Even the sports pages had references, with football result headlines such as Wenger’s Boys Strike Gold and Sturridge Has the Midas Touch and other articles suggesting the robbers should have kidnapped Sergio Agüero, because he’s worth more than a trainload of gold and easier to move.
The television programmes were no better, and had ex-police officers explaining how the robbery could have been prevented and what needed to be done to ensure it could never happen again. The suggestions being put forward on the identities of the villains ranged from a crack team of renegade special force operatives to al-Qaeda. One so-called serious programme even suggested it could be a gang of pensioners trying to show that you are not over the hill after the age of sixty-five.
Camera crews were everywhere, interviewing any type of railway employee or passing members of the public – and financial experts were like Nostradamus, with their predictions on how this would affect future economic growth and confidence in the pound. The nation had gone gold crazy, with amateur sleuths and weird guys with metal detectors combing the country – and every police officer making sure they showed their best profile to the cameras.
In Ipswich a dog walker had spotted a patch of freshly dug earth in a clearing in the woods and he alerted the authorities, who came rushing out with picks and shovels. The chief constable and local television crew turned up and waited in breathless anticipation, but were disappointed when after only five minutes of digging a time capsule was unearthed. It had been put together and buried the previous day by the local primary school, who hoped it would lie undiscovered for a thousand years and then be found by some superintelligent future humans. Unfortunately for them it had lasted less than twenty-four hours and was lifted by a burly police sergeant with the IQ of your average gorilla and who, after opening it, left the contents on the surface to be scattered by the wind.
Angelo Tardelli was reading the newspapers while eating his poached egg and toast, still in his dressing gown and slippers. It was a routine he enjoyed most mornings. Angelo lived in a five-bedroomed house in Hampstead, North London, which was immaculately and expensively furnished. He had a Mercedes in the drive, a Range Rover Evoque for the weekends, and VIP cards for most of the top clubs and restaurants in London. Life was good for the Mafia executive.
This particular morning he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It sort of felt good to be part of the robbery that everyone was talking about – but then again, this diversion into gold bullion could jeopardise the master plan he had been assembling for the past three years. Did he wish it had never happened? He wasn’t sure. A big part of him wanted to pat Tigran Sadorian on the back and say, “Well done.” But another part of him wanted to put a knife into the Armenian’s heart. He prodded the poached egg with a slice of toast … Eeny, meeny, miny, moe …
Angelo finished his breakfast, washed the crockery, and then went for a shower. Caesar Magri would be here soon to go through the day’s duties and discuss what must be done to the Armenians. Unfortunately Zico had not deviated from his original instructions: he still wanted Tigran taught a lesson. He had insisted that four of the Armenians were to be killed as a show of force from the don, and Angelo had reluctantly agreed … but one more thing needed taking care of before that punishment was administered. The fear they’d spread with the slayings in Hackney wasn’t enough. It had initially enforced a silence among the criminal fraternity, but they obviously had short memories – or maybe stealing the gold had wound them up. Either way there was talk, and Angelo was taking his boss’s advice and letting the madman loose. Terrifying people was Tigran’s speciality, and now was the time to let him prove it. The best way to scare an army is to kill its greatest warrior, for if he can be defeated then what chance have they got? And without a leader they are all nothing but frightened individuals.
It appeared there had been murmurings from the lower classes, and Angelo had heard about Jimmy the weasel and his intended meeting with DCI Chan. But, more importantly, a leading villain by the name of Micky Fallon had been shouting from the rooftops about the Mafia and their involvement in the Breckell murders and the gold bullion theft. Micky was probably part of the team who had planned the robbery, and he was furious at what had happened. The gangster had a fearsome reputation, and he was the great warrior who Tigran must face. Yet Angelo was already thinking beyond this contest. He had a reserve plan if Tigran was beaten, and if all went well he knew they would be safe to carry on taking over bona fide businesses like the Manchester development without any accusations or dissent. They already had politicians and police officers on their payroll, and with the Armenians taking care of any problems their power base was spreading across Europe.
Angelo was enjoying the control, and was pleased with himself. He had unearthed skills that he did not know he possessed in handling everything from arranging the assassinations to chairing meetings with other criminals and legitimate companies, and supervising the accounting and cleaning of vast sums of money. He was a big cheese now, someone Zico couldn’t do without … perhaps even an equal to his Mafia don. He puffed out his chest and posed in the full-length bathroom mirror, and then his posturing was disturbed by the sound of the front door chime.
It was Caesar, and together they went into the sumptuous living room where coffee had already been prepared. Caesar was expected to arrive at 10.30, and he was never late, so the coffee pot was fresh and hot and Angelo poured drinks.
“The Armenian is going to face this Micky guy tonight,” said Angelo.
“Do you want me to go with him?” asked Caesar.
“No. He must do this alone. He has to prove himself to the don. If all goes well it may be possible for Zico to change his mind about teaching him a lesson. I will do as I’m instructed, but in this instance I don’t agree with killing the Armenians. It can only create bad blood, and we need them. That was the whole point of developing this network, plus I don’t think murder scares Tigran. He will take it all in his stride but he won’t forget, and I’ll never be able to turn my back on him again.”
“I will always watch your back,” said Caesar.
“I know you will, my friend, but we rely on Tigran to carry out our wishes – and if I can’t trust him then it doesn’t work. Zico believes retribution will bring him into line, but it will only make him more unpredictable.”
“And if the don doesn’t change his mind?” asked Caesar.
“Then I will kill four Armenians, but one of them will have to be Tigran Sadorian. I cannot let him live if we reward his efforts with treachery. Sooner or later he would have his revenge.”
“Then we will do it together and make it quick,” smiled Caesar.
“Yes, we will. We have done it many times before, you and I.”
Angelo looked thoughtful and Caesar just shrugged. “Que sera sera.”
For a while they sat as two friends do, talking about the latest news and about the old times. They discussed football and movies, and laughed about past exploits. Then Angelo went to check his emails, and there were two from Zico. The first was asking for updates and the second had attachments, which were the photos of Megan Penhaligon, Brenda Smith, and Chrissie McGuire. The JPEGs were accompanied by a few pages of personal details on each girl, and Angelo printed everything out. He studied the photos and then put them into an envelope. He was meeting one of their police informers this evening, and he would pass it on. The girls had to be found. He didn’t know about the memory stick, but it was enough that Zico had made it top priority. Angelo had a reputation for getting the job done, and he wasn’t about to let his boss down.
He’d booked a table at his favourite restaurant for 9.30 p.m., and there he would dine alone with only his own thoughts for company. At the same time Tigran Sadorian would be confronting Micky Fallon, and by the end of his meal it would all be over one way or the other. Then he would meet outside the restaurant with the police informer and pass over the details and photographs of the girls.
“Find them, but
do not harm them,” were Zico’s orders. “They have something we need,” he had said. “Once you have them you call me straight away, day or night, and I will tell you what we are looking for. You extract this information and then you kill them all, making sure you leave our mark. There is to be no ambiguity. Everyone needs to know that this was a Mafia hit.”
Then Angelo returned to Caesar. He had chores for him to complete, and he had telephone calls to do before the end of the day. They had another cup of coffee and then both men went about their duties … A Mafia man’s work is never done.
Chapter Twenty
At 9.30 precisely Angelo entered the restaurant, with the owner welcoming him like a favourite son and personally escorting him to his usual table. The wine waiter came over and, before taking the order, exchanged pleasantries with genuine goodwill. Angelo felt comfortable here. They knew and respected him … and the food was excellent.
This evening he was in no hurry. There was a lot unfurling across the city, and Mr Mafia didn’t want to think about it. He was going to enjoy the wine and then order a fillet steak Rossini with a selection of vegetables and eat slowly, savouring each mouthful. It didn’t really matter if Tigran was successful or not – he was going to die, anyway – but it would save him a job if the London criminals could be silenced tonight. Once again he regretted having to take such drastic measures with the Armenian.
He recollected their first meeting in the back of a truck, with Tigran emerging from beneath the floor with murder on his hands already. He was a bloodthirsty sonofabitch but in Angelo’s world that was an asset, and although he could be infuriating with his total lack of interest it was something Angelo had got used to. There was lots not to like about Tigran Sadorian but the main thing was, like Angelo, he always got the job done. He sipped his wine and gazed reflectively at the waiters in their immaculate white shirts and waistcoats, their smiles as wide as the Thames. Their professionalism and their personalities were a joy to behold, and it made him proud to be Italian. The lobster bisque soup arrived, and he took a drink of water to clean the palate and put his napkin on his knee. He picked up the huge soup spoon and as it dipped into the bowl and he smelt the flavours rise he relaxed, and put all previous thoughts to the back of his mind.
The bar at the Bricklayers Arms was busy. It was Friday night, and an array of London’s villains mulled around. Mostly they were second-tier criminals, burglars, receivers, car thieves, and the like, who grouped together in their plotting … but one man sat at the end of the bar and everyone gave him his space.
Micky Fallon loved to fight, and he never lost. Not against other hard men, martial arts experts, or men twice his size. He was quick and he was lethal, and no one wanted the kind of trouble he brought to the table. Like most violent men he had the proverbial number one haircut and broken nose but beyond that he was a debonair type, who always dressed well and expensively. He had a thunderous temper and could turn on anyone if the mood took him, which was why he drank alone.
Micky did his own thing. He had form for armed robbery, and he had two Old Bailey murder trials that had collapsed when the witnesses changed their stories at the eleventh hour – and against all the evidence the jury had declared not guilty verdicts. He worked wherever he wanted to, and although he had to deal with the London gangs he owed no allegiance to any of them. He was a man you didn’t cross, and even the most hardened criminals let him get on with it.
He was London Irish and not backward in going forward. He said what was on his mind, and for the past two days he’d let it be known that everyone knew who’d done the gold bullion job and those bloody Mafia bastards were due a good seeing-to. He was stirring things up and he didn’t care.
There were around eighty people in the pub, and the drink and banter was flowing like party time at the house in The Great Gatsby. No one noticed the large man in the hoodie entering, nor the six men who followed. They pushed gently through the throng and made their way towards the end of the bar, where Micky Fallon sat checking messages on his phone.
Once alongside Micky the large man produced a revolver, which he raised and shot once into the ceiling. White plaster fluttered down like snowflakes, and everyone stopped what they were doing and fell silent. Micky Fallon spun around on his chair and found he was looking down the barrel of a gun.
The man with the gun dropped the hood surrounding his face and spoke in broken English. “You seem to have a lot to say about the Mafiosi, my friend.”
Micky showed no fear. He knew this was the man who had killed Harry Hastings, from the stories he’d heard, and he was glad to be facing him. This was the sort of confrontation he thrived on, and he stepped off the bar stool and faced the gun.
“I’m not your friend, and if you’re going to shoot me then you’d better get it done or else I’m going to rip your fucking head off.”
As he spoke the last word he made a lunge for the gun. Tigran sidestepped and smacked him on the side of the head, and Micky fell to the floor. The other Armenians formed a circle by pushing the crowd back until they had created a boxing ring-sized space. Like a wounded panther Micky jumped up and went on the attack. He rained blows on the Armenian, who blocked them with his forearms – and then kicked Micky in the stomach, which sent him once more to the floor.
Tigran threw the gun to one of the other Armenians, and produced his hunting knife. He watched and waited until Micky bounced up again, and this time Micky also had a knife. The two men made a sequence of slashing swipes then came together in a deadly embrace, each one holding the other’s knife hand. They swung around in a manic waltz of death, with Micky grunting obscenities and Tigran snarling like a cornered wolf.
The watching crowd were jostling for the best view. Some of them were standing on chairs and tables, eager to get a bird’s eye view of this gladiatorial contest, but all the time remaining silent and in fear of the Armenian guards who aimed Uzi automatics at them.
Micky headbutted his adversary, and at the same time brought his knee up savagely into the Armenian’s groin. This dual attack sapped Tigran’s strength for a split second, and that was enough for Micky to drag his knife away and plunge it into Tigran’s chest. The Armenian roared, and with a fist as solid as a wrecking ball punched the Londoner in the face. Micky had never been hit as hard and fell back, leaving the knife still protruding from Tigran’s shirt.
Micky made a grab for the knife handle, but Tigran slashed his wrist. Blood sprayed over them both and Micky took a step backward. Even with a severed hand he still made another rush, grabbed Tigran by the throat, and tried with his good hand to put enough pressure on to choke his assailant. But Tigran was in control now, and stabbed him twice just above the kidneys. Micky’s grip lessened and his head fell back. Tigran pushed him to the floor, and it was all over.
The crowd looked on in awe as the Armenian pulled the knife from his chest and hurled it across the bar. Then he took his own knife and cut out Micky’s tongue, stabbed the piece of bloodied meat, and held it aloft.
“My name is Tigran Sadorian,” he said. “I want you all to know my name, and never forget it. But you will never speak my name, and if anyone does then they should know that I will come for them … Once these words have left your mouth you become a dead man.”
Then he walked to the door, and the entire crowd bowed their heads and parted. The other Armenians put away their weapons, as they were no longer required. The sheer terror of Tigran Sadorian had consumed the room. By the next morning this fear would have spread throughout the entire criminal world, and was a far more powerful deterrent than any gun.
Angelo Tardelli had enjoyed his evening. He felt satisfied within, his cheeks were flush with wine, and his taste buds tingled from the flavours of the food. Now, as he sat with the table cleared and the last glass of wine in his hand, he allowed himself to once again consider the outcome of Tigran and Micky Fallon’s showdown. His money would always be on the Armenian, and he was trying to find the right words to try and ch
ange Zico’s mind about the planned reprisals. It really didn’t make sense and he had to admit that, although he was totally loyal to the Scarpones – and he was – Zico’s judgement wasn’t always the best, and had caused many problems over the years. He knew that killing the four Armenians was a bad call, and would only lead to further confrontations that didn’t need to be. For the first time in his life he was seriously thinking of disobeying an order from the don.
He paid the bill, and again the owner came over personally and thanked him profusely for his custom. They shook hands, and Angelo stepped into the street. This was where he would rendezvous with their police informer. He would stand outside the restaurant enjoying a cigarette, and the man would pass and drop something. Angelo would bend down to pick up the object and then stand and hand him the envelope, and that would be it. Then hopefully the next day they would have a lead on finding these girls.
It was a balmy summer evening, and Angelo was dressed casually. His sports jacket was open and his Moschino shirt was unbuttoned. He lit a cigarette and once again his mind wondered to Tigran Sadorian, and he found himself willing the night to have been a success. Tigran needed someone on his side, and Angelo had decided that he would be that person. He truly felt that together they were going places. He would definitely fight the Armenian’s case, and one day they may even become friends.
He saw someone approaching, and although they had their coat collar pulled high he could tell it wasn’t the person he normally met and so he continued to look ahead. As the stranger passed he banged harshly into Angelo and then walked on.
“Fucking stronzo,” yelled the Italian and made to follow the man. But his legs didn’t want to move, and a sudden harsh pain shot up his back. He saw the man drop a long shiny object and he felt his shirt. It was wet and his hands were bloodied. His strength had gone and he was about to collapse, when through the mist that was descending he saw a face he knew well. The man had returned and spat at the Italian. “You are the fucking stronzo,” he said, and then the world turned black and Angelo Tardelli fell to the floor.
See Naples and Die Page 15