Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  ‘Okay, we’d better hurry,’ Paolo said.

  Sweat was pouring off Geppo now as he cleared a space around the bottom of the mystery object.

  ‘It’s a big one; it must be nearly half a metre wide and the same deep. Tony’s going to piss himself when he sees this. But I’m going to need some help to drag it out of here.’

  With one mighty tug, Geppo loosened the earth, and as the soil fell away, it revealed an urn, cracked into three pieces. Exhausted from the exertion, Geppo sat down to rest.

  ‘Wrap them separately or they’ll break,’ Geppo said hoarsely.

  ‘What with?’

  ‘The shirt off your back, you twat.’

  Paolo took his shirt off, quickly tore it up and bound the fragments as best he could before bundling them into a sack.

  ‘We need to get the hell out of here,’ Paolo said impatiently. Geppo rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a handful of euros.

  ‘Give this to the guard. Stall him for ten minutes. I need to clear up before those museum creeps find out we’ve been here and come down and seal up the tomb.’

  Paolo hurried away, walking as fast as he could through the tunnels, his precious cargo slung over his shoulder.

  As he stumbled out into the daylight, temporarily blinded by the brightness, Paolo reached for his money. The Somalis were right behind him. The guard looked at his watch.

  ‘You’ve gone over by two minutes. No, make that three. An extra ten euros, so you owe me twenty.’ He held out his hand expectantly.

  Paolo swore under his breath, pulled the crumpled notes from his pocket and threw them in the guard’s general direction and walked away, the sackful of pottery cosy against his back.

  Stephen was back at his desk first thing, when his phone buzzed.

  ‘Lieutenant Renzo Bianconi here from the Naples unit. It’s about Corri.’ He was off again, before Stephen had the chance to respond. ‘We tracked him to the migrant camp where he picked up three Africans in a van at around nine p.m. last night.’

  Stephen was playing catch-up, not quite sure that he had understood correctly.

  ‘You think Corri’s a people smuggler?’

  ‘No, he’s using them for muscle for a job. When he drops them back, what do you want us to do?’

  ‘Where did he take them?’ There was an awkward silence on the end of the phone.

  ‘We tailed him as far as Pompeii and then got turned around by the boss for an urgent job. You know how it is.’

  They had him and they lost him?

  Stephen took a moment. It was pointless getting angry. He needed the guy on side.

  ‘What’s in it for the migrants, Bianconi?’

  ‘Renzo. Stephen, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re here with no papers. If we go and lean on them, they’re going to co-operate,’ Renzo said. ‘But it’s your call.’

  Was he hearing right? His colleague was bragging about blackmailing an asylum seeker into becoming an informer.

  ‘Then what?’ Stephen said.

  ‘We tell them to move north to the next country. That they’ll have better luck in France or Germany.’

  ‘Do whatever you have to do. See you in a few days,’ Stephen said.

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting you,’ Renzo said. He lowered his voice. ‘By the way, can you thank your colleague, di Mascio, for putting in a good word for me. I got an interview.’

  ‘Will do,’ Stephen said, as he scribbled down the message. As he put the phone down, he reflected for a moment. He’d been so eager to avoid confrontation with a new colleague that he’d allowed him to get away with stand-over tactics. What was he turning into?

  Lieutenant Renzo Bianconi was parked close to the migrant camp in an unmarked car with Police Lieutenant Vittorio Sironi. Renzo, short and muscular, tore into his doughnut in two big gulps. Vittorio, who was taller and leaner, laid out a paper serviette on his lap and nibbled at his pastry while sipping daintily at his coffee.

  A burst of static came from the police radio.

  ‘Corri’s van on the move, over.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Vittorio said, as Geppo Corri’s dirty grey van rolled slowly down the street. The van pulled up and three Somali lads jumped out.

  Vittorio scattered crumbs all over the seats and then tried to clean up before Renzo snatched the paper bag out of his hand and threw it into the footwell.

  Vittorio grabbed his camera and fired off a series of photos of the three men.

  Renzo spoke into his microphone, ‘Alpha One, paying our friends at the migrant camp a little visit. Alpha Two, tail Corri.’

  ‘Alpha Two, Roger that. Fiat Ducato in sight.’

  Renzo and Vittorio jumped out of the car and started walking purposefully towards the migrant camp.

  Naples, Italy

  * * *

  Paolo slept past midday, got up and turned on the television. When the lunchtime news came on, he muted the sound. He made himself a quick espresso, opened the window and leaned out and lit a cigarette. He glanced back at the TV. On the floor next to it was the looted stone head, decorated with a pair of mirror shades.

  There was an old story about a car accident and footage of a grey car that had hit the crash barrier on a motorway. The police were putting out a further appeal for witnesses. None had come forward. He shrugged and turned over to watch Lazio play Roma.

  His phone rang. The caller ID was Geppo. He declined it.

  He slumped down on a chair and his head lolled from side to side as he dozed off. He was woken by a hammering on the door. Sleepily he opened it to find an agitated Geppo—his forehead creased and his hair wild and straggly.

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Didn’t you see the news?’

  ‘Roma lost. So what?’

  ‘I’m not telling you out here where all the neighbours can hear.’ Geppo stepped into Paolo’s messy apartment. He caught sight of the stone head with the mirror sunglasses. ‘Show some respect. That thing is at least two thousand years old.’

  ‘It was giving me the creeps with those dead-looking eyes. What did you want, Uncle?’

  ‘Tony’s dead. In a car crash on the autostrada between Rome and Naples.’

  ‘I saw that. It happened last week.’ Paolo said.

  ‘No wonder he didn’t return my calls,’ Geppo said.

  ’They could have told us before we dug up all that new stuff.’

  ‘You mean the cops, ringing all of Tony’s contacts?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? He owes us money. Then goes and dies on us. We work for another week with no pay. And now we’re stuck with all this gear we dug up for him. How shitty is that?’

  ‘You don’t think I hadn’t thought of that?’ Geppo waved his arms, pacing around the room like a chimp in a too-small enclosure. ‘We need to find a safe place to stash the gear. Away from prying eyes.’

  Paolo shrugged and glanced around at his cramped apartment.

  ‘Not here. Or at mine. What about your mum’s garage?’

  Paolo laughed in Geppo’s face. ‘What about it? She’d know I was up to something. She’s your sister. You ask her.’

  Geppo deliberated for a moment. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell her I need some temporary storage while I’m trying to sell stuff on eBay.’

  ‘It’ll cost you.’

  ‘What do you mean it’ll cost me?’

  ‘Rent for the garage is fifty euros a week.’

  ‘You cheeky bastard! It’s not even yours!’

  ‘Fifty euros to buy my silence,’ Paolo said, casually lighting another cigarette.

  ‘I’ll be deducting that from your wages you little shit. Or else you can find yourself another job.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Not a word to the guys at the site. It’s business as usual, okay?’

  Paolo shrugged.

  The following morning Stephen was asleep when the phone rang. He looked at the clock. It was 7.00 a.m.

>   ‘Stephen Connor.’

  ‘It’s Bianconi in Naples. Sorry for the early call. But you might want to hear this. Geppo Corri has just arranged a meeting at a lock-up garage for midnight tonight.’

  ‘That’s an odd time of the night to be doing business.’

  ‘Even for Naples. Do you want to come down for that? The fast train from Rome gets you here in an hour.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll ring you when I know which train I’m catching. And thanks.’

  Stephen rung off and texted Elisabetta about where he was going, then padded into the kitchen. He dropped two teabags into a cup while he waited for the kettle to boil. It was going to be a long day.

  Stephen arrived at Naples Central Station in the early evening as the light was fading. The place was modern, clean and bustling, with earnest commuters and harassed families making their way past inviting brasseries, but as soon as he left the concourse the atmosphere changed. A well-dressed couple went to help an elderly tourist with his suitcases. A young lad moved swiftly forward and in less than ten seconds had slipped his hand into the unsuspecting traveller’s hand luggage and pilfered his credit cards and his wallet.

  ‘Hey, stop thief!’ Stephen shouted. As he did so, a hand reached out. A voice from behind him said,

  ‘Stephen?’

  Stephen turned around.

  ‘Renzo.’ A short, dark and stocky-looking man in his early thirties in leather jacket and jeans went to shake his hand. ‘You don’t look much like your police mugshot. The car’s this way.’ As they walked towards the vehicle, Renzo was quiet and matter of fact.

  ‘It might look like an opportunist theft, but it isn’t. It’s a tried and tested scam run by organised crime gangs. That young kid who grabbed the wallet ripped the cards out and passed those along to the teenage girl with the baby, who gave it to another kid who hopped on a motor scooter. In the time it takes to make a phone call, they’ll have spent two thousand dollars on the credit cards in stores in on the scam. Welcome to Naples.’

  The culture shock Stephen felt on arrival in Rome was nothing compared with Naples. Rome seemed like London now, with its wealth and high culture, whereas Naples felt like Liverpool—charming and friendly people who radiated a cheerful energy, in a city with an astonishing amount of poverty and a criminal underclass. Everything that had just gone on had been recorded on CCTV, yet the brazen way the gang had gone about its business took him by surprise. ‘We’re round the corner,’ Renzo said, glancing around.

  ‘How did it go with the guys down at the migrant camp?’ Stephen asked as they passed stall after stall of counterfeit goods, which seemed to be manned exclusively by teenage boys of African descent, who were packing up for the evening.

  ‘They know the score: inform on Corri or end up working for the mob,’ Renzo said, indicating the wretched kids who were trying but failing to entice them to buy a selfie-stick.

  Thirty metres away was what looked like a surveillance van, with its engine running.

  ‘I haven’t told any of them here yet, but I’ve been offered that job. And I’m going to take it,’ Renzo said.

  ‘Understood.’ Stephen wondered if Alberti had hired him, as Elisabetta hadn’t mentioned it. Did she even know? ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As they got closer to the van, there was another officer sitting in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Hop in,’ Renzo said.

  Stephen slid into the middle next to the driver, who held out his hand and introduced himself as Vittorio.

  ‘We’ve got some time to kill before Corri’s meeting,’ Renzo turned to Stephen. ‘How about we go and get something to eat?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  They were tucking in to bowls of pasta less than twenty minutes later when they got a call from the officer monitoring Corri’s phone.

  ‘Corri’s contact now wants to meet at quarter to eight.’

  ‘Okay, we’re on it,’ Renzo said, finishing off a mouthful of pasta, pulling out some notes from his wallet and leaving them on the table. ‘Let’s go.’

  The back of the surveillance van was hot and uncomfortable. Half-eaten chocolate bars and empty coffee cups lay strewn on the floor. Cables of various colours snaked towards a large silver box, the size and shape of an amplifier.

  Connected to that was a laptop, where Vittorio, wearing headphones, stared at the screen.

  It was the waiting around Stephen disliked the most. His only job was to pick up the camera with the telephoto lens as soon as Corri showed up. They were parked up with the lights off down a side street. To any passer-by it looked like a trade van locked up for the night.

  ‘It’s him,’ Renzo said.

  Stephen grabbed the camera as Corri’s van pulled up outside a set of run-down lock up garages, spray-painted with graffiti lit by a forlorn-looking street light, its yellow sulphurous glow casting eerie shadows.

  Corri waited inside the van with his sidelights on. The sound of an approaching car triggered him to get out and make his way towards the roller door of a single-car garage.

  As he unlocked it, a short barrel-chested man with tousled dark hair approached him. Corri opened up the roller door and switched on the light. He jumped back and seemed to yell something, as though he’d got an electric shock. It was empty, apart from a single plastic box sitting forlornly in the corner. He picked up the box and pulled out its contents.

  It was hard to see what was inside. Stephen focused his telephoto lens on what appeared to be ornaments and jewellery. He fired off a series of pictures.

  The buyer seemed angry and stalked off, jumping into his car and driving away, leaving the unfortunate Corri with his head in his hands, rocking from side to side.

  ‘Oh shit.’ Stephen looked at his fellow officers.

  ‘Shit is right,’ Renzo said. ‘Looks like he’s been cleaned out.’

  ‘Except for that box of ornaments. Probably because they’re not worth much,’ Vittorio said.

  Stephen’s heart pumped a little faster. He’d zoomed right in on the items stashed in the bag, hadn’t he? Some of the shots he’d taken had to be in focus.

  ‘I got close ups. Here, look.’ Stephen tried to keep his hands steady as he viewed the images of a series of figurines in various poses. He handed the camera to Renzo first, then Vittorio.

  ‘They’re the kind of thing you’d see on a mantelpiece,’ Renzo said. ‘Or maybe in a glass case in a museum.’

  ‘Or at an auction,’ Stephen said. ‘I’d swear I saw identical pieces to these on sale in Switzerland.’ He remembered his conversation with the retired priest about similar-looking pieces. What was his name again? He had his card somewhere. As he was about to rifle through his wallet to find the business card, Renzo whose turn it was to photograph the suspect, pointed the camera through the glass of the van window towards Corri. He motioned to Stephen.

  ‘Looks like he’s making a call.’

  Vittorio switched on the speakerphone.

  ‘Paolo you little shit. We’ve been robbed. Who the hell did you tell?’ Stephen struggled to understand the broad dialect, but got the gist of his outburst.

  ‘Uncle, don’t get mad. Mum changed her mind. I was in the middle of calling you when you rang. I had to move the stuff out of there.’

  Stephen signalled Renzo.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘His nephew is trying to cover his arse.’

  There was a crackle, and the connection failed.

  ‘Shit. Loose connection, sorry,’ Renzo said, jamming the wire into the machine.

  ‘I’ve just been down here with a buyer who was willing to take the lot, no questions asked. You’ve screwed that up,’ Geppo said.

  ‘Don’t blame me, she’s your bloody sister,’ Paolo shouted.

  ‘Where is everything?’ Geppo said.

  ‘My apartment. I tried calling you. You didn’t pick up.’

  ‘Your apartment? Where anyone can see who’s coming and going?’

&nbs
p; ‘I did it in the middle of the night. The Somali guys helped me.’

  Renzo turned to the others.

  ‘They kept quiet about that one. We need to get back down to that camp first thing. Tell them that we mean business,’ Renzo said. ‘I gave them a burner phone. Every time Geppo hired them they were told to let me know.’

  Stephen felt alarmed. He wanted no part in roughing up teenagers.

  ‘Maybe there was a misunderstanding. It was the nephew who hired them, right?’ Stephen said.

  ‘So what?’ Renzo’s tone was aggressive.

  Vittorio put his hand up to shush the argument.

  ‘Keep it down will you, I can’t hear them.’

  ‘And don’t worry, nothing got broken that wasn’t in bits already,’ Paolo continued.

  ‘Paolo you idiot! You’d better make sure nobody saw you. And that those guys didn’t steal anything.’

  ‘Why would they do that when I’m paying them good money to guard the stuff? They’re taking it in turns to do eight-hour shifts, so we have round the clock security,’ Paolo said.

  ‘What are you paying them with? Fake Rolexes? Tony was meant to pay us, and he never did, remember,’ Geppo said. ‘And until the new Tony makes contact, we haven’t got any money.’

  ‘You got a better plan, Uncle?’

  ‘Thanks to you screwing up that deal with the trader, I’ll have to sell the smaller items online.’

  ‘Good luck with setting up that stealth eBay account,’ Paolo said with youthful superiority.

  ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ Geppo said, sheepishly, before hanging up.

  Renzo looked at Stephen expectantly. ‘What do you want to do? If we follow him to the nephew’s, you can get a search warrant to raid the apartment.’

  Elisabetta had been adamant. She wasn’t interested in the low-hanging fruit, but Corri was their only lead so far. It was too early to bring him in. Better to watch and wait, especially if the new Tony showed up.

  ‘Stand the surveillance down and keep tracking his phone and monitoring the calls. And pay another visit to our informers.’