Viper

98

Pompeii Just as Franco Castellani's life had been a terrible fuck up, so too was his death.

Blood and brain spattered the features of Pompeii's famous ashen fugitives.

The two cousins lay in a heap. Arms around each other.

But for the smell of muzzle blast and burned flesh, you could have been forgiven for thinking they were wrestling. A boisterous play fight that had ended in deadlock. Dead lock.

Feelings of hopelessness and a hardening addiction to heroin were what had driven Franco Castellani to the brink of despair. The point where suicide seemed a sweeter option than survival.

Paolo Falconi had been too late to stop Franco's finger from pulling the trigger. And he'd been too quick for his own good. The desperate last-minute lunge had been just enough to knock his cousin's gun away and divert the fatal bullet into his own head.

Paolo was dead.

Franco lay on his back. His cousin's brains were all over his face. His blood ran off him and formed dusty balls in the dirt of the Pompeii ruins.

Franco struggled to move Paolo off him. When he was free, he knelt there, crying and cradling his cousin's corpse. Gradually people crowded around. Strangers' eyes locked on the two youths and the gun in the dirt. They were uncertain whether to help, or to run.

Franco spotted them. And helped them decide.

He picked up the weapon and pointed it towards them. 'Get away! Get the fuck away, or I'll kill you all!'

Most ran. Some stayed frozen to the spot. Franco fired a shot that tore into brick above their heads. Now they screamed. Now they ran.

The Garden of the Fugitives was empty again. Except for the dead. The old dead. And the new dead.

Franco Castellani hugged his cousin and kissed his bloodied head.

And then he put the pistol into his mouth.

And fired. Capaccio Scalo, La Baia di Napoli Salvatore Giacomo parked up west of Vesuvius at the junction of the SS18 and SP277. From here he was only minutes away from most of the major routes in and out of Naples. Black coffee in the cup-holder on the dashboard, croissant crumbs on his lap, he dialled the numbers again. First the Don. Then Armando. Next Mazerelli. No replies. Even Valsi was unobtainable. Something was wrong.

Sal guessed it had started. War had broken out. He cursed himself. He should have killed Valsi long ago, killed him first. That son of a bitch would be at the centre of it. The Don had asked him to bide his time, wait until he was ready, and he'd done as he'd been asked. He'd always done as he was asked. And now they were paying the price. He should have followed his instincts, not the old man's orders.

Gina!

Was she dead too? His big fingers fumbled and misdialled. He tried again.

'Pronto.'

The air whooshed out of him in relief.

'Gina, it's Sal, Uncle Sal. Are you okay?'

She could hear the tension in his voice. 'Sure, what's wrong?'

He didn't want to alarm her. 'Nothing. Where are you?'

'I'm in my car. On my way to work.' Music played from the radio.

'I've been trying to call your father and I can't reach him. Armando's not picking up either.'

Gina turned down the tunes. 'Don't worry. They're probably in the doctor's. He had to go for a check-up this morning and was running late.'

Sal ignored the reassurance. 'Where's Enzo?'

There was an edge in his voice that began to worry her. 'Sal, what's wrong?'

'Where's Enzo?' he repeated, more urgently.

'At the house. He's with his childminder. Probably driving her crazy.'

Sal wasn't sure what to say next. He didn't want to panic her, but he couldn't just say nothing.

Gina picked up on his hesitancy. 'Sal, tell me what's happening. What's going on?'

He searched for a different way to say what was on his mind, but couldn't express himself as he wanted. He knew it was brutal as soon as he said it. 'Gina, I think your father's dead. I think Bruno killed him, and he might now take Enzo from you.' (Anti-Camorra Unit), Napoli Sylvia took the backstairs from Lorenzo's office, down to the main reception which served the various other units in the carabinieri HQ. The last person she'd expected her urgent visitor to be was Luciano Creed.

At first, she thought he'd turned up to waste her time. To complain or cause more embarrassment. But she revised her opinion as the first images from his journalistic friend's camera card appeared on the computer screen in an office at the back of reception. 'And this was taken when?' she asked.

'Less than an hour ago,' said the woman glued to Creed's shoulder. 'May I politely remind you, Capitano, this is my camera, my pictures, my copyright.'

Sylvia couldn't help but laugh. 'My case, my cell block, my right to charge you with anything my little mind can dream up. You remember that. You'll get your story, but not until we're ready.'

Five minutes later Creed and Cassandra Morrietti were giving statements in another room. Sylvia went back upstairs to Jack and Lorenzo.

News had just come through that a car bomb had killed Fredo Finelli, and Carmine Cicerone had been shot dead leaving church.

'Jesus, I only stepped out of the room for half an hour,' said Sylvia. 'What the hell next?'

Lorenzo filled her in. He'd been briefed by his own team and half the Anti-Camorra Unit were already out on the streets trying to make sense of it all. 'Believe me, it's going to get a lot worse. At least we know why that slimy bastard Bruno Valsi was here this morning with his brief. He was getting himself an alibi that no court in the world would reject.'

They were in Lorenzo's office. A techy fired up a PC, loaded Sylvia's pictures and got them on to the monitor.

'Messy,' said Lorenzo, looking at the bloody corpses of Paolo Falconi and Franco Castellani. 'I remember you saying you thought these cousins could be your killers? They still in your frame?'

'Unlikely,' said Jack and Sylvia almost simultaneously.

Sylvia sat behind the computer and worked through the images. She opened shots of the crowd, then a badly out-of-focus zoom, some wide frames of a man approaching the cousins' bodies. Probably the guy who phoned emergency services, thought Sylvia.

'Wait!' shouted Lorenzo. 'That's Salvatore Giacomo.'

Jack remembered the name from the slide show Lorenzo had given. The man had a casualness and calmness about him that was chilling.

The major tapped at the picture. 'Giacomo has been part of the Finelli crew for close on twenty years but we've never been able to link him to anything more than a parking ticket.'

'You said he was the old man's muscle – his Luogotenente – that right?'

'Right.' Lorenzo looked bemused. 'What the hell is he doing with these kids?'

'There's more of him a little later.' Sylvia clicked her way through the rest of the images. 'Here. Look, he goes right up to their bodies.'

Jack watched closely. The guy was a pro. All the signs were there. The bodyguard was focused on the gun and Franco's body but his peripheral vision was sweeping the crowd. His jacket was loose. As he walked his hands were up around his waist, ready to grab for a concealed weapon. 'I know all this Camorra mob are killers or potential killers,' said the profiler 'but what about this guy? You've nothing on file to prove he's a triggerman?'

Lorenzo frowned. 'Like I said, nothing record-wise. But he has a nickname, Sal the Snake. Word has it that he once strangled someone with a length of chain. But we never found the body, and we've certainly never seen him with a chain.'

'Urban myth?' asked Sylvia.

'I think so. The snake part is also said to refer to his rather large manhood.' He half laughed. 'In truth we've nothing on that either. These fellas all have nicknames; for all we know his might have come from a game of Snakes and Ladders.'

Jack didn't hear anything else. The images on the computer burned in his brain. Giacomo's eyes were blank and soulless as he unemotionally tried to find the kids' pulses. There wasn't a trace of care or concern about him. Jack watched him wheel away from the dead cousins, like he'd dropped a McDonald's wrapper in a trash can. This was a guy who was so comfortable around death, it didn't even make him blink. Jacket on the back seat, Gucci shades on, head tilted back against the leather rest in the Lexus, Bruno Valsi gave Mazerelli his orders. 'I don't want to go home. Take me for breakfast. I'm starving.'

The Capo was amused to see him hesitate.

'Forget calling your Don. His brains and guts are spread over the hillside of his blessed Posillipo.'

'What?'

'Ricardo, you're not deaf. You heard me. Fredo Finelli is dead. Gone. Morto. No more paying your fucking wages or saving your lawyerly ass.'

Mazerelli turned on the radio. If it was true it would be on the news. He twiddled the tuning knob, then stopped. Of course it was true. It wasn't the kind of thing you could make up.

Valsi leaned forward and peered into the consigliere's eyes. 'You sad, Ricky boy? Or don't you really give a fuck? Deep down, are you just as mean and ambitious as the rest of us?'

Mazerelli was as nervous as he'd ever been. He chose his words carefully. 'I want to live.'

Valsi laughed and sat back. 'Of course you do. Of course you do. Now, find me somewhere fucking good for breakfast and then you can tell me again about that funny Japanese game of yours and how we all have to follow rules.'