Legacy of Sorrows (25 page)

Marco asked his father, 'what about giving the letters to the British government?' Angelo answered, ‘that would just be like destroying the documents as I don't think they would ever see the light of day again. The British would more than likely destroy them or keep them secret for a very long time. They would look upon them as some sort of slur on Churchill's name. The very fact that Churchill was compromised in negotiating with Mussolini would not be acceptable to the British Government or the British people.

‘What I ask you to do Marco is to make contact with someone in the Italian Security Service and probably take them to the site at the Devil's Bridge to recover the briefcase. It will involve a high degree of secrecy in case one of the political parties find out what you are doing, I would not trust the politicians in the government as they have a vested interest, and the newspapers and media are mainly owned by Berlusconi who would have his own agenda.

‘How would I get in touch with the Security Services,' said Marco, ‘I wouldn't know where to start?' Angelo took another sip of his whisky before answering, ‘I have an old friend Carlo Togneri who used to be in the Italian equivalent of the Special Branch of the Carabinieri, I'm sure he would be able to help you. He kept in touch with me over the years and is now retired in Lucca.'

‘Would I have to tell him why I want to contact them?' said Marco ‘Only in a general sense that you have some information that you can only give to the Security Services in person, that should be enough of a cover to satisfy him. He's a clever man and quite sharp so he may suspect there's more to it, but as long as you stick to that story it should be ok.' ‘When should I do this?' said Marco. ‘Angelo looked at his son for a few moments, and then said, 'I think as soon as possible. I'll phone Carlo and tell him to expect you in the next few days.' Angelo hugged his son and kissed him on both cheeks before saying, ‘Marco, be careful, be very careful, many people would do anything to get hold of those letters, anything: including murder.'

After a while when Angelo was alone he thought of Carlo and how they had worked together during the war.

They had first met at a fascist rally in Rome. Angelo had been with the Moschettieri for some time and was obviously a trusted member of this elite force. He was responsible for the Duce's safety at all of the fascist rallies and it was his job to liaise with the Special Branch of the Carabinieri over security matters. They would tell him the status of potentially dangerous characters in the area that could pose a threat to Mussolini and they would try to put them under lock and key for the duration of Mussolini's visit.

Over the years, a friendship had grown between them even though Carlo was not a fascist, anything but. They had discussed many times over a coffee or a glass of wine what it meant to be a fascist, or in Carlo's case, what it meant to be a communist and they had never agreed. Angelo accepted Carlo for his beliefs and had never seen him as a threat to the Duce, or a dangerous man in any form. Carlo was a cultured man. A man of reason and a man of peace. To Angelo such a man could never contemplate violence, except perhaps in the course of his duty as a police officer. Angelo admired the man and always felt challenged by him when they debated the politics or events of the day. He saw Carlo as an intellectual communist just as he was an intellectual Catholic, meaning that he believed in his mind but did nothing about it in reality. He was very pleased that they had become friends, and to Carlo the same feeling of friendship applied in equal measure. Carlo believed that one day, when the war was over, it would take Italians of all varying persuasions to build a unified Italy.

Now he wondered if Carlo would help him again.

Chapter 5

2
3rd
April 1987
     The taxi stopped outside the apartment block on the Via Romano in Lucca. Marco paid the driver and stepped out onto the pavement. He studied the apartment block for a moment before entering the foyer. He looked at the list of names on the board and pressed the buzzer against the name Togneri. ‘Pronto' said a voice through the intercom. ‘I am Marco Corti,' he said, still holding the buzzer. The door to the apartment hallway opened with a loud click.

He entered the lift, pressed the button for the third floor, and found apartment 3B. He took a deep breath before pressing the bell on the doorframe. He waited for a while before a tall grey haired man opened the door. ‘Signor Togneri?' said Marco, holding out his hand. With a smile on his face, the tall man shook hands with him and stood aside to let Marco into the apartment. ‘Call me Carlo,' he said, ‘and you are obviously Marco?' His English was heavily accented but Marco was pleased he could understand him. Although Marco could speak fluent Italian, it seemed to him good manners in this situation to speak in the language that Carlo preferred to use.

‘Come in and sit over here,' he said pointing to a chair near a large window overlooking a park. Marco sat down and let Carlo carry on speaking. His father had told him that Carlo was a charismatic man who loved to talk, and he was finding out how true this was. Carlo was explaining to Marco that the flowers in the park were still out of season and if he had visited next month when they were in bloom, he would have seen a beautiful display of colour. Marco smiled politely, and accepted the espresso coffee Carlo handed him.

When he eventually sat down, his approach changed to one of asking questions about Angelo and his wife Elizabeth, and their life in Scotland. ‘Have you taken over the family business,' he asked. Marco grinned, ‘I don't think Italian fathers ever completely retire, but yes, on paper I'm now in charge.' Carlo laughed at this, showing off a mouthful of perfect teeth set below a ‘Clark Gable' type moustache. After a few more minutes of idle chat Carlo became more serious saying 'well Marco, your father said that I may be able to help you with a small problem you have.' ‘Tell me about it.'

Marco had rehearsed this on the flight over and he was ready with his answer. ‘My father tells me that you may have contacts within the Italian Intelligence Services and that you may be able to introduce me to someone I could talk to about a situation I have.' Carlo showed no sign of surprise at this. He was silent for a moment before saying, ‘Even if I am able to do this, could you tell me a little more of what this is all about?' Marco nodded a few times before saying, ‘I have some information that I believe would be of great interest to the Security Services.' ‘And what would that information be?' said Carlo.

Marco realised that this was not going to be as easy as he first thought. ‘I can't tell you what this is all about. It's not that I don't trust you, it's just that it's too sensitive and the less people who know the better.'

Once again, Carlo was silent for a while before saying,' I know people I can contact within the intelligence community; however, at this moment in time I am not sure if I should. If I don't know something about this, then I can't possibly involve the Intelligence Services,' he said taking a sip of his coffee. ‘You must understand that I have a certain reputation to uphold, a reputation that means that these people take me seriously and know that I won't waste their time. For all I know you may want to discuss the weather in Scotland with them. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

Marco realised that they had reached an impasse. Without some insight into the situation, Carlo was not willing to help and without his help, he couldn't take this forward. ‘I can tell you this' said Marco, ‘it involves something that was found in Italy and the importance of which I can only share with the security services of this country.'

‘Well Marco,' Carlo said, ‘Thank you for sharing what you can with me. Just one more thing, can you tell me how old this find is?' Marco thought for a second or two then said, ‘It belongs to the first half of this century, and I really cannot say anymore about this. If you can help me then please do so, if not, I should go now.'

Carlo realised that he had pushed Marco as far as he could. He stood up at this point and thought for a few moments about what had just been said. ‘Leave me the name of your hotel and room number and I'll call you later this evening, hopefully with good news. I believe I know who can help us. Your father and I go back a long way, and I will do what I can.'

The meeting was at an end, so Marco stood to go, shook Carlo's hand, and gave him the hotel information.

As he left, he wondered why his father was so friendly with this man. Yes, he was charismatic and charming, but underlying this Marco felt he could detect something else. What that was he didn't quite know, but he didn't like it.

When he was alone Carlo sat down again and thought over his conversation with Marco. He wondered about what he had found that could be so important to the state. Something from the first part of this century and apparently sensitive material.

He thought about Angelo and his past in the Blackshirts and his service in the Moschettieri with Mussolini. He remembered his friendship with Sergio Rossi and how he had even attended his funeral all those years ago. Could these be the lost papers that people had been searching for all these years?

Eventually he got up and made a phone call to someone he knew quite well. He also made a phone call to the Commandante of the local Carabinieri Station in Lucca, a man called Enzo Capaldi. He knew that Enzo had a SISI agent – the Italian Intelligence Service - operating out of there as a liaison officer between the two organisations.

Later that evening he made another phone call, this time to Marco. ‘I've made arrangements for someone to visit you tomorrow morning at eleven in your hotel room. The person will show you some ID, so you can rest assured of their validity. It was considered the best place to meet in secrecy.' Marco thanked him and hung up.

Carlo then put on his favourite blue anorak and left his apartment. He walked for a little while along the street before he stopped at a jewellers shop with a large mirror in the window that the owners used to reflect the items on display. He pretended to look interested.

He used the reflection in the mirror to see if anyone was across the street watching or following him. He stood for a little while longer noting the cars on the road and the people that were walking past. Once he was satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he turned round and headed back the way he had just come. He walked on a little further before going down one of the narrow alleys that were commonplace in Lucca and slipped into a small bar. Through the dim lighting, he saw a bearded man sitting at a table on his own. He walked over and sat down beside him.

They fell into a deep conversation for a few minutes, frequently looking round the crowded room, making sure they were not being overheard before Carlo, appearing satisfied with the outcome got up and left. After some ten minutes, the bearded man also left the bar accompanied by two companions.

Any casual onlooker would have thought nothing wrong with the encounter. Had they known that the bearded man, whose name was Lorenzo Storti, was an accomplished terrorist with many deaths attributed to his name, they would probably have found it hard to believe.

In the summer of 1980, Lorenzo Storti travelled from Pisa on Alitalia flight 375 to Sicily where he was met by a Libyan Arab named Yusef Ali Akhbar who was a member of Colonel Ghaddafi's Intelligence Service, and who handled the transfer of contacts from Sicily to Libya. Some fifteen miles in distance, but a world apart in culture and political integrity. They met in the airport lounge at three- thirty as arranged and had a coffee sitting at a table at the back of the room.

Akhbar asked Storti for some identification and when he was satisfied as to his identity said, ‘I have arranged for a private boat to take you across the Med to my country. You could have taken a flight, however that would have been flagged up by the Italian Intelligence Services who monitor every flight to Libya from here. When you arrive at a small port near Tripoli, you will be taken by your contact to a desert camp where you will remain for six months. Your training will include everything you will need to know about become effective in terrorism on your return to Italy.

One more thing. You will meet many people at the desert camp from many different countries, and friendships may develop amongst you all, however when you leave the camp you must forget who you met or saw there, and never mention them again to anyone, ever. This is for your and the others security. Do you understand Lorenzo?'

Lorenzo nodded in agreement.

Akhbar continued, ‘The site of your camp must also remain a secret. If we hear that you have broken these rules and have been slack in their observance, then we will hear about it and we will kill you wherever you are. Do you understand?'

Lorenzo looked at Akhbar with suppressed anger in his eyes, ‘I understand what is required Akhbar. I have not come here to play games, and I can assure you that I will be discreet.' Akhbar, satisfied with this comment, said, ‘We will leave now. Don't discuss anything with the boatman. He will take you to the landing port and introduce you to your next contact in Libya. Even in the camp, keep yourself to yourself if possible. Others in the camp will have been told the same, so it will not appear odd. I will wish you well here, and we will not speak to each other again. Walk a few metres behind me and when I stop at the boat I would ask you to carry on without looking at me again.'

Lorenzo did as he was told and eventually reached the desert camp. Six months later a tanned and fit looking Lorenzo, fully trained in all aspects of terrorism and killing returned to Lucca. It may have been a coincidence but round about the time of his return to Italy, a spate of bomb attacks and kidnappings happened in increasing frequency in the region of Tuscany.