Viper

by Unknown

  It was enough.

  He set off on his walk. His final walk around Pompeii.

  8.45 a.m.

  Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli

  The Mercedes Maybach wound its way down the spiralling hillside. The interior temperature, as always, was twenty degrees. Outside it was down to four. And it was foggy too. Fredo Finelli sat in the back reading La Gazzetta, trying not to think of the doctor’s appointment and how late he was going to be. This was the crunch meeting. If his blood sugar levels hadn’t normalized, then they were going to start treating him for diabetes. That’s what they’d warned, and he was damned sure that was what was going to happen.

  He’d ignored symptoms of raging thirst, dizziness, tiredness and headaches for as long as possible. Now he simply hoped that whatever they decided to do, it wouldn’t involve needles. He’d heard somewhere that these days there were tablets that could be taken instead. If a clean bill of health wasn’t in the offing, then that’s what he wanted.

  The 62S was itching to go, keen to get on the auto-strada and ignite its V12 engine. Instead, the traffic was getting worse. Soon it was forced to a halt.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Fredo called from the back.

  Armando Lopapa, a fifty-year-old no-nonsense Neapolitan who’d been his driver for more than a decade, slid down the dividing glass. ‘I’m not sure. It’s not the car in front. Must be something ahead of that. Looks like a kind of accident.’

  ‘Probably the damned fog. People seem to have forgotten how to drive properly these days.’

  The driver behind them honked his horn.

  ‘Go see what it is,’ insisted the Don. ‘Get them out of the damned way.’

  Armando did as he was told. The horn behind him blared again. ‘Hey, fuckhole, shut the fuck up,’ he shouted, slipping on his chauffeur’s cap.

  A racing bike lay on the misty blacktop. A teenage boy in yellow cycling Lycra was struggling to sit up. He was holding his face and had badly cut legs. A thirty-something businessman in a blue suit leaned over him. ‘He fell. I didn’t hit him,’ he protested weakly. ‘It was an accident, I did nothing.’

  Armando wanted to backhand him. He was clearly the kind of asshole who wouldn’t slow down for a kid on a bike. Naples was full of them. Maybe later he would slap him. ‘You okay?’ he asked the boy. The youngster was about fourteen, could easily have been his own son. ‘Can you stand up?’

  The driver behind them blasted his horn once more, got out, banged shut his door and joined them. ‘What the fuck’s happening? I’m really late for a meeting. Can’t we get things going here?’

  ‘Kid fell off his bike,’ repeated the coward in the suit.

  Armando ignored them both and checked his watch. The Don would be furious if this wasn’t sorted quickly.

  ‘My head hurts, I feel really sick,’ groaned the kid. He looked shaken, maybe concussed.

  ‘Come on,’ said Armando. ‘Let’s get him to the side of the road. Someone call an ambulance.’ He moved round the boy and carefully put his arms under his body. He knew he should really leave him until medical help arrived but there wasn’t the time, so he tried his best to keep the kid’s head and spine straight.

  Traffic was backing up badly. Inside the Merc, Fredo Finelli was growing impatient. He’d give it another five minutes and then call the doctor and rearrange his appointment.

  The jerk in the blue suit picked the boy’s bike up and wheeled it about twenty metres down the road and rested it against a tree. Meanwhile, horn blaster called for help on his mobile, then muttered more about being late for something and headed back to his car.

  Armando quickly settled the kid on the grass verge and checked him again. ‘It’ll be all right, we’ll have a doctor here pronto.’ The kid rolled over on to his side and clutched his head, then pulled up his legs. ‘You okay? Try to stay still. Don’t move about, you might do yourself some more damage.’ Maybe that bastard in the car had hit him after all.

  But the kid wasn’t in pain.

  The blood on his legs and face was fake.

  He was curled up because he was taking cover.

  The car at the front of the Mercedes, and the one at the back, blew up simultaneously.

  The Merc’s custom-made bulletproof glass and reinforced metalwork could only do so much. The explosion flipped the Maybach like a pancake. It flopped and tumbled over the crash barriers. Slid down the hillside, taking out trees and rolling over boulders.

  The noise ruptured Armando’s eardrum and the blast threw him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the edge. The car had fallen nearly twenty metres on to rocks. The windows were blown out and the roof was mangled. It had dropped on to the road below, broken through the next set of barriers, then careered down another part of the hillside.

  Armando turned round.

  He was alone.

  The boy and everyone else had gone.

  It had been a classic hit.

  9.00 a.m.

  Santa Maria Eliana, centro città, Napoli

  Morning service was a traditional Latin High Mass. As always, Carmine Cicerone settled down to what he knew would be a truly uplifting experience. A spiritual detox.

  Thunder rumbled outside but there was still enough daylight to shine sharply through sections of the pristine stained-glass windows that depicted the Stations of the Cross and ran the complete length of the seventeenth-century church. A pepper cloud of dust swirled in multicoloured shafts of light and a small rainbow fell across the white marble of the altar floor. Carmine the Dog loved everything about going to church. The architectural grandeur of the building. The deeply colourful and symbolic costumes. The centuries-old script. Even the smell of frankincense swung by the broody-looking altar boy whose eyebrows met in the middle. It was wonderful. Pure theatre.

  Today he placed two hundred euros in the rose-wood collection plate that passed down his pew and he thanked God for making him wise enough to have slept on things. The plan that Vito had put together and shown him just before he’d settled in his pew was crude and shabby. He really wished he could instill a more businesslike approach in the man. Put bluntly, he’d advocated the simultaneous killing of Finelli, Valsi and as many other of their Capi and soldiers as they could manage. A day of bloodshed, then a decade of peace, that’s what he’d promised. No, thank you. Carmine wasn’t buying. He knew it was shrewder to take compensation from Finelli and then let his clan rip itself apart. Once they were weak, then he might consider finishing them off.

  The service lasted forty-five minutes. He looked around at the end and was sad to see that the grand old church was virtually empty. Never mind – Father Mario had still put on a stellar performance. Carmine had taken la sacra Comunione and, as he filed out behind half a dozen people, he felt positively rejuvenated.

  As usual the back of the church was littered with homeless drifters who’d come in off the street to shelter from the weather. He dipped his hand into the holy water, made the sign of the cross facing the altar, and then turned to walk outside into the bright winter sunlight. He was right to have chosen peace, not war. He and Fredo Finelli would talk. They’d find common ground and then they’d both enjoy the rest of their lives.

  9.00 a.m.

  Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli

  It took Armando Lopapa almost ten minutes to run from the first broken barrier on the bend of the winding hillside road to the second one. He was breathless by the time he reached the mangled metal and peered over the side at the crushed and crumpled Mercedes. The car had hit all manner of rocks and trees on its deadly drop. He called the emergency services, then hurdled the last barrier and began the final steep climb down the ankle-twisting terrain.

  ‘Please God, let him be alive,’ said the loyal chauffeur, his suit patched with sweat and his cap long since lost.

  First glance at the $300,000 Mercedes told him that despite layers of armour plating, it was still a write-off.

  He replayed the astonishing events a
s he descended. A double blast. Two cars parked front and back. The car flipped like pizza dough. Someone had clearly known their route. Had been aware of the strict drill that made sure the Don always stayed the other side of the anti-hijack locks and bulletproof glass until he was assured that everything was okay. Some safety drill. It all seemed pointless now. The attackers must have known about that too, and the fact that the Maybach was a tank, so strong it would have stood a chance of surviving one blast. But not two. Especially when they were coordinated and calculated so well that the car would be sent plunging down the rocky hillside. It was an inside job. About as inside as you could get.

  Armando put his hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, fuck!’ He was close enough to see now. Fredo Finelli lay jammed up against the back headrests. Tossed there like a rolled-up umbrella thrown in the back in case of a rainy day.

  ‘Don, Don Fredo!’ He didn’t expect an answer but hoped beyond hope that he might get one.

  He could see blood now. Spread and spattered across the cream trim and matching leather.

  The doors had locked and Armando couldn’t get in. Shards of glass stuck up like stalagmites from the rubbers on the door frame. Armando took off his jacket, balled it up and knocked them out. Finally, he was in.

  The left side of Don Fredo’s face was smashed up. His jaw broken and out of line. Teeth had been hammered back. There was so much blood in one eye socket that it seemed the eye was missing too.

  Armando felt sick. He put two fingers to the Don’s neck and felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  He shuffled his hand around a little to see if he’d missed it.

  Still nothing.

  The Don had been good to him, always paid him well, always respected him. The sense of loss kicked in. Death is truly awful when you’re the first to discover it.

  Thump.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  Thump, thump.

  A slow but slight beat between his fingers. My God, the old bastard was actually alive!

  He put his face close to the Don’s mouth and checked for breath.

  Nothing.

  Thump.

  Thump, thump.

  Outside he could hear voices. Help was close at hand! Thank God.

  ‘Here! In here!’ he called.

  Armando could see the feet and trousers of the paramedics descending the last rocks. They’d know what to do. They’d save him.

  Thum– The pulse fell again.

  ‘Quick! Please, come quick, he’s dying!’

  Thu– Fainter.

  ‘Hey, we came as quick as we could,’ said a calm male voice.

  Armando turned to the side window. His eyes widened just before a bullet smashed into the middle of his face.

  Romano Ivetta lowered his weapon and fired two more shots into the still-beating heart of Fredo Finelli.

  9.00 a.m.

  Napoli

  En route to the Anti-Camorra Unit’s HQ, Sylvia pulled over to the side of the road and took another call from the Murder Squad. This time it was one of the coordinators, Susanna Martinelli. ‘Boss, Missing Persons have come back with a match on victims three and four.’

  Sylvia held her breath. ‘And – are they our women?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, they are.’

  Sylvia didn’t know whether to feel elated or dejected. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Victim number three is Patricia Calvi. That’s the nineteen-year-old student from Soccavo.’

  Sylvia remembered her. Long brown hair, razor-thin eyebrows, pale brown eyes. She’d been missing almost six and a half years. ‘And the other?’

  Susanna read from her notes. ‘Luisa Banotti, the secretary from Santa Lucia. She’s been missing seven years and two months.’

  Sylvia recalled the photographs. She’d looked much younger than her twenty years. Dark hair – like all the victims – but very fine and barely shoulder-length. Eyes pale blue and beautifully large, like a child’s. ‘Have we informed the families?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ve got positive DNA matches, so now we can call them in. Do you want to be there?’

  Sylvia wished she could. She hated this kind of news being delegated. ‘I can’t. Can you look after it? Make sure the parents have time to talk about it, don’t rush them.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Sylvia started the engine and was about to ring off.

  ‘Boss, one more thing. Bernadetta Di Lauro just rang. Can you call her back?’

  Sylvia turned off the engine and took down the number. What could she want? An update? A complaint? Just someone to talk to?

  Francesca’s mother answered on the second ring. ‘Pronto. This is Bernadetta.’

  ‘Signora, this is Capitano Tomms. My office said you just called and asked for me.’

  Francesca’s mother sounded surprised. ‘That’s very fast. It’s less than ten minutes since I rang.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I hope I’m not wasting your time. You said if I remembered anything…’ for a moment she struggled, ‘then I should call you! Well, to be honest, there is something. Something I should have told you last time we met but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.’

  ‘Signora, whatever you say to me is in complete confidence.’

  Bernadetta relaxed a little. The policewoman seemed to understand her desire not to share in public any private thoughts about her daughter.

  ‘Grazie. It’s a long time ago. And I’m not really sure if it’s that important, but –’

  ‘Please let us be the judge of the importance, Signora.’

  ‘Okay. I think Francesca was seeing someone. A married man.’

  Sylvia’s investigative senses prickled. ‘Do you know who he was?’

  Bernadetta let out a sigh. ‘No. No, I don’t. Not at all. Like I told you at your office, Francesca was a very private person. She didn’t talk a lot about the men in her life.’

  ‘So why do you think she was seeing a married man?’

  ‘There was an old film on TV, with Tony Franciosa in it. The one in which he and his wife both have a string of affairs, and I said to Francesca that she should steer clear of married men as they brought nothing but trouble. She laughed and said it was a bit too late for that. I asked her what she meant. She went shy and said she was just joking. But I don’t think she was. She looked awkward that she’d said it. I tried to get her to discuss it some more but she grew quite irritated with me.’

  ‘And the reference to too late, you now think that was because she was already pregnant?’

  Bernadetta paused. ‘I don’t know. I torture myself by going over every word she ever said to me. Maybe I should have pushed her more. Maybe she was trying to let me in and wanted me to make her talk about it. But I couldn’t. She just clammed up. I’m sorry.’

  Sylvia told her not to blame herself, but she could tell her words had little effect. She thanked her for the call and drove away.

  A married man and a dead, pregnant woman.

  It was an interesting development. A development that at last might provide them with a motive and a link to someone.

  96

  9.50 a.m.

  Pompeii

  Luciano Creed was playing a waiting game. Something that irritated the hell out of freelance journalist Cassandra Morrietti. ‘I have deadlines and I have bills,’ she glared at him over the bad espresso she’d bought from a tourist bar near the Castellani campsite.

  ‘Patience, Cassandra. Patience.’

  Creed was backing a hunch. When he and the hack had posed as cops, old man Castellani had told them that his grandson Franco was missing. He was certain he knew why. Franco was the kidnapper and murderer they were all hunting. The photograph he’d been given by the doting grandfather showed the kid to be hideously deformed. Freaks like that don’t get sex. What they do get is the urge to abduct pretty women, fuck them and then kill them because they can’t risk letting them go. It was simple stuff and he was amazed King, Tomms and the rest
of the carabinieri hadn’t been clued up to it. Actually, he wasn’t that amazed. They were all a bunch of fools and not bright enough to realize that sometimes the most obvious things were overlooked. Well, that wasn’t a mistake he was going to make.

  ‘Trust me,’ he told the journalist. ‘We follow the freak’s cousin and he will lead us straight to the freak killer. Then all your waiting will have been worthwhile.’

  Cassandra was about to argue the point, when she had to swallow both her words and the last of her espresso. ‘There’s our boy!’ Creed nodded across the road. Paolo Falconi was heading straight towards them.

  9.50 a.m.

  Santa Maria Eliana, centro città, Napoli

  The sun seemed to bless Carmine Cicerone as nine a.m. Mass finished and he emerged from the heady smell of burning candles and the calming cool of the church. It was almost as though God had lifted the fog for a moment to show his personal approval of the Dog’s decision to choose words rather than war.

  God – and a truly great Tarot reading.

  According to his daily Internet subscription, Gemini’s moon was in conjunction with assertive Mars. A bountiful Sun–Jupiter square was in the offing, as was an imbalanced Venus–Uranus quincunx. Now was plainly not the time for rash and foolish actions.

  Halfway down the double flight of stone steps that grandly spread east and west on to the pavement, he narrowly avoided bumping into two preoccupied nuns. They were in a line, hurrying in for the next service. It was one of those awkward encounters when one person moves left and so does the other, then everyone swings in the other direction at exactly the same time. ‘Scusi,’ he smiled politely, then stood still so they could choose whichever direction they wished.

  ‘Grazie,’ replied the smaller of the sisters at the front. Then she smiled at him. She had a lovely face. Even seemed flirtatious. Carmine had a sinful thought. He chastised himself. Seconds out of church and he was needing confession already.

  The pretty nun was still staring at him when the holy sister just behind her stepped forward and shot him. The silenced bullet fizzed from beneath the Bible in her hands. Hands so big they were now clearly not female. The cough of the 45 was swallowed in the jackhammer noise of rush-hour traffic. Not a single head turned on the nearby pavement.