The Colombian Mule (3 page)

I found Max in his study. The walls were completely covered with reproductions of pictures by Edward Hopper, Max's favorite artist. As a Christmas present, I had given him a copy of ‘Nighthawks' produced by an eminent forger and I was pleased to see that Max had given it pride of place on the wall opposite his best armchair. Rising from the club below, Eloisa Deriu's voice filled the whole room with ‘Just to Sing'. Max's fingers rattled over the computer keyboard. Glancing at the screen, I recognized the face of a well-known Venetian banker.

‘I was going to come down in half an hour or so,' Max said, without glancing up.

‘Maybe we've got a case,' I said. ‘Rossini's on his way over.' This time Max looked at me. ‘What does maybe mean?'

‘Just that for the time being we get paid to decide whether we like the look of it or not.'

Max snorted. ‘Come on, give me a clue. Rape, drugs, child abuse . . . ?'

‘Cocaine. But the guy accused may well be innocent.' I drew up a chair and helped myself to one of his untipped cigarettes. I pointed at the face on the screen. ‘Why are you interested in him?'

‘I received a tip-off. It seems that people have been going along to his bank to borrow money and he's been feeding them to the loan-sharks.'

‘Nice people,' I commented. ‘Have you got anything for me to drink?'

He waved at a drinks cabinet, where I found some Calvados. Max was drinking Jamaican beer. I drank and smoked in silence, observing Max as he worked at the computer.

Old Rossini arrived punctually, looking as elegant as ever. Under his camel-colored overcoat he was wearing one of his pin-striped gangster suits. He freed his wrists, setting the gold bracelets on his left wrist all a-jangle. They were his scalps, each one the souvenir of a score settled with a firearm. He was very proud of them.

He placed on the table a packet of Marlboro and the kind of gold cigarette lighter that was fashionable back in the Seventies, when Milan was run by syndicates from Marseilles.

‘What kind of mess are you getting us into this time?' he asked, with an inquisitive smile.

‘Does the name Nazzareno Corradi mean anything to you?' I asked.

‘I've heard of him all right. As far as I'm aware, he's on the level.'

‘He was arrested in a hotel in Jesolo on the twenty-sixth of December. He claims he went there to fetch his Colombian girlfriend who had been taken sick. But when he got to the room, instead of his girlfriend, a Colombian drug courier with eight-hundred grams of coke in his belly opened the door. And surrounding him, the drug squads from both the regular police and the Finanza.'

Old Rossini poured himself a drink. ‘The twenty-sixth of December? At least he managed to miss the millennium party nightmare . . .'

I signaled to Rossini to shut up, and then recounted my conversation with Bonotto and our agreement.

‘You did the right thing,' Rossini said. ‘The way I see it, there are far too many Colombian coincidences. In any case, it's best to check things out. People change and Corradi may have degenerated.'

Max scratched at the stubbly beard under his chin. ‘Yeah, I agree. But the lawyer has a point. For such a minor arrest, it was one hell of a police operation. They even went to the trouble of taking the mule along with them to the hotel, just to make the trap seem more convincing. And the timing is all wrong. Arías Cuevas was arrested at five in the afternoon but Corradi didn't knock on his door till three in the morning. What I'd like to know is what happened in those ten hours. Maybe Corradi was put in the frame because somebody figured his links with Colombia would help make the accusation stick.'

I got up and stretched my legs. ‘You're right. The whole thing reeks of special operations. But that's still outweighed by Corradi's known links with Colombia and the easy money to be made from coke trafficking.'

‘What are you thinking of doing?' Old Rossini asked.

‘I thought I'd have a word with Corradi's Colombian girlfriend and then the hotel staff. But the main thing is to set up a direct line to Corradi. I want to hear the story the way he tells it, without Bonotto's spin.'

Max uncapped another beer. ‘A direct line? What do you mean? A cell phone or a bent cop?'

‘A cop.'

Rossini snapped his fingers. ‘I know a corporal in the prison police who's just the man.'

 

Nazzareno Corradi lived on the edge of Ormelle, a small village not far from Treviso. The house, awkward-looking and pretentious in its architecture and color-scheme, seemed just like what it was—the home of a nouveau-riche gangster. It was strategically isolated, ringed by a thick boxwood hedge, and guarded by a pair of rottweilers. Rossini and I looked it over for a moment or two. Then we got out of the car. Max had stayed at home. He wasn't one for wearing out shoe leather.

Corradi's girlfriend opened the door. Victoria Rodriguez Gomez was a beautiful, dark-haired young woman, who must have been in her early twenties. She had a perfectly formed oval face, full lips, skin with a dash of Colombian coffee to it, and a whole lot of curves. Corradi could be forgiven for losing his head over her.

Old Rossini took hold of her hand and grazed it lightly with his lips. I tried to be more professional, confining myself to a simple greeting. ‘We're working for Nazzareno's lawyer,' I explained. ‘We'd like to have a word with you about what's happened.'

‘I was expecting you.' Victoria beckoned us to follow her and led us into an expensively and sumptuously furnished lounge. There were silver-framed photos of the joyous couple all over the place. ‘I'd like to thank you for what you are doing for my man,' she said, with a display of emotion.

‘He pays us, end of story,' Rossini said icily. It was time to stop drooling over her beauty.

‘Does Nazzareno peddle coke?' I asked.

‘No, he doesn't.'

‘What about you?' Rossini insisted.

‘No way.'

‘You're Colombian, right? From Bogotá. The mule is Colom­bian. From Bogotá. And Nazzareno has been on several trips to Colombia. To Bogotá.'

Victoria picked up one of several framed photos from a small table and clasped it to her breast. It portrayed Corradi and Victoria standing on either side of a man who was embracing them affectionately. ‘Nazzareno came back home with me one time to meet my family,' Victoria stated calmly and firmly, in almost flawless Italian. ‘Look. I know that before you agree to take the case you want to be absolutely certain Nazzareno isn't a trafficker, and that's as it should be. But if you're asking me why he of all people was lured into a trap, I just don't know.'

I was thirsty. I looked around, but all I could see on the drinks table were bottles of amaretto and grappa. I was going to have to wait a while before any Calvados came my way.

‘This story about a trap . . . you know what doesn't add up?' I asked, looking squarely at Victoria. ‘The fact that everything hung on Nazzareno not reaching you on your cell phone. He claims he received a call informing him you had been taken ill in a hotel room in Jesolo. And he also claims he tried to ring you, but you were unobtainable because you'd gone to meet your girlfriends in a lap-dance joint where there was no signal. But the cops couldn't have known that, and leaving things to chance is not the way they work. Do you see what I'm getting at? Nazzareno's story just doesn't stand up.'

Victoria looked me straight in the eye. ‘But it's the truth . . . I often go there. Everyone knows that. Maybe the cops had us under surveillance.'

Rossini and I exchanged glances. The interview was over.

‘Excuse our blunt manners,' I said, getting up, ‘but this case is a tangled mess, your man is in big trouble, and we have to be sure we're working for the right client.'

Victoria walked us to the door. She was still clasping the photo of Corradi. ‘Nazzareno took me out of the lap-dance joint,' she began. ‘Before I met him, I used to work all night and sleep during the day. I was terrified that that was how I'd end my life. I owe him everything. There is no way I would ever have introduced him to the narcos.' She closed the door.

‘She didn't say she loved him though,' I remarked.

‘You're expecting too much,' Old Rossini said. ‘Let's face it, they've both gained a lot from the relationship. Corradi would never have got to screw a bombshell like that free of charge.'

‘Do you reckon she's telling the truth?'

‘It's too soon to say. What about you?'

‘She seems sincere all right. All the same, this evening I think I'll go and have a chat with her old colleagues at the lap-dance joint in Eraclea.'

 

We had lunch at a restaurant in Jesolo, not far from the Pensione Zodiaco. This was Rossini's home turf and we were treated like VIPs. I made do with a few forkfuls of risotto alla pescatora, but Rossini got stuck into a whole variety of different antipasti. When we had finished eating, we invited the restaurateur over to our table for a coffee.

‘What do you know about the Zodiaco?' Rossini asked.

‘It's busiest in the summer, mainly. It's family run. They give you bed, breakfast and an evening meal and it's cheap. All in all, a quiet little hotel.'

‘Drugs, girls . . . ?'

‘No. None of that stuff.'

‘But ten days ago they arrested a Colombian there with eight-hundred grams of coke.'

‘Yeah, I heard about that. Whoever told him to go to the Zodiaco knew it was the place to use if you don't want to attract attention. In the winter, there's nothing but passing trade.'

 

At the hotel reception desk, we found a man sprawled across a 1960s leather armchair that was stylistically in perfect harmony with the rest of the room's furnishings. He must have been over sixty. Short and skinny, he wore a light brown suit, white shirt and a red tie fastened in a slender knot. It was early afternoon and he was glued to the television.

Old Rossini pointed at the TV set. ‘Anna Identici. She was one of my all-time favorites. She used to sing at Communist Party festivals. “Era Bello Il Mio Ragazzo” always brought tears to my eyes.'

‘Yeah, I remember it well.'

‘Afternoon. You want a room?' the man asked, without peeling his eyes from the screen.

I pulled out my cigarettes, offered Rossini one and looked around. The place looked clean and decent enough. Your classic small hotel with the same summer customers year-in year-out for thirty years, and every day identical. Mornings at the seaside, followed by lunch and a quiet nap. Then back to the beach. Dinner at seven on the dot: pasta, cheese and salad. A game of canasta and then at eleven, bed.

Our silence forced the man to pay us some attention. ‘I did ask if you wanted a room.'

‘No, thank you,' I replied politely. ‘We'd like to know what happened here during the night of the twenty-sixth of December. All the details.'

‘Who are you?' asked the man warily, settling his metal-framed spectacles on his nose.

Rossini broke in drily. ‘What's your preference? Reporters, lawyers, priests, ratcatchers? We can be whoever you want us to be.'

‘I don't get it.'

‘Are you the owner of this hotel?' I asked pleasantly.

‘Yes, I am.'

‘Good. That means we're talking to the right person. We just want to know what happened on that particular night, when the police arrived here with the Colombian, and then later on when they arrested the man who came knocking on the Colombian's door,' I explained, in a conciliatory tone.

The hotelier shook his head vigorously. ‘I can't tell you. So please leave now. Otherwise I'll call the police.'

I looked at the hotel price list on the wall behind his head. Then I pulled out my wallet and placed on the counter the price of a double room for a week. ‘You must forgive me for insisting, but it's important. Besides, nobody will know,' I said.

I could tell that although he was sorely tempted by the offer he still couldn't quite make up his mind. Rossini decided to tip the balance.

‘Hurry up, grab the cash and start talking. Because if you don't, I'll break one of your arms now and then come back next week and break the other.'

Rossini had issued this threat in a flat tone quite free of malice, and the man was now ready to talk. I guess he just needed a good reason to accept the bribe.

The hotelier pocketed the money and spoke for five minutes straight. He wasn't a great storyteller, a bit weak on detail and confused in places, but we managed to piece together a clear enough picture of what had happened. The room had been booked over the phone a few days before Christmas by a man with a strong local accent. He had said that a Spanish guest of his would be arriving at about 6:30
P.M.
on the twenty-sixth and that he would only be staying one night. He had said he would drop round the same evening in person to pay the bill.

At 7
P.M.
on the twenty-sixth, the Spaniard still hadn't shown up. At five past seven, the man had phoned to find out whether his guest had arrived, and from then on he phoned every half-hour. Just before nine, a captain from the Guardia di Finanza and an officer from Venice police headquarters had turned up at reception, both in plain clothes, and discreetly showed the hotelier their service ID.

The cops had enquired about the room booked for the Spaniard and asked for information on the other people staying at the hotel. When the man who had booked the room phoned back to hear whether his guest had arrived, the hotelier, acting on orders from the two cops, told him that the Spaniard had already checked into the room, but had just popped out to get some cigarettes. The man on the phone then announced that he was coming over to the hotel and would be there in about twenty minutes. At this point, the cops had asked the hotelier to disappear for a while, saying that they would look after reception personally, and if there were any problems with the other hotel customers they would call him.