Chapter 4.
By Blood
Giovani Sciarra, born in San Luca, in the Province of Reggio Calabria, Italy, but mostly known in Australia, as John Merlo, sat looking out at the billowing white clouds, as they were tossed about by the brisk breeze. From the comfort of his Baroque style, red, velvet chair, he pressed the button, which allowed a door to slide open, and he watched, as his Capo, Salvatore ‘The Wolf’ Rattis, slid into the room. The Wolf was also Sciarra’s oldest nephew, who had been born in Australia, to his eldest sister. He spoke only rudimentary Italian.
‘In the dark of the night and under the shining stars and magnificent moon, I swore to standby my honoured brothers’, The Wolf, said mimicking the distinctive Calabrian accent, of his initiation ceremony, five years ago, as he kissed the boss on both cheeks.
‘So, what you learn?’
‘It’s not good, boss. The fool removed the GPS tracking device again. We warned him, plenty of times, but he still did it. We can’t trace the van, and its cargo…. yet.’
Sciarra turned away from his nephew and looked at the bloodied picture of St Michael the Archangel. Sciarra’s own finger had been cut by his father, a high ranking ndrina boss, over that painting, back in Italy years ago.
‘The European syndicate are demanding money to make up for our recent losses, here and in Melbourne’, Sciarra said without emotion. Then he brought his hairy, meaty fist down hard upon the mahogany desk, in front of him, and growled, ‘do something’.
‘We’ve got chemicals coming from Mexico, today or tomorrow, so, we can cook up some meth pretty fast’.
‘This can’t happen again. The European’s will show no mercy ’.
The Wolf nodded, and backed out of the room.
My nephew is looking too skinny, Sciarra thought.
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Agent John Johnson jumped out of his Holden Commodore, and walked over to the van, flashing his badge at the police officers’ from Bathurst, who had arrived first on the scene, after Sargent Tiernan had received the email from Agent Carras. The photographer was busy snapping away, and someone was inside the van’s interior, dusting surfaces for fingerprints.
Johnson strode over to the disreputable looking old humpy, and entered the single room, to find Agent Hofer, who was in charge of the investigation, writing on a notepad.
Agent Hofer turned around and nodded at Johnson. ‘I want you to manage the house-to-house inquires’, she said briskly. ‘There are only a few houses nearby. After you visit these, I want you door knock around the village of Sofala. I’ll send someone else to Hill End to make enquires there. Just establish the identities and movements of any occupants, and visitors, and investigate for potential sightings of Agent Carras. You know the rigmarole. ‘ She smiled, and turned away. Johnson was left looking at the back of Agent Hoffer’s blonde hair.
The room was pretty ramshackle and primitive; Agent Johnson found it difficult to imagine Agent Carras sleeping here last night. She was so sleek, poised and well groomed, with her short, straight bob and perfect olive skin. But evidently, there was much more to the woman than he had managed to find out, during their years working together, and their one dinner date.
Sighing, Agent Johnson returned to his car and braced himself for the shuddering drive, on the gravel road to Sofala.
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After knocking on almost every door of the village of Sofala, Agent Johnson was of the opinion that, the locals around here never heard or saw anything: ever. All of which simply convinced him, that, many in this tight knit community had seen something, but they weren’t saying.
Johnson had found, Dawnie Elliot, the co-owner of the Globe Hotel, with a bloke she called Chook, a particularly bad actress. And interestingly, this Chook bloke wasn’t about, and, she couldn’t say where he was at. But it was the way she avoided using the words ‘I’ and ‘me’, when she answered questions, that, really aroused Johnson’s suspicions, as this was often used by people to psychologically distance themselves, when they are not, perhaps, telling the whole truth.
Standing in the middle of the quiet, empty road, in the soft breeze of the main street, Johnson looked into the distance and imagined the Cobb & Co coaches, which used to travel theses roads in the old days. He thought of the battles and competition that went on here, to gain riches, and he thought about how, for some people, the more riches they have, the more they seem to want. Then there are those who want the power which riches bring. And they will do absolutely anything, to get that power, and hold it.
He laughed and shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘I’m turning into a bloody philosopher, he said to himself, and then walked back and jumped into his car.
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Agent Jarvina Hofer knew that essentially, she had been assigned to lead this investigation, because, Agent Johnson was known to be romantically involved with Agent Carras, who according to Agent Hofer, had stupidly run off from the crime scene.
It wasn’t that Agent Hofer was not very good at her job: she was. But Johnson had a few years’ experience and seniority on her. Actually, his success as a detective and undercover cop was due to more than these things. She knew that. Johnson, it seemed, possessed the right instincts, intuitions and judgements for policing, and all these things were honed by his years of experience. I’ll get there too, in time, she thought. But for now, Agent Hofer intended to make the most of this career opportunity to shine.
Back at the office, Agent Hofer got on the phone and made a call to a contact she had in the Spy Agency Taskforce, linked to the Organised Crime Commission.
‘Hi Amr, how’s things’.
‘Not bad, Jarvina. I hope all’s well with you and the family?’
‘Fine, fine. Look, what I’m ringing about is, a case we’re working on, involving the importation of MDMA in tomato cans, originating from Italy.’
‘Interesting. I believe a seizure of tomato cans was made in Melbourne last week. These cans were then opened and filled with gravel, and resealed. The whole operation has been kept hush, hush, so as not to panic the big boys. We also believe that this same crime group can be linked to a recent seizure of religious statues containing heroin, found by x-ray. They’re a cagy lot, though, because, a clean skinned courier company came to collect the stuff, and later delivered the shipment to a fruit shop. Since then, we’ve organised a probe and surveillance operation, with phone taps and intercepts.’
‘So where do the roads lead Amr?’
‘The roads lead to the Sciarra Outfit and ultimately John Merlo, otherwise known as Giovani Sciarra, who only took over operations in Australia five years ago. He’s been busy, though, with a finger in many pies: drug trafficking, money laundering, illegal gambling, political corruption, extortion and infiltrating legitimate businesses. But they’re a very tight crime family and proving hard to crack. No one particularly wants to cross them, for the obvious reason that they’ll end up dead’.
‘So where does this leave us, then’.
‘Ah, well, here’s the thing’, his voice went down a notch. ‘We couldn’t get much on this group using phone taps, and physical surveillance. But we did identify this particular syndicate in Melbourne as being a group of six brothers and cousins’. But get this; it seems they are all nephews’, by blood, to the don, John Merlo, as he calls himself here.
‘We need something more to pin them, though, don’t we, Amr. And it won’t be easy, because, these people are very careful about what they say in public, and over the phone’.
‘Look I’ll ring you back Jarvina, I’ve got a call on another phone’.
Fifteen minutes went by, as Agent Hofer sat at her desk looking over the latest report. It seems Pasquale Scamardo was not related by blood, or marria
ge to Sciaria/Melro. That was a blow. Then the phone rang; Agent Hofer picked it up immediately’.
‘Hi it’s me Amr. There’s a breakthrough in the case we were just talking about… Recently, our surveillance team found out that the Melbourne Sciarra boys have their meetings out in the open, in parks. And a meeting went down this morning, near St Kilda. Our lot managed to bug the tables, and caught some very good stuff too; they’re scared for one thing, as they have to pay a few million for the loss of the drugs to a European syndicate. They also talked about other drugs, hidden in coffee and furniture, and how they were going to have to cook up some amphetamines, to make some money, to pay their debts’.
‘So, with loss of the latest drugs, the other night, thanks to Agent Carras, the Sydney branch of the Sciarra Outfit must be really freaking out too, and also looking to make some money fast,’ Agent Jarvina Hofer surmised.
‘Yep. You can bet on it. These Ndrangheta cells talk a lot about brotherhood, but when a drug or money deal fails, they are beyond ruthless’.
‘So if the Sciarra Outfit doesn’t come up with the money soon, they can be expecting an ear in a jar, at the very least’.
‘At the very least’, deadpanned Amr.