“It seems very cloak-and-dagger,” said Chrissie.
“Yes … why have it easy when you can have it hard?” agreed Brenda.
“I do not know what that means,” said a perplexed Luigi.
“It appears a strange way to do business,” clarified Megan.
Luigi hunched his shoulders and held out his hands. “What can I say? We are Italian.” He got up. “Everyone now must rest. Tomorrow is an important day. Mama has prepared supper.”
Once again the food trolley was wheeled out and they ate, but no wine was served. It was time to keep a clear head.
The following morning was bright, inside and out. The girls had risen early, and couldn’t wait to leave the house. The sun had come out to play, and even the East End of London had a half smile on its face.
Luigi had held a final briefing over breakfast. The meeting with Del’Amoro was to be at the York Gate entrance to Regent’s Park. “He will be just inside the doorway, and not visible from Marylebone Road. You have seen his picture so you know what he looks like, but he will be wearing a wide-brimmed black fedora hat to conceal his identity. Although you did not know who he was – and I still can’t believe that – many people would recognise him. So look out for the man with the black hat.”
They had travelled by Tube, and arrived at Baker Street on the Hammersmith & City line. Chrissie had bought a Mars bar, and they were now walking down Marylebone Road towards the rendezvous. They weren’t nervous or apprehensive. Why would they be? They reached the white stone entrance and moved slowly inside. A row of pristine white buildings lay to the left, and the park entrance proper was around fifty yards away. A steady flow of tourists and locals strolled casually by, enjoying the morning sun. Everyone was in summer attire except one man in a dark suit, white dress shirt, and large black hat, which was pulled at an angle over one side of his face. And he was holding a large bag.
“Hi,” said Chrissie. “Are you Del’Amoro?”
The man put a finger across his lips, and Chrissie apologised. “I’m sorry. That was tactless, you being superfamous and all. Tell you what … for the purpose of this meeting we will call you Tarantino.”
Del’Amoro considered this, and then with the one eye that was visible, he winked. “Yes, I like that. Tarantino: very good.”
“Okay, Mr Tarantino,” continued Chrissie. “Do you have the money?”
Del’Amoro held out the bag, which Megan took from him. Then in her most sincere voice she said, “Now do you understand all the implications? And you are sure you are perfectly happy to give us this money?” She added, “Unfortunately, we can’t give you a receipt.”
Del’Amoro lifted the fedora over his forehead to let both eyes see this girl.
“Bellissima, what a captivating creature you are. And so polite.”
Del’Amoro had the look of a hungry wolf, and Megan took a step backward.
He continued, “Your hair is the colour of corn, and your skin like a priceless piece of Capo di Monte. Your face is the world, and your eyes are oceans of blue where I can rest my soul. Your …”
At this point his flowing rhetoric was interrupted by Chrissie. “Hang on, Tarantino. Save the Italian blarney for someone who’s interested.”
“I am interested,” said Megan.
“No, you’re not. We’re here to do a job, and remember what Luigi said. Once the deal is done we say ‘Thank you’, and then leave … pronto.”
Del’Amoro turned to Chrissie as if he had only just seen her. “Bellissima ragazza,” he exclaimed. “You are all so beautiful. I need to caress and embrace you. I will kiss you in the places only true lovers know exist. I will be your slave and you can take me, one after the other, night after night. We will love until our bodies cry out for nourishment, then we will snort cocaine and love again.”
Chrissie was just about to answer that when a girl’s scream made her turn. A group of foreign college students were open-mouthed. “Del’Amoro … It really is Del’Amoro.” This time they all screamed, and converged on the Italian stallion. With the mood broken and the deal done Chrissie changed the words that were about to explode, and simply said, “Thanks, Tarantino. It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Then she motioned for Brenda and Megan to follow and together they strolled back to Baker Street, several thousand euros better off.
This time they went for the Bakerloo line and stood awaiting the next train. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, Salvatore was alongside. The train arrived and the doors slid open. “Mind the gap,” said a voice from above, and hordes of tourists left the train, heading for Madame Tussaud’s and the Super Heroes 4D attractions. Without looking at him, Megan let Salvatore take the bag and then stepped aboard. The doors closed and the train launched itself away from the station.
Megan looked at Chrissie and Brenda. “That was easy,” she said.
The next meeting was to be outside the entrance to the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square. They got off the train at Piccadilly and walked down the Haymarket. When they got to the gallery they went up the steps to the entrance. The square was wall-to-wall with people but not many ventured off the beaten track, and very few seemed to be interested in art. The hot dog van was a far more popular spot.
They had been shown a picture of the plastic surgeon and sure enough, there he was – with bag in hand. The bag was identical to the one they had taken from Del’Amoro and Megan wondered if they’d come from the same shop, with the salesperson thinking it would be used for some gym equipment or hand luggage – or maybe they had asked for a bag that could conceal great big bundles of cash, and he had recommended this particular one.
This time Brenda was to do the negotiating. She approached the man – and looking left, then right, said, “Are you the man with the package?”
The surgeon looked bewildered. “Pardon?” he said.
“Are you the person who wants a piece of the cake we are offering?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“God, Brenda,” said Chrissie. “He’s not a Russian spy.” She intervened. “You are Signor Franco, yes?”
The man smiled. This he understood. “Yes, I am.”
“And you have something for us, I believe?”
“Yes, I have,” said Franco, and held out the bag. Brenda reached for it, but Franco pulled it away and handed it to Chrissie. He gave Brenda a look as if to say, ‘Go and feed the pigeons, crazy lady’. She put her hands on her hips and gave him the same look back.
Chrissie turned to go but Franco put his hand on her arm. “Is that it?” he said. “Where are my guarantees?”
Megan gulped but Chrissie was totally in charge. “Our word is our guarantee. Do you want to give us the money or not? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Yes, of course. I want you to have it,” said Franco, and let go of Chrissie’s arm.
“Well, then,” she said “That concludes our business, does it not?”
“Yes, it does,” said Franco. “Thank you.” And at that he turned and went inside the National Gallery’s coffee shop to order a cappuccino, and to calculate how many boob jobs he would have to do to get his money back.
The day was going perfectly, and as they cut through Trafalgar Square towards Charing Cross it seemed as if they were floating on a cushion of air. The pavement felt soft beneath their feet, and the people parted to let them by. It was a wonderful feeling.
Once on the platform at Charing Cross the same procedure followed. Salvatore was waiting, the drop was made, and they went on to the final meeting of the day, which was scheduled to be at a small hotel near the Barbican.
On leaving Barbican Tube station there was a marked difference in location to the first two meetings. Here it was all City gents and workers: not a tourist in sight. The streets were hectic, with everyone power-walking as if the world’s financial stability was at stake. Brenda admired the men in suits as they marched like Trojans, ready to do battle in their quest for a better world. Actually, most of t
hese men of honour were simply trying to be first to the bar at the local boozer – but, as we know, the financial sector are experts at illusion.
They arrived at the hotel, which was a typical sixties piece of architecture from the decade responsible for so many horrendous shopping arcades, high rise flats, and civic centres – concrete eyesores, whose only quality is that they are difficult to demolish.
A four-star rating was displayed over the hotel nameplate – the fourth star having been scratched away by some passing vandal or disgruntled guest. The meeting was to take place in the lobby which, at this time of day, was deserted. There was a random selection of seating by the windows, and they settled down in comfort and waited. It wasn’t long before the lift doors opened and a young priest walked towards them. He was dressed in a smart made-to-measure pinstripe suit, and if it wasn’t for the dog collar he could have easily passed for one of the Square Mile’s banking brigade.
Brenda studied the priest. There was something different about this man. She was trying to work it out when it hit her. He wasn’t carrying a bag. “We don’t take cheques,” she told herself, and scowled.
The young priest stood in front of them with hands clasped, as if in prayer. “I assume you are here for the meeting – for the exchange?” he said.
“That is correct,” said Chrissie, trying to sound officious.
“Bishop Alselinus has the money. He is waiting for you upstairs. I shall escort you to the room.”
“Hold on a minute, buster,” said Chrissie, dropping the officious tone and reverting back to hard Scouse. “You aren’t escorting us anywhere. We do the deal in the open.”
“Please,” the priest implored. “Bishop Alselinus cannot take the chance that this meeting may be overheard. Nothing is private these days. The eyes of the world are everywhere. We cannot be too careful.”
“What’s your name?” asked Megan.
“Bruno,” said the priest.
“Bruno?” shouted Chrissie. “You can’t have a priest called Bruno. That’s the name you give a dancing bear or large dog. Either your name isn’t Bruno or you’re not really a priest. Which is it?”
The priest was flustered. “I can assure you on both counts. My name truly is Bruno, and I am a novice priest based at the church of San Anton de Perrugi in the province of Milan.”
“What do you reckon?” Chrissie asked the others.
“About his name or about going upstairs?” said Megan.
“Well, we’ll give him the benefit of doubt about the name,” replied Chrissie. “What do you think about doing the meeting in his room?”
“It all seems a bit over the top,” said Brenda. “I mean, they’re only investing in a movie. It’s not as if it’s porn or anything.”
They all looked at each other.
“No, it can’t be,” said Megan. “Luigi and Mama would never be involved in anything iffy.”
“They more or less kidnapped us,” said Brenda.
“No, they didn’t,” corrected Megan. “We all agreed to come … all of us. We are here because we want to be. Now what’s the big deal about talking to a couple of priests behind closed doors? If that’s how they want it … Come on: let’s go.”
Chrissie raised her eyebrows. Megan was right. Why shouldn’t they go? You wouldn’t normally expect to do business outside park gates and art galleries. You would expect to sit down over a drink and discuss the project in detail. That is the right way to do it. This was Luigi’s fault. He was the paranoid one.
“Yes,” she said. “Lead on, Macduff.”
Surprisingly, Bruno knew this quotation and led the way. Once inside the lift each person took a corner to stand in. They still weren’t totally convinced and, although everyone was smiling, nobody wanted to turn their back on Bruno.
There were six floors. They exited at number five, took a left and a right, and then halfway down the corridor Bruno knocked on room number 521. The door was opened by an elderly grey-haired gentleman in purple biretta headgear and long flowing red chimere gown. This gown signified Bishop Alselinus as chief proclaimer and defender of the faith, and commanded respect.
The bishop beckoned them in and motioned them, with a papal gesture of the hand, to be seated. Brenda and Megan sat on a two-seater couch by the window, where dated lace curtains gently swayed with the current from the air-con. Chrissie sat on the typical chair by the desk cum dressing table and Bruno perched on the side of the king-sized bed.
Bishop Alselinus stayed where he was, as if ready to conduct afternoon mass. His rotund belly protruded from his gown, and he clasped his hands and rested them on the swelling.
“This is an unseemly business,” he said.
The girls looked at each other. “Is it?” asked Chrissie.
“Yes, it is,” confirmed the bishop. “Very unsavoury.”
Chrissie looked away. He had an enlightened appearance, and they suddenly felt like the villains in this piece of theatre.
“The church and its works cross many boundaries,” he said, and paused to let them digest this statement. “We help the people, but we also need to involve ourselves with the structure of society. We assist governments and organisations – and sometimes we require a little help from them, do you understand?”
“No, not really,” said Brenda, who was the only one who hadn’t diverted her eyes away from him.
“You are not here to judge us,” said the bishop.
“No, of course not. Whatever you do with your money is your business,” she replied. “But we are here to pick up the investment.”
“But only if you are happy to give it,” added Megan, still looking at the floor.
“It isn’t a question of what I’m happy to give,” said the bishop. “It’s about right and wrong. The church sometimes strays from the path but we still know where we are going, and we are always drawn to the light … but you … you are going to hell.”
The bishop’s face contorted. The benign little priest was turning into Mr Hyde. He began to spit out his words. “Do you think you can manipulate the church? You are stupid imbeciles.” And, before they could comprehend this sudden change of character and reply, Bishop Alselinus had produced a gun and was waving it in front of their faces.
“Hey, Bishop! There’s no need for that,” said Chrissie, now fully alert. “If you don’t want to give us the money, that’s fine. Keep it.”
“Oh, I am keeping it,” he growled.
“Good. That’s it, then. We’ll be on our way,” and Chrissie started to get up.
“Sit down,” shouted the manic street preacher. “I’ll tell you when you can leave. Now where is the information?”
“What information?” asked Megan
“The information you have. I believe it is on a portable computer.”
“We don’t have a computer,” replied Megan truthfully.
“Do not lie,” shouted Bishop Alselinus, his robes quivering from the burning rage inside.
“He means the USB data stick,” said Brenda.
He pointed the gun at Brenda’s face. “Yes, I have heard it called that. Where is it? You need to give it to me. Now.”
“We don’t have it with us,” intervened Chrissie, trying to get the crazy man to take the gun away from Brenda’s head.
“Then where is it? Is it near?”
“I can’t tell you where it is, but I can go and get it,” said Chrissie.
The bishop thought for a moment. “You can go, but they stay.” He motioned at Brenda and Megan with the gun. “If you’re not back in one hour I will kill her.” He stabbed the barrel of the gun at Brenda. “And one hour later, I kill the other one.”
Chrissie stood up slowly, with her hands held high. She edged her way sideways past the bishop. With their bodies almost touching, he put his twisted face across from her. She could taste the garlic and stale coffee on his breath as he whispered, “No tricks, or your friends are just a memory.”
He grinned … and Chrissie headbutted him ri
ght on the bridge of the nose. His whole body shot backward against the wall, and then he crumpled to the floor. Chrissie had the gun before Bruno knew what had happened, and now she was telling him to lie on the floor. Brenda and Megan leapt from the couch and the three of them ran to the door. In the open closet space just inside the doorway a couple of coats were hanging up and below them, next to a pair of shoes, was a black bag. It was the same bag as Del’Amoro and Doctor Franco had brought. Brenda saw it first, and as they filed out of the room she grabbed it.
Halfway down the corridor they tried to regain some sort of composure. Chrissie realised she still held the gun high in the air, her silhouette like the opening scene from a James Bond film. They stopped for a second, and Brenda unzipped the bag. Sure enough, it was stashed with bundles of cash. Chrissie threw the gun on top of the money, and Brenda pulled the zip back.
They took the stairs, bounding down each flight, and then walked slowly across the hotel lobby until they smelt the diesel fumes of the city once again and tumbled out on to the safe streets of London. They took a few long deep breaths while trying to relax and decide on the next move.
Then Brenda felt something hard at the base of her spine. She was about to turn when a voice said, “That priest is crazy, yes? I knew he wouldn’t be able to pull it off, but he insisted. More importantly, what you feel in your back is a .22 handgun with silencer. If you do not do what I say I will kill you – right here, right now. We know you have the data stick. Do you have it with you?”
“No,” said Brenda.
“Then we will get a taxi and go get it. If you try and alert the taxi driver or anyone else, I will kill you.”
Then he spotted a black cab and held out his arm. The taxi stopped and he told the girls to get in. Chrissie and Megan went first and, as Brenda was following with the gun still pressed against her spine, they then heard Bruno’s voice.
“You may kill her, but then I will most certainly kill you.”
See Naples and Die Page 4