The two menacing foot soldiers, Mario and Lorenzo, were enforcers. They weren’t silent assassins, and they weren’t subtle. Their job was to display the violent power and retribution of the Scarpone family. After thirty minutes of lounging around and giving Fabio the odd evil stare they began to patrol the grounds. Fabio watched and counted, timing each circuit. They went in different directions, and at only one point were they both out of sight. Fabio checked and double-checked. It was always the same. During each circuit there was just one time when both henchmen were out of his vision … and it was for exactly two minutes.
The cook had cleared away the coffee cups and antipasti, then made himself a coffee laced with Jack Daniels – and was now in the living room watching highlights of Napoli versus Sampdoria in the fourth round of the Coppa Italia. Fabio knew it was now or never. He saw Mario and then Lorenzo disappear, and he jumped from his chair like a thousand ants had attacked his scrotum.
He ran to the end of the kitchen and into a darkened study, where a huge roll-top desk and cream leather executive chair dominated the space. A narrow bookcase against the far wall and a painting of the Last Supper completed the furnishings. Fabio leapt towards the painting and removed it. Behind was a small safe. He pulled a pencil torch from his jacket and, holding it with his teeth, he turned the dial on the safe. Every turn produced a clicking noise that sounded to Fabio like hammers banging a steel drum. Then, six numbers later, it was done.
He tugged the thick metal door open. Inside were a few hundred thousand euros, several gold signet rings … and there, at the back of everything, a red USB data stick. Fabio ignored the money and the gold and gripped the USB. He closed the safe and locked it. He replaced the painting, making sure it was straight, and ran back towards the kitchen.
As he neared the door his foot hit the upturned lip of the shagpile rug and he fell, face first, to the floor. His forehead missed the open door by two centimetres. In attempting to break the fall he had opened his hand, palm forward, and dropped the data stick. His head hit the floor, and for a few moments he saw stars. Then his vision cleared and he gathered his thoughts, while looking left and right for the USB. But it was nowhere to be seen.
Fabio didn’t panic. He thought logically. He lifted the edge of the rug and there it was. He grabbed it, stood up, thrust the USB into his trouser pocket, and bolted into the kitchen. He threw himself into the cushioned dining chair, blinked twice … and one second later Mario appeared at the window. He gave Fabio the evil stare again, and then his pal Lorenzo also came into view. They each lit a cigarette and started a casual conversation, probably about who they were going to maim next.
Fabio sat perfectly still for around fifteen minutes, fighting his heart rate and trying to control his breathing. He counted to ten, over and over, until eventually he felt relaxed enough to make another cup of coffee. He poked his head into the living room and asked the cook if he would like anything. The cook was still immersed in the game of football, and ignored Fabio. Then five seconds later, when the penny dropped, he shouted,
“You only make coffee. Nothing else. And clean up after yourself.”
“Okay,” replied Fabio.
With one hand holding the coffee cup and the other hand clamped over the USB stick he felt like a driver approaching a border checkpoint with a kilo of heroin in the glove compartment. He was sure someone was going to ask him to empty his pockets, but he had to stay in full view – and calm – until it was the right time to leave. Mario and Lorenzo were once more at the window, and Fabio lifted his coffee cup and mimed,
“Would you like a drink?” Amazingly they said “Yes”, with the evil Lorenzo even managing a smile.
Fabio had to play it with the utmost normality. He didn’t want to hurry away. He would sit and wait for Zico to return and would then, as always, ask permission to leave. This way no one would suspect anything untoward. Sooner or later they would discover the missing memory stick but, hopefully, by then he would be just one of many people in the frame. They would question him, of course, and he would play the village idiot card to perfection.
The Coppa Italia game had finished, with Napoli winning with a goal in the final seconds of injury time. The cook was ecstatic, and breezed back into the kitchen in excellent mood. He kissed Fabio on the top of the head, and then proceeded with gusto to make a mountain of ravioli.
Finally he heard the crushing of gravel on the driveway, which signalled the return of the Scarpones. Zico and his men settled themselves in the lounge, and shouted for the cook to serve drinks. They seemed engrossed in some sort of victorious eulogy, and it was a good time for Fabio to seek his exit. He asked permission from Zico, who simply waved his hand to dismiss the boy.
Fabio the runner went outside and mounted his Piaggio Vespa scooter, and drove away from the villa. Once around the first bend and out of sight he pulled the throttle as hard as he could, and the Vespa screamed. His heart was beating faster that the pounding piston, and he just wanted to be as far away from Zico Scarpone as possible.
Fifteen minutes later he was entering the inner city of Naples, with the first part of the plan completed. Fabio went directly home, which was a one-bedroom apartment in one of the older and more run-down areas of the city. Only one level above slum category, it was crowded with vermin and people and – mostly – it was hard to tell one from the other. He threw off his jacket, opened a bottle of cold beer, and flopped into the padded armchair his mother had given to him. The fabric on the arms was completely worn away and two of the castors fell off if you tried to move it, but it was a gift from his mother to help start a new life on his own and he cherished it. He finished the beer and got up to get another one, and glanced out of the open window as he passed.
And then he was suddenly rooted to the spot. His heart had dropped from his body, and his stomach muscles pulled as tight as the noose on a hangman’s rope. Outside, Mario and Lorenzo were getting out of a black sedan.
How could they have discovered the missing memory stick so soon? It must have only been minutes from his leaving the villa, and that put him as number one – out of one – prime suspect. He grabbed his jacket and ran from the room. Outside, at the end of the corridor, there was an emergency exit – and Fabio fled through the aluminium door and on to the fire escape, hurtling down each level like a man possessed.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. How could it go so wrong? Fabio was now a dead man walking. He thought of throwing the USB stick into the nearest trash bin, but that wouldn’t help. He had to try and get it to his accomplice, as per the original plan. By running through narrow streets and alleyways he made his way to the general post office on the plaza. He needed to mail the USB, and maybe then he would at least have something to bargain with. He could see the corner of the post office building, and as he neared it a couple of Scarpone henchmen came into view. Fabio swiftly turned into another side street and ran faster. Had they seen him? He didn’t think so but they had cut off his route and now he was trapped, like a rabbit in a field of foxes.
He turned left into a main street. It was market day, and hundreds of stalls filled the street and pavement. Maybe here he could disappear. No one could see beyond the first few heads in front of them. He mingled and went with the flow of bodies. The contact of other people was a comfort and, as a part of the market day throng, he made his way up the street. It was the same system as the Italian road network – overcrowded and chaotic, with an equal mix of aggression and tolerance – but it was all part of the Italian character, and it worked for them.
Fabio kept his head down and watched his feet moving in slow motion. He was trying desperately to clear his head, and to see if there was any way out of this. He had to forget about mailing the USB: it would be madness to try and reach the post office building. His only chance was to find a place to hide. But who would give him refuge when they knew he was being pursued by the Scarpones?
The family in front of him had stopped, and Fabio lifted his h
ead slightly. They were browsing through items on a market stall. The stall was selling pictures, paintings, and sculptures, and the goods looked to be of reasonable quality – an unusual occurrence among the general bric-a-brac around on market day.
In front of Fabio and the Italian family were three English girls. Chrissie McGuire, Brenda Smith, and Megan Penhaligon had just negotiated a deal for a Roman sculpture. The stallholder was shaking Chrissie’s hand, and then he gave her a pen and paper to write her name and address for where she wanted the sculpture to be delivered. It was heavy, and there was no way they could take it back with them. The shipping price was okay, and they only had to leave a small deposit. It was cash on delivery, so they were comfortable with that, and everyone agreed – including the stallholder – that it would look great at the side of their fireplace.
The people in front of Fabio were moving on, and he kept with them, when – to his horror, only three stalls away, and approaching him – were Mario and Lorenzo. Fabio had to dispose of the USB. If he dropped it then they would more than likely search and find it. He was even thinking of trying to swallow it when, as he passed Chrissie, he noticed her half-open shoulder bag. She was paying the deposit, and had left the bag partially open. Fabio dropped the memory stick into the bag. He stopped for the briefest of moments, and read the address Chrissie had just written. His English was pretty good, but he couldn’t make out the name of the street. All he got was Chrissie McGuire, Liverpool, England … then he moved quickly away from the girls. Mario had seen him so Fabio walked directly towards the enforcer, trying to act as casually as was possible in the circumstances.
“Hello, guys. You doing some shopping?” he said, smiling.
Mario punched him in the stomach and, before his body could double up in pain, Lorenzo grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up. Then they marched him away by the scruff of the neck, like some naughty schoolboy. Two other henchmen surrounded the stall, and started to move people aside while they searched the ground.
Chrissie put her money back in the bag and zipped it up. They gave the black-suited guys a quizzical glance and moved away. She was pleased with the deal for the sculpture, and they all decided this was the time to stop shopping: quit while you’re ahead. Gino was waiting outside a cafe bar at the entrance to the market area, and they made their way back to him. They had only known Gino for a few hours, but his smile welcomed them back like long-lost friends. They sat outside the bar and drank Peroni. It was cool and refreshing, and they watched the people of Naples passing by.
An hour later they were back on the quayside. Gino gave his address, and they promised him faithfully that they would send a photo of them all together with a signed recommendation. One last round of kisses and then they walked to the boarding gate, showed their passes, and went back on board the ship. It had been a good day.
Once back in the cabin they kicked off their shoes, and then took turns to shower. This was the last stop on the cruise … no more tours, no more sightseeing, no need any more for the comfortable footwear and beach bags. Chrissie opened her shoulder bag and took out her purse. Nothing else in there mattered for now so she closed the bag and threw it to one side, ready to pack into the suitcase. Tonight it was the farewell dinner. Tomorrow they would depart the ship and fly home, and all this would become just a memory. Chrissie thought it a little sad that they were closing a door on Italy. She had liked it here, and was sorry to see it end. Little was she to know that this was only the beginning …
Chapter Four
The afternoon flight from Naples to Liverpool was making its descent. It was thirty minutes late, which wasn’t too bad, and overall it had been a good journey.
The plane touched down, and everyone trooped off to the carousel to reclaim their luggage. Chrissie, Brenda, and Megan took their place at the worst show in town, and watched the assorted baggage on its revolving stage. Every colour and shape of suitcase went round and round and round. Eventually, with luggage retrieved, the girls made their way to the arrival area. They were to meet their arranged taxi driver outside by the entrance to car park number 2, and were heading towards the exit when Megan touched Chrissie’s arm and motioned with her head. Chrissie followed Megan’s gaze, and saw a young man holding up a large piece of card saying, ‘Chrissie McGuire’. The girls changed direction and walked towards the man with the sign.
“Hiya,” said Chrissie.
“Ciao, beautiful ladies. You are Chrissie McGuire?”
“The one and only,” replied Chrissie.
“Another Italian … that’s a coincidence,” thought Megan.
“The car is this way,” said the Italian, and walked quickly towards the exit.
They all followed, and outside was a slightly beaten-up Mondeo estate. They were all thinking the same … “What a shit taxi – but so what? Let’s just get home.”
It was a bit of a struggle to fit the suitcases in and Brenda and Megan, who were sitting in the back, had to have all the hand luggage on their knees. Chrissie sat with the driver, who introduced himself as Salvatore.
Salvatore pointed at the airport’s name. “John Lennon: very good … The Beatles: great.” Chrissie and Brenda had switched off and weren’t even listening, but Megan thought it strange that a taxi driver would make that reference. It was as if the airport was new to Salvatore.
On leaving the perimeter they turned left towards the city centre. The girls closed their eyes and tried to relax, but Salvatore was a chatty guy. “You have been on the cruise, yes?”
“That’s right,” replied Megan, trying her best to sound polite.
“What did you think of Naples?” he enquired.
“Loved it,” said Chrissie, with eyes still closed.
“Did anything unusual happen when you were there?”
“Like what?” asked Megan.
“I don’t know,” said Salvatore. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Factory workers were lying down in the road and stopping traffic,” said Megan.
“Oh … they do that,” said Salvatore, and then seemed to concentrate on the road signs.
They drove the next three miles with their driver looking ever more anxious – and then, at the end of Aigburth Road, Salvatore carried on to Toxteth. Even Chrissie was taking notice now.
“Wouldn’t it have been better to have done a right there?”
Salvatore slapped his forehead. “I keep doing that,” he said, and slapped his forehead again, as if chastising himself for being so foolish.
After a moment of silence Salvatore said, “To be honest, I am new to driving in Liverpool. It’s probably best if you direct me to your address.”
This was followed by another moment of awkward silence, broken when Chrissie said sternly, “You’re not a taxi driver at all, are you?”
“Well … sort of,” stuttered Salvatore.
“What do you mean, ‘Sort of’? Either you are or you’re not,” said Chrissie, now beginning to get wound up.
“Well, I’m here to drive you home,” said Salvatore. “That’s sort of like a taxi driver.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Chrissie, now fully wound up. “Who the hell are you? And why did you have a sign with my name on it? Now you talk or I’ll punch you so hard you’ll wake up with John bloody Lennon.”
“Maybe we should stop the car first,” said Brenda.
“I think that is a good idea,” agreed the flustered Italian, and drew the car to a halt, leaving the engine running. He unclipped his seatbelt and turned to face the girls. Three angry faces stared back at him, with Chrissie the angriest of all.
“Okay,” said Salvatore, with his hands held up as if the girls had a gun pointing at him. “This is all going to sound very crazy. It’s a strange story and hard to explain, but I will try.” He cleared his throat. “I have a cousin in Italy. His name is Fabio, and he saw you in the market in Naples. He had a USB data stick – you know, the memory sticks? This contained very important information … and he d
ropped it into your bag, Miss Chrissie McGuire. You had written your name and address, and he remembered it. He knew you would be from the cruise ship, so he contacted me – I live in London – to intercept you at the airport. Is that what you say … intercept?”
“Yes, that’s correct, Salvatore,” said Megan, as if this was a language class.
“Never mind that,” said Chrissie, now only a few degrees below full-blown rage. “Why did he have to get shut of this memory thing so quickly? And why me?”
“There were people in the market looking for him … bad people. And you just happened to be there. He had no other choice,” said Salvatore, putting his hands up again.
“He could have stuck it up his arse,” shouted Chrissie.
“No …” said Salvatore, with an expression that portrayed discomfort. “That is where they looked first.”
“Who are they?” asked Brenda.
“You said they were bad people,” added Megan.
“The main thing is,” said Salvatore, “that you still have the USB. If you have, then we can all make a lot of money.”
“You still haven’t explained who these bad people are,” persisted Megan.
“We are making a movie,” replied Salvatore. “It is a great story and people want to steal it from us.”
“So that’s what’s on the memory stick …? The story?
“No,” said Salvatore. “We have to raise money to finance the movie. A lot of money. The information is a list of people who have been contacted and would like to invest. With this backing we can produce the film, but also our rivals would like this list so that they can raise the money first. If they get these investors on their side we will have to sell them the rights to the story … for a few olives.”
See Naples and Die Page 2