The Colombian Mule by Massimo Carlotto, Christopher Woodall

supposed inability to understand any Italian to monopolize the attention of the shop assistants, while the two men discreetly stuffed underwear into a small travelling bag.
    Russo took his cell phone from his belt and called the Cara­binieri, explaining that the two men looked as if they might cause trouble if arrested inside the store. The Carabinieri intercepted all four shoplifters as they were leaving. A small crowd of onlook­ers formed as the thieves were bundled into the police van. The last to get in was Aurelio Uribe Barragán, better known as Alacrán.
    The thieves were driven straight to the provincial headquarters of the Carabinieri, where they were taken to separate interview rooms, identified and questioned. They were then transferred to prison to await trial, the women to Giudecca, the men to Santa Maria Maggiore.
    â€˜What are these two in for?’ the duty sergeant asked as Alacrán and Jaramillo were led into the admissions office.
    â€˜Attempted theft of socks and panties,’ replied a young Carabiniere as he removed their handcuffs.
    â€˜They’re for trial and deportation,’ commented the officer wearily. ‘They’ll be here two days at most.’
    The new prisoners were again identified, painstakingly searched and their photographs taken. Jaramillo was a good talker and his face was less menacing than Alacrán’s. As he took off his trousers, he asked the duty sergeant, half in Italian, half in Spanish, whether there were any other Colombians in the prison.
    â€˜Just one,’ the officer replied. ‘A drug trafficker arrested at the airport.’
    Jaramillo asked him if there was any chance they could be put in the same cell as their compatriot, to keep each other company.
    The sergeant looked at Jaramillo. He shouldn’t really have allowed it, given that the Colombian trafficker was a police collaborator and as such required protection. But these two guys were just petty thieves and the cells were already so overcrowded that the other prisoners were sure to protest if forced to make room for new arrivals. In the end, it was this that persuaded the duty sergeant to let the Colombians have their way.
    â€˜All right,’ he said. Then he turned to a young prison guard and gave the order: ‘Accompany these two to Cell 23, Block D.’
    Guillermo Arías Cuevas was stretched out on his bed, enjoying a quiet smoke. Corradi had supplied him with cigarettes, cooking equipment and utensils so he would no longer be forced to eat prison food. Another couple of days and he would even have new clothes and shoes. At last he would be able to turn up for the exercise hour in the yard dressed like a man, free of the shabby, crumpled suit he had been wearing day-in day-out ever since he was arrested.
    Arías Cuevas was also feeling very pleased with his lawyer, who had come to see him that morning. Beltrame had listened with interest when Guillermo told him that he intended to make a voluntary statement to the magistrate clearing his Italian co-defendant of any involvement in the crime. His lawyer had advised him on which details to leave out and which to put in, and had promised to go straight to the magistrate with a request that Guillermo be re-interviewed. The lawyer had even given Guillermo his earnest assurance that he would not be deported to Colombia–and, for Guillermo, that was a matter of life and death.
    As he heard the key turning in his cell door, Guillermo was just thinking that living in Italy might turn out to be quite all right. After a while, he would get back in touch with Ruben and set up a new coke smuggling operation: Ruben would send the mules over while he, Guillermo, would take charge of distribution and sales.
    When the door opened, Arías Cuevas looked up, wondering who it might be. Two men entered his cell, their faces hidden by the piles of blankets, pillows and sheets they were carrying in their arms. The guard closed