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Artemus nodded. “Ownership leaves a trail. Cooperation is harder to prove.”
“What about the payments?” Atlas asked.
Artemus opened a spreadsheet.
Columns of figures appeared beneath coded names and transaction numbers. Money had moved through shell companies registered in Malta, Cyprus and Switzerland before being divided into smaller amounts and funnelled back into Italy.
“They kept most transfers below the thresholds that trigger automatic reviews,” Artemus replied. “The payments were disguised as consulting fees, equipment purchases, maintenance contracts and charitable grants.”
“Were the receiving businesses owned by the Coccico cartel?” Raze asked.
“Some were. Others belong to people who will deny any connection to organized crime until their final breath.”
Artemus removed the codes. Names replaced them. A customs officer in Livorno. Two police commanders in Rome. A magistrate in Florence. Officials attached to immigration processing centres. A senior administrator within the health department.
Adriana stared at the screen as each name appeared. “They paid everyone.”
“It’s worse than that,” Artemus confided, opening a second ledger. These payments appeared to occur every month.
Every payment had purchased a small failure in the system. Together, those failures had created a road wide enough for hundreds of women and children to disappear. Delayed inspections. Missing evidence. Witness statements lost before trial. Charges reduced or never filed.
Marcello leaned over the desk.
“How far back do the records go?”
“The oldest file I’ve opened is six years old.”
“And the newest?”
Artemus’s fingers paused above the keyboard.
“Three months.”
The answer settled over the room.
This was not evidence of a network that had been dismantled or abandoned. It had been operating three months ago, and there was no reason to believe it had stopped since.
The Coccico cartel had not survived because they were stronger than everyone hunting them. They had survived because respectable men had opened doors, erased records and accepted payment for looking the other way. A criminal organization could not move that many people for six years or more without attracting attention.
“What else?” I asked.
Artemus hesitated. Atlas urged him on.
“Show him.”
26
DEMITRI
PILGRIMS.
The folder tightened something inside me as Artemus clicked on it.
A list of churches filled the screen.
Parishes. Convents. Relief centres. Pilgrim hostels. Catholic charities established to provide emergency housing for migrants, homeless families and women escaping violence.
They were places built to receive the frightened without demanding anything in return. They were also places where no one questioned a van arriving through a rear entrance after dark.
