‘I come from the south and I’ve made a decision.’ The voice is steady, with only the slightest hint of nervousness. He doesn’t sound like a lunatic; he is talking off the cuff, not delivering a prepared speech. He is wary, but there is no pose about him. I adopt a measured tone, trying to say something to reassure him and open up a dialogue so that I can rule out the possibility that he’s a crank. I try to form a link and show him that I can be trusted, but he doesn’t seem to be listening.
‘I’m from Calabria. I’m under police protection.’
An ’Ndrangheta member who has turned state’s evidence, then – one of the few to violate the blood pact between the clan and the family, to reveal the secrets of the ruthless criminal and military organization that is overtaking Cosa Nostra, the mafia of the godfathers and whose turnover is now comparable to that of Microsoft. But what was his rank in the organization?
I hazard a question: ‘What’s your name?’
Another pause. ‘No no, I’m not telling you that over the phone, are you kidding? You can call me Angelo, but you can take it from me it’s a false name. Are you interested in my story? If you’re not, I’ll say goodbye.’
I play for time: ‘Yes, I certainly am interested. Listen, I’d like to know how long you’ve been a state witness.’
‘Ten years, but I don’t want to keep these things to myself any more. My lawyer advised me not to tell the magistrates anything more, to stop talking. I’ve filled out reams of preliminary statements and now I’m alone with my memories, my grief and nothing else. “Keep those stories to yourself,” the lawyer said. “The authorities don’t need any more evidence.” I was afraid. I didn’t understand and I thought that if I revealed everything I’d be killed, leaving my wife and my son alone. But now I’m not scared any more.’
The words that come down the phone line are as cold as ice.
‘Tell me, who was your boss?’
‘My phone card has nearly run out . . .’
So I test him: ‘Let’s meet.’
His reaction is instant and brusque: ‘How much is your word, your head, worth?’
I don’t understand. ‘Take it easy, Angelo. Let’s meet and talk face to face,’ I reassure him. I feel a bit stupid, trying to assess the words of this state witness, struggling to gain his confidence. I don’t even know who he is – a phoney or a real state witness. And yet, as the seconds pass, I have a feeling that this unknown voice is worth checking out.
‘The day after tomorrow, at nine.’ He mentions the name of a bar, and before I have time to reply, he hangs up.
It’s a very risky meeting. I need some help. I discuss the matter with my colleague Claudio Antonelli. I ask him to join me on this assignment. He was a carabiniere before he became a journalist and has a keen interest in legal matters. We decide to go together.
At eight o’clock we’re already there. We park some distance away so that no one can note down our numberplate. The location is the centre of a small town, indistinguishable from many others in Emilia. Restaurants, cafés, shops. The place chosen for the meeting is a bar-cum-patisserie. It has an L-shaped counter; there is a queue for cappuccinos and croissants, and two female bartenders wearing ghastly caps. It’s a strange place for a private meeting. Too crowded, too noisy; very few tables – four in all – and they’re visible from outside. Very exposed. We feel disappointed, and rather uneasy.
Not wanting to hang around for too long, we go out to buy a newspaper and come back a few minutes before nine. Some old ladies are sitting at the tables. Claudio stays outside and goes into the shop opposite the bar. I cross the road and enter. ‘A coffee, please.’ The minutes pass. There’s no sign of him. Either he’s late or he’s not coming. I turn round, go out of the bar, walk thirty metres away and look at the sign, searching for some detail that we might have missed: but no, this is the right bar. I go back inside. I see the tables, the coffee machine and, behind it, a handrail and some stairs I hadn’t noticed before. I point to them casually.
‘They lead to our afternoon tea room, on the first floor.’
What an amateur. I smile and walk upstairs.
The steps lead into gloom: muffled silence, dim lighting, closed windows, about fifteen tables in all. A man is sitting at the table in the middle of the room, staring at me. At the next table, sideways on, sits a little boy, gazing into the void. He must be about nine or ten. It’s like a stage set. What’s that kid doing here, in an ’Ndrangheta case, I wonder. An unexpected presence, and a disconcerting one.
‘He’s my son. I didn’t know who to leave him with. I’ve just moved house; I haven’t found him a school yet.’ The man anticipates my question, with an apologetic expression.
‘Hi! How are you?’ I say to the boy. He doesn’t react. There’s tension, bemusement and despair in his eyes; in his stiff, unmoving posture, in the patches of eczema that cover his arms and disfigure his neck. His father raises his eyes to the ceiling for an interminable moment. There is darkness mingled with loneliness in those eyes. I sit down and we talk. We sit there for several hours. Angelo is cagey and suspicious, but he makes one small concession. He understands my uneasiness and agrees to let Claudio come upstairs.
The boy sits there all the time with his back to us. He doesn’t turn round, doesn’t speak, doesn’t drink, doesn’t ask for anything. Only later will we learn that he is eleven years old and is there in that bar with his father – whose name is Giuseppe, not Angelo: Giuseppe ‘Pippo’ Di Bella – because his mother died of cancer after a six-month illness.
Pippo Di Bella was born in 1951 at Caronia, in the province of Messina, Sicily, but later moved to the province of Lecco, in Lombardy, with his family. He worked for a quarter of a century in the direct employ of the boss Franco Coco Trovato, who in the 1980s became one of the leaders of the ’Ndrangheta in northern Italy. In Lombardy he was the head of a cartel of families which controlled entire provinces – from Milan to Lecco, Como and Varese – and were allied with powerful clans in other regions.
Now Coco Trovato is in prison, but his organization is not defunct – far from it. The business is run by his sons and his brother.