The man looked stunned, and Bruno quickly reached across and took the gun from him. He pushed the man to one side and leapt into the taxi after Brenda, then casually said to the driver, “Leicester Square, please.”
As the taxi pulled away their assailant pressed his face against the window. It was an evil face, and was instantly and forever etched into their memory. They hoped they would never see that face again, but knew that wish could never come true. Sooner or later they would have to confront this man again, and accept the consequences of whatever they were involved in.
Once the taxi turned into Moorgate Bruno changed the destination from Leicester Square to Camden Town. He knew the gunman probably overheard the first instructions, and this was buying them some time. The taxi dropped them off at Camden Lock, and they followed Bruno to a bar overlooking the market. The sun was still high in the sky and virtually everyone was sitting outside, watching the New Age hippies and retro punks who favour this part of London.
The girls went inside and sat in the darkest corner booth available while Bruno went for drinks. No one had spoken since they had entered the taxi. Each one of them, including Bruno, had a hundred and one questions to ask – but somehow it seemed difficult to begin. Bruno returned and handed out the drinks.
“Thanks, Bruno,” said Megan
“That’s okay.”
“No … I mean thanks for saving our lives.”
“That is okay also,” he said. “But we do need to talk about that.”
“Yes, we certainly do,” said Chrissie. “What exactly are we caught up in?”
Bruno took a long sip from his glass of water and shuddered, as if it was neat gin. He began, “I don’t know what you believe you are doing, but from what you were saying to Bishop Alselinus it seems you thought he was investing money.”
“In a movie,” said Megan.
“And what do you know about a USB data stick?” asked Bruno.
Megan’s innocent eyes were tearful. “Only that it’s got details of possible investors on it,” she said.
Bruno leant into the table. “You weren’t asking the church to invest. You were blackmailing us into buying your silence. The USB stick was stolen from a Mafia family. It contains information on many people who are in league with them in one way or another … people who are taking bribes, people who have asked for favours to further their careers, or people who needed men of violence to commit acts on their behalf. All these people now owe the family, and the full extent of their dealings is on that small data stick.”
Bruno pulled his chair back so that he could view all three girls. “You, or whoever put you up to this, must have a death wish. You stole from the Scarpone family, and compounded that by blackmailing their clients – the very people who pay the family to protect them. This is reason enough for the Scarpones to want to kill you ten times over, but it is understood that the USB contains much more than contacts and financial transactions. It lists many of their criminal activities in detail and this is enough to send them to prison forever, or to destroy them if it fell into the hands of their enemies. They must retrieve this data, and no one must survive. Retribution will be bloody and brutal.”
Chrissie was still trying to be positive. “So how do we get out of this, Bruno?”
Bruno took another long drink. “We can’t. There is nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. We are all dead now.”
“What if we go to the police?” said Brenda.
Bruno shook his head. “The police cannot protect us.”
“Then what if we give them the data stick back? Tell them it was all a mistake, and that we’re sorry.”
“They will not let you live. They won’t even let you die quickly,” he said.
“That’s not an option, anyway,” said Chrissie. “We don’t have the damned thing. That bastard Luigi has it.”
“No, he hasn’t,” said Brenda, and unbuttoned a pocket in the side of her skirt. She held up the USB. “I told you I was hanging on to this. I took it from Luigi’s room before we left the house.”
“But we still can’t give it back or take it to the police. So what good is it?” said Megan.
Bruno’s eyes opened wide, as if he’d seen a vision. “I have an idea,” he said. “Maybe there is a way out of this.”
“And what’s that?” they all asked at once.
“Firstly, we need to find refuge.” He pointed at the bag they had taken from the bishop. “We are not short of money, so we buy some clothes and check into a good hotel … Then I need to make some phone calls.”
Chapter Seven
It was late morning in Naples, and a fleet of black Mercedes cars was filing into the grounds of the Scarpone villa. Once a year the three Naples clans met to discuss new ventures, squabble over territory, air any grievances, and somehow – albeit on a constant knife edge – maintain peaceful relations.
Sometimes it was about strength in numbers, especially when combating threats from other northern clans or the southern Mafiosi – but the simmering local rivalry burnt deep and every few years there was an explosion like an eruption from Vesuvius, and the families went to war.
Peace had reigned for the past twelve years, and in that time Zico Scarpone had grown older, greedier, more untrustworthy, and psychotic. He was a large, overweight man but he could still move like a sprinter over short distances – and his momentum, if on the attack, was hard to stop. He had a big round face with piggy eyes and a Hitler moustache, and his completely bald head had a large dent in one side – a memento from a battle with a rival family in Rome, when only a young man.
Zico was now forty-eight years old, and he had a fixation about turning fifty. He had grandiose ideas, most of them bordering on lunacy, and was intent on bringing all these mad plans to fruition in the next two years.
One of his schemes was to spread the family’s web of terror into other countries, mainly France and England. This had been tried before and it had always failed – mostly because these countries don’t have much of an Italian network, and the first step in building any power base is to control the people. Also, these countries have plenty of criminals of their own – and they are well prepared to fight to hold on to their territory. But the main reason these forays abroad always fail is that you are sending people with passports and ID through the system. You can send over an army of gangsters, but they are immediately known to the authorities. They are tracked by customs, the police, MI5, Interpol, and the antiterrorist squad. They can easily be rounded up and, even if not charged with anything, are sent back home as undesirables. You can’t bribe everyone, and you can’t build a base for criminal activity when your every movement is being watched.
But Zico had a solution. He knew illegal immigrants were flooding into England, and once they made it into the country most simply disappeared. They are the unknown population, and the authorities can’t trace someone who doesn’t exist.
The Mafia had made their reputation as assassins, but did it have to be a Sicilian doing the deed? For months Zico had been placing illegal mercenaries throughout Europe. He had a vision of hundreds of individual groups under his control who were ready to murder at will and then disappear back into the shadows, and who would strike fear into the law and the unlawful. His family was providing accommodation and financing their lifestyles, and in return they were his underground army. Mostly Chechens and Armenians, they were armed and they were dangerous. This was the first part of his grand plan. The second part was to massacre the other two Naples families.
But today Zico was mine host, welcoming the Capecchis and the Viallis. Eighteen people in all sat around the walnut dining table – six from each organisation. These were mostly direct family, as well as a few important generals – plus each family had one bodyguard. These men were tough and skilled in hand-to-hand fighting and killing. On glancing around the table it was easy to see which three men they were.
The grandfather clock chimed twelve noon. This was the signal for the meeting to
begin. Zico thanked everyone for coming and then gave a rousing speech about the successes of the alliance, and the respect the Naples families commanded throughout all Italia.
The Capecchis and the Viallis had picked up snippets of intelligence that suggested Zico was involved in something big but they had no idea what that might be, and they knew nothing of the Armenian connection or of his megalomaniac expansion plans. They didn’t trust him an inch, but they were also blindly unaware how close he was to picking a day for their executions. Zico was racing ahead on all fronts, and nothing was going to stand in his way.
Some small matters were discussed concerning the Capecchis. One item was an issue over a Scarpone wise guy who had stabbed one of their employees to death in a fight over a woman. Zico had said there was no call for punishment. If the fight had been over a business matter then the man would be disciplined, but over a woman … what can you do? It could happen to anyone. Case dismissed.
There was one final matter the Capecchis wanted to bring up. One of their runners, a boy named Fabio, had visited Zico a few days ago and had not been seen since. Alfonso Capecchi asked Zico outright, “Is there anything we need to know?”
Zico stuck out his bottom lip and thought for a moment. “Do you mean the simple-minded one? I do recall seeing him here … and then he left. Who knows where? I am not his keeper.”
Zico then fixed his empty, dark eyes on Alfonso and, like a Wild West gunslinger, waited for a reply. Alfonso backed down. “No matter. He will probably turn up in a day or two.”
“Yes,” said a grinning Zico. In his mind this confirmed the Capecchis weren’t involved in the theft of the USB, or they wouldn’t have brought this up. Fabio was working alone, which was the story he had repeated as they tortured him to death.
“Now …any more business?”
On the opposite side of the table sat Roberto Vialli. Roberto was thirty-eight years old, and the head of the Vialli family. His father had been killed in the last family war and, although it was never proven, it was widely recognised that Zico Scarpone was responsible. Roberto was thrown in at the deep end and had to grow up quickly, but over the years he had proved his worth in business dealings and gang warfare.
Zico hated the young Vialli, and the feeling was mutual. It didn’t help that Roberto was tall, dark, handsome, and articulate, whereas Zico was … well, he was a big bad thug with the personality of a baboon with toothache.
Roberto stood up to address the delegates, but he spoke directly at Zico. “For the past seven years we have had an agreement on the amounts of hijacking, kidnapping, and contraband that all of us are permitted. We agreed it’s like fishing the bay. If we overfish then we affect our future livelihood. We know the levels that are acceptable, and the officials we pay to turn the other way are also comfortable with this. But recently the Scarpones have been taking more. The loads from the port are being targeted too frequently. There are more drugs on the streets, and protection prices have been increased. It’s almost as if the Scarpone family needs the money. Now why would that be?”
Roberto and Zico were eyeballing each other. Zico was fuming, but he knew that Roberto was made of sterner stuff than Alfonso Capecchi and he would not back down.
“Roberto, my friend,” said Zico. “I am glad you have brought this to my attention. It is an oversight that will be corrected. I promise the guidelines will be adhered to from now on.”
But Roberto wasn’t going to let it go that easily. “A lot of money seems to be going through these walls, Zico. Are you funding a venture that excludes the rest of us?”
Zico banged his fist on the table with a force that would have broken a man in half. “And what if I am?” he raged.
Roberto wasn’t fazed by Zico’s anger. “You can of course do anything you like, but not at the expense of the other families. Overfishing will have consequences for us all.”
“Enough of the fishing,” shouted Zico. “I have told you that this was an error, and that you have my word it will be taken care of. Now if you don’t want to accept my word and you disrespect me in front of my colleagues and family, then we must take this matter away from the table and let it be decided between your family and mine.”
This was a challenge, and although Roberto wasn’t afraid he knew that the Viallis were no match for Zico’s organisation. For the moment he would have to eat humble pie.
“I accept your word, Zico,” he said, “and apologise if I was too forward. I did not mean any disrespect. It’s only business. That’s why we have these meetings.”
Roberto had turned the issue back into being about business, and Zico knew if he pursued his threat then Roberto would have the backing of the Capecchis – and together they would be an equal match for his men. He smiled and held out his hands.
“No matter,” he thought. “I’m going to kill you all very soon, anyway.” But he didn’t reveal his thoughts out loud. “If that concludes our business, then please … we have food and wine in the gardens,” and he led the way out of the room, everyone following in single file as if they were leaving a chapel of rest.
Roberto waited until he was last in line. Although he was outwardly calm, inside he was burning up. He wanted more than anything to bring down Zico Scarpone, but he had no idea of how that could be achieved. He walked slowly, taking deep breaths to calm his pumping heart. Then he felt his phone vibrate. It had been put on ‘silent’ during the meeting and he didn’t really feel like taking the call, but then thought, “Why not?” It would give him a little more time to compose himself before having to eat and drink with that bastard Scarpone.
He answered the phone and waited. It seemed that no one was there, and he was about to hit the ‘end of call’ button when a timid voice said, “Is that Roberto Vialli?”
“Yes,” said Roberto impatiently.
“Can anyone else hear what I am about to say?” said the caller.
“No. Speak up and get on with it,” snapped Roberto.
“Mr Vialli, my name is Bruno Angotti and I have something in my possession that can destroy the Scarpone family. Do you want to know what it is?”
Roberto edged back into the room and spoke quietly. “If this is a trap then the one thing I promise you, Bruno Angotti, is that you are a dead man. But if what you say is true then it is of interest. Call me again on this number in two hours’ time,” and he hung up.
Roberto, being logical, knew that more than likely this was a trick – but he was a great believer in fate, and he felt a warm glow inside as if a light had entered his body … and for the briefest moment he thought he saw Zico Scarpone on his way to hell.
Chapter Eight
Angelo Tardelli was born into a Mafia family and had spent his entire life in service. He had worked his way up through the ranks, never refusing an assignment, and had proved his loyalty and value many times. Now, at the age of forty-two, he was head of European operations – with London his second home, and his position in the organisation guaranteed.
At this moment he was nearing a three-storey terraced house in Wood Green, North London, where Tigran Sadorian the Armenian was eating bread and ham with three colleagues. They were eating the ham with forks, but Tigran was stabbing the chunks of meat with a six-inch hunting knife.
In the six months since they had arrived in London it was Tigran who had become the alpha male. The ones who had been smuggled into the country with him still remembered what had happened in that claustrophobic space under the floor of the truck. It was Hayk who had been their leader, and the one who had negotiated with the Italians. Tigran was a last-minute addition to their group. He was supposedly a friend of Hayk but during the journey, as they lay side by side like neatly stacked dominoes, an unearthly guttural moaning was heard – and from that moment on Hayk spoke no more. When they arrived in England they found him, cold and rigid, with asphyxiation being the probable cause. The exact truth was that Tigran had strangled him to death with one hand.
The Italians had provided sev
eral homes for the Armenians, and secrecy was paramount. They were not to leave the houses unless on a mission. If there was the slightest sign of suspicion from local people or the authorities then they were to move instantly, leaving everything and moving quickly. There were to be no items that could be found that would trace them or link them to the Mafia. They were to remain, at all times, men of mystery.
When Angelo arrived he was taken to a room on the second floor. It was a large room with a sixty-inch LCD screen and very little else. The only furniture was two armchairs facing the TV and a double mattress, complete with bedding, in the middle of the floor. The room was untidy, with clothes strewn around and empty takeaway cartons piled in a corner. Angelo took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and brushed the chair before sitting down.
“Tigran, this is a shithole,”
“It’s okay,” said Tigran.
“It’s disgusting, is what it is,” said Angelo. “For Christ’s sake tidy the goddamn place up.”
Angelo was short and stocky with a head of neatly trimmed jet-black hair, and a gold front tooth which matched the signet ring on his third finger. He had spent ten years in America working for a branch of the family in Miami, and had brought an accent back with him.
“Jeez, you could at least move the garbage,” he said, looking at the food containers. “You’re gonna get rats.”
“Then we eat the rats also,” said Tigran, with no hint of sarcasm.
Angelo studied the Armenian. He was wearing loose-fitting jogging pants and a hoodie with no vest or shirt underneath, and sandals with no socks. He was smoking a cigarette, which looked ridiculously small in his large hands – and his slightly pointed, pockmarked face gave him the features of a giant python.
Angelo realised he shouldn’t be critical. They had wanted a collection of animals, and that is exactly what they had got. These were men, but men who had learnt to live on instinct and without scruples in order to survive. The history of their people was ingrained in their psyche, and now they were becoming the hunters instead of the hunted.
See Naples and Die Page 5