He considered what had transpired. Vialli knew a lot, but he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know about the gold, and he didn’t seem to know about the assassins. It was a lot to digest for a man who had been in intensive care twenty-four hours earlier. He looked at the clock and found relief and a short-term solution. He would review what had been said later. Now it was time for tea and tablets.
Beppe and Armando had been loitering outside the ward, and now the three men left the hospital and walked towards the multi-storey car park. They pulled their sunglasses closer to their eyes and walked in silence, absorbing the English sun … not as hot as back home, but pleasant all the same. They took the lift to level two and strolled towards the black Mercedes. Armando and Beppe went to the driver and front passenger doors while Roberto stood to the rear, waiting for the door to be opened for him.
Then, as if from nowhere, they came. Four men surrounded the car, and Beppe and Armando were felled by karate blows to the temple. Roberto went for his gun, but as his fingers touched the butt of the Smith & Wesson Colt his arms were dragged behind his back and the gun remained in its holster. He heard handcuffs lock, and a white Transit van screeched to a halt. He was pushed towards the rear doors and almost fell over the prostrate Beppe, and was bundled inside. The doors slammed shut and the van drove away.
The four remaining men looked at the unconscious Italians, and one of them took out a long curved knife that could have been mistaken for a short Saracen sword. He grabbed Beppe by the hair, lifted his head, and put the knife to his throat. The muscles in his upper arm tensed and the blade shone like a shark’s tooth, primeval and deadly in its intent … and then redemption came with a sudden sharp command.
“No,” said the largest of the assailants. “Let them be.” The man with the blade didn’t question this order. He would have preferred not to leave any loose ends – mistakes like that have a habit of coming back to haunt you – but he was a professional, and did as he was told. The four jumped into another car and drove quickly away, the whole abduction having been completed in less than two minutes.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It was lunchtime at Luigi’s, and the girls were eating pizza and watching an episode of Only Fools and Horses on UK Gold. They’d seen it before, probably more than a dozen times, but it was a classic and you can’t get too much of a good thing. The room was warm, the coffee strong, and Del Boy was in full swing, with brilliant one-liners tumbling with superb comic timing. In one of those weird coincidental happenings Del Boy shouted from the television screen, “There’s someone at the door,” and at that precise second the front door burst open and they heard the frantic steps and urgent voices of Beppe and Armando, who careered into the living room and – along with Claudio and Luigi – began a mad Italian dialogue.
As usual they all spoke at the same time, with no one appearing to be listening to anyone else. Shoulders were raised and hands held up, with actions saying more than words. Even so, the girls were at a total loss as to what was going on. It was serious – they could see that – and where was Roberto? Finally the commotion subsided and the four men moved to different parts of the room, like actors in a play. The girls were looking for answers but the men were stroking their chins, as if they were four thinkers in a Greek tragedy.
Someone had to break the silence, and it had to be Chrissie. “Come on, Luigi. What’s going on? What’s happening?”
Luigi took his hand from his face, “It’s over. They have Mr Vialli.”
“Who has?” asked Megan.
“We don’t know for sure, but it’s probably the Scarpones. They were ambushed leaving the hospital. Beppe and Armando were knocked unconscious and Don Roberto has been taken.”
Chrissie began to pace the floor. In a room full of macho men she was the one with the coolest head. “If it was Zico’s men then why didn’t they just kill everyone? Why didn’t they put bullets into their brains and dump the bodies in the river, or whatever you guys do? It doesn’t seem the Mafia style to knock people out and leave them to fight another day.”
Suddenly they were all listening.
“It may have been the Scarpones, it may not – but I won’t believe anything has happened to Roberto until I see a body. It could have been that bent copper, Chan. It could be those London villains we were told about. It could have been an alien abduction. Well, okay, forget the last one … the point is until we know for sure we keep our options open. What was going to be our next move?”
“We were going to contact Zico and arrange a meeting,” said Armando. “Don Roberto was going to tell him we have the data, and would exchange it for a share of the Scarpone enterprises. This would never happen, of course, but we wanted to get Zico to England and give our people time to infiltrate his operations and begin to dismantle his power.”
“And when we did meet the devil face to face we were going to slay him,” shouted Luigi.
Chrissie looked to Armando for confirmation, and he simply shrugged. The Italians have different shrugs and facial expressions and she’d learnt that this particular one meant ‘Yes’.
“Well, we still have the data so we can still bargain,” said Chrissie.
Armando shook his head. “Not without the don. He would be the reason for Zico to leave Naples. There is hatred between them, and the Scarpones would want to resolve this by retrieving their information and at the same time eliminating their biggest threat. That is the purpose which would draw them here.”
“So hatred is the key?” said Chrissie.
Armando again did the ‘Yes’ expression.
Chrissie gritted her teeth, “Then we’ll do it,” she said. “Zico Scarpone hates us as much as anyone, and I’m sure he would love to do a deal that gave him the opportunity to get back his data and personally finish us off. In fact this way is better because if Roberto contacted him then Zico would know that he had seen his secrets and understood their significance, whereas we only want to trade. We don’t really comprehend any of it.
“This was how it was always going to end: the three of us staring into the eyes of our tormentor. It could never be concluded any other way … but, before we go any further, could the three of us – she pointed to Megan, Brenda, and herself – have a few minutes alone?”
The Italians understood and left the room, closing the door quietly as if leaving a sleeping child.
Chrissie looked as sombre as they’d ever seen her – near to tears, or worse.
“It’s all right, Chrissie,” said Brenda. “We’re with you on this. We know it’s the only way.”
“Yes. Power to the sisters and all that,” echoed Megan. “One for all and all for one.”
“It’s not that,” said Chrissie, her voice racked with emotion.
“Then what?” asked Brenda.
“You know that Auntie Rose has the gift – the all-seeing eye – and that it runs in the family. And although I’m not on the same plane as Auntie I do have something. I’ve definitely been touched.”
Brenda was about to make a joke of the last bit, but she could see the anguish in Chrissie’s eyes and thought better of it.
“So what have you seen?” asked Megan.
Chrissie flopped down into the armchair and covered her head with her hands. “This morning in the bathroom I came out of the shower, and through the steam I saw Lime Street station – and we were back in Liverpool.”
“That was a good vision, wasn’t it?” said Megan.
“No, it wasn’t, Meg. It was bad.” Chrissie took her hands away from her face. “The figures were fuzzy, like a bad photograph, yet the rest of the scene was crystal clear. Other people were running up and down the steps, but we were shadowy shapes. I couldn’t make out the faces, but our auras were bathed in sadness. It was all over and we’d come through it, but … there were only two of us.”
Megan and Brenda looked at each other, and eventually Brenda asked the burning question. “Which two?”
“I couldn’t be sure,”
said Chrissie. “The faces were obscured for a reason. I was being shown what the future may hold, but I was only allowed so much. Now it might be a load of old rubbish, and the after-effects of a bad dream … but you know I’m serious about these things, so it’s something you have to consider before we make any decision.”
They stood rooted to the spot, looking at each other but seeing nothing. The grandfather clock in the corner was the only sound. The ticking was like a drummer boy’s refrain before a battle, beating a monotonous rhythm in time with the pounding of men’s hearts … not really helping to alleviate anyone’s fears, but more sending a message of intent to the enemy. They listened to this beat for several minutes, lost in thought and testing their own resolve.
If they met with the Scarpones then two of them would get their lives back … but one could lose hers. None of them were thinking of being the lucky ones. There were no lucky ones. They had a bond that couldn’t be broken, and a love that would never fade. It was beyond heartbreak to think of something that awful, and yet if the meeting didn’t go ahead chances were they were all going to die in the very near future anyway.
The grandfather clock paused for a few seconds as it hit the hour mark. The chime had been removed, and for five seconds the larger finger moved without sound. Before it had chance to start its beat again Brenda answered Chrissie.
“It seems like your mind is made up. You want to go.”
“Yes, I do. I’m tired of this stupid situation. Living in constant fear isn’t living at all, and I’ve had enough of it.”
“And so have we,” said Brenda and Megan. “Bring the guys back in, and let’s hear the plan.”
Chrissie shouted for Armando, and all four Italians took up their previous positions around the room.
“Make the call, Armando. Fix up a time and place, and we’ll bring the wolf to your door. Go back to our original thoughts. Tell him we approached you with information the Scarpones want returned. You are only acting as a go-between. Say you want to win favour with Zico and are happy to double-cross us. Just as before, he won’t believe any of it. But it will be enough to get him here, and that’s what we want.”
A determined Armando left the room and Chrissie turned to Luigi. “Make a brew, love,” she said. “You can’t make decent tea to save your life, so some of that extra strong coffee would go down a treat.”
Luigi smiled and scurried off. He was happiest when he was busy.
Chrissie looked at Beppe. “What do you think has happened to Roberto?”
Beppe’s mouth and shoulders were about to crunch up when Chrissie stopped him.
“Don’t do that shrugging thing. Just answer the question.”
Beppe’s English wasn’t good, but he got the gist of it and managed to say, “The don is good at surviving.”
“Yes, he does give that impression,” said Chrissie.
She turned to Claudio, who understood most things and who was once considered a sage in the small village he grew up in. He had been a boy wonder thought to be destined for a career in the sciences – until he started killing people, and then he wasn’t revered or consulted as much, and went to seek fortune and fame in Naples.
“Are more of your people coming to help us?”
Claudio spoke with no emotion. “We have to be careful not to alert the Scarpones. They monitor our movements – as we do theirs – but we have allies in Europe, and they have been asked to assist us. But I don’t know who they may be. Only the don knows these things.”
“So the cavalry are riding, but they don’t know where the Indians are?”
Even the mighty Claudio was lost on this metaphor, so Chrissie made it simple.
“So we have to assume it’s just us: three tough guys, three innocent girls, and a crazy pizza man.”
Claudio did the shrug.
“It will be enough,” yelled an excited Luigi, as he returned with biscuits and cake. “Good always prevails over evil.”
Chrissie looked at Claudio and Beppe, “And we are the good?”
“Yes, of course,” cried Luigi.
Chrissie sighed and took a biscuit. The coffees came and they drank and nibbled and made small talk until finally Armando sauntered back in.
“Well?” asked Chrissie.
“I spoke directly to Zico, and a meeting is arranged for tomorrow.”
“Where?” asked Brenda.
“Lincolnshire.”
“Lincolnshire?” everyone repeated.
“I have the coordinates. Apparently this is flat land. We are to meet in a field with no hiding places so there can be no tricks, but also no escape. The Scarpones will land in a small aeroplane, and business is to be concluded in the open.”
“So the cavalry are no use anyway,” murmured Chrissie.
“Did he mention having Roberto?”
“No,” said Armando. “He thinks Beppe and I want to defect, and that we are bringing you and the missing data to prove our sincerity. If he had the don I’m sure he would have told us.”
“Then who did take him?” asked Brenda.
“It doesn’t matter now,” said Armando. “We cannot allow ourselves to think about it. We have a new plan, and we must concentrate on what happens next.”
“And what will happen when we are face to face in this field of destiny?” asked Chrissie.
“We have a straightforward shoot-out,” answered Claudio. “Close-quarter conflict … to the death.”
“That’s it,” said Brenda. “No cunning plan, no eleventh-hour saviour. It’s all a bit Neanderthal-like, isn’t it?”
“It is what it is,” said Armando.
“Do you have the exact positions of the meeting place?” asked Megan, and Armando put a piece of paper on the table.
“We have a postcode and an ordnance survey reference, and the road directions say it is north-east of a place called Spalding.” Luigi went to get a map.
“I wonder why Lincolnshire?” said Brenda.
“I suppose because it’s remote and flat, so you can land a plane. And you can have a good gun battle without being disturbed … no other reason,” replied Chrissie.
“I still think it’s a strange place for someone who rarely leaves Naples to pick,” persisted Brenda.
“One place is as good as another,” said Armando, and everyone except Brenda nodded agreement.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The A1 – the Great North Road – was chock-a-block. It was the Monday morning dash, and every other vehicle was a truck. The meeting in Lincolnshire was arranged for 4 p.m., and although it was only a three- or four-hour journey they had set off early. They had to allow for problems on the road, and the last thing they wanted was to be late.
“You can’t be late for your own funeral,” Luigi had joked. It was a bad joke.
They had taken two cars, with Armando and the girls in the Vialli Mercedes and Luigi, Beppe, and Claudio in a Peugeot 508. Both cars were roomy, with large boots – which were filled with an array of weaponry supplied by contacts of the Viallis.
The weather was overcast, and rain was in the air. The expressions of drivers passing by all had that Monday-morning blues look about them. Face after face sped by, all bored and fed-up, and yet Chrissie would have happily traded places with any one of them. A man in a white shirt and blue tie went past in an Astra. He had ‘salesman’ stamped on his forehead, and he looked stressed out already.
“Get a grip,” thought Chrissie. “You’re only on the way to an appointment. It isn’t life and death.” Things had certainly been put into perspective these past few weeks. If she was to come out of this alive then life would never be the same again.
She struck up a conversation with Armando, who was surprisingly chatty and open. She asked how long he’d known Roberto, how they had met, and what he was like. He told how they had known each other for most of their lives. Armando’s father had worked for the Viallis, and as a boy he had attended family gatherings with his father. As he grew it was a natural pr
ogression to become part of the set-up.
He spoke highly of his boss, and painted a picture of a jovial and relaxed man who was fair with most people but who stood his ground against his enemies. He had nerves of steel and great skill in combat, and he would not ask any of his men to take up a task that he couldn’t do himself. He was a man of his word and valued a handshake more than signatures on a piece of paper, and he was honourable – or at least as honourable as a Mafia don could be. Chrissie was total immersed in the stories Armando told and in the character of Roberto Vialli – and she hoped and prayed he was still alive.
Armando was driving sedately as he talked. There was no need to hurry, no need to get excited: just take it easy and control the nerves. At a roundabout a sixteen-wheeler overtook the Mercedes and cut them up on the bend, and even though he was at fault the truck driver blasted his horn. Chrissie smiled. If only he knew he was pushing his luck with a trio of hit men who had everything from boxes of explosives to a rocket launcher with them.
She visualised holding the bazooka and sending a bolt of lightning up the driver’s exhaust pipe. She imagined his face as he glanced in his wing mirror and saw the missile approaching. Would he repent all his dangerous driving and regret being an arsehole, or would he look forward to entering that great transport cafe in the sky? Three greasy fry-ups a day and no such thing as cholesterol … “Seems like heaven to me,” mused Chrissie.
On the back seat Brenda and Megan were more withdrawn. It was hard to put Chrissie’s premonition to the back of their minds, and they were sure if someone was not going to see tomorrow it would be one of them. Chrissie had the luck of the Irish. She would be all right.
They arrived on the outskirts of Spalding four hours early, so pulled into a Little Chef for coffee. The waitress taking the order was almost open-mouthed as she glanced from one Italian to the other. The men were smart in their black suits and open-necked Valentino shirts but looked hard as nails, and stood out like peacocks in a hen house. They were men of the world, and the young girl from Spalding was a little weak at the knees.
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