See Naples and Die (22 page)

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 progression 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.

All the men had a light lunch – chicken
salad – except for Luigi, who had the steak and chicken combo. The man
certainly loved his food. The girls couldn’t face anything other than cups of
tea, and even that gave them a slightly sickly feeling. The men joked about the
bad coffee and Armando made eye contact with the waitress. He knew she was
smitten, and he played with her emotions to pass the time.

It’s difficult to spend more than half
an hour in a Little Chef, and so they decided to leave and find the meeting
place. They wanted to be early to look around for vantage points and possible
escape routes, and to see if a trap was being set for them – and, if not, then
perhaps they could set a trap of their own. With Armando driving the lead car
and Chrissie navigating they travelled for twelve miles, and then turned off
the main road on to a single track that cut through the flat, ploughed fields.

The road was undulating, and even
driving slowly it was like being on the big dipper at the fairground. Up and
down, up and down – with the rear end of the Mercedes touching the ground on
occasion, and the bouncing suspension playing havoc with the girls’ digestion.

Ahead was a line of trees planted as a
windbreak against the elements. The road sliced its way through this barrier
and became more of a farm track, with weeds growing down the middle. In many
places the weeds were the only thing holding the road together. The ploughed
land was replaced by grassy fields, and in the middle of one was a battered
tarmac strip.

Once an RAF training camp, it had long
ago been abandoned – and was now used by the local flying club, who organised
charity parachute jumps every Sunday morning. The previous day it would have
been a hive of activity with amateur fundraisers in fancy dress floating from
the skies, but on a Monday in the early afternoon it was secluded and eerie.

Armando pulled the car off the road and
parked on the field, around fifty yards from the runway. The others drove the
Peugeot back down the road to the line of trees, and then walked around the
perimeter. They were looking for Scarpone traps, and at the same time seeking
hiding places for weapons that they wanted to leave around the area. There was
no time to be elaborate and start digging trenches or creating protective cover:
the only options were to highlight certain spots with marker sticks and leave
weapons in case of a running battle.

Claudio was to remain under cover with
an M24 sniper rifle, and to take out as many Scarpones as possible. He was to
begin to fire as soon as he had a good shot, and his first report would begin
the conflict. He would have liked to have been at least a hundred yards nearer,
but aside from among the trees there was no other cover. He settled down, tried
different positions with the rifle for maximum stability, and made a nest for
his other weapons. He looked at the sky. It was still misty and the visibility
poor. It was not ideal for long-range accuracy but better than brilliant
sunshine, so he counted his blessings. Claudio was definitely a cup half-full
man.

Beppe and Luigi planted the guns around
the area, covering them with grass and jamming broken tree branches into the
ground. When all this was done they drove back and joined Armando and the
girls. The clouds showed no sign of breaking and, if anything, were lower to
the ground – and the visibility was worsening.

“When they get here,” said Armando,
“everyone move well apart. We don’t want to stand as a group … and Luigi, you
stay in the car. Lie down on the back seat and keep out of sight. And leave the
keys in the ignition in case we want to get out of here in a hurry.”

He surveyed the area. It was flat and
open, and was the worst possible spot for meeting Zico Scarpone. He was
regretting this cavalier attempt at seeking victory and closure on the Scarpone
empire when his thoughts were disturbed by the sound of a car engine in the distance.
Inside the day’s dismal cloak of grey the roar of the motor increased until a
black BMW X5 appeared through the haze and followed the road towards them.

Armando flipped open the boot of the
Mercedes. Along with Beppe they threw shoulder holsters around both arms, with
Beppe also grabbing a MAC-10 machine gun. They motioned for the girls to stand
behind the vehicles, and awaited the arrival of the uninvited visitors. They
could just be members of the flying club, or local whippet owners out to do a
bit of illegal coursing … or they could be Scarpone assassins. Better to be
safe than sorry. Armando’s hand was on the gun to his left, and his eyes had
the piercing alertness of a tabby cat sensing a Rottweiler on the loose.

The BMW pulled off the road, and stopped
around twenty yards away. The windows were all tinted glass – and for one whole
minute the four-by-four sat there like a spaceship from another world that was protecting
its cargo of scorpion-like aliens, who shot lasers from their tails and had
skin no bullet could penetrate. It was a long sixty seconds.

The tension was shattered by the opening
of the rear door and the sudden appearance of Roberto Vialli. Armando could see
that his boss’s hands were tied behind his back, and a dark-skinned man held a
gun to his head. The front doors opened, and two other men got out. Without
showing any fear, the largest man took a step forward. The man had a pockmarked
face and tight wiry hair slicked back bandit-style. Armando drew his pistol.

The man stopped and held up his hand.
“My name is Tigran Sadorian. We met briefly outside the London hospital.” A
lipless smile cut across his face. “Before you make your next move, remember
this. I could have killed you all but I spared you. At this moment it is not to
my advantage to eliminate the Viallis.”

He paused, allowing this magnanimous
gesture to be fully appreciated.

“Go on,” said Armando.

“It was pure chance that you crossed our
path that day. We were watching the hospital to make sure no one did any
further harm to Angelo, and then we see Don Roberto Vialli. I know who he is: I
have seen his photo many times. Unsure what to do, I decided to take a prisoner
– and your don has been very enlightening. He has told me about the data stick,
and that you know about our safe houses.

“It’s obvious he doesn’t know the reason
we are here or what our movements have been, but he assures me he knows enough
to destroy it all – and that this information has already been forwarded on to
others, so I can’t simply shoot him and have done with it. I could, however,
kill him anyway – if it’s all over. So what? At least I get a bit of
satisfaction. But for now it suits me to keep him alive and offer him to Mr
Scarpone. Then it will be up to him what happens next.”

Claudio had watched all this from his
vantage point in the trees. He could see Roberto held hostage, so he knew these
strangers weren’t friendly. It was safe to assume they were connected to the
Scarpones, and he had his rifle sights on the forehead of their leader. One
false move and he could take him out, for sure.

Then the scene in front of him exploded
as the heel of a military-style boot hit him in the side of the head. The rifle
dropped to the floor, and Claudio toppled sideways. Blood oozed from his head
and seeped through his brown hair like ink on blotting paper. Another kick – this
time from the steel toe of the boot – hit him under the chin, snapping back his
head with a force that would have been fatal to a lesser man. His aggressor
picked up the sniper’s rifle and took the place of the unconscious Italian.

Thinking that Claudio was still covering
his back, Armando was in defiant mood.

“And what if we decide to sort this
situation out now?”

Tigran laughed, “Then you had better
make a move quickly, because the Scarpones will be here in a few minutes.”

“Not so,” said Armando. “The meeting is
set for four o’clock.”

“I think it’s been brought forward,”
smiled Tigran, and as he spoke a light aircraft making its descent appeared
from out of the grey skies.

Armando swallowed hard. His composure
was being tested now that the hour had arrived. He knew Zico Scarpone, and he
was afraid of his reputation and of his impending presence. He turned to his
boss for reassurance. Roberto was his usual calm self. His hands were tied, he
had a gun to his head, and he was about to square up to the most vicious Mafia
boss in living memory – who also happened to be his greatest enemy – and yet he
was a picture of self-belief. It lifted Armando, and he nodded at his don to
signify his loyalty, his support, and his friendship.

The aircraft touched down and taxied to
a halt by the side of the vehicles. The doors opened and steps were lowered. Then,
in two groups, eight men strode forward. The front line was the fearsome
quartet of Zico and Luca Scarpone, their general Carlito Chiellini, and Caesar
Magri. The backup consisted of four enforcers, all with fully automatic weapons.
Zico stopped ten feet away from Armando, but his eyes were on Tigran and
Roberto. He was visibly shocked.

“This is a surprise. I didn’t know you
were joining us, Don Vialli.”

“Who knows the path of fate?” answered
Roberto.

“Quite. She is the mother of all our
destinies. Yet although fate has placed you in my hands she must now step aside,
and I alone will determine what happens next.”

The man holding Roberto roughly pushed
him towards Armando and Beppe, and the three of them faced the Scarpones. The girls
had spread apart behind the Mercedes and the Peugeot.