we won't waste any more time, because time is precious to us. So listen carefully, I'm not going to repeat myself, is that clear?'
He paused for a moment, then sat down again, lit another cigar and inhaled once, twice.
'For a start, one thing is certain, Dieni. You're not going to be exchanging money any more, and you can go back to Calabria where you came from. There's no place in this city for someone like you. That much I can assure you.'
'What is this?' Dieni asked, stunned. Are you threatening me?'
'It's not a question of threats. We found you in possession of objects that were obtained illegally. Whatever the outcome of any legal proceedings you may face, that's more than enough for us to get your licence revoked. And that's not all. . .'
'But Superintendent, those paintings aren't—'
He had no time to finish his sentence. Ferrara again leapt to his feet, and for the second time in a few minutes he raised his voice. 'Don't you get it, Dieni? Let's stop this play acting now!'
'What play acting?'
Ferrara's voice went up another octave, sending a shudder through Salvatore Dieni. 'I've had enough of this, Dieni! Maybe you'd like to see the video footage my men shot, showing you transferring the paintings from the lorry to your car? You're guilty of some serious offences, including aiding and abetting. You can get up to four years in prison for that, and that's without taking the aggravating circumstances into account. And I can assure you you'll serve your full sentence, even if you have had a clean record up till now.'
Dieni went limp on his chair. He had realised there was no way out. He was completely silent, his head ever more bent towards the ground. Ferrara took another cigar out of his leather case. His third that morning. He kept lighting them without smoking them through to the end. He needed that first taste, the strongest and best.
Sergi and Ricci were silent, too. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop.
Dieni was the first to break the almost tomb-like silence. 'It's true, I was moving those paintings. I'll tell you everything, superintendent, but I don't want the lorry driver to get into trouble. He has nothing to do with this. He's a family man, and to support his family he has to keep going up and down between Reggio Calabria and the markets in Milan, transporting fruit.'
And drugs, Ferrara thought as he sat down again. 'Carry on,' he said. 'You're doing well.'
'I'll talk, but don't send me back to Calabria. I need to keep working in Florence. You've got to believe me.'
The man was begging him. Ferrara knew what that meant. He knew all about the Calabrian Mafia, having spent more than ten years in Reggio Calabria; that was where he had leaned his trade and he often said that there was no better school. There was a real risk for Dieni that his 'godfathers' might think he wasn't reliable any more. He wasn't afraid of someone informing on him, or of going to prison, what scared him was the thought that he might have to pay, perhaps even with his life, for not being more careful while moving the paintings. If, because of him, an innocent-seeming bureau de change was closed down, he'd be depriving the clan of a valuable money-laundering operation.
It was the ideal situation, and Ferrara had to take as much advantage of it as he could.
'Where do those paintings come from and who were they intended for?'
'Could I have a coffee first?'
Without waiting for Ferrara to ask him, Ricci left the room. He returned with four coffees in paper cups and a litre bottle of mineral water.
Dieni drank his coffee quickly. 'Thank you, Superintendent, I really needed that,' he said, putting the paper cup back on the table.
'So did we,' Ferrara said. 'Now start talking. We're ready to listen.' He turned to Sergi and signalled to him to take notes.
'The paintings were stolen from a patrician villa in Sicily. I don't know who it belongs to, only that it's near Palermo. An old countess, or something like that,
He paused for a moment, then sat down again, lit another cigar and inhaled once, twice.
'For a start, one thing is certain, Dieni. You're not going to be exchanging money any more, and you can go back to Calabria where you came from. There's no place in this city for someone like you. That much I can assure you.'
'What is this?' Dieni asked, stunned. Are you threatening me?'
'It's not a question of threats. We found you in possession of objects that were obtained illegally. Whatever the outcome of any legal proceedings you may face, that's more than enough for us to get your licence revoked. And that's not all. . .'
'But Superintendent, those paintings aren't—'
He had no time to finish his sentence. Ferrara again leapt to his feet, and for the second time in a few minutes he raised his voice. 'Don't you get it, Dieni? Let's stop this play acting now!'
'What play acting?'
Ferrara's voice went up another octave, sending a shudder through Salvatore Dieni. 'I've had enough of this, Dieni! Maybe you'd like to see the video footage my men shot, showing you transferring the paintings from the lorry to your car? You're guilty of some serious offences, including aiding and abetting. You can get up to four years in prison for that, and that's without taking the aggravating circumstances into account. And I can assure you you'll serve your full sentence, even if you have had a clean record up till now.'
Dieni went limp on his chair. He had realised there was no way out. He was completely silent, his head ever more bent towards the ground. Ferrara took another cigar out of his leather case. His third that morning. He kept lighting them without smoking them through to the end. He needed that first taste, the strongest and best.
Sergi and Ricci were silent, too. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop.
Dieni was the first to break the almost tomb-like silence. 'It's true, I was moving those paintings. I'll tell you everything, superintendent, but I don't want the lorry driver to get into trouble. He has nothing to do with this. He's a family man, and to support his family he has to keep going up and down between Reggio Calabria and the markets in Milan, transporting fruit.'
And drugs, Ferrara thought as he sat down again. 'Carry on,' he said. 'You're doing well.'
'I'll talk, but don't send me back to Calabria. I need to keep working in Florence. You've got to believe me.'
The man was begging him. Ferrara knew what that meant. He knew all about the Calabrian Mafia, having spent more than ten years in Reggio Calabria; that was where he had leaned his trade and he often said that there was no better school. There was a real risk for Dieni that his 'godfathers' might think he wasn't reliable any more. He wasn't afraid of someone informing on him, or of going to prison, what scared him was the thought that he might have to pay, perhaps even with his life, for not being more careful while moving the paintings. If, because of him, an innocent-seeming bureau de change was closed down, he'd be depriving the clan of a valuable money-laundering operation.
It was the ideal situation, and Ferrara had to take as much advantage of it as he could.
'Where do those paintings come from and who were they intended for?'
'Could I have a coffee first?'
Without waiting for Ferrara to ask him, Ricci left the room. He returned with four coffees in paper cups and a litre bottle of mineral water.
Dieni drank his coffee quickly. 'Thank you, Superintendent, I really needed that,' he said, putting the paper cup back on the table.
'So did we,' Ferrara said. 'Now start talking. We're ready to listen.' He turned to Sergi and signalled to him to take notes.
'The paintings were stolen from a patrician villa in Sicily. I don't know who it belongs to, only that it's near Palermo. An old countess, or something like that,
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