Where “Gomorrah” is at heart a personal account of immersion into the underworld of the Camorra, “Zero, Zero, Zero” is by necessity written from afar. Saviano, by this time, is writing while in hiding, protected by the Italian Carabinieri. As such, it reads more like the gossipy tales told by cops who at once loath, respect, and mythologize their criminal adversaries. The common thread between the worlds of the Italian mob and the international cocaine industry is that both are above the control of the individuals involved. Men come and go, into prison and into the grave, while the system, uncaring and oblivious, continues ever-on. Indeed, the Camorra provide a critical chain in the importation of cocaine (via West Africa) and its distribution throughout Europe. Saviano has a story-tellers gift of weaving narrative with facts that whip you from the jungles of Colombia to the drug labs and factories of northern Mexico and, finally, into the living rooms and bathrooms of Upper Westside apartments in New York. He convincingly affirms that the cocaine trade is just basic economics and where there is a demand there will be those who supply. But the price paid is not only in cash, but in dead bodies of the guilty and innocent alike. “Zero, Zero, Zero” reads so much like fiction it is distressing that one is not able to ascertain where the reporting stops and the conjecture and rumors begin.
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