"You want to have a straight talk? Go ahead. We're not going to let you go because we know who you're working for. We promise you security, you'll live like a paradise if you tell us everything you know."
"I am a private entrepreneur with Italian citizenship (they always tape such conversations), you have no right to detain me here for more than 48 hours and must provide a lawyer, or let me contact mine."
"You're very uncooperative, Mr. Cordarro. Realize that you have two ways out of here: with our help, or with the help of the old lady with the scythe."
"Old ladies with a scythe? There are many old ladies, but to have a scythe… I don't know any old ladies… With or without a scythe. I don't know… I just have no idea who you're talking about."
"You can fool around indefinitely, but either way, you're not getting out of here alive." "Smells like a threat…"
"It's not a threat, it's the truth." "I need a lawyer for the truth."
"The lawyer won't arrive. No one is coming. Understand that, Mr. Cordarro." "You will get nothing from me. That's my final answer."
"Your will, but note that we have plenty of time," — he tapped the table again, whereupon I was taken to solitary.
Such a revelation could only mean two things: either I was turned in by my own people, which would be the worst case scenario for me, or there was a big hunt for all of Koza Nostra, which would be the worst case scenario for the organization.
I don't know, I haven't heard, I don't understand
4:23 p.m. Aug. 19.
Interrogation number 3.
"Mr. Cordarro, I hope you've finally realized that you have no way out." "There's always a way out."
"Of course. But you have a special position." "Oh, really?"
"Yes, Mr. Faust (apparently some information they had on me just that day)." "Faust who else?"
"No need for pretense. We know exactly who you are."
"Of course, I've already told you that I'm a private entrepreneur with…" "Criminal Cases."
"No."
"You used to kill people the organization called you, now in most cases, you pick your own targets…"
"Bullshit."
"You also manage particularly complex operations…"
"You haven't had enough. You've gone from kidnapping to slander. Who are you people anyway? (I finally waited for a moment when I could ask such a question without compromising my role as the impeccable Mr. Cordarro)"
"Law Enforcement Agencies." "Which ones?"
"That's what you'll find out after you answer our questions."
"I've been taken for a complete idiot lately. I know my rights pretty well." "Okay, Faust…"
"My name is Mr. Cordarro."
"Hehe, okay, so be it. Mr. Cordarro, you have no rights here." "I'm sick of listening to this nonsense."
"Understand, Mr. Cordarro, soon your entire mafia will be tied up like a rabbit, and only those who help us will be alive or free (now it's clear that it's the organization, not me personally). Everyone will be killed: your great boss, and all his entourage, and even that elusive Rimanoa of yours — everyone, only you will be able to remain unharmed (I started lying again, besides me, probably a few other people like Giovani Gambino (someone like me) are already being processed).
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't be stubborn, Mr. Cordarro, we chose you because you have an extensive information base, besides there are rumors about you that you want to retire (always bullshit, no one has ever started such rumors, unless some dead enemy of mine). So, you have a great opportunity to do it — to retire alive, not dead."
"How many times do I have to tell you again that I have nothing to do with crime." "You can run around that song all you want, it's useless. Get him in the cell."
Self-activity in detention
7:25 a.m. Aug. 19.
Interrogation number 4.
"Will you cooperate with us, Mr. Cordarro?"
"I am a good citizen. I have always cooperated with…" "You're at it again…"
I moved closer to him and whispered so that neither the receivers nor the ears behind the glass on the wall could hear anything (again, the well-known rule: "Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law," although they obviously had no intention of trying me, it was just a broken habit): "You know I won't talk in front of bugs, so take me to the open countryside".
"All right, Mr. Cordarro, we'll think about it. Take him away."
They thought very carefully and put me back in the Very Important Persons transportation car with the grated windows.
"Now, Mr. Cordarro, it's time to talk," — began the scruffy investigator in the open as I was surrounded at a distance of about twenty meters by about thirty men (half SWAT, half costumed agents) armed with a wide variety of weapons ranging from Beretta 92Fs to RPG-22 Fly.
The terrain was really open: these bastards had made sure that if I tried to escape, I would be visible for several kilometers; by nature you could tell that this was the French Côte d'Azur (another proof that it was Interpol, because their center is in Lyon, still the same France).
I whispered into the investigator's face again, "Listen, you boar, this kind of terrain is no good!"
"Which one do you want?
"I want the forest, not this desert of yours." "You're out of line, Mr. Cordarro."
"Said. All conversations only in the woods!" — As soon as I finished that sentence, all thirty men mentally split into two groups and started shooting at each other. I had the impression that the special forces knew who to shoot at, but the agents didn't.
I grabbed the investigator, threw him to the ground, found a Manurin (a six-shot revolver of 9-caliber French manufacture) under his jacket and, already lying on the ground, poked it at the detective.
Above me there were rumbling explosions, a bunch of gunshots, muffled mate in different languages (mostly in French), but after a minute of such outrage there was silence, and along the field it was heard: "Get up, Faust".
A drug dream
1:40 p.m. Aug. 19
"I don't say this often, but you've done a really good job," — led toward the end of my conversation with Emanuel Revidon, our criminal records manager for the city of Montpelier.
I praised him for a reason, but for my release. After my call to Richard, a special group was sent to Spain and then France to develop and execute escapes. When they found out my location (a secret place of incarceration near the town of Lodève, 60 kilometers from Montpellier), as well as the very open place where I asked for an interpol officer, they came up with a daring escape plan.
The thing is that Interpol suspects are guarded by agents with personal weapons and a local special forces unit coming from a regular police station. The SWAT car was blown up on the way to the open countryside and replaced by their own, Sicilian, armed to the teeth, so I was guarded by their own colleagues, who had no trouble shooting the agents. We ended up with a backward-looking investigator in captivity, asking me his idiotic questions.
His name was Jose Fantin. 37 years old. Married, two children: 10 and 17 years old. Graduated from Toulouse Law School in 1986. He joined the criminal police. A few years later, for the excellent performance of his work, he was promoted to inspector and transferred to the French Interpol with the position of senior investigator for special cases. Finally, in 2002, he was captured by the Italian Cosa Nostra.
Interrogation #1.
Now it was my time for interrogation. Fantin was literally chained to a chair in front of a table with "interrogation" devices in a tiny room of a one-story house on the outskirts of Montpellier. I sat at the table, and Revidon, eager for work, stood beside the interrogator.