Malavita by Tonino Benacquista Page A

investigation, or such huge means deployed for a single operation. The trackers followed a recognized sequence: two men went into a bar, and put a newspaper on the bar, folded to show a photo of the four Manzonis posing with smiles on their faces at the Newark grand parade. The men didn’t need to say anything, or ask any questions; this simple crumpled piece of newspaper was the instant equivalent of a cheque for twenty million dollars.
    If the five families were prepared to spend their last cent on the operation, it was because for them it was more a question of survival than one of vengeance. The blow struck by the Manzoni trial had cracked the very foundations of the organization, and threatened a total collapse in the medium term. If one grass could cause such damage, and then escape with the blessing of the court and spend the rest of his days in protected surveillance at the taxpayer’s expense, the whole concept of the family, and therefore the Mafia itself, was thrown into question. In the past you joined in blood, and could only leave in blood. And there was Manzoni trampling on his oath of allegiance, lounging in front of the TV, probably with his ass in a swimming pool. Many centuries of secrets and traditions would perish in the face of this image. The Cosa Nostra could not allow its reputation to be sullied like this, leaving the prospect of a disrupted future. In order to prove that it still existed, and intended to stick around, it would have to strike hard: the very survival of the families now depended on the deaths of the Manzonis. And so it happened that the so-called crime teams spread out like a generalized cancer to every urban centre in the country, to remote towns, criss-crossing areas hitherto unvisited even by the census-takers. No local or national authority could prevent this deployment – wandering around a town with a folded newspaper couldn’t be said to break any known law. Almost six months after the Blakes’ arrival in Cedar City, strangers had been spotted sitting down in a coffee shop in Oldbush, forty-five miles away, holding the famous newspaper and striking up conversations with bored locals.
    â€œFuck it, can’t anything be done to stop them? You’re the FBI, Quintiliani, for Christ’s sake!”
    â€œKeep calm, Fred.”
    â€œI know them better than you do! And what’s more, if I was in their place, and I found the son of a bitch who had done what I’ve done, I know exactly how I’d take pleasure in wasting him. I’d probably already be behind that door, about to bust us both. I trained some of these guys myself! Your fucking protection programme . . . Six months, that’s all it’s taken them!”
    â€œ. . .”
    â€œGet me out of here. It’s your duty, you promised.”
    â€œThere’s only one solution.”
    â€œPlastic surgery?”
    â€œThat wouldn’t work.”
    â€œThen what? Pretend I’m dead? They’d never swallow that.”
    Fred was right and Quintiliani knew it better than anyone. Ever since Hollywood had taken over that particular script, there was no point faking an informer’s death. The Cosa Nostra would only believe in Fred’s death once they were faced with a bullet-riddled body.
    â€œYou’ll have to leave the United States,” Quint said.
    â€œTell me you’re joking.”
    â€œWe’re living in a cynical age, Giovanni. The whole country is now following this soap opera. It’s called
How Long Will the Manzonis Survive?
It’s a reality show, and three hundred million viewers are watching.”
    â€œAnd the end of the show is the end of my family?”
    â€œEurope, Giovanni. Does that word mean anything to you?”
    â€œEurope?”
    â€œExceptional procedure. Don Mimino’s guys can cover this country, but they can’t do the whole world. They haven’t got any connections in Europe except in