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get cocky. We’re dealing with ’Ndrangheta, not Dr. No,” he says.
    “Isn’t ’Ndrangheta based in the south?”
    He nods. “In Calabria, at the shit-caked bottom of Italy’s boot, which they’ve turned into the distribution hub for cocaine in Europe. We’re talking a multibillion-dollar crime syndicate made up of a hundred or so tribal families with strong blood ties, six thousand strong, holed up in remote mountain villages.”
    “Like Afghanistan.”
    “From a tactical point of view, it’s the same. Just like the Taliban, ’Ndrangheta operates out of an inaccessible fortress, where they hook up with other trans-national crime organizations, running heroin from the poppy fields in Afghanistan to the port of Napoli, and eventually, to Hometown, U.S.A. That’s the FBI’s interest, aside from helping our Italian friends. We want to know how and where these drugs are entering the United States.”
    “Where does Nicoli Nicosa fit in?”
    “He could be a ’Ndrangheta affiliate, working behind a screen of respectability to run cocaine in the north. To do business at his level in society—believe me, nobody is clean. They all swim in the same swamp.”
    Dennis opens both hands like a book.
    “Let me introduce you to your new family. Nicoli Nicosa is forty-eight years old. Drives a Ferrari, travels by private jet. He’s made a fortune with a genetically engineered coffee bean—started out providing coffee to upscale restaurants, and now he’s got his own chain of stores. Have you been inside a Caffè Nicosa?”
    I shake my head.
    “Did you ever take the train in Paris? Ever been to the Gare du Nord, where the Eurostar goes?”
    “No.”
    “Ever taken a train in London ? You don’t take public transportation? What are you, a snob?”
    He leans forward and puts his big paws on his knees. I can see him admonishing his little girls in Brooklyn. Whatareya, stupid? How could you not know this?
    “If you were ever on a train, or spent two minutes walking around Rome, you would know that Caffè Nicosa is the Starbucks of Europe. You don’t get your cafés into major train stations without heavy-duty connections and bribes, and that’s just the beginning.”
    “What about the wife, Cecilia? My relative. The one who called the Bureau?”
    “She’s a medical doctor and a socialite on the Italian scene. Always in the magazines. She never contacted you before?”
    “I didn’t know she existed until the London legat told me on the way to the airport.”
    “So, why is Cecilia Nicosa calling you now?” Dennis asks rhetorically.
    I consider the question. “Does she know her husband was cheating on her?”
    “The world knows. It was in the papers.”
    “Does the world also know that his mistress, Lucia Vincenzo, disappeared?”
    “The mafias make sure of that. Every so often someone who vanished after refusing to pay shows up in the ocean or as remains in a vat of lye. It keeps the little people on their toes.”
    “Cecilia could be afraid for her life.”
    Dennis presses the intercom, instructing the girl from Virginia to get Dr. Nicosa on the landline.
    “If we really are related, am I supposed to spy on my own family?”
    “Go and observe, then we’ll decide. Don’t bitch; this is a high-class assignment. Siena is a beautiful city. Plus, they have the best gelato in your life —at a hole-in-the-wall called Kopa Kabana. And you’re there for Palio,” he adds, his eyes taking on a rare sparkle.
    “What’s the big deal about a horse race?”
    “It’s not a horse race, it’s ‘a spectacular,’ as my father would say. Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like it—tens of thousands of people squeezed into a piazza, all going nuts.”
    “Security must be interesting.”
    He nods. “They have their hands full. Siena is made up of what they call contrade , like neighborhoods—actually little city-states, with their own seat of government and coat of arms—who have hated one another for