Story 35

The Spy that Wasn’t

Part 1. Rome

In 1966 the United Nations Social Defense Research Institute (UNSDRI) was established to conduct research into the international aspects of crime and criminal justice. It was the brainchild of Aldo Moro, on-again-off-again Prime Minister of Italy. Moro, former law professor at the University of Rome, was the unstoppable head of the Christian Democratic Party, full of confidence, grand master of the endless subterfuges within which decisions were made, and where money, especially money, was acquired and distributed. 

The institute was located in Rome, on the beautiful Via Giulia, in a medieval building that was once a prison, and directly opposite one of the ancillary buildings of the Italian Ministry of Justice.  With much fanfare, Moro managed to allocate 500 million lire startup money to pay for the UNSDRI director general, a large man of African descent from Somalia or maybe the Congo, and a fledgling staff, all Italian of course, of three secretaries, one administrator, and several doormen and couriers. Moro pointed out to the UN directorate in New York, that Italy was donating the entire building as office space, and expected that other nations of the UN would contribute their fair share. The matter was urgent. Operating money, especially travel money which was an essential food for all UN officials, without which they withered away at their desks. And the defense of societies against crime and insurrection was surely the utmost role for the United Nations to deliver, especially for developing countries where insurrection and terror had become the rule, when even the Director General of the United Nations, Dag Hamarskjold was assassinated as he tried to engineer peace in the Congo in 1961. Italy, a former colonial power would do its part. The office was always busy. The Director General Supreme of UNSDRI had many diplomatic missions to attend to, endless meetings with important figures of Italy’s foreign ministry, and frequent visits to the Commissary at its sister U.N. Organization in Rome. the FAO (Food and Agricultural Organization), located in a massive building, one of Mussolini’s monstrosities, built to administer Italy’s colonies.

In 1969, the arrival at UNSDRI of an English speaking intern from Cambridge England was expected any day, a newly minted Ph.D. from the Cambridge University’s renowned criminology program. He would head up the Institute’s first research study, funded copiously by the Ford Foundation, to collect international crime statistics from around the world, collate the findings, and recommend to the United Nations General Assembly ways to combat world crime. As the Americans repeated many times over, there was no sense developing policies, local or worldwide, if they were not informed by data. Data, data, data, that was the rant. That said, it was an Englishman who was expected to take charge, for the Italians could not quite bring themselves to acknowledge the superior empirical research capabilities of the Americans.

Professor Franco Ferrapotti, renowned psychiatrist, the University of Rome, and Procuratore Ugo Di Napolitano,  Supreme Court Magistrate,  were seconded from their important positions to supervise the research, approve of its design, and ensure that the results were accurate and infallible. It was their signatures that were on the lucrative contract signed with the Ford Foundation. Ferrapotti, an ebullient, rotund Roman, balding, a veritable look-alike of Mussolini, saw himself as the true director of the project, indeed of the whole institute. His partner, Judge Di Napolitano, was a man of Naples as his name implied, a tall, upright gentleman, spoke in a high-pitched, loud voice, a voice rather like that of the Godfather in the movie of that name, only louder, one that penetrated every crack in the old building. His English was heavily accented, drawing out the wonderful vowel sounds of southern Italy, speaking in long legal clauses, as though pronouncing even the punctuation. In contrast, his colleague Ferrapotti, spoke English with a distinct American accent, smooth, monotone, rambling, like a car running idle. 

The great halls of the institute were therefore full of the echoes of these two directors, constantly arguing (or seemingly so) with each other. Ferrapotti, having served as a visiting distinguished professor in various American Universities, pointed out that there was no American in the institute and that, if the project were to be conducted successfully, its results accepted by the world scientific community, it would have to be carried out by an American. Di Napolitano demurred, somewhat, though he thought that there was no problem that could not be solved by clear, rational, logical thinking. The “facts” he treated as data (if he must use that ugly word)  to be used and interpreted as needed by the policymaker. And since it was the policymaker who interpreted the data, there was no real necessity to demonstrate that the data were “valid” or “accurate” or whatever the social scientists said made their findings “facts.”  In contrast, Ferrapotti, thought of “facts” as something that he found out when he examined a patient (he had many referred to him from the Vatican), got answers from his probing questions, formed hypotheses about the patient’s problem and prescribed the treatment forthwith. Without these “facts” concerning his individual patient, he obviously could not make the appropriate diagnosis, and thus prescribe the correct treatment. It was, for him, as it was for the great father of psychiatry, Sigmund Freud still dominant in the 1960s though slowly being undermined by young radical psychiatrists, a great leap from the analysis of individual cases, to diagnose crime on a mass scale as the project envisaged, dare to prescribe steps to solve the problem of crime at the world level.

Thus, the compromise was to appoint an Englishman.

And now our story begins.

As Di Napolitano and Ferrapotti mounted the few big steps to the Institute, at Via Giulia 52, arguing incessantly, Ferrapotti felt a tug on his leather jacket. The guard on duty stepped out from his glass-enclosed post, pushed past Ferrapotti and grabbed a scruffy looking young man, dressed in shorts, the sign of either an American or Australian, shirt hanging loose, leather sandals, like those worn by many of the neophyte students of the Vatican.

“Halt!” shouted the guard, “non entrare qui!”

The scruffy young man grinned and stepped back. “Doctor Ferrapotti!” he cried.

Ferrapotti stopped in mid-sentence and turned to face this person who spoke English in an accent he had heard only once before, of an Australian he had met in one of his classes when he was a visiting professor at America’s prestigious University of Pennsylvania.

“Doctor Ferrapotti! Remember me? I was in your class…”

Ferrapotti looked this scraggly fellow up and down. Short in stature, thin, nothing of him. “Oh.. Er..ah..You need a good meal of Italian pasta,”  said Ferrapotti with a grin. “What can I do for you?”

Di Napolitano looked annoyed. It was beyond his comprehension that Ferrapotti, or any Italian for that matter, would bother to acknowledge any foreigner, especially an English speaking one, who came up to him in the street. Besides, it was a security risk.  But this did not deter Ferrapotti. He looked for every moment to be flattered. To be recognized by a former student or anyone else for that matter, he welcomed.

The Aussie looked up, pushed the guard’s hand away from his arm. “This is an amazing coincidence,” he said, “I’m here for a two day stopover on my way home to Melbourne. I thought you were at the University of Rome.”

Ferrapotti looked at him, and without any hesitation asked, “oh.. Er..ah..do you want a job?”

“I, I…” stuttered the Aussie, taken aback.

Di Napolitano turned away and sprinted up the steps leading to the Institute, calling back over his shoulder, “basta, Franco. Non fai niente stupido!”

Ferrapotti grinned at the Aussie. “Oh.. Ah.. Don’t mind him,” he said, “he’s a  judge so he’s used to giving orders.”

“I, I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes or no? Oh.. Er.. It’s a great opportunity to work for the United Nations. On the frontier of international criminology,” urged Ferrapotti.

“But I, I’m on my way back to Australia. I have a research assistant position lined up there…”

“Ah.. Er.. Come on!” Ferrapotti grabbed him roughly by the arm. “Come see your new office! Beautifully frescoed ceilings. Just like the Vatican library!”

The Aussie allowed himself to be pulled up the steps and past the pezzi grossi, the several doormen and couriers, through the double doors, the well-armed guard staring at his log book, trying not to notice, dialing a number on the intercom. The long corridor, expansive and frescoed from top to bottom appeared before them. The sounds of Di Napolitano’s lilting voice echoed from his office at the far end. Ferrapotti’s office was right next to his.

Overwhelmed and confused, the Aussie struggled along, his knees weak, his eyes of course taking in the wonders of Italian faux Renaissance frescoes. They were half way down the corridor when a door opened, a very large glass door, revealing the biggest of all offices, two secretaries typing away at their Olivettis, one each side of the massive carved door to the Director General’s office. Ferrapotti dragged the Aussie in.

“Is the Supreme General in?” he asked, looking at one of the secretaries then to the other. None looked up. One, or possibly both, murmured, “he’s in, but does not want to be disturbed. Very important business coming in from the UN Secretariat in New York.”

Ferrapotti of course ignored the response and barged right in, pulling his Aussie charge with him.

“Er, ah, Professor, Doctor Supreme Secretary General, I want you to meet our project director for our new Ford Foundation grant, er…”

The director general of the Institute lounged back in his heavily padded office chair, beautifully crafted with leopard skin, taken from a leopard that he himself had shot on his recent trip back home in Somalia, or maybe the Congo.

“Ah, yes. The Ford foundation. Pity it was not the Mercedes Foundation. But  I suppose, beggars can’t be choosers,” said the general in his very deep voice, and a big smile, one that was required of all African UN Staff members. And what is this you have brought me?” He looked at the small, overly tanned young white male, his hair too long and poorly combed.

Ferrapotti grinned and replied, “Ah.. Oh.. This is er…”

“Dennis Cotter,” put in the Aussie. “My name is Dennis Cotter and I’m from Melbourne Australia.”

“Yes, that’s right. Dennis. One of my very successful students from the greatest school of  America the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania, where I taught on their request the history of criminology, which of course you know, is one of Italy’s main claims to academic excellence. We pioneered the science of criminology, Lombroso and others,…”

“Yes, yes,” said the general, fingering his many medals impatiently.  “But if you will pardon me, I must leave on an urgent mission. There is a meeting in Strasbourg…”

“Strasbourg? But that’s where the Council of Europe meets, isn’t it?” asked Ferrapotti.

“Yes, that’s right. I have offered our services to the COE.”

“Oh well done! And congratulations!” said Ferrapotti, knowing full well that if Di Napolitano found out, he would raise hell.

The director general left, carrying his diplomatic pouch, walking cane, and a set of car keys, with a very large key ring made of ivory, the Mercedes logo carved into it. Ferrapotti looked at Dennis, and said in his usual blunt way, “ah.. Er.. oh.. don’t mind him. We need him as our face to the UN, an organization that takes seriously only those from developing countries. We allow them to occupy all top administrative positions because we know we can easily bribe them into doing whatever we want. Did you notice his key ring? The first thing he did when the foreign minister announced his appointment as director of the institute, was to go out and buy a black Mercedes.”

Dennis was taken aback, and should have taken this rant as a warning. But the fact was he saw only the promise of being paid while he indulged in a year or so in Rome, the most beautiful place on earth. It was an opportunity that he could not pass up, no matter how crazy and surreal it seemed. To be offered a job, by a world renowned professor who could not remember his name, to work in a beautifully frescoed medieval building. What  more could one ask for? So, without even asking how much the job paid, he instead asked, “so what is the project I will be working on?”

Ferrapotti appeared not to hear the question. “Oh.. Ah.. Come along,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to my good friend and illustrious judge, Di Napolitano. We call him the Consigliere. Without him, this Institute could not function.”

Di Napolitano stood up from his desk and walked around to shake Dennis’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said, his voice always loud, no matter where or with whom. “If you are recommended by Dr. Ferrapotti, I know you must be outstanding!”

Dennis managed to release his hand from Di Napolitano’s iron grip, and replied, “well thank you sir, but I don’t know, I haven’t really…”

Ferrapotti looked Dennis in the eye. It was his psychiatrist’s look, one meant to penetrate the facial veneer of his subjects, to make them think that he was looking right inside their mind. “Oh.. Er.. Young man,” he said, “this is an opportunity that will never come again. It will make you famous. It will be the very first study of world crime. And conducted under the auspices of the United Nations, and more important, with the scholarly imprint of the great legacy of Italian Criminology, where criminology was first established as a science.”

Dennis felt the small slap of Ferrapotti’s hand on his shoulder.  How could he refuse? “OK. I’ll do it. But I need a few details.”

“No problem! Just step in here and I will introduce you to our administrative director and she will take care of all your immediate needs.”

Ferrapotti stepped away and hurried to Di Napolitano’s office, just as a glass door opened and there stood a dark headed young lady, dressed in what appeared to be a kind of female designer simulation of a Carabiniere uniform, with a red stripe running down the side of tight pants, and black jacket, stretched across the fulsome chest, collar and cuffs braided with silver, everything edged in scarlet. Her skin was the pale white of a Northerner, her jet black hair, though, flowing in careful waves over her shoulders. All this and more Dennis took in with a gulp of air.

“I am Andrea. Come, please take a seat by my desk and we will get your details,” she said in broken English, though very business-like.

Dennis was, understandably, most confused and not a little concerned. He had a plane to catch the next morning back to Melbourne. He had nowhere to stay beyond this one night. He had no money to extend his stay at the pensione he had found just around the corner from Campo dei Fiori.

“Well, I don’t know. I mean,  I was only walking by. It was pure chance I ran into Doctor Ferrapotti. And I don’t really know what he wants me to work on.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” said Andrea with a big sigh. “È il modo in italiano, sai? You’ll get used to it.”

“Modo what?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s the Italian way, especially in Rome. Take every day as it comes. Lo sai?”

“OK. Maybe easy for you. But what will I do about my plane ticket? And where will I stay if I take on the job? I mean, there’s so much to do. And my family are expecting me to arrive home day after tomorrow.”

Andrea just smiled and began writing on a form. “So, your full name, please?”

“What for?” asked Dennis, defensively.

Andrea looked at him impatiently. “Now, let’s get this done so I can help you find a place to stay and take care of your plane ticket. Hopefully you are on Alitalia?

“Yes, I am.”

“Then there’s no problem. We will get you a refund. Now, your name?”

And so it went. Andrea filled out what she called a “Special Service Agreement” with the United Nations. When she came to the amount that he would be paid, Andrea frowned. “Did they tell you how much you would be paid?”

“No. But I haven’t really agreed to do his yet, have I?”

“Once you sign this form you have. You should ask them for more money. This is not enough to live on,” Andrea said.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.”

Dennis found an “apartment”  right beside Piazza Navona. an incredible find, for just 10,000 lire a month. It consisted of a small space under a stairwell with room for a bed and a toilet, a hand basin and an electrical outlet with a small table on which there sat an electric kettle. The apartment had been described as “fully furnished,” which technically Dennis supposed was accurate. Never mind, Dennis imagined himself a top researcher living in splendor in Rome, the most beautiful city in the world. Lygon street near Melbourne University where his research assistant position awaited him, could hardly compete.

The trouble was, though, he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing in his new prestigious job, except that, since the The Englishman from Cambridge had not arrived, he had been called into Ferrapotti’s office and told that he was to be the sole director of the project and given an extra 40,000 lire a month to make up for the added responsibility. Dennis tried to ask in a roundabout way what he was supposed to be doing, what the project was all about, but had received no information from Ferrapotti, who was constantly talking through the wall to his colleague Di Napolitano, laughing and joking in Italian, dictating letters to his (everyone’s) secretary, Andrea who continued to wear her Carabiniere uniform look-alike. But never mind, it was enough for Dennis to walk to his office each day, down the glorious Via Giulia, stopping at a crowded bar for a cornetto and morning cappuccino, peering in the windows of plush shops that displayed costly antiques or fine clothing.

After several weeks he discovered the institute’s library, hidden away on the second floor looking out over the Via Giulia, inhabited by a librarian and her assistant. No one had thought to mention this to him, though he was a little embarrassed that he had not thought to ask whether the institute had a library. Of course, being the United Nations, as Dennis was to find out much later, all institutes and branches of the U.N. had a library, crammed full mainly of records and reports of the countless meetings it routinely conducted. The librarian was a middle aged Iranian,  and her assistant, a tiny shy whisk of a person, who spent her days repairing reports that had been torn, writing in catalog numbers, and rearranging the book shelves. Though she appeared insignificant, almost like a piece of furniture, her darting eyes  seemed constantly to take in all that was going on in the library, and at coffee break, she took her espresso with a small group of well-dressed middle aged Italian men in the corner of the small bar that stood conveniently across the street from the Institute. It was rumored (that is, the librarian told Dennis in the manner of a warning) that she was the daughter of the famed Italian politician Giulio Andreotti.

Another month went by, and still Dennis had no idea what he was to do, had been given no instructions by Ferrapotti. So at last, one morning, Dennis, tired of doing nothing, something that he could not believe would worry him, since doing nothing in Rome and getting paid for it seemed like such a great idea, he marched into Di Napolitano’s office determined to find out what his project was all about and what he must do. He wanted to work, damn it! After his few months in Rome, Dennis should have known better than to do this foolish thing. Indeed, he had consulted Andrea as to whether this was a good idea, and she had warned him against it.

Di Napolitano did not look up, but continued with his eyes closed, dictating a letter to his secretary, Andrea (everyone’s secretary), in careful grammatically correct English. Dennis coughed a little and advanced to the edge of Di Napolitano’s desk. Andrea tried to help by asking her boss to repeat a word. This annoyed him as it always did, to be interrupted, even though he was himself the world’s worst interrupter. He assumed, as he was a judge of very high standing, that all must stop when he spoke and he must never be interrupted. But Andrea’s question caused him to open his eyes and it was then that he saw standing in front of his desk the scruffy Aussie, dressed in his usual open neck shirt, and worst of all, again something Dennis had been warned about by Andrea, Aussie shorts.

“What is this?” barked Di Napolitano. “Mr. Cotter, you are not dressed. Please do so before you enter my office, in fact, before you enter this institute.” He closed his eyes again and continued to dictate to Andrea who looked down, trying very hard to hold back a laugh.

Dennis about turned as though he were a soldier and hurried out of the office and the building, then to Campo Dei Fiori where he would try to find a pair of cheap long pants that fitted him.

Dennis could hardly be blamed for concluding that the fiasco of his attempt to consult with Di Napolitano had at last brought about action. The very next morning, Ferrapotti summoned him to his office, all very business-like.

“Er, ah, Dennis. Good. Come. Sit. We are going to Strasbourg tomorrow to begin the project.”

“Tomorrow? But Dr. Ferrapotti, I don’t know what the project is about, so I haven’t done anything on its design.” He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He received no direct answer. Instead, Ferrapotti called for Andrea.  Dennis timidly asked, “why Strasbourg?”

“Er, ah, yes. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about the Council of Europe, coming from where you come.”

Dennis guessed that Ferrapotti was telling him that because he was not a European, he is uninformed, probably ignorant. He simply looked blankly back at Ferrapotti and waited.

“In a first for the United Nations, we are combining our project with the Council of Europe. Ford Foundation has given us its permission, in fact they are very pleased. This will  be a pioneering project. A world first!” announced Ferrapotti grandly.

Dennis, now agitated and losing his cool, asked belligerently, in typical Aussie style, “and what exactly is this project that I am supposed to be directing, all about?”

Ferrapotti grinned, looked at Andrea then to Dennis. “Oh, ah, er, I thought you knew, you’re the director of the project after all.”

“But Dr. Ferrapotti, I have tried to ask you what the project is about, even to see the proposal that you sent to the Ford Foundation…”

“Ah, er. oh, that’s nothing. But if you want to look at it you can. Andrea make him a copy will you? But I tell you, it’s only a very rough outline of what we will really do.”

Dennis looked at Andrea, who excused herself so she could go to the library and retrieve a copy of the proposal. He went to follow her out, but Ferrapotti called him back. “She will get it. Come, er ah, sit.”

Dennis sat.

“Oh.. Er.. The United Nations works very slowly,” said Ferrapotti, gently, or at least for him it was so. “The way we do research in the UN is to have meetings and then we meet again to discuss the reports of those meetings. And then, it will be your job to carry out the recommendations in those reports.”

“But who designs the project?” asked Dennis with a frown.

“Oh.. Those at the meetings do. That way we can be sure that everyone is on board and nobody’s concerns are ignored.”

“So I don’t have to do a research design?” asked Dennis, almost relieved, but very worried.

“Not exactly. That’s just what they teach you at University. In the real world, especially the complex world of the UN, it’s not the way it works,” prattled Ferrapotti.

“I think I had better go to the library and read some reports,” mumbled Dennis.

“Ah.. Er.. Oh.. By all means,” answered Ferrapotti, amused. “And ask Andrea to come to my office so we can arrange the plane tickets and per diem for each of us. Strasbourg is an expensive place.” 

To be continued……