See Naples and Die (6 page)

“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.”

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.

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 several 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.

“Tigran, my big bad friend,” said
Angelo. “How do you think things are going?”

“They are going okay,” replied the
disinterested Armenian.

“Yes, you have done well,” smiled
Angelo. “You and your accomplices have taken to assassination like babies to
milk.”

Angelo reflected on the nine contracts
so far. Tigran had personally executed five of these, and with a chilling
efficiency that the Italian could only admire. The Armenian network was
complete, with around fifty immigrants dispersed around the country. Some were
more skilled than others – and only action in the field would create a natural
hierarchy – but one thing was already apparent, and that was the fact that in
the art of cold-blooded murder Tigran Sadorian was in a class of his own.

Angelo handed over an envelope
containing some photographs and the details of the next contract.

“This is our next job.” He leant
forward. “The organisation is involved in a major construction deal. We have
provided finance to get things off the ground … literally. And now the people
who have taken our money say they are having second thoughts, and maybe they
don’t need our assistance any longer. This is how people with no principles
treat our generosity. Our employer has tried to negotiate and I have personally
had talks with the men involved to point out the repercussions, but to no
avail. They are greedy men who place too much value on their own importance and
so-called power. They have thrown in with other backers – who include local criminals,
who should know better – and now it’s time for all of them to be taught a
lesson. There was a time when this could have been sorted out peacefully, but
it’s gone beyond that now. We have been openly disrespected. And that action
has a cost.”

Angelo stroked his chin, and then
pointed to the envelope. “We are to take out the two men at the top. One is Walter
Monreal, a politician. The other is Ian Spencer, an architect. The details are
all there but I can tell you that the politician has a house in the country,
which is very isolated. I have been there for meetings. He lives with his
boyfriend, and I would like you to take care of both of them – and make it as
bloody as possible. The scenario I envisage is where he stabs his lover to
death and then puts a gun into his own mouth and tries to find his brain with a
bullet. The architect I leave to you.”

The Italian leant back in his chair. “I
know it’s a long shot, Tigran, but did you ever see the film
The Man Who
Would Be King
? It’s a Rudyard Kipling story. He was an English guy brought
up in India, and he wrote books. I know this because the man I work for loves
the film – with Michael Caine and Sean Connery – it’s a brilliant film. Anyhow,
Caine and Connery are British soldiers fighting in India but come up with a
scheme to go it alone and take over a country called Kafiristan. They do this
by contacting the local tribes with a proposition, and say to them, ‘If you
have enemies then we will help you to defeat them. We can teach you to be
better warriors, but we must be the leaders because we are the most skilful at
what we do.’ They defeat one tribe after another, with each tribe then joining
their ranks, until they have a huge army and no more enemies. Then they become
the kings of Kafiristan.

“This is our blueprint. My employer can
be Sean Connery, I am Michael Caine, and you can be the little Gurkha guy who
ran the foot soldiers.”

Tigran looked as if he’d switched off.
Angelo had probably lost him at Rudyard Kipling, and he was studying the
pictures taken from the envelope.

“Were you listening to me, Tigran?”
asked Angelo.

“No,” said the Armenian. “But, tell me,
does your story have a happy ending?”

Angelo was taken aback. “Well … as a
matter of fact, no. But that’s not the point.”

“It isn’t? Oh, okay then,” said Tigran,
and went back to sifting through the photos.

“Tigran …” said Angelo, as if willing
him to be more attentive. “Listen: this is important. You are only one division
of our Armenian army. Others are already in place in other parts of London, and
elsewhere. I need someone within the whole group to be my general. I want you
to be that person. You quickly made yourself boss of this house. They are
afraid of you, and that’s good for me. Here is a telephone list of people I
want you to contact. In the very near future we have plans that will involve
everyone, and I need a man to control operations for me. Can you do that?”

Tigran nodded.

“Okay, then. Good man.”

Angelo opened a briefcase at his side
and showed the contents. He pushed the briefcase across to the Armenian. “This
is for you and the boys. There’s ten grand in there. You’re moving out of here
tomorrow, so have a party. Go get yourself some hookers, get a blonde with big
tits … and, for Christ’s sake, take a bath. Just make sure you don’t leave the
house. Order everything to go, and be ready at nine tomorrow morning.”

Tigran made no effort to confirm his
instructions but Angelo knew this was just his way, and got up to leave. “The
hit is important,” he confirmed, “but I also want you to think long and hard
about what I have said. You are Zico Scarpone’s wild dogs, and very soon I will
be asking you to show your teeth.” Angelo gave his coat several hard strokes
with his hand to clean away the fluff picked up from the chair and walked to
the door, shaking his head. “I’ll see you again on Monday, after the job. We
will have much to discuss.”

As the door closed behind the Italian Tigran
bent down and took out one of the bundles of money. He fanned the bills like a
deck of cards then dropped them on to the floor. He glanced through the list of
Armenian names and telephone numbers and smiled. Then he looked at the chair
Angelo had been sitting in and threw the hunting knife, which was by his side. The
knife hit the chair blade first and split the fabric apart, right at the point
where the Italian’s head had been only a few moments earlier. Different-coloured
pieces of fibre spewed from the cut, like guts from the belly of a slaughtered
animal, and Tigran laughed out loud.