Rome is not a solid city bound to granite like New York, but a fluid stratum of centuries of cities that seem to rise and fall and remake themselves by the hour. It exists in layers; layers of history, layers of paradox — visible and buried — all bound up in a modern hodgepodge. Nothing in Italy is only as it appears. The nice young woman describes two-thousand-year-old fresco paintings preserved in an underground passage beneath this very building. Maybe in Rome one should expect such juxtapositions, but after swishing down a mosaic-lined hallway with gold tiles, it is a bit of a shock to open a door to an exact replica of the same standard-issue FBI office that you would find in Omaha, Nebraska.
The air-conditioning is freezing, American-style, the tiny room jammed with steel filing cabinets; Old Glory droops in a corner. On the walls we have plaques and awards, and a display box of medals with the familiar caption, “Once a Marine, Always a Marine.” Coming out with hand extended from behind a wooden desk identical to the one my boss has in L.A. is the FBI legat in Italy, Dennis Rizzio — a balding, moon-faced paesano from Brooklyn.
“Agent Grey! How ya doin’? Welcome to Rome.” The accent is unrepentant.
“What can I getcha?” He opens a small refrigerator. “How about a cold soda? Outside, you could fry eggs on the sidewalk.” “Tell me about it.”
We sit across from each other in Bureau-issue high-backed leather chairs that always make me feel like a midget in a neck brace. They fit Dennis, however — a big man, easily six foot four — soft from too much gnocchi and nobody breathing down his neck to pass a fitness test. He’s wearing the traditional white shirt, gray suit, and dull-ass blue tie. The wardrobe is deliberately neutral. The mind is like a diamond drill.
I press the icy can of soda to the back of my neck.
“Coming in, did you pass the Colosseum?” “Yes, it was kind of a surprise. You’re going through a slum covered with graffiti and then — wow. There it is.” “Did you know you could scuba dive underneath it?” I must have stared blankly.
“Yeah. Under the Colosseum. They still have sewers from ancient times, underground rivers filled with statues and all kinds of crap. People go down there. Scientists. Oh, man, I thought I died and went to heaven.” “Swimming in crap?”
“
“Special Agent in Charge Robert Galloway is from Brooklyn.”
Dennis’s sallow face almost lights up. “I just spoke to Bob on your behalf. About you coming on board. We worked the organized crime squad together in the early nineties. That sounds strange. ‘The early nineties.’ Like it was another century, which it was. How’s he doin’? Still with the turtlenecks and the cigars?”
I nod. “He was my boss on a deep cover case. I had total confidence. Always knew he had my back.”
Dennis grins. “Bob’s got a gift for undercover. This was during the famous crack cocaine epidemic we had in New York City. We did good. Put a lot of creeps in jail. Bob and I, we were working out of the social clubs on Mulberry Street. I consider myself from Little Italy, even though I had to move to Brooklyn because the yuppies came. My entire family grew up in Little Italy, four generations. My great-grandparents came over from Napoli. There was this volcano called Vesuvius?” He looks at me with round, sad eyes. “You heard about it?”
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
