Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

The symmetry was perfect. The Ndrangheta has too much liquidity, because it has accumulated cash too fast since the late 1980s. The banks had too little liquidity, and the governments had too little time.

Using open-source intelligence, which means intelligence available to anyone who cares to investigate for himself or herself, I have been able to establish, beyond all reasonable doubt, that the three major British banks and at least two large American banks received enormous deposits in cash during the crucial hours and days of the banking crisis. In exchange, and again, I have listed sources at the end of this article, it was agreed that neither the tax authorities nor anyone else would look too closely at where this money came from. It was the biggest money-laundering operation in history, and it was sanctioned by members of government and the upper echelons of law enforcement. It was a quantum leap for the Ndrangheta. It gave them proper financial power.

Capitalism was saved by blood and drug money to live another day, but we shall pay the consequences of handing enormous financial power to a Mafia organization so disciplined that even its name is unknown to many people in its own country of origin.

But check the facts, look at the evidence. The Ndrangheta is already in control, a virus that has taken over the body politic. As long as we are a useful and unwitting host, we will suffer only slight discomfort, but when this virus is ready to infect stronger hosts, it will kill us and move on.

Magistrate Francesco Fossati powered down his laptop, slid it into his desk drawer, and glanced at his watch. He needed to hurry now if he was to make it home in time for supper with his family.

Locri, Calabria

‘Salvatore, how many times do I need to tell you this? Put the white cap on your head when you are in here.’

‘But I’m completely bald, Capo.’

‘That is why I am not making you wear a hairnet, too. Put on the cap and carry that bag of sugar over here while you’re at it. Mind your step, the tiles are treacherous with lemon juice.’

Salvatore, seventy-two years of age, arms as thin as tendrils, his face as dark as a rusty nail, lifted the thirty-pound bag of refined sugar as if it had been filled with feathers, and set it down on the zinc counter beside his boss, Basile. As well as lifting heavy weights for Basile, it was his job to keep the conversation serious and on-topic while Basile feigned disinterest. So, putting the sugar down, he returned to the conversation he had started ten minutes before. ‘It is unthinkable that a sorella d’omerta would spontaneously report to a magistrate like that. Especially her. She has been treated with nothing but the greatest respect, even though she comes from outside.’

‘The things we have lived to see, Salvatore. Personally, I’m not inclined to believe it for one moment.’ Basile swiped his hands together, in what looked like a gesture of finality, a closing of the argument for good, but also happened to be the most efficient way of getting the sugar and starch off his hands. Salvatore waited to see which it was.

Basile turned his back on Salvatore as he washed his hands under the tap. ‘Who is the source of this accusation against Maria Itria?’ he asked.

‘One of our people in the Palace of Justice in Rome. It’s part of the swirl of rumours around the dramatic warning issued to the magistrate.’

‘And we really have no idea who decided to drop a corpse outside the Palace of Justice in Rome?’

‘Not yet. Everyone seems to think Agazio ordered it; no one is sure.’

‘And this magistrate to whom the message was directed, he has a confession from Maria Itria?’

‘So it is rumoured.’

‘Rumoured?’

‘Reported. Yes, he does.’

Basile pulled sheets of green paper from the wall dispenser, dried his hands, crumpled up the paper and dropped it into the rubbish bin below. ‘None of this makes much sense. Least of all the intimidation of the magistrate. Excuse the noise, Salvatore. I want to beat these egg whites.’ He threw the switch on a white appliance and dialled up the speed. ‘Come closer to me so you don’t need to shout.’

Salvatore came closer, but remained silent, as he knew he was supposed to, watching the white foam rise in the copper bowl.

‘One of the churning blades in the Vita 30 60 ice-cream maker needs replacing. Apparently it needs to be shipped from China,’ said Basile. ‘So now the Chinese are in the ice-cream business. Nicaso repaired his own machines, re-pumped the refrigerants, and calibrated the compressor so you could hardly hear it even when it was cooling a full batch. He was the real artisan, not me.’

Salvatore knew Basile was thinking and wanted the conversation to drift towards neutral topics until he had made his decision. ‘Some people find it strange that you should want to ply a trade at all.’

‘What, am I supposed to spend my days playing briscola and inspecting my lands? Did you try the last orange sorbet I made?’

‘You know I cannot taste sweet things, Capo.’

‘I think it was even better than the turruni gelatu I made last winter. I added three grapefruits and reduced the sugar by about one-fifth. It was a bitter sorbet, which I thought you might like because there is no sweetness in you, my old friend. And you say you didn’t even try it?’

‘You never told me you had changed the recipe.’

‘Pity. It’s the first real experiment I have made since taking this place over. When Nicaso was in charge, he was always experimenting. Licorice in the coffee granita, kiwi and figs together. I never had the courage or the imagination. And I am too old.’

‘Nicaso was always breaking with tradition. That is one of the reasons he lost his gelateria.’

Basile’s laugh was joyless and asthmatic. ‘That is not the reason he lost his gelateria.’ He pointed to a heavy steel cabinet with fat glass jars filled with red and green liquid. ‘My strawberry and mint is commercial concentrate, sent down from Naples. Nicaso never did that.’

Basile pulled open the door of a refrigerator as large as the backdoor of a truck, and nodded to Salvatore to lift out a deep lozenge of stainless steel brimming with bright green ice cream, which started steaming as it entered the warmer air of the kitchen. Salvatore’s hand stuck briefly to the icy zinc, and he felt momentary pain.

‘Leave it to soften, Salvatore.’

Salvatore discreetly blew on his cold hands, and adjusted his white hat.

‘Would Agazio goad the authorities into inquiring into the activities of the Society in Rome?’ asked Basile. ‘Killing in Milan, which itself requires permission, and disposing of the body in Rome and mocking a magistrate as he did so? I am supposed to think that Agazio, who has always been subtle, disrespected the families in Rome and Milan?’

‘Perhaps he obtained permission from one or two of the families.’

‘And we heard nothing about it? That would be the worst option from our point of view. We can talk at the Feast of the Madonna next week, but I hope that that is as unlikely as it seems. For Curmaci, the assassination of the magistrate’s namesake is doubly destructive. It angers other ’ ndrine and will make the authorities determined to get him. It is better to assume this is the act of a hotheaded and rash person. To my mind, that would exclude Agazio.’

‘You realize I have great respect for Curmaci,’ said Salvatore.

‘Of course you do.’

‘I also have great respect for Maria Itria.’

‘Naturally. She is a good woman.’

‘The magistrates and police grow more despicable by the day. I believe it is quite possible they used Curmaci’s wife to generate suspicion and dissent. Indeed, we do not even know whether Maria Itria received a phone call from the magistrate or made one of her own volition.’