‘Okay boss.’
‘I’ll keep tabs on eBay, ready to bid, the moment Corri lists his items. If anyone new makes contact to arrange to pay Corri or to meet him, call me,’ Stephen said.
He looked at his watch. If he was lucky, he’d get the 8.45 p.m. train.
‘Any chance of a lift back to the station?’
‘I can’t. I’ve got a kid,’ Renzo said.
‘We’ve all got somewhere to get to,’ Vittorio snapped. ‘I’ll take you.’
Stephen hadn’t noticed it before but there was definitely an air of hostility between the two of them.
‘Drop me off first, will you,’ Renzo said. ‘Here will do.’
‘Suit yourself. I could take you to the door.’ Vittorio drove fast and braked suddenly. ‘Thanks,’ Renzo said, glaring at him. He walked off towards a row of bars and cheap restaurants.
‘So much for getting back to the wife and kid,’ Vittorio observed.
‘What’s up with him do you think?’ Stephen said.
‘Trouble at home by the sounds of it. His partner’s nagging him, wanting a bigger apartment. It comes down to money. He was talking about asking for a transfer up to Rome. They're better paid up there.’
‘Ah that makes sense. I think he got an interview,’ Stephen said, keen not to get involved.
‘If he gets it, we’ll all breathe a sigh of relief down here. Then he’ll be your problem. Here you go,’ Vittorio said, as he pulled up.
Those two really don’t like each other, Stephen thought, as they arrived back at the station.
On the train back to Rome, Stephen reached into his wallet and pulled out the business card belonging to the retired priest. Monsignor Michael McCarthy, that was it, the self-described amateur collector of the exact same figurines that Geppo Corri was trying to offload. Or, at least that’s what they appeared to be to his untrained eye. Maybe McCarthy could set him straight on whether they were fake or the real thing. He turned the business card over. I wonder, he mused, then thinking better of it, he slipped the card back into his wallet. Had he seen something of a kindred spirit in the priest from his homeland, that he was prepared to trust him, without knowing anything about the man? He pushed the thought away.
Chapter 7
Naples, Italy
* * *
Renzo, a beanie pulled low over his ears, sat on a barstool, huddled in front of a slot machine. He picked up his ticket for 200 euros and went up to the cashier.
‘Another 200 please.’ The woman looked him up and down and shook her head.
‘You’re at the end of your credit.’
He pulled out what he thought was his credit card from his wallet. The cashier glanced down and saw that it was a police ID.
‘Cash only,’ she said handing the card back. ‘I wouldn’t flash that around here if I were you,’ she said, indicating a group of men playing poker at a nearby table.
‘Shit,’ Renzo said, under his breath, before shoving the ID back into his wallet and pulling out a handful of hundred euro notes. ‘One more game for the road?’
‘One only and don’t come back here until you’ve settled your account. I mean it,’ the woman said looking at him. ‘Got a family?’
Renzo nodded.
‘Thought so. If you blow this and you can’t pay, we’ll send in the bailiffs.’
Renzo shook his head, muttered under his breath, ‘I’ll show you,’ as he slipped away back to his seat.
He ignored the warning sign about playing more than one machine, slid across onto the adjacent seat and started shovelling money mechanically into the slot.
The cashier watched him then got up and marched over to the barman. She whispered in his ear, ‘He’s a cop. Do you want me to throw him out?’ The barman shrugged.
‘Cop with a gambling habit. What’s new?’ Suddenly the room was ablaze with light, a medley of bells and sirens. Above the noise, a woman gave out a loud shriek of delight.
‘Right, who wants a drink,’ she said.
Rome, Italy
* * *
The eBay alert pinged on Stephen’s computer. A listing in antiques brought up what looked like not just old but museum-ancient jewellery consisting of a dull gold bracelet, a hair comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a matching hand mirror, a necklace and a set of earrings.
To the uninitiated, they looked like junk shop finds. Stephen, thanks to the intensive tutoring he’d received in ancient art at Villa Giulia this past week, knew better. But what caught his eye was the name of the seller. Oppeg Irroc. How original. Geppo Corri written backwards. An avatar a kid would use.
As he scrolled through the items for sale, he searched again. Where were the figurines? He started typing a message:
Anything else for sale?
A reply came straight back.
Plenty.
And sure enough, Corri sent through a list, including two small statues, one which he described as men dancing. Stephen got out of his seat and punched the air.
‘He’s our man, I’m sure of it.’
Cash only. Collect at 9.00 p.m. tomorrow. Here’s the address.
‘I haven’t even bought them yet, and he’s already giving me the address.’
Elisabetta, who was at the desk opposite him, pushed the hair out of her eyes as she looked up.
‘Who?’
‘Geppo Corri. The looting suspect in Naples.’
‘How much is he asking?’
‘He’s listed them individually, but I’m going to offer him 400 euros for the lot. I’ll say I’m in the trade. Come and take a look.’
Elisabetta slid out of her chair, walked around to where Stephen was sitting and peered over his shoulder.
‘The comb and the mirror you’d find in a Roman noblewoman’s tomb.’
‘You think we’re on to something?’ Stephen felt a rush of excitement.
‘The stones in the necklace are different in shape and colour. And they’re held together so delicately. It wouldn’t take much for them to disintegrate. They can only be real.’ Elisabetta got up and started pacing up and down the room, twisting her hands together.
‘They must have plundered a tomb. Whoever it was has been lying there undisturbed for thousands of years until these bastards came along. It’s our heritage they’re stealing.’
If he read her correctly, it sounded like she was having second thoughts.
‘We’re doing this to stop him selling to anyone else,’ Stephen said. ‘And if we don’t buy, someone else will.’
‘You’re right. I don’t think we have a choice. Offer him 425.’
While he’d been listening to Elisabetta a dozen new watchers and a rival bidder had come online. He clicked onto the bidder’s avatar: He (or she) called themselves Nosce te ipsum.
Not enough, came the message back.
‘There’s a rival bidder. But according to their profile they’ve got no track record.’
‘We can’t be outbid.’ Elisabetta said.
The bids went back and forth like a game of cat and mouse. The rival bidder got to 500.
‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘Talk up your glowing reviews and top buyer and seller rating and offer him 550.’
600 and it’s yours. Cash only.
‘He’s got us where he wants us and he knows it,’ Elisabetta said.
Agreed, Stephen wrote back.
Meet here. Stephen wrote the instructions down and passed it over to Elisabetta.
‘Mind how you go. Take one of the local undercover officers, in case it’s a set-up.’
‘Will do.’
‘And one more thing,’ Elisabetta said, looking at Stephen’s chinos and open neck shirt.‘Don’t dress like that. You look like a cop. They crucify cops in that part of town. I’m not joking,’ she said looking Stephen in the eye.
He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach and mumbled, ‘point taken.’
Naples, Italy
* * *
Stephen felt uncomf
ortable in a perfectly good, if slightly worn grey suit he’d found in a second-hand clothes store, which also sold him an office shirt and a tie. He recalled that the last time he’d worn that kind of outfit had been at a funeral.
As he looked around at the desolate concrete tower block, rubbish strewn everywhere, he couldn’t get over the sinister quiet of the night. On closer inspection, there were a few youngsters around, junkies mainly, sitting around stoned or openly shooting up. All his instincts told him to get out of there.
They’d had to park the car three blocks away so as not to draw attention to an unknown vehicle. Vittorio had been the one to boast that they hadn’t been spotted, but then a boy who looked no older than ten had appeared from nowhere and asked,
‘Mind your car, Mister?’ Vittorio had told him where to go. Stephen wasn’t so sure that had been a good move but it wasn’t his patch. Now Vittorio didn’t look too happy either.
‘Ready?’ Stephen said.
‘I just want to get out of here alive,’ Vittorio said. ‘See those little kids over there?’ Stephen nodded.
‘They’re the lookouts. They know we’re here.’ With a feeling of dread welling up inside him, Stephen got out a burner phone and sent Corri a text.
We’re outside.
They heard footsteps running down a concrete set of steps, which echoed into the night. Then a man, who Stephen recognised as Corri, appeared from the shadows. He pointed towards the stairwell and led the way. Stephen went second and saw Vittorio looking round to check they weren’t being followed, before falling in behind. Stephen counted four flights, then they went across a concrete walkway, which stank of piss. He could see that the door to one of the apartments was ajar. Corri pushed it open. A younger man barred the doorway, giving him and Vittorio a long, hard look, before letting them in.
‘Bag search.’ As Corri’s accomplice spoke, Stephen recognised his voice from the surveillance audio. It was Corri’s nephew, Paolo, he was sure of it. Paolo pointed to the large sports bag Stephen had slung over his shoulder, which he opened for inspection.
Stephen’s eyes darted towards a folding table in the middle of the sparsely furnished living area, where the sale items were set out. Stephen held the printout of the eBay listings in his hand and then promptly dropped it.
As he bent down to pick it up, he silently cursed himself for his nervousness, but Paolo was too quick and got there first, giving him the side-eye as he handed it back to him.
‘All good,’ Stephen said. He drew out 600 euros and was about to pass them over to Corri when Paolo stepped in.
‘I’ll take that. Just in case it’s funny money.’ He made a big deal of holding each note up to the light.
‘Call me if you have anything else. I sell antiques.’ Stephen passed over another of his fake business cards. Corri took it and passed it to the nephew.
‘I might have. Give me until the end of the week.’ The nephew shook his head firmly.
‘Or we might not,’ he said, glaring at his uncle. ‘Not Italian, then,’ the nephew said, looking at Stephen’s business card.
‘No, English,’ Stephen said, calculating that Paolo wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between an Irish and an English accent. Paolo looked him up and down, and then again at Vittorio.
‘I’ve seen you before.’
Vittorio didn’t flinch. ‘Maybe you have.’
Stephen, ignoring the stand-off between the two of them, turned to Corri.
‘I could do with getting these pieces cleaned up before I show them to clients. Know anyone?’ He tried to make the question as casual as possible on the off-chance that the two treasure-hunters were aware that the stuff they looted was given a make-over before it was sold.
‘Grab my phone Paolo, will you. There was that contact Tony gave us.’
Tony? As in Sanzio?
Paolo shuffled over and gave Corri his phone, not taking his eyes off Stephen.
‘What’s up with you?’ Corri mouthed.
Paolo rolled his eyes.
‘I don’t trust them,’ he mouthed back.
Stephen looked from one to the other, doing his best to appear bored.
Corri, who was apparently desperate to do the deal, ignored his nephew and passed Stephen a scribbled note with the name and phone number of one Aniello di Lauro.
‘We’ll be off then.’ Stephen felt his anxiety beginning to build. He packed up the treasures as carefully as he could, using the tissue paper he’d brought with them. Vittorio was as ham-fisted as he was. They ended up shoving everything into plastic shopping bags, before putting the lot into the sports bag. Elisabetta would be horrified when she found out how they had man-handled the delicate, historical treasures in their hurry to get out of there.
He counted every step back across the walkway and down the four flights. The fluorescent lights cast cold blue shadows. The piazza where the kids had been shooting up had gone quiet. Stephen peered through the dark and saw shapes, like discarded bags of rubbish, lying on the ground. As they made their way past, he could see they were rough sleepers.
Three blocks felt like a long way. Stephen started to speed up. Just then, he heard a staccato whine approaching from behind. Vittorio grabbed Stephen by the arm, and they started running at full tilt. A driver on a motor scooter, with a passenger on the back, mounted the pavement and gave chase.
‘You take the back,’ Stephen shouted, turning around to face their assailants. As the rider drove straight towards them, the pillion passenger leant over to try to grab the bag of antiquities. Vittorio was on him and yanked him by the collar of his cheap leather jacket. He screamed as he was lifted into the air. The driver swerved and lost control. As the bike toppled over, Stephen went for the driver, but Vittorio pulled him back.
‘Leave it.’ The would-be muggers, wearing full visors, picked themselves up and started limping away. The pillion rider spat the words out over his shoulder.
‘Filthy cops.’
At least the car was still there. Or most of it was. Stephen heard Vittorio cursing and looked down to see that all the tyres had been removed. And smirking as he disappeared into a nearby alleyway was the same young kid who Vittorio had refused to pay to mind the car.
Vittorio swore and then phoned for a tow truck. As he and Stephen waited beside their immobile car, the urchin who had arranged for the street mechanics to steal their wheels, swerved around the corner on a bicycle. He lifted it up by the handlebars and the bike reared up, like a trick done by traveller kids back home in Cork on their coloured ponies. The kid proceeded to ride around them in ever tighter circles, never taking his eyes off the two of them. Out of the shadows appeared four other boys, ranging in age from what Stephen guessed was nine or ten to sixteen.
‘Careful, he’s got back up,’ Vittorio said. ‘If I have to, I’ll make a run for it.’ Stephen held the hard-won eBay items closer to his chest.
‘They’ll outrun and outmanoeuvre you. Just have to hope the tow truck gets here soon.’ Stephen heard the fear in Vittorio’s voice. The last thing he needed right now was for him to lose control of the situation. He had brought Vittorio along because he worked these streets. If he couldn’t deliver, Stephen was going to have to find a way of imposing his own authority.
‘They’re kids. And kids are the same, whether it’s a sink estate in north Dublin or a run-down neighbourhood in Naples.’
As the eldest boy stepped forward, he called out.
‘What’s in the holdall, mister? You rob someone?’
‘No, but I think you did. How much for the tyres?’ Stephen said.
‘I’ll trade you for what’s in the bag.’ The kid was calm now, bored even.
‘I’ll tell you what we’ve got in the bag. A taser. So piss off, the lot of you,’ Vittorio shouted.
The boy spat at Vittorio’s feet. Vittorio attempted to take a swing at him, and Stephen stepped in, careful to keep the holdall away from flailing limbs. And then in the distance, a sound that was music to
Stephen’s ears: the chugging of a truck, changing down a gear.
‘Just in time,’ Vittorio said, as from around the corner, the tow truck appeared. The driver pulled up, jumped out, saw the kids and shouted at them to back away. He seemed to have better control of the situation than Vittorio. The gang melted away into the darkness as quickly as they appeared. The tow truck driver shook his head wearily. He winched the car up onto the truck and opened the door to the cab. They couldn’t get in quick enough.
‘We’re going to get hell for this.’ Vittorio muttered.
Stephen turned to him. ‘You are, mate. I’d have paid the kid the protection money.’
Vittorio scowled and said nothing for the rest of the journey. Stephen stared straight ahead. He glanced at a building with a clock face. Eleven o’clock. Ten in London. He’d promised Ginny he’d get in touch that evening. She’d still be up.
Naples, Italy
* * *
Renzo eyed the slot machines as he walked through the dimly lit club. He stood outside a door marked Private and knocked twice. There was the sound of a key unlocking, and as the door swung open, Renzo was engulfed in a pall of cigarette smoke. He coughed and the five players seated at the table, three of whom were smoking, looked up at the interruption. One man, thin but with muscled arms, seemed to be the one that the others deferred to. His face was expressionless.
‘You’d better get used to it if you want to win your money back. Now, where were we gentlemen?’ the muscle said as he displayed his hand. He laid down a five, a six, a seven, an eight and a nine of clubs. There was a collective groan from the others as the winner leant over and scooped up a pile of cash.
Renzo took his seat. The winner looked him in the eye, throwing his money right back into the middle of the table.
‘Well my friend,’ he said, turning to the new arrival. ‘What else do you have to play for?’ He took out a photograph of a woman and her baby taken outside a modern apartment block and threw it onto the cash. Renzo blanched.
Nighthawks Page 6
