The door opened and Aurelio Zen walked in. Filippo Sfriso rose slowly to his feet. He stared at Zen, his eyes widening in terror.
‘You!’
Before Zen could answer, Sfriso picked up his chair and threw it at him. Zen managed to raise one hand in time to fend it off, but one of the legs scraped his forehead painfully. Meanwhile Sfriso was off and running for the door. Bettino Todesco was taken by surprise, but managed to grab one of Sfriso’s legs as the Buranese got the door open. They fell to the floor in the corridor, locked together in a violent struggle.
Sfriso started kicking his captor’s head with his free leg, but Todesco hung on gamely until Zen came to his aid. Between the two of them they succeeded in subduing the prisoner, but Todesco was understandably keen to administer some punishment for the abuse he had suffered, and under the circumstances — the scrape on his forehead was quite painful — Zen was content to indulge him. Then they dragged Sfriso back into the office, where Zen dangled his police identity card in front of Sfriso’s battered face.
‘That was stupid, even by your standards. You’re already under arrest for reticenza. Now I can add resisting arrest and assulting a police officer.’
‘I thought you were…’ Sfriso began.
‘I know what you thought,’ Zen interrupted hastily, before Sfriso revealed too much about Zen’s irregular activities in front of Todesco. ‘You thought I was another “bent policeman”, like Enzo Gavagnin.’
He took out his pack of cigarettes and lit up.
‘But you were wrong,’ he went on. ‘You said more than you should have done, the other evening, and you said it to the wrong man. That was stupid too. But you are stupid, Filippo, aren’t you? You and your brother. Otherwise you would never have got mixed up in any of this.’
Sfriso hung his head and said nothing. Zen smoked quietly for a while, looking down at him.
‘These men are killers,’ he said at length. ‘They kill indirectly, by peddling drugs to kids in Mestre and Marghera. But they also kill directly, as you know only too well.’
He walked over to Sfriso, sitting down next to him.
‘You told me what they did to Giacomo,’ he said. ‘They seem to like drowning people.’
After what seemed like an age, Sfriso’s head slowly came up. He stared blearily at Zen, who nodded.
‘This time it was the turn of Enzo Gavagnin,’ Zen murmured. ‘They wired his thumbs together and threw him into a cesspool. Like with Giacomo, they did other things to him first. Do you want to see the photos? Clearly they didn’t believe Gavagnin’s protestations of ignorance any more than they did your brother’s.’
He leant close to Sfriso.
‘What about you, Filippo?’ he breathed. ‘You’re the only one left now. Do you think they’ll believe you?’
He leant his head quizzically on one side.
‘I wouldn’t rate your chances particularly high, myself. They didn’t believe Giacomo. They didn’t believe Gavagnin. Why should they believe you?’
He crushed out his cigarette underfoot.
‘No, I think it’s a pretty solid bet that they’ll assume that you’re holding out on them too. I wonder what they’ll do to you. Leave you to drown slowly in a tank of shit like Gavagnin? Or will it be something even more original? What do you think they’ll come up with? And when? How long will it be before your mother loses her other son?’
Sfriso’s face crumpled and he began to weep.
‘Stop tormenting me!’
Zen laughed harshly.
‘No problem, Filippo! I’ll leave that to them. Unless you agree to co-operate.’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Everything. Names, dates, places, people. The whole story from the beginning, up to and including your brother’s death and your interrogation by Gavagnin.’
A sly glint came into Sfriso’s eye.
‘And in return I get a free pardon?’
This time Zen’s laughter was openly contemptuous.
‘Of course! Plus a state pension for life and a villa in Capri. No, Filippino, all I can undertake to do for you is to save your miserable skin. When you come to trial, the fact that you’ve co-operated will of course weigh in your favour, but I’m afraid you’re still going to have to spend several years behind bars. Not an attractive prospect, I know, but it beats moving permanently to San Michele.’
Conflicting emotions chased each other across Filippo Sfriso’s moist features.
‘You’re trying to trap me into confessing,’ he blurted out.
Zen waved casually around at the office.
‘Do you see anyone taking notes or making a tape recording? We’re just having a chat, Filippo. If you agree to my proposition, I will summon the lawyer of your choice before starting the interview, which will be conducted in his presence and according to the usual rules.’
He broke off, glancing at Sfriso.
‘Which lawyer would you nominate, incidentally?’
Sfriso barked out a laugh.
‘Do I look like someone who has a lawyer on call? I’m just a poor fisherman.’
‘Hardly poor, and not just a fisherman. Otherwise you wouldn’t be needing a lawyer.’
Zen looked up at the ceiling.
‘Let me suggest a few names. How about Carlo Berengo Gorin, for example? They say he’s very good.’
He glanced back at Sfriso’s face as he spoke Gorin’s name. There was no flicker of recognition.
‘Anyone you like,’ muttered Sfriso. ‘It’s all the same to me.’
Zen smiled and nodded.
‘ Bravo. That was the right answer.’ He offered Sfriso a cigarette.
‘I think we can do business,’ he said languidly. ‘Are you interested?’
Filippo Sfriso stared at the packet of Nazionali for a long time. Then he prised one loose and put it between his lips, nodding slowly.
At nine o’clock that night, Aurelio Zen called Marcello Mamoli at his home on the fashionable stretch of the Zattere, near the Santo Spirito church. Before doing so he tried Cristiana once again, but there was still no reply. Mamoli, on the other hand, answered almost immediately.
‘Well?’
‘This is Aurelio Zen phoning from the Questura, signor giudice. I have taken Filippo Sfriso’s statement.’
In the distance he could hear the sounds of the meal from which the magistrate had been summoned by the donna di servizio who had answered the phone.
‘Is this really so urgent that you must disturb me during dinner?’ demanded Mamoli.
‘I wouldn’t have done so otherwise,’ Zen retorted.
He himself had not yet had a chance to eat anything.
‘A copy of the full statement will be with you tomorrow, signor giudice, but I’ll summarize the main points and outline the action I propose to take.’
‘Please be brief. My guests are waiting for me.’
Zen mouthed a silent obscenity at the phone.
‘The Sfriso brothers were involved in a drug smuggling operation for a syndicate based in Mestre,’ he said out loud. ‘They would be given the name, description and ETA of the carrier, typically an oil tanker or a bulk freighter bound for Marghera. The drop took place at a prearranged point out at sea. The package was heaved over the side with a float on it, and the Sfrisos came up in their fishing boat and hauled it in. Some time later — it might be days or weeks — they were phoned with instructions about passing on the packages.’
Mamoli grunted.
‘The Sfrisos acted as a cut-out for the gang. Thanks to them, there was no direct link between the smuggling and distribution ends of the operation, thus limiting any damage due to arrests or tip-offs. The ship was clean if it was searched on arrival, and the drugs were only handed over when they were needed for immediate sale. Naturally it depended on the syndicate being able to trust the Sfrisos with large amounts of pure heroin, but this
