Viper

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 citta, 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.

Carmine went down on his knees, like an opera singer centre stage in the final act. He clutched his heart and opened his mouth wide to hit the top note. The death note. His two men, waiting metres away in his limo, would have sprung to his aid, only they were both dead as well.

The holy sisters disappeared down the side of the steps and headed towards the back of the church. Twenty metres further on they slid into the shade of an alleyway, slipped off their grey habits and heavy wooden rosaries. Sister Vito Ambrossio folded everything into two white supermarket shopping bags and handed the gun to Sister Steph Muller. She pushed it deep into the front of her patched jeans and covered it with her shirt and thick jumper.

Stupid idiot, thought Vito, it was good to be finally rid of him. Valsi had promised him his own territory, half the Cicerone turf and a key position in the bigger Family. Fancy Carmine the Dog, Carmine the great business brain, not understanding how takeovers and consolidations worked.

At the end of the alleyway Steph turned left and Vito turned right. Both became invisible in the bustle and business of the rush-hour streets.

They would never meet again. As Vito vanished he started laughing. That old Dog Carmine had been right after all. You just shouldn't trust lesbians. 9.50 a.m. Pompeii Paolo Falconi had already finished most of the chores that usually lasted until lunchtime. Today he needed time on his side, time to spend with Franco. He'd shifted the overnight rubbish from outside the campers' vans and chalets and stacked the bags on a bonfire in a field, far from the campers. Since the incident in the pit, the carabinieri had blocked off their usual burning spot, so he'd had to create a new one. He'd burn everything at nightfall, when everyone was in bed – just as Franco had done.

Chores completed, he followed the first part of the route he'd taken the night before. He wasn't surprised that there was no sign of the carabinieri Skoda. The cops were probably lazy as well as clumsy. He could see the street clearly and felt confident he wasn't being watched, so he took a more direct route to the ruins. He passed a row of gift shops, cheap cafes and ice-cream bars, then headed up a side street away from the main visitors' entrance. He didn't notice Creed or Morrietti, arm in arm, fifty metres back. Minutes later he was inside the ruins, courtesy of one of several secret routes that he and Franco had used since they were kids.

School kids were already strolling down the narrow streets, shepherded by their teachers. It didn't seem five minutes since he and Franco had been doing the same.

Paolo knew he'd find his cousin in one of three places. He struck out on the first two – the Forum Granary and the Amphitheatre, the last being where he'd seen him last night.

He rounded the south side of the ruins, near the Quadriporticus, and stuck close to the outer walls until he reached the Garden of the Fugitives. There, alongside the huddled plaster figures of the dead, was Franco.

The glass-panelled door that normally held back the viewing public had been broken open. His cousin was sitting cross-legged, leaning against the reconstructed corpse of one of the youngest of Pompeii's doomed youth. He was shoulder to shoulder with the cast of someone who'd died almost two thousand years ago. Paolo was shocked to see Franco's left sleeve was rolled up and in his lap was a syringe. He'd been unaware he'd had an extra stash of heroin. More disturbingly, in his right hand was his grand father's old gun.

His finger was wrapped around the trigger. To Franco, the world felt blurred and smeared, as though it had been wiped by a giant wet hand across the inside of his eyes. Everything was soft and slow. All the edges had gone. All his anger dissipated.

Franco Castellani felt normal.

Wonderfully normal.

How funny. Franco had heard that most people took hard drugs to make them feel great. He was more than happy just feeling normal.

Through the smears he could see his cousin moving towards him. His face looked taut and stressed.

Poor Paolo.

He wished he had an extra spike to share with him.

Even though the heroin had numbed his senses, Franco clung to the golden thread of his plans. He knew what he had to do. Those people who'd come to stare – to gawp at Pompeii and to scowl at him – would see a sight they'd never forget.

He raised the palm of his left hand in a 'stop' gesture to his cousin. Then he raised his grandfather's gun to his head.

But Paolo Falconi didn't stop. He knew what Franco intended to do, and it wasn't going to happen.

Franco forced a smile and mumbled his final message, 'Love you.' A surge of energy ran from his brain down to his hand and into his trigger finger. Like he was plugged into heaven's own generator.

Franco shut his eyes and pulled.

Paolo threw himself. A desperate, last-second lunge.

The gunshot roared and echoed across the ruins.