The car at the front of the Mercedes, and the one at the back, blew up simultaneously.
The Merc's custom-made bulletproof glass and reinforced metalwork could only do so much. The explosion flipped the Maybach like a pancake. It flopped and tumbled over the crash barriers. Slid down the hillside, taking out trees and rolling over boulders.
The noise ruptured Armando's eardrum and the blast threw him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the edge. The car had fallen nearly twenty metres on to rocks. The windows were blown out and the roof was mangled. It had dropped on to the road below, broken through the next set of barriers, then careered down another part of the hillside.
Armando turned round.
He was alone.
The boy and everyone else had gone.
It had been a classic hit. 9.00 a.m. Santa Maria Eliana, centro citta, Napoli Morning service was a traditional Latin High Mass. As always, Carmine Cicerone settled down to what he knew would be a truly uplifting experience. A spiritual detox.
Thunder rumbled outside but there was still enough daylight to shine sharply through sections of the pristine stained-glass windows that depicted the Stations of the Cross and ran the complete length of the seventeenth-century church. A pepper cloud of dust swirled in multicoloured shafts of light and a small rainbow fell across the white marble of the altar floor. Carmine the Dog loved everything about going to church. The architectural grandeur of the building. The deeply colourful and symbolic costumes. The centuries-old script. Even the smell of frankincense swung by the broody-looking altar boy whose eyebrows met in the middle. It was wonderful. Pure theatre.
Today he placed two hundred euros in the rose-wood collection plate that passed down his pew and he thanked God for making him wise enough to have slept on things. The plan that Vito had put together and shown him just before he'd settled in his pew was crude and shabby. He really wished he could instill a more businesslike approach in the man. Put bluntly, he'd advocated the simultaneous killing of Finelli, Valsi and as many other of their Capi and soldiers as they could manage. A day of bloodshed, then a decade of peace, that's what he'd promised. No, thank you. Carmine wasn't buying. He knew it was shrewder to take compensation from Finelli and then let his clan rip itself apart. Once they were weak, then he might consider finishing them off.
The service lasted forty-five minutes. He looked around at the end and was sad to see that the grand old church was virtually empty. Never mind – Father Mario had still put on a stellar performance. Carmine had taken la sacra Comunione and, as he filed out behind half a dozen people, he felt positively rejuvenated.
As usual the back of the church was littered with homeless drifters who'd come in off the street to shelter from the weather. He dipped his hand into the holy water, made the sign of the cross facing the altar, and then turned to walk outside into the bright winter sunlight. He was right to have chosen peace, not war. He and Fredo Finelli would talk. They'd find common ground and then they'd both enjoy the rest of their lives. 9.00 a.m. Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli It took Armando Lopapa almost ten minutes to run from the first broken barrier on the bend of the winding hillside road to the second one. He was breathless by the time he reached the mangled metal and peered over the side at the crushed and crumpled Mercedes. The car had hit all manner of rocks and trees on its deadly drop. He called the emergency services, then hurdled the last barrier and began the final steep climb down the ankle-twisting terrain.
'Please God, let him be alive,' said the loyal chauffeur, his suit patched with sweat and his cap long since lost.
First glance at the $300,000 Mercedes told him that despite layers of armour plating, it was still a write-off.
He replayed the astonishing events as he descended. A double blast. Two cars parked front and back. The car flipped like pizza dough. Someone had clearly known their route. Had been aware of the strict drill that made sure the Don always stayed the other side of the anti-hijack locks and bulletproof glass until he was assured that everything was okay. Some safety drill. It all seemed pointless now. The attackers must have known about that too, and the fact that the Maybach was a tank, so strong it would have stood a chance of surviving one blast. But not two. Especially when they were coordinated and calculated so well that the car would be sent plunging down the rocky hillside. It was an inside job. About as inside as you could get.
Armando put his hand to his mouth. 'Oh, fuck!' He was close enough to see now. Fredo Finelli lay jammed up against the back headrests. Tossed there like a rolled-up umbrella thrown in the back in case of a rainy day.
'Don, Don Fredo!' He didn't expect an answer but hoped beyond hope that he might get one.
He could see blood now. Spread and spattered across the cream trim and matching leather.
The doors had locked and Armando couldn't get in. Shards of glass stuck up like stalagmites from the rubbers on the door frame. Armando took off his jacket, balled it up and knocked them out. Finally, he was in.
The left side of Don Fredo's face was smashed up. His jaw broken and out of line. Teeth had been hammered back. There was so much blood in one eye socket that it seemed the eye was missing too.
Armando felt sick. He put two fingers to the Don's neck and felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
He shuffled his hand around a little to see if he'd missed it.
Still nothing.
The Don had been good to him, always paid him well, always respected him. The sense of loss kicked in. Death is truly awful when you're the first to discover it.
Thump.
He couldn't believe it.
Thump, thump.
A slow but slight beat between his fingers. My God, the old bastard was actually alive!
He put his face close to the Don's mouth and checked for breath.
Nothing.
Thump.
Thump, thump.
Outside he could hear voices. Help was close at hand! Thank God.
'Here! In here!' he called.
Armando could see the feet and trousers of the paramedics descending the last rocks. They'd know what to do. They'd save him.
Thum- The pulse fell again.
'Quick! Please, come quick, he's dying!'
Thu- Fainter.
'Hey, we came as quick as we could,' said a calm male voice.
Armando turned to the side window. His eyes widened just before a bullet smashed into the middle of his face.
Romano Ivetta lowered his weapon and fired two more shots into the still-beating heart of Fredo Finelli. 9.00 a.m. Napoli En route to the Anti-Camorra Unit's HQ, Sylvia pulled over to the side of the road and took another call from the Murder Squad. This time it was one of the coordinators, Susanna Martinelli. 'Boss, Missing Persons have come back with a match on victims three and four.'
Sylvia held her breath. 'And – are they our women?'
'Yes. Yes, they are.'
Sylvia didn't know whether to feel elated or dejected. 'Go on.'
'Victim number three is Patricia Calvi. That's the nineteen-year-old student from Soccavo.'
Sylvia remembered her. Long brown hair, razor-thin eyebrows, pale brown eyes. She'd been missing almost six and a half years. 'And the other?'
Susanna read from her notes. 'Luisa Banotti, the secretary from Santa Lucia. She's been missing seven years and two months.'
Sylvia recalled the photographs. She'd looked much younger than her twenty years. Dark hair – like all the victims – but very fine and barely shoulder-length. Eyes pale blue and beautifully large, like a child's. 'Have we informed the families?'
'Not yet. We've got positive DNA matches, so now we can call them in. Do you want to be there?'
Sylvia wished she could. She hated this kind of news being delegated. 'I can't. Can you look after it? Make sure the parents have time to talk about it, don't rush them.'
'Sure. I'll be careful.'
'Thanks.' Sylvia started the engine and was about to ring off.
'Boss, one more thin
g. Bernadetta Di Lauro just rang. Can you call her back?'
Sylvia turned off the engine and took down the number. What could she want? An update? A complaint? Just someone to talk to?
Francesca's mother answered on the second ring. 'Pronto. This is Bernadetta.'
'Signora, this is Capitano Tomms. My office said you just called and asked for me.'
Francesca's mother sounded surprised. 'That's very fast. It's less than ten minutes since I rang.'
'How can I help you?'
'I hope I'm not wasting your time. You said if I remembered anything…' for a moment she struggled, 'then I should call you! Well, to be honest, there is something. Something I should have told you last time we met but I couldn't bring myself to say it.'
'Signora, whatever you say to me is in complete confidence.'
Bernadetta relaxed a little. The policewoman seemed to understand her desire not to share in public any private thoughts about her daughter.
'Grazie. It's a long time ago. And I'm not really sure if it's that important, but -'
'Please let us be the judge of the importance, Signora.'
'Okay. I think Francesca was seeing someone. A married man.'
Sylvia's investigative senses prickled. 'Do you know who he was?'
Bernadetta let out a sigh. 'No. No, I don't. Not at all. Like I told you at your office, Francesca was a very private person. She didn't talk a lot about the men in her life.'
'So why do you think she was seeing a married man?'
'There was an old film on TV, with Tony Franciosa in it. The one in which he and his wife both have a string of affairs, and I said to Francesca that she should steer clear of married men as they brought nothing but trouble. She laughed and said it was a bit too late for that. I asked her what she meant. She went shy and said she was just joking. But I don't think she was. She looked awkward that she'd said it. I tried to get her to discuss it some more but she grew quite irritated with me.'
'And the reference to too late, you now think that was because she was already pregnant?'
Bernadetta paused. 'I don't know. I torture myself by going over every word she ever said to me. Maybe I should have pushed her more. Maybe she was trying to let me in and wanted me to make her talk about it. But I couldn't. She just clammed up. I'm sorry.'
Sylvia told her not to blame herself, but she could tell her words had little effect. She thanked her for the call and drove away.
A married man and a dead, pregnant woman.
It was an interesting development. A development that at last might provide them with a motive and a link to someone.
96
9.50 a.m. Pompeii Luciano Creed was playing a waiting game. Something that irritated the hell out of freelance journalist Cassandra Morrietti. 'I have deadlines and I have bills,' she glared at him over the bad espresso she'd bought from a tourist bar near the Castellani campsite.
'Patience, Cassandra. Patience.'
Creed was backing a hunch. When he and the hack had posed as cops, old man Castellani had told them that his grandson Franco was missing. He was certain he knew why. Franco was the kidnapper and murderer they were all hunting. The photograph he'd been given by the doting grandfather showed the kid to be hideously deformed. Freaks like that don't get sex. What they do get is the urge to abduct pretty women, fuck them and then kill them because they can't risk letting them go. It was simple stuff and he was amazed King, Tomms and the rest of the carabinieri hadn't been clued up to it. Actually, he wasn't that amazed. They were all a bunch of fools and not bright enough to realize that sometimes the most obvious things were overlooked. Well, that wasn't a mistake he was going to make.
'Trust me,' he told the journalist. 'We follow the freak's cousin and he will lead us straight to the freak killer. Then all your waiting will have been worthwhile.'
Cassandra was about to argue the point, when she had to swallow both her words and the last of her espresso. 'There's our boy!' Creed nodded across the road. Paolo Falconi was heading straight towards them. 9.50 a.m. Santa Maria Eliana, centro citta, Napoli The sun seemed to bless Carmine Cicerone as nine a.m. Mass finished and he emerged from the heady smell of burning candles and the calming cool of the church. It was almost as though God had lifted the fog for a moment to show his personal approval of the Dog's decision to choose words rather than war.
God – and a truly great Tarot reading.
According to his daily Internet subscription, Gemini's moon was in conjunction with assertive Mars. A bountiful Sun-Jupiter square was in the offing, as was an imbalanced Venus-Uranus quincunx. Now was plainly not the time for rash and foolish actions.
Halfway down the double flight of stone steps that grandly spread east and west on to the pavement, he narrowly avoided bumping into two preoccupied nuns. They were in a line, hurrying in for the next service. It was one of those awkward encounters when one person moves left and so does the other, then everyone swings in the other direction at exactly the same time. 'Scusi,' he smiled politely, then stood still so they could choose whichever direction they wished.
'Grazie,' replied the smaller of the sisters at the front. Then she smiled at him. She had a lovely face. Even seemed flirtatious. Carmine had a sinful thought. He chastised himself. Seconds out of church and he was needing confession already.
The pretty nun was still staring at him when the holy sister just behind her stepped forward and shot him. The silenced bullet fizzed from beneath the Bible in her hands. Hands so big they were now clearly not female. The cough of the 45 was swallowed in the jackhammer noise of rush-hour traffic. Not a single head turned on the nearby pavement.
Carmine went down on his knees, like an opera singer centre stage in the final act. He clutched his heart and opened his mouth wide to hit the top note. The death note. His two men, waiting metres away in his limo, would have sprung to his aid, only they were both dead as well.
The holy sisters disappeared down the side of the steps and headed towards the back of the church. Twenty metres further on they slid into the shade of an alleyway, slipped off their grey habits and heavy wooden rosaries. Sister Vito Ambrossio folded everything into two white supermarket shopping bags and handed the gun to Sister Steph Muller. She pushed it deep into the front of her patched jeans and covered it with her shirt and thick jumper.
Stupid idiot, thought Vito, it was good to be finally rid of him. Valsi had promised him his own territory, half the Cicerone turf and a key position in the bigger Family. Fancy Carmine the Dog, Carmine the great business brain, not understanding how takeovers and consolidations worked.
At the end of the alleyway Steph turned left and Vito turned right. Both became invisible in the bustle and business of the rush-hour streets.
They would never meet again. As Vito vanished he started laughing. That old Dog Carmine had been right after all. You just shouldn't trust lesbians. 9.50 a.m. Pompeii Paolo Falconi had already finished most of the chores that usually lasted until lunchtime. Today he needed time on his side, time to spend with Franco. He'd shifted the overnight rubbish from outside the campers' vans and chalets and stacked the bags on a bonfire in a field, far from the campers. Since the incident in the pit, the carabinieri had blocked off their usual burning spot, so he'd had to create a new one. He'd burn everything at nightfall, when everyone was in bed – just as Franco had done.
Chores completed, he followed the first part of the route he'd taken the night before. He wasn't surprised that there was no sign of the carabinieri Skoda. The cops were probably lazy as well as clumsy. He could see the street clearly and felt confident he wasn't being watched, so he took a more direct route to the ruins. He passed a row of gift shops, cheap cafes and ice-cream bars, then headed up a side street away from the main visitors' entrance. He didn't notice Creed or Morrietti, arm in arm, fifty metres back. Minutes later he was inside the ruins, courtesy of one of several secret routes that he and Franco had used since they were kids.
School kids were already strolling down
the narrow streets, shepherded by their teachers. It didn't seem five minutes since he and Franco had been doing the same.
Paolo knew he'd find his cousin in one of three places. He struck out on the first two – the Forum Granary and the Amphitheatre, the last being where he'd seen him last night.
He rounded the south side of the ruins, near the Quadriporticus, and stuck close to the outer walls until he reached the Garden of the Fugitives. There, alongside the huddled plaster figures of the dead, was Franco.
The glass-panelled door that normally held back the viewing public had been broken open. His cousin was sitting cross-legged, leaning against the reconstructed corpse of one of the youngest of Pompeii's doomed youth. He was shoulder to shoulder with the cast of someone who'd died almost two thousand years ago. Paolo was shocked to see Franco's left sleeve was rolled up and in his lap was a syringe. He'd been unaware he'd had an extra stash of heroin. More disturbingly, in his right hand was his grand father's old gun.
His finger was wrapped around the trigger. To Franco, the world felt blurred and smeared, as though it had been wiped by a giant wet hand across the inside of his eyes. Everything was soft and slow. All the edges had gone. All his anger dissipated.
Franco Castellani felt normal.
Wonderfully normal.
How funny. Franco had heard that most people took hard drugs to make them feel great. He was more than happy just feeling normal.
Through the smears he could see his cousin moving towards him. His face looked taut and stressed.
Poor Paolo.
He wished he had an extra spike to share with him.
Even though the heroin had numbed his senses, Franco clung to the golden thread of his plans. He knew what he had to do. Those people who'd come to stare – to gawp at Pompeii and to scowl at him – would see a sight they'd never forget.
He raised the palm of his left hand in a 'stop' gesture to his cousin. Then he raised his grandfather's gun to his head.
But Paolo Falconi didn't stop. He knew what Franco intended to do, and it wasn't going to happen.
Franco forced a smile and mumbled his final message, 'Love you.' A surge of energy ran from his brain down to his hand and into his trigger finger. Like he was plugged into heaven's own generator.
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