THE EAVEDROPPER

By Peter Wise

What would you do if-you stumbled upon a conversation that could cost you your life? After eavesdropping on a conversation that reveals a dark conspiracy involving the Mafia, the Catholic Church, and money laundering, Alberto Capuano finds himself in grave danger. With the Mafia boss and a priest already dead, the wrong people knowing what he he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Self Publishers
• Release date: Apr 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9781963502343

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THE EAVESDROPPER

Written by Peter Wise

2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, canned, uploaded, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Peter Wise, author of this book. The Eavesdropper is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Most towns and cities, some street names and the name of Santa Maria-Bella delle Grazie church, and the library known as Biblioteca centrale della Regione, existed in 1949 – 1950. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

Reprints of any portion of this book are allowed only with the author’s express written permission.

©

Adversity introduces a man to himself.

- Anonymous.

You can reach Peter at:

[e-mail]

Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank my editors, Michael Sandler from Reedsy, and Ana Scherders of Prism Editing. A true counselor and specialist, Julius St Clair,  kept me on track until the book was perfect in every sense.

A special thanks to my lovely wife, Tiiu, whose insights and comments were profound, accurate and regular.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Epilogue

Prologue

It all began the afternoon of Friday, August 9, 1895, in Grodno, a town in Lithuanian Guberniya, part of the Russian Empire. Indoctrinated with hate and consumed with revulsion for the local Jewish population, four men walked with purpose in a dense forest toward the home of Nikolai Mazur. They each carried a heavy, square-shaped wooden club about a metre and a half long. In unison, they slapped their weapons against their palms, chanting, Czar killers, Czar traitors, Czar killers, Czar traitors.

Their leader, a tall, heavy-set Russian, his sordid face hidden by a woolen hat, spoke to his comrades with slurred words. Earlier, they had fortified themselves with cheap vodka and primed their beliefs with dishonest thoughts. Hatred spurred their actions; apathy from the community inspired their courage; cowardice in the bushes permitted their deeds.

They poison us with their religious claims, steal from our community, and boast how they belong to a superior God. Christ died because of their deceit, and today they shall pay for their actions. Czar killers, Czar traitors, Czar killers, Czar traitors."

The forest, rife with unknown perils, showed signs of twilight and shadows mixed with shades of darkness. A sense of foreboding hung amongst the trees. The silent protectors that allowed them passage were a mix of pine, spruce, and birch. A carpeted footpath of dead pine and spruce needles silenced their arrival. Broadleaf vegetation provided ample camouflage, and it gave further encouragement to the four tormenters.

Their voices, harsh and caustic, muffled by the rustling of the leaves and the whistling of the winds, rose in volume, each invocation providing false justification for the actions they were about to commit. The chirping of the birds and the squawking of the stubble quail added a raucous clatter to the coming turbulence.

The Mazurs’ home was located in a small clearing adjacent to a wooded lot near the southern part of town. The area where Jews lived was called a Shetl, a name chosen by Jews themselves. It was representative of the small Jewish villages found in the regions that formed the 19th-century Russian Empire.

The Shetl of Grodno was separated from the rest of the community by the slow, meandering Neman River. It divided the town in half. Though the Shetl comprised mostly of Jews, a Christian minority lived among them. The Shetl was administered by Russian bureaucracy, and it observed Russian laws. The Orthodox Jews were pious, and their refusal to adhere to local Christian customs, and their indifference to outside influence, angered many of the villagers.

As the Jewish sabbath was about to start, the Mazur children had seated themselves at the dining table. Dinner was about to begin. The two children, handsomely dressed, watched quietly and smiled to each other as their mother, Irena, a short slender woman with high cheekbones and radiant eyes, stood alongside her husband. She looked at him with glowing admiration and thought, I’m lucky to have him.

The table, square and covered with a white tablecloth, had four settings, one on each side. The little girl of eight years sat in awe, pink cheeks dotted with a few freckles, eyes wide with excitement, her fingers carefully examining the intricate patterns designed into each piece of cutlery. She wore a yellow and white dress and sat opposite her two-year-old brother, who was wearing a white shirt and brown jacket. The children were filled with anticipation knowing every Friday night was a special occasion for the family. A pair of lit candles held upright in a silver candelabra located on the side of the table was stationed in front of the mother.

Karol Mazur was a large man, rugged yet handsome, with uncompromising eyes that mirrored a battle commander, a bent nose that brought instant attention to his face, and a full moustache. On nights like this, he wore his blue suit to honour the religious observance. He glanced at the children, waited a moment, smiled, turned to his wife, and dipped his head. With her eyes closed and her hands floating above the Challah bread, she made a silent prayer.

When she finished, Karol began singing a Hebrew prayer: Baruch, Atah, Adoinai, Eloheinu…

The shattering sounds of wood hitting objects, and the clanging of metal intermingled with loud guttural sounds, interrupted the prayers. Karol glanced up from the prayer book and looked at his wife. Irena, what do you make of that sound?

The young mother shrugged her shoulders.

Probably drunks.

Mama, I’m scared, said Elzbieta.

My darling Elzbieta, it’s nothing. I’ll go and look, said Karol.

A stone crashed through the kitchen window. Irena screamed as it narrowly missed her head. Karol grabbed his daughter, pulled her off the chair and in a similar motion, he lifted his son, and placed both under the kitchen table.

He gave his daughter a determined look. Elzbieta, I want you to sit here, and I want you to hold on to Antonin as hard as you can. Can you do that?

The little girl started crying. The clamor outside grew louder owing to the broken window.

Papa, what’s happening? I’m—I’m so scared. Why are they throwing stones at us?

Another stone smashed through the living room window.

Mazur, you and your scum are not wanted here anymore. Mazur! Do you hear me?

Karol Mazur wasn’t a man to back down. He grew up fighting anti-Semitism, and many a man had been punished by his fists. He was a little over six feet, and weighed close to a hundred kilos. A farmer in his youth, he was now the manager of the local building supply company. Karol was a man who, when accused of falsehood, met the perpetrator face to face. An ugly fight ensued, and when it ended, Karol walked away knowing he had bloodied the man. Today would be different.

He stole a quick look through the broken glass and saw four angry men bent on destruction. He turned to his wife,

Take the children to Jakub Puglieski’s home. Jakub and Janina will know what to do. They’re not like the others. Go! Hurry!

Irena bent under the table to gather her children but stopped, shocked to see how her little ones were reacting. Elzbieta was curled in a fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably, her eyes closed, her hands over her ears. Antonin sat upright, his hands covering his face, his rigid body frozen to the floor. Because his sister howled hysterically, he too bawled. Neither one was keen to move from their hiding place.

"Elzbieta, this isn’t the time to be stubborn. Get up, now! I’ll hold Antonin. We must leave immediately."

Mama, I’m scared. Why are they doing this to us? I’ve been a good girl, Mama. I’m scared.

"Elzbieta, you must not be scared. Papa has always said that whatever happens, we have to be brave. Now, get up! We don’t have much time. Okay?"

Yes, Mama.

With some effort, she crawled from under the table, stood, and ran behind a wall, away from the flying stones. Irena snatched baby Antonin, then joined her.

"Karol, we must leave. Come!"

There was a fury in Karol’s voice that she’d never heard before. "I will not let those bastards ruin my home and family. Go! I’ll catch up with you soon. Now, hurry!"

Irena lifted Antonin with her right arm, and grabbed Elzbieta’s hand with her left. She looked at Karol, and fighting back the fear in her voice, she darted through the back door, towards the woods, and away from the house. As they reached the trees, Irena glanced back. For a brief moment, she stopped to glance back, and in a fearful voice that partially cracked, yelled,

Karol, I love you. Promise to come, if not for me, for the children. There’s no victory in fighting those pigs. This is different, not like the other times.

With a pent-up rage consuming his body, and a defiant look in his eyes, he pointed to the trees and shouted, "Go! I’ll join you soon."

Karol walked back into the kitchen, grabbed a meat cleaver and a carving knife, gripped each so forceful, his knuckles turned white. He strode to the front door. A quick glance back reassured him his family had gone. He took a deep breath, and turned the door knob. Upon reaching the porch, Karol witnessed four men, their bodies wavering in incongruous movements, vile noises exploding from their mouths.

The Jew wants to fight us? Jews don’t fight, they steal and kill our children, then drink their blood in ritualistic prayers... Czar killer, Czar traitor, Czar killer, Czar traitor…

Karol stood motionless, and stared at the four crazed individuals. Every ounce of his body was taut, his hands resting to his side, fingers clenched tight to his weapons.   

Which of you animals wants to die first? No one moved. Their smirks grew wider and more sinister. Karol edged closer, and in doing so, the four moved further apart, each taunting their prey with sadistic grins, and words they knew would only inflame their quarry.

Karol remained silent, his head moved from side to side…scrutinizing each assailant’s swagger, then in a lightning move, attacked the leader with his cleaver. The blade cleanly sliced off the man’s left hand, his horrifying scream so shrill, it instantly immobilized the other three. Karol wheeled to his right, slashing the next man with the carving knife. The assailant fell back, the knife cutting deep into his chest. An unstoppable shriek pierced the black night.

It was then the other two ran forward and began clubbing Karol. He staggered, and as Karol tripped, he attempted a vicious swipe at an attacker. Before the blade could make contact, he collapsed to the ground. Heavy wooden clubs rained down on him with such frenzy, they tore apart his body. Blood filled the earth as the corpse continued to receive more and more poundings.

The fury and savagery of the assailants’ bludgeoning drained their bodies. Each man collapsed to the earth, exhausted. Before long, they stood, walked into the home and lit a match. Within minutes, a fire began to creep from cloth to wood until it consumed the entire home. Neighbours came to assist the wounded. A discussion among the men took place, then a few picked up Karol’s body and heaved it into the inferno. One of the attackers summed up the incident.

A righteous solution to a Czarist murderer.

Chapter 1

In the fall of 1949, the town of Milazzo, Sicily, was somewhat isolated and a little secretive. Suspicions ran high as they often do in such communities that are sprinkled about the province. Loyalty is unyielding, the people are family orientated—and all are close-knit. The town was a pleasant little fishing village of about fourteen thousand people. It sat high on a peninsula in the northeastern part of the island—quaint, old, and charming to those who lived there. Sadly, it lacked the culture and style of Milan or Rome, characteristics not grasped by the people of this area—but no one cared.

Alberto Capuano grew up in Milazzo, left in 1939 to enlist in the navy, and a year later, he and about seventy-five thousand other Italian soldiers were housed in numerous prisoner-of-war camps sprinkled throughout Kenya, East Africa. After five and a half years of imprisonment, where time blended nights and days into non-existence, he was released and arrived home—alone, confused, and anxious—to a country ravaged by war.

He moved into a small two-story walk-up that contained six dwellings. It was located near the centre of town in an ordinary neighbourhood of either square or rectangle homes. Some dwellings still displayed the dull grey or cream coloured paint applied before the war, each structure blending in with the other so as to cast an unremarkable landscape. Had it not been for the abundance of aged old trees flouting green leaves on thick branches, his neighbourhood would be as unremarkable as a gravel road in a barren countryside. A few homes were fortunate to have survived the war; some less fortunate dwellings had missing walls and roofs.

Alberto’s residence was on the top floor of a box-like structure, a decent-sized one-bedroom that suggested it belonged to a bachelor. It was simple, clean, the bed neatly made. And the cushions on the couch, though old and ragged, were not stained. The walls were bare save for one that displayed a picture of his parents, both passed, that hung proudly against a wall of pale beige paint. His unit overlooked a rear yard comprising vegetable gardens planted by neighbours. From time to time, they harvested zucchinis, tomatoes, cucumbers, and radishes. Some shared their spoils with him, and he, with grace, accepted. In return, he brought them wine. Gardening reminded him of his time as a prisoner in Kenya: he spent many back-breaking years tilling the rock-hardened soil for the luxury of growing food the British refused to give them. It was a place he detested. It robbed him of any desire to eat what he grew.

Alberto was no longer overweight, but he still retained his long, unruly ash-blond hair. If he wanted to model clothes in a magazine, that wild look combined with his rugged appearance might have worked. But that wasn’t the case, and his hair was always a point of contention with Sienna Camilleri, his long-time girlfriend. She wanted it shorter, neater, and more reflective of men his age. Alberto hated conformity, so he rebelled. Shaving was also an issue with her. But he did compromise on that: wherever they went as a couple, his hair was brushed back and tied into a ponytail. And on occasion, he shaved. Most of the time, he dressed without care, more due to his circumstances than his personality. Physical work didn’t require fancy clothes, and who was he going to impress? Sienna? She wasn’t uncomfortable with his daily appearance unless they had to go somewhere. Then she’d get quarrelsome because his definition of being stylish differed from hers. Otherwise, he felt no need to change. He lived alone. He had accomplished little since his return from captivity, evidenced by all kinds of unfulfilling part-time jobs that fell his way.

One day, after he had failed to secure a part-time construction job, he walked about the town feeling despondent and regretful. Seeing no one he knew, he went home, walked into the kitchen, removed a bottle of red wine from the cupboard, pulled the cork and poured himself a glass. With Duke Ellington playing big band jazz on the radio, a sense of despair crept over him like a mist gradually insinuating itself over the sleepless landscape of Milazzo. Stealth was the strategy until the alcohol took hold. The second glass had just been drained when a loud and recurring knock on his door jogged his conscious. His first instinct was to ignore it, but the aggressive nature of the banging demanded he investigate. He opened the door.

In front of him was a man measuring slightly higher than two meters tall, definitely weighing over a hundred kilos, unshaven, physically strong and sporting an unfriendly demeanor. He wore a blue uniform and a red tie. It was the police. What intimidated him were the piercing brown eyes that bored into his face.

You going to let me in, or do I just stand here like a fucking statue?

Alberto just stared at the man. He looked familiar.

Matteo? That you?

Well, I’m not the fucking pope, that you can be damn sure of. Are you going to let me in or do you need to question me more?

Come in…come in. It’s been what, seven…eight years since I last saw you. Holy shit…you’re the last person I ever expected to see. Good to see you. You haven’t changed much physically. Everything all right?

Never been better. I see you’re having a drink. Got anything for me?

Excuse my manners. Red wine, is that okay?

Perfect. Got any olives to go with it?

Give me a moment. Have a seat.

Matteo Tongassi was an imposing man in his late forties. His curly black hair was brushed back, and his weathered, unfriendly face seldom broke into a smile. Alberto remembered Matteo as a man in constant annoyance. His sour disposition made it difficult for him to be pleasant with others. Tongassi’s comments were curt, sometimes rude, and at times, people disliked him. A few of Matteo’s supporters liked to describe his features as carved from stone: unrefined, coarse and hard to break. As Matteo walked about the room, he noticed a picture on the wall. These your parents, I assume.

Yes.

Ever hear from your father?

No. I assume he got killed during the war.

I remember your father being wanted by a lot of people, some being the Mafia. We never did find him.

I came to that conclusion as well. May he rest in peace, is all I can say.

The room fell into an awkward moment of silence.

I haven’t seen you around town. You still with the Carabinieri?

I'm now Colonel Matteo Tongassi, Carabinieri Chief of Police of all Sicily.

Really…you’re Sicily’s topmost leader of the National Military Police? Alberto stopped and looked judiciously at the man. What did you have to do to get that position? Last I remember, Colonel Rossi, your boss, he thought you and that woman, what was her name…?

Maria.

Yeah, Maria. Rossi thought you and her were useless and stupid. So how is it possible you’re chief now?

Matteo’s mind wandered back six years, through the fights and arguments with others, through the political scheming of his bosses, and the alleged corruption of so many. It was a tangled web of deceits and shadows, a maze of lies and half-truths until he arrived at the moment of truth. It was then he had assassinated Rossi after he discovered Rossi and the Mafia were involved in a gun-smuggling operation.

Remember Cesare Mori, Mussolini’s Iron Prefect, the man chosen to eradicate the Mafia in Sicily?

Vaguely. The name’s familiar, but it’s been a while, the war is over, and there’s nothing great to reminisce about.

True, but you and me, we did uncover that gun-smuggling operation in Libya. That was no easy crime to solve, given the shit circumstances we had endured. Good solid police work on your part.

Alberto thought back to that moment, smiled and said, Though you were pissed at my being trigger-happy in the middle of Tripoli.

I forgot about that, but now that you mention it, you were a little crazy. But back to my story. Mori’s eulogy at Rossi’s funeral implicated the Mafia in Rossi’s killing. Mori later reviewed all of Rossi’s files, and when he read mine, Rossi had filled it with commendations and gratitude for my abilities as an investigator. Total lies and bullshit, but Mori didn’t know that, thank God, and because of Rossi’s nice words, Mori appointed me Carabinieri Chief of Police …and that’s why I'm here talking to you.

Have I done something wrong? I'm not under arrest, am I?

Hell, no. I have a job offer, assuming you’re interested.

A job? I have no police training. What could I do?

What I'm about to tell you is confidential. You okay with that?

Alberto nodded, a serious expression shrouded his face as he gave Matteo his full attention.

"You tell absolutely no one of the real purpose of this job. Understood? No one!"

Sure… sure.

We worked together a long time ago. I knew and trusted you then, and you didn’t let me down. Can I trust you now? Full and absolute trust, no bullshit. Can I?

Of course. No bullshit.

Good! I assume you still have that analytical mind, questioning things and seeing what others miss?

I guess. Nothing much has happened for me to analyze lately. What do you have in mind?

The local chief of police, Captain Tristano Leone, his clerk quit. Apparently, she was really ill. I want to appoint you to be his office clerk.

Office clerk? Like filing papers and typing?

Matteo bobbed his head as a yes.

No thanks. I hate that job. I can’t even type. Hire a woman, that’s what they do.

It’s not like that. I need someone I can trust, and I don’t know anyone here I can trust. Too much corruption everywhere and the Mafia are making noises again. Mori’s dead, the war’s over, and the Mafia are like weeds. You stamp them out in one place and they pop up somewhere else. I need someone who sees Leone daily, observes who he talks to, what he does, and what is happening in the office. I’ll hire a woman to do the clerical crap, you’ll be my eyes and ears. You okay so far?

Alberto remained seated and shrugged.

"I’ll insist you and Leone work as a team. He’ll object, but fuck him. Get close to him. He’s on the take and sooner or later, you’ll see and hear stuff. Get him to trust you. You have that look about you, and since you don’t care too much about your appearance, you blend in easily with questionable people. Tell him you can work undercover. I’ll make your pay equal to his, but he’s not to knowthat." Matteo eyed him carefully, held back saying more, the silence demanding that Alberto absorb his words and the implications that came with the work.

The money should motivate you. Is that acceptable?

The money would be good. It’s hard to find work these days. But I know nothing about police work. I’ll need some actual training if I'm to convince Leone I'm his equal. And I'm assuming you have a hidden agenda for me. Yes?

I want to catch that son-of-a-bitch in the act of being bribed and working with the Mafia…and you’re going to help me get him.

How do you know he’s on the take? If you ask me, most anyone in any form of government is on the take. Look about you. The war killed the economy. Too many people are jobless. The only thing that has meaning out there is money.

We’re the Carabinieri, and I’ve been given this job to uphold the law, and the law says bribing an official or working with the Mafia is a crime. As sure as my ass is in this room, no one in my employ—and that means you, me, or my mother if she was employed by me—will take a single Lire from anyone if that payment is to grant them a favour, or information or become blind to an investigation. How do I know Leone is being bribed? Because we have snitches who will trade information to stay out of jail.

You bribing a snitch is also a bribe in a way…

"Don’t you even suggest our trading a jail term for information is the same as a bribe. There’s no money transfer. That’s the fucking difference."

Alberto reeled at the comment.

Relax, Matteo. I'm just talking. Okay?

Whatever…but on to your other comment, definitely, you’ll need some training. My offices are in Messina. You’ll be my assistant for three weeks. I’ll teach you everything you need to know. You’re a smart kid; I’ve seen you learn as you go. Think of Libya as your basic training. These three weeks will be bare-bones, stripped-down fundamentals on policing. The rest you make up as you go, but I'm confident you’ll be more than capable of working with Leone.

Can I think about it?

Take your time. I just want to know if it’s a yes or no before I leave this place.

Alberto gave him a questioning glance.

Reminds me of the time in Libya when you asked me to leave the destroyer and my duties as a sailor—you said, ‘join me in investigating the shooting of Rossi’s cousin.’ You gave me what, less than a day to decide? Nothing much has changed, has it?

Absolutely nothing. I'm still the same hard-nosed, impolite asshole today as I was then. But then, people had to point that out to me. Today, it’s who I am, and I don’t care because I'm the boss. As Maria said seven years ago, and funny I still remember her words, she said, ‘At times you act like an old curmudgeon.’ He paused and smirked for a moment.

Whatever happened to Maria? If I remember, you and her left Libya together and headed back home.

We reconciled. I promised I would no longer treat her badly. And to this day, I’ve kept my word. Maria works in my building as a typist and clerk. She reports to one of my managers. I have nothing to do with her but say hello and goodbye. We’re now on good terms, and she seems happy. But enough of her…I need another glass of wine. We have a lot to discuss, and I already know you’re going to accept. There is something about you that likes a challenge, and once you’ve decided to accept it, you’re like a snake swallowing its prey…you won’t stop until it's devoured. Am I right?

Alberto dipped his head in agreement.

Chapter 2

Captain Tristano Leone was a man of medium height burdened with an oversized chest and a pair of sinewy arms and legs that hung from his torso like limp linguini. A thick moustache paid tribute to a pair of dark eyebrows having traces of white hair sprouting in odd directions from its contemporaries, yet the furry canopy highlighted the position of a pair of unsmiling eyes that mirrored the rest of his puffy, dog-like face. When Alberto entered Leone’s office three weeks after his unexpected meeting with Matteo, Leone paid no attention to the stranger. Alberto’s appearance struck Leone as a man who periodically flouts the law. When Alberto requested Leone by name, Tristano seemed disturbed and then decided to ignore the intruder.

Mr. Leone, I'm your new assistant. Name’s Alberto Capuano.

It took a moment for the words to enter Leone’s head, then his head snapped forward.

My what? I don’t need one…don’t want one, so piss off. If this is your idea of a joke, I have an empty cell that you could fill.

I'm not joking. I'm your new assistant. At that moment the phone rang. Leone’s clerk answered it, looked at her boss and said,

A Colonel Matteo Tongassi wants to speak to you. Said it’s urgent.

Leone looked annoyed, but chose to take the call. He looked towards Alberto, and in a hushed voice, said, Piss off before I get really angry. When Alberto failed to move, it maddened him more, but the call had urgency.

Leone here, Colonel. How can I help you?

Leone, a man will soon arrive in your office. His name is Alberto Capuano. He’s your new assistant. Treat him with respect, and he’ll do you justice. You’re to work with him in all areas. Nothing is too small or too big. Whatever you know, he should know. Any questions?

For a moment Leone remained numb, unable to say anything.

Sir, with due respect, I don’t need an assistant of any kind. This must be some mistake.

Leone, maybe you don’t know how I hate repeating myself. Do I have to repeat myself?

Silence.

Do I have to repeat myself?

No, sir.

Good. Now get back to work. The line went dead. Leone glared at Alberto.

I guess that was our boss. What do you want me to do?

Silence and tension filled the room.

"The way you look… best you