See Naples and Die (2 page)

“No problem, ladies,” said Gino. I will
show you the back streets of Naples. I will show you a city you will never
forget.”

Gino did a three-point turn and
accelerated away from the workers’ rights demonstration. As they went around
the first bend five police cars, three large black police vans, and a newspaper
reporter raced past with lights flashing and sirens wailing. This was just what
the factory workers wanted: more confusion, disruption, and publicity.

Fabio Zanetti was a runner – an odd-job
man for the Capecchi family. He was the bottom tier of the organisation. He
didn’t commit any actual crimes, but he was always around. The Capecchis would
send him with messages to the other Camorra families. Fabio wasn’t a threat to
anyone, so he was allowed to pass through all the clans without too much
attention. He was given this freedom because he was openly naive, almost simple-minded
– or so everyone believed. But Fabio was far from being backward … and he had a
plan.

On this day he had delivered a package
to Zico Scarpone. When he arrived some of the guys were transferring crates of
Russian vodka from one truck to another. Fabio helped them: it was good PR.
When they had finished both trucks were driven away to their respective
destinations, and Fabio was offered coffee and cake. He was sitting quietly in
the kitchen when Zico took a phone call. Whatever the call was about it caused
a great deal of excitement and everyone raced off in a fleet of limousines,
leaving only Fabio and a couple of broken-nosed wise guys in the house.

The two menacing foot soldiers, Mario
and Lorenzo, were enforcers. They weren’t silent assassins, and they weren’t
subtle. Their job was to display the violent power and retribution of the
Scarpone family. After thirty minutes of lounging around and giving Fabio the
odd evil stare they began to patrol the grounds. Fabio watched and counted,
timing each circuit. They went in different directions, and at only one point
were they both out of sight. Fabio checked and double-checked. It was always
the same. During each circuit there was just one time when both henchmen were
out of his vision … and it was for exactly two minutes.

The cook had cleared away the coffee
cups and antipasti, then made himself a coffee laced with Jack Daniels – and
was now in the living room watching highlights of Napoli versus Sampdoria in
the fourth round of the Coppa Italia. Fabio knew it was now or never. He saw
Mario and then Lorenzo disappear, and he jumped from his chair like a thousand
ants had attacked his scrotum.

He ran to the end of the kitchen and
into a darkened study, where a huge roll-top desk and cream leather executive
chair dominated the space. A narrow bookcase against the far wall and a
painting of the Last Supper
completed the furnishings. Fabio leapt
towards the painting and removed it. Behind was a small safe. He pulled a
pencil torch from his jacket and, holding it with his teeth, he turned the dial
on the safe. Every turn produced a clicking noise that sounded to Fabio like hammers
banging a steel drum. Then, six numbers later, it was done.

He tugged the thick metal door open. Inside
were a few hundred thousand euros, several gold signet rings … and there, at
the back of everything, a red USB data stick. Fabio ignored the money and the gold
and gripped the USB. He closed the safe and locked it. He replaced the painting,
making sure it was straight, and ran back towards the kitchen.

As he neared the door his foot hit the
upturned lip of the shagpile rug and he fell, face first, to the floor. His
forehead missed the open door by two centimetres. In attempting to break the
fall he had opened his hand, palm forward, and dropped the data stick. His head
hit the floor, and for a few moments he saw stars. Then his vision cleared and
he gathered his thoughts, while looking left and right for the USB. But it was
nowhere to be seen.

Fabio didn’t panic. He thought
logically. He lifted the edge of the rug and there it was. He grabbed it, stood
up, thrust the USB into his trouser pocket, and bolted into the kitchen. He
threw himself into the cushioned dining chair, blinked twice … and one second
later Mario appeared at the window. He gave Fabio the evil stare again, and
then his pal Lorenzo also came into view. They each lit a cigarette and started
a casual conversation, probably about who they were going to maim next.

Fabio sat perfectly still for around fifteen
minutes, fighting his heart rate and trying to control his breathing. He
counted to ten, over and over, until eventually he felt relaxed enough to make
another cup of coffee. He poked his head into the living room and asked the
cook if he would like anything. The cook was still immersed in the game of
football, and ignored Fabio. Then five seconds later, when the penny dropped,
he shouted,

“You only make coffee. Nothing else. And
clean up after yourself.”

“Okay,” replied Fabio.

With one hand holding the coffee cup and
the other hand clamped over the USB stick he felt like a driver approaching a
border checkpoint with a kilo of heroin in the glove compartment. He was sure
someone was going to ask him to empty his pockets, but he had to stay in full
view – and calm – until it was the right time to leave. Mario and Lorenzo were once
more at the window, and Fabio lifted his coffee cup and mimed,

“Would you like a drink?” Amazingly they
said “Yes”, with the evil Lorenzo even managing a smile.

Fabio had to play it with the utmost
normality. He didn’t want to hurry away. He would sit and wait for Zico to
return and would then, as always, ask permission to leave. This way no one
would suspect anything untoward. Sooner or later they would discover the
missing memory stick but, hopefully, by then he would be just one of many
people in the frame. They would question him, of course, and he would play the
village idiot card to perfection.

The Coppa Italia game had finished, with
Napoli winning with a goal in the final seconds of injury time. The cook was
ecstatic, and breezed back into the kitchen in excellent mood. He kissed Fabio
on the top of the head, and then proceeded with gusto to make a mountain of
ravioli.

Finally he heard the crushing of gravel
on the driveway, which signalled the return of the Scarpones. Zico and his men
settled themselves in the lounge, and shouted for the cook to serve drinks.
They seemed engrossed in some sort of victorious eulogy, and it was a good time
for Fabio to seek his exit. He asked permission from Zico, who simply waved his
hand to dismiss the boy.

Fabio the runner went outside and
mounted his Piaggio Vespa scooter, and drove away from the villa. Once around
the first bend and out of sight he pulled the throttle as hard as he could, and
the Vespa screamed. His heart was beating faster that the pounding piston, and
he just wanted to be as far away from Zico Scarpone as possible.

Fifteen minutes later he was entering
the inner city of Naples, with the first part of the plan completed. Fabio went
directly home, which was a one-bedroom apartment in one of the older and more
run-down areas of the city. Only one level above slum category, it was crowded
with vermin and people and – mostly – it was hard to tell one from the other.
He threw off his jacket, opened a bottle of cold beer, and flopped into the
padded armchair his mother had given to him. The fabric on the arms was
completely worn away and two of the castors fell off if you tried to move it,
but it was a gift from his mother to help start a new life on his own and he
cherished it. He finished the beer and got up to get another one, and glanced
out of the open window as he passed.

And then he was suddenly rooted to the
spot. His heart had dropped from his body, and his stomach muscles pulled as
tight as the noose on a hangman’s rope. Outside, Mario and Lorenzo were getting
out of a black sedan.

How could they have discovered the
missing memory stick so soon? It must have only been minutes from his leaving
the villa, and that put him as number one – out of one – prime suspect. He
grabbed his jacket and ran from the room. Outside, at the end of the corridor,
there was an emergency exit – and Fabio fled through the aluminium door and on
to the fire escape, hurtling down each level like a man possessed.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
How could it go so wrong? Fabio was now a dead man walking. He thought of
throwing the USB stick into the nearest trash bin, but that wouldn’t help. He
had to try and get it to his accomplice, as per the original plan. By running
through narrow streets and alleyways he made his way to the general post office
on the plaza. He needed to mail the USB, and maybe then he would at least have
something to bargain with. He could see the corner of the post office building,
and as he neared it a couple of Scarpone henchmen came into view. Fabio swiftly
turned into another side street and ran faster. Had they seen him? He didn’t
think so but they had cut off his route and now he was trapped, like a rabbit
in a field of foxes.

He turned left into a main street. It
was market day, and hundreds of stalls filled the street and pavement. Maybe
here he could disappear. No one could see beyond the first few heads in front
of them. He mingled and went with the flow of bodies. The contact of other people
was a comfort and, as a part of the market day throng, he made his way up the
street. It was the same system as the Italian road network – overcrowded and
chaotic, with an equal mix of aggression and tolerance – but it was all part of
the Italian character, and it worked for them.

Fabio kept his head down and watched his
feet moving in slow motion. He was trying desperately to clear his head, and to
see if there was any way out of this. He had to forget about mailing the USB:
it would be madness to try and reach the post office building. His only chance
was to find a place to hide. But who would give him refuge when they knew he
was being pursued by the Scarpones?

The family in front of him had stopped,
and Fabio lifted his head slightly. They were browsing through items on a
market stall. The stall was selling pictures, paintings, and sculptures, and
the goods looked to be of reasonable quality – an unusual occurrence among the
general bric-a-brac around on market day.

In front of Fabio and the Italian family
were three English girls. Chrissie McGuire, Brenda Smith, and Megan Penhaligon
had just negotiated a deal for a Roman sculpture. The stallholder was shaking
Chrissie’s hand, and then he gave her a pen and paper to write her name and
address for where she wanted the sculpture to be delivered. It was heavy, and
there was no way they could take it back with them. The shipping price was okay,
and they only had to leave a small deposit. It was cash on delivery, so they
were comfortable with that, and everyone agreed – including the stallholder – that
it would look great at the side of their fireplace.

The people in front of Fabio were moving
on, and he kept with them, when – to his horror, only three stalls away, and
approaching him – were Mario and Lorenzo. Fabio had to dispose of the USB. If
he dropped it then they would more than likely search and find it. He was even
thinking of trying to swallow it when, as he passed Chrissie, he noticed her
half-open shoulder bag. She was paying the deposit, and had left the bag
partially open. Fabio dropped the memory stick into the bag. He stopped for the
briefest of moments, and read the address Chrissie had just written. His
English was pretty good, but he couldn’t make out the name of the street. All
he got was Chrissie McGuire, Liverpool, England … then he moved quickly away
from the girls. Mario had seen him so Fabio walked directly towards the
enforcer, trying to act as casually as was possible in the circumstances.

“Hello, guys. You doing some shopping?”
he said, smiling.

Mario punched him in the stomach and,
before his body could double up in pain, Lorenzo grabbed him by the collar and
lifted him up. Then they marched him away by the scruff of the neck, like some
naughty schoolboy. Two other henchmen surrounded the stall, and started to move
people aside while they searched the ground.

Chrissie put her money back in the bag
and zipped it up. They gave the black-suited guys a quizzical glance and moved
away. She was pleased with the deal for the sculpture, and they all decided
this was the time to stop shopping: quit while you’re ahead. Gino was waiting
outside a cafe bar at the entrance to the market area, and they made their way
back to him. They had only known Gino for a few hours, but his smile welcomed
them back like long-lost friends. They sat outside the bar and drank Peroni. It
was cool and refreshing, and they watched the people of Naples passing by.

An hour later they were back on the
quayside. Gino gave his address, and they promised him faithfully that they
would send a photo of them all together with a signed recommendation. One last
round of kisses and then they walked to the boarding gate, showed their passes,
and went back on board the ship. It had been a good day.

Once back in the cabin they kicked off
their shoes, and then took turns to shower. This was the last stop on the
cruise … no more tours, no more sightseeing, no need any more for the
comfortable footwear and beach bags. Chrissie opened her shoulder bag and took
out her purse. Nothing else in there mattered for now so she closed the bag and
threw it to one side, ready to pack into the suitcase. Tonight it was the
farewell dinner. Tomorrow they would depart the ship and fly home, and all this
would become just a memory. Chrissie thought it a little sad that they were
closing a door on Italy. She had liked it here, and was sorry to see it end.
Little was she to know that this was only the beginning …