See Naples and Die (10 page)

They arrived at the bar with its black
and pink facade and stepped inside. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust and
when they did it was only a slight adjustment, because the exterior decor had
been carried on in throughout the interior. The entire room was black walls,
black ceiling, and black tables and chairs, with a few pink scatter cushions
thrown about and hundreds of tiny lights everywhere. It was like gazing from
the window of the starship
Enterprise
or stepping on to some cheap stage
in a northern social club, depending on your point of view.

The place was deserted, except for a
tall muscular man in tight black trousers and pink T-shirt behind the bar. Seated
in a booth along the far wall – near the Andromeda Galaxy – was a tall, suave
Italian. Standing one on either side of him were Armando and the man with no
name. The girls made their way across the darkened room until they were three
feet away, and then Armando frisked them. It was done quickly and expertly, and
Brenda felt him pause slightly as he felt the USB in her skirt pocket. She was
relieved they had decided to only bring the short version.

“Please sit,” said the Italian, and he
motioned to the chairs around the table while he sat against the wall facing
them. “Would you like a drink? Armando will be our waiter for the day.”

They didn’t want alcohol so asked for
coffee, and Armando went to the bar. The man with no name moved to a table by
the door and sat where he could see everyone as they came in. Armando returned
with the coffee and two glasses of water. Chrissie looked at the water, and the
Mafia man felt the need to explain. “The coffee in this country is shit.”

Chrissie looked up at him. “Like the ice
cream.”

Armando narrowed his eyes and sat by his
boss’s side.

“My name is Roberto Vialli,” said the
good-looking Italian. “And you are Chrissie, Brenda, and Megan.” As he said
their names he looked each one in the eyes and smiled. He had a voice like hot
chocolate, wholesome and warm, and it was easy to forget he was head of a
deadly Mafia family.

“I know the story the priest told me,
and I know what you said to Armando – and at first it all seemed intriguing,
yet unlikely to be anything other than a trap. However, I know now for a fact
that you are being pursued by the Scarpones and that you must have something
very valuable that Zico wants back.”

“Does that mean you believe us?” asked
Chrissie.

“It means I believe you 75 per cent,”
said Roberto.

“And what can we do to convince you 100
per cent?”

Roberto looked at Brenda. “You need to
give me the data stick,” and he held out his hand.

“Before I do that, Mr Vialli, you need
to understand that we don’t completely trust you either. So the data I’m
letting you see is only a small part of what we have. The original is locked in
a deposit box. You can look at this, but we need guarantees of our safety
before you get the rest.”

Then she took the USB from her pocket
and passed it over. Roberto handed it to Armando, who produced a laptop from
under the table and switched it on.

“While we wait,” smiled Roberto. “Tell
me what you were doing in Naples.”

“We were on a cruise and spent a day
there. That’s it, really,” said Chrissie.

“But I knew I would see you again,” he
said.

Chrissie was confused. “Again …? I’ve
never met you before.”

“We did not meet, but I have your face
in here,” and he tapped his forehead. “You were in a car near the Port of
Naples.”

Then it came back to her. When they
stopped to let the cars enter the roundabout Gino had said, “That’s Roberto
Vialli.”

“I remember,” she said. “Two black
Mercedes.”

“Yes,” said Roberto. “It’s a small world,
isn’t it …? But I have to ask myself … were our paths destined to cross, or was
it premeditated? Are you three normal, everyday girls caught up in something
you have very little knowledge of, or part of a larger plot – to not only bring
down the Scarpone empire, but also to destroy the Viallis?”

“When you saw me in Naples what did my
face tell you?” asked Chrissie.

Roberto closed his eyes to picture the
image he had stored, and when he opened them he studied Chrissie’s face again …
then finally, like a high court judge, said, “It was an innocent face.”

She returned his gaze. “Well … there you
go, then. Are we up to 90 per cent of trust?”

Roberto smiled and rocked his hand.
“Maybe 85 per cent.”

Then Armando intervened. “It’s ready,
boss.”

Roberto slid across to view the laptop.
He began to click the files and read the data. This took over ten minutes, and
the girls sat quietly drinking their coffee as if waiting for the result of a
job interview. It was a tense period. Chrissie felt she was creating a rapport
with the Mafia man, but at the end of the day it all depended on the
information they’d selected. Was it good enough for Roberto to be able to
blackmail the Scarpones
and
include their freedom in the deal?

Roberto shuffled back into his original
position and pulled a face. They feared the worst. “Do you know how much
pleasure it would give me to overthrow the Scarpone family?”

They looked at each other. “A lot,”
replied Chrissie.

“Yes … a lot,” he replied. “In our world
all actions should be based on a business logic. It’s never personal: it’s only
business. But I have a problem with Zico Scarpone. I hate him with a passion,
and it affects my judgement. I make decisions that I know I could regret, but
my vision is clouded with the red mist of revenge and the overwhelming desire
to be the cause of his downfall. This obsession of mine is to your advantage. I
will trust you 100 per cent.”

“That’s great, Mr Vialli …” said Brenda.
“But can we trust you?”

Roberto’s blue eyes pierced the
semi-darkness. “I have seen enough of what is on this data stick to know what
can be achieved. If you thought I was going to blackmail Zico for some sort of
reward and include your freedom as part of that you are wrong … I’m not going
to do that.”

Chrissie was about to make a run for it,
but Brenda gripped her hand.

Roberto continued. “The families don’t
blackmail each other. To use one of your English expressions … it’s not the
done thing. But with the details you can provide me of the Scarpone operations
I can send the whole thing crashing down. I can wipe them out and put Zico
Scarpone in a grave, where he can torment the living no more. Then, for you
also, the nightmare is ended.”

They looked at the Mafia leader, then at
Armando, and then at each other. It was Megan who broke the silence.

“I know we should be jumping for joy
that this Zico person is going to be murdered – but we’re just ordinary people,
and all this talk of killing shakes us up a bit. In some ways it was better
when we thought you were just going to blackmail him.”

“Megan, you look like a strong lady who
has been through adversity – but you are like a two-week old kitten who only
knows how to play and sleep and be shown love. You have had no experience of
the cruelty of men like Zico Scarpone. I can tell you a hundred stories of his
atrocities, but I will tell you only of a recent crime. I asked my people to
find out what happened to the boy Fabio who stole the data stick. They learnt
that he was tortured unmercifully by Zico in person until he told them what
they wanted. Then, so he could never repeat anything of his ordeal, they cut
out his tongue, blinded him with a red-hot knife, and chopped off all his
fingers. Then they threw him into the streets of Naples as a sign of their
retribution. No one helped him or called the police, and it was the following
morning when the street cleaners found his body in the gutter.”

This revelation visibly shocked them but,
to his surprise, Megan didn’t flinch or run to the toilets to be sick. She had
strength in her voice and determination in her eyes.

“Mr Vialli, we are fully aware of what
we’ve been dragged into and the horror of it all. We aren’t as cosseted as you
think and we understand this culture exists, but that doesn’t mean we readily
accept it or could ever be a part of it. I don’t like to think of anyone having
to suffer, not for any reason, but that doesn’t mean I’m unaware that many
people get pleasure from inflicting pain. This is your world, and you will do
what you have to do. But let’s not pretend the world will be a better place
when this monster is gone, because I do know one thing for sure, and that is … there
will always be another monster ready to take his place.”

“You are perfectly correct, Megan. But I
am not that monster,” said Roberto. “Mafia families are not all about drugs and
crime. We are involved in politics – and not always for our own ends – and we
are major investors in construction all around the world. You would be
surprised to learn of some of the well-known buildings and bridges that would
never have been built were it not for Mafia money. My family is now as much
involved in legitimate business as in – let us say – traditional activities,
and I would like nothing more than to walk away from criminality altogether.”

“Then why don’t you?” asked Megan.

“For the same reason that you cannot
simply return your memory stick to the Scarpones. Once you’re in there is no
way out. Men like Zico don’t understand anyone who wants to shake hands and say
“Good luck”, but I don’t want to do this any more. In their crazy minds that
makes you a threat, and we all know what would happen next. No, the only way I
can become a bona fide businessman – and you can return to your families – is
if Zico is out of the way. You have the key that can make that happen. And, I
promise, no one else gets hurt … only the Scarpone devil.”

“You seem like a nice guy, Mr Vialli,”
said Brenda.

The Italian gangster smiled a ‘nice guy’
smile and said, “Please call me Roberto,” and he put out his hand. They all
returned his smile, and one by one shook his hand and said his name. Chrissie
was last, and he held her hand a little longer than the others and squeezed
slightly as he let it go. She was unsure why he had done that. Was it a sign of
attraction? She looked into his eyes, and they told her it was.

Roberto became serious again. “How long
will it take you to retrieve the original data?”

“Maybe an hour, there and back,” said
Brenda.

He looked around the gay bar. “No
disrespect to your choice of meeting place, but I don’t want to spend another
hour here. We are staying at the Ritz
on Piccadilly. Do you know where
that is?”

“Of course,” said Chrissie.

“We will go back there and, as you are
now under my protection, I will arrange a suite for you to stay in. Would you
like some of my men to accompany you to wherever this safety box is?”

“No, thanks, Roberto,” said Chrissie.
“You go and arrange our suite and we’ll meet you in reception in an hour.”

Roberto wasn’t pleased. “I must insist
that Armando and Beppe go with you,” and he signalled to the man by the door.

“So the man with no name is called Beppe,”
thought Chrissie, and suddenly he appeared far less sinister. Give someone a
name and you take away the mystery and the menace. Even a wild gorilla is cute
if he’s called Simon.

Chrissie wasn’t in the mood to argue,
and in any case it felt comforting to have a couple of minders looking after
them. For the first time someone of significance was on their side.

Roberto talked to Armando and Beppe in
Italian and then folded up the laptop and put the demonstration USB into his
pocket. Armando waved his arm for the girls to follow, and led them to the
door. They were about to step out into daylight when Chrissie felt a hand on
her shoulder and turned. Roberto stood behind her like a guardian angel. “Be
careful,” he said. She smiled and nodded, and then joined the procession of
gays and tourists and gay tourists along the road to Piccadilly.

They had turned the corner towards
Shaftesbury Avenue when Megan came to an abrupt halt. “I’ve left my scarf,” she
said. “It must have dropped on to the floor in the bar. I know it’s only a
cheap thing, but I like it. I’ll have to go back. Stay here. I’ll only be a
minute.” And without waiting for approval she turned and hurried away.

The street ahead had suddenly become
crowded with groups of rugby supporters en route to the strip clubs and
knocking shops of Soho. There was a rugby league challenge cup final at Wembley
at the weekend, and the opposing fans had hit town two days early to prepare.
This preparation meant drinking eighteen pints of lager a day, losing a week’s
wages in the casino, and singing as loudly as possible everywhere they went.
Megan didn’t want to make eye contact with any of them – she didn’t have time
for silly banter – so put her head down and pushed past like a fly half going
for glory.

Eventually she looked up to get her
bearings and caught sight of Roberto getting into a black Mercedes. The car
moved slowly away from the pavement, avoiding the drunken crowd. As the vehicle
was alongside Megan looked over to give a wave to their new-found saviour but
Roberto, in the rear seat, was looking the other way. Her eyes travelled to the
driver, and she froze. It was the man with the scar – the one who had shot at
them in the Earls Court hotel. She didn’t want to believe it, but there was the
proof. Roberto wasn’t trying to protect them at all: he was just another double-crossing
lying mobster.