April Smith: White Shotgun

I have learned, sitting in a room like this across from Robert Galloway, that you always answer New York irony with New York irony. Otherwise, they think you’re a moron.

“I heard about it.”

Without changing expression, Dennis goes on. “I got so good at communing with the mafiosi, the Bureau brought me here to oversee operations against drug trafficking by the mob. Excuse me, tasked. I was tasked — like taking out the garbage. And we don’t say ‘mob’ anymore; that dates me. It’s ‘mafias,’ to distinguish the fact that there’s no single organization but — aren’t we lucky? — lots of family-operated crime groups in Italy. So I hear you were in London and it was no picnic. Not exactly a cruise on the Thames.” “You saw the 302s?”

“London sent a priority alert. Whenever there’s an agent involved in a shooting incident, they wake up the legats and tell us about it.” “Sorry to disturb your sleep.”

“Sorry for the bullets whizzing by your head. Thank your lucky stars.” He knocks on the wooden desk. I knock on the coffee table.

“I have your debrief with Inspector Reilly from New Scotland Yard. You had a pretty good look at the gunman. What was it he said to you?” “He said, ‘Want a cigarette?’ but I’m not sure he meant me.” “Just the general public?”

“I don’t know, Dennis! Do terrorists have a sense of humor? It’s the kind of thing a lowlife jerk-off would say before he blows out a restaurant. Like, Want a cigarette, asshole? Here’s a match.” “Anything else come to mind that’s not in the report?” Dennis asks.

“The attackers knew there was a party, and who was there.” “Why do you say that?”

“The street. A feeling I had.” I am remembering the stillness of the cherry trees. “When we came out, it was quiet. Deep quiet, the way it is past midnight on an upper-class street. The place was dead — I would have noticed something, but there were no lookouts. Nothing hinky. Then right on cue, a car speeds past. Twice as fast as you’d expect in that neighborhood. Doesn’t stop, opens fire. Hits multiple targets.” “The Metropolitan Police are investigating the victims for links to terrorism or organized crime. The Italian government has asked for our assistance concerning the mafias, so we’re into this on both accounts.” “Talk to the owner of the restaurant. His name is Martin.” I surprise myself by saying this, as I had thought of Martin as a decent, if somewhat unctuous, guy. “He was nervous and didn’t want to seat us. Interesting that he didn’t turn out to be one of the victims.” “You think Martin was the tip-off?” “The knuckleheads knew the targets were there. Somebody must have told them.” Dennis nods and jots a note.

“Got some new intel from the Met.” He indicates the monitor of a massively outdated computer. “It was a Ford Focus, right? The attack vehicle? Kinda old? Bad paint job? Do you recognize the year?” He shows me a group of Ford Focus photos. I can’t reliably tell the difference between the models.

“London has more video cameras than God,” I say. “They should check surveillance tapes of the nearby intersections. Interview everyone in every apartment building in Edgewater Crescent. I hope they understand that this is a boots on the ground operation.” “They’re on it. What’s your gut on the motivation?” Dennis makes his face go slack. Open to whatever the subject wants to bring.

“It was a brazen act, meant to send a message.” “Not just random?”

“I can’t believe it’s random when you drive into an upscale neighborhood and shoot seven people with automatic weapons, with the city on high alert and cops patrolling the streets, in some tucked-away little square with not a lot of options for escape, unless you’ve got a compelling reason.” “Money?”

“Or you believe in something.”

“Like radical Islam, you mean? I’m sure the British Counter Terrorism Command is looking very carefully at who the targets were — if there’s a connection to the extremist attacks they’ve had the past few weeks, or similarities to other crimes.” “It’s not necessarily the individuals who were targets. It could have been English society in general. It’s a very tony area they hit. Diplomats, businesspeople. And a fourteen-year-old kid.” Dennis shrugs. “Collateral damage. What do they care? This is fun for them. Tell me again why you were there?” The question is not as casual as it sounds. I had ducked it before, with Inspector Reilly, in order to protect Sterling. Now Dennis is watching me with an intensity I know very well.

“I stopped in at Baciare for a glass of wine.” “Just on your own?”

I give him a look. “I’m a big girl, Dennis.” “No doubt.” He slaps a passport on the desk. “This is for you. Official government business.” “I feel like James Bond.”

“Don’t get cocky. We’re dealing with ’Ndrangheta, not Dr. No,” he says.

“Isn’t ’Ndrangheta based in the south?” He nods. “In Calabria, at the shit-caked bottom of Italy’s boot, which they’ve turned into the distribution hub for cocaine in Europe. We’re talking a multibillion-dollar crime syndicate made up of a hundred or so tribal families with strong blood ties, six thousand strong, holed up in remote mountain villages.” “Like Afghanistan.”

“From a tactical point of view, it’s the same. Just like the Taliban, ’Ndrangheta operates out of an inaccessible fortress, where they hook up with other trans-national crime organizations, running heroin from the poppy fields in Afghanistan to the port of Napoli, and eventually, to Hometown, U.S.A. That’s the FBI’s interest, aside from helping our Italian friends. We want to know how and where these drugs are entering the United States.” “Where does Nicoli Nicosa fit in?” “He could be a ’Ndrangheta affiliate, working behind a screen of respectability to run cocaine in the north. To do business at his level in society — believe me, nobody is clean. They all swim in the same swamp.” Dennis opens both hands like a book.

“Let me introduce you to your new family. Nicoli Nicosa is forty-eight years old. Drives a Ferrari, travels by private jet. He’s made a fortune with a genetically engineered coffee bean — started out providing coffee to upscale restaurants, and now he’s got his own chain of stores. Have you been inside a Caffè Nicosa?” I shake my head.

“Did you ever take the train in Paris? Ever been to the Gare du Nord, where the Eurostar goes?” “No.”

“Ever taken a train in London? You don’t take public transportation? What are you, a snob?” He leans forward and puts his big paws on his knees. I can see him admonishing his little girls in Brooklyn. Whatareya, stupid? How could you not know this?

“If you were ever on a train, or spent two minutes walking around Rome, you would know that Caffè Nicosa is the Starbucks of Europe. You don’t get your cafés into major train stations without heavy-duty connections and bribes, and that’s just the beginning.” “What about the wife, Cecilia? My relative. The one who called the Bureau?” “She’s a medical doctor and a socialite on the Italian scene. Always in the magazines. She never contacted you before?” “I didn’t know she existed until the London legat told me on the way to the airport.” “So, why is Cecilia Nicosa calling you now?” Dennis asks rhetorically.

I consider the question. “Does she know her husband was cheating on her?” “The world knows. It was in the papers.” “Does the world also know that his mistress, Lucia Vincenzo, disappeared?” “The mafias make sure of that. Every so often someone who vanished after refusing to pay shows up in the ocean or as remains in a vat of lye. It keeps the little people on their toes.” “Cecilia could be afraid for her life.” Dennis presses the intercom, instructing the girl from Virginia to get Dr. Nicosa on the landline.