast enough, the only bullet to reach its target will be hers.'

I took my binoculars from their case and observed the windows of the restaurant. ‘That would be senseless murder,' I retorted, watching La Tía take her place at the table she had reserved.

‘You surely don't imagine I'd open fire on the police just to save the hide of a narcotics trafficker?'

‘Of course not. All you have to do is fire in the air to create a diversion. If they nab her, we simply leg it as fast as we can.'

‘You really are a hopeless fucking case, Marco. If she got nabbed because I'd failed to kill the cops, you can be sure she'd get her own back by trading us for a reduced sentence.'

‘I don't think she'd do that.'

‘There are far too many uncertainties. Which is why the best thing is to make quite sure temptation doesn't come her way.'

Celegato walked into my field of vision. I watched him bend down towards Doña Rosa, who activated the microphone concealed in the lace collar of her blouse.

‘My name's Roberto,' Celegato lied, in almost perfect Spanish.

‘Do we know one another?'

‘No. But we have some friends in common who can vouch for me.'

‘And why should they need to?'

‘Just to establish that I'm someone who can be trusted, and a good purchaser.'

Rosa Gonzales got up and stood behind Celegato. Pretend­ing to kiss him on the neck, she quickly frisked him. ‘You wouldn't happen to be wired, would you?'

‘Check all you like. But I told you, I'm someone you can trust.'

La Tía returned to her seat, smiling like a newly-wed. They ordered dinner. The wine waiter opened a bottle for them. Celegato raised his glass. ‘To business,' he said.

La Tía ignored him. ‘You're going too fast for my liking. Who are these friends we're supposed to have in common?'

‘Carlos Rimadas Ríos and Juan Lopez Pinero,' Celegato replied, naming two of the most powerful prostitution bosses in Bogotá.

La Tía nodded, appearing impressed by the eminence of Celegato's references. In fact she was wondering how much Ríos and Pinero would be willing to pay for the information that Celegato was a police spy. Well, she would discover that once she got back to Colombia. ‘Obviously, I'll have to see if that checks out,' she said. ‘Do I recall you saying you were a serious buyer?'

Celegato got straight to the point. ‘I need a kilo of at least eighty-five per cent pure cocaine.'

La Tía chuckled sarcastically. ‘You said you were a serious buyer. A kilo is small-time. It's smuggling for paupers.'

Celegato attempted to regain lost ground. ‘The first consignment is just to test the channel. After which, the amounts acquired would obviously increase substantially.'

‘And how much would you want to pay?'

Celegato pitched a lowish figure, expecting to negotiate. La Tía chewed her food slowly, then named her price, exactly twice the going rate. ‘Not a dollar less. Otherwise, fuck off out of here. I've no time to waste.'

Celegato was silent for a moment, clearly disconcerted by La Tía's resolute approach. He took a sip of his wine. ‘With a price that high, delivery will have to be extremely rapid.'

La Tía ripped a mussel from its shell. ‘The day after tomorrow. You give me fifty per cent now and the rest on delivery.'

‘I haven't got the money on me. I didn't think we'd reach a deal so fast.'

‘So what the fuck were you thinking? I get the feeling you're some kind of clown.'