Viper

88

Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli At home, waiting with Ricardo Mazerelli for Sal to arrive with the bag from Raimondi, Fredo Finelli nervously paced his office. 'He should be here by now. He was, what? Only five to ten minutes behind you?'

'The traffic was bad. Don't worry. Whatever all of this is, we can deal with it.'

The sound of tyres crunching on gravel and the burble of guards through the intercom told them the wait was over.

'Ringrazi il Dio – thank God,' said the Don. 'As I grow older I become less patient. I like everything planned, Ricardo. Unplanned is unprofessional. Unprofessional is lethal in our business.'

He poured brandies for himself and Mazerelli, and water for Sal. House guards opened up and ushered the Luogotenente through to the office.

There were no courteous hellos; Finelli cut straight to the chase. 'Have you looked what's in the bag?'

Sal looked offended. 'No, Don Fredo. Signor Mazerelli told me not to, just to bring it straight here. That's wha-'

'Fine. Give it to me.'

Sal placed the bag on the big wooden desk. Finelli snatched it and unzipped it. It seemed to contain nothing but wet trunks and a towel. The Don grabbed the towel and felt his heart pound. There was very obviously something inside. He lifted it out and placed it on the expensive desktop. He felt short of breath as he unfolded the cheap powder-blue towel. In the middle was a soil-stained, old white plastic carrier bag. Finelli ripped it open.

An old Beretta 951 slid out on to the towel.

The Don's face registered shock. Without realizing it, he stepped back, away from the gun.

'Wait!' shouted Mazerelli. He held a finger to his lips. He looked around the outside of the bag, then the inside. He examined the side pockets, straps, logos, floor studs and lining. From his pocket he produced a slim electronic device the size of a credit card and swept it up and down the bag and then all over the gun. 'It's clean. No bugs.' Despite the electronic sweep he still took the holdall outside and placed it further down the corridor.

Don Fredo stood and stared. Twenty years ago he'd held the 9mm weapon. He hadn't seen it since. 'I told Pepe to get rid of the damned gun himself, but he insisted on using that old worm, Castellani. Said we owned his soul and was sure Castellani would dispose of it wisely.'

'Seems he did,' observed Mazerelli. 'Wisely for him.'

Finelli slugged back one of the brandies and poured himself another. 'So, we must take what this carabinieri lieutenant says seriously?'

Mazerelli nodded. 'He's made quite a demand. Two million euros, in return for all the documents, records and…' he pointed towards the Beretta, 'other memorabilia.'

Sal caught their attention. 'I can have him and the old man dead and buried by daylight tomorrow.'

'He's thought of that,' countered Mazerelli. 'This cop might be greedy; but he's no fool. He has videotaped testimony from the old man. On top of that, he very clearly knows where other weapons are.'

There was silence. Don Fredo bit at a thumbnail and tried to think.

'There's another demand too,' added Mazerelli. 'He says he wants the eviction order to be lifted on old man Castellani. He and his family are to be allowed to live at the site without any more pressure or threats.'

The Don stopped biting. 'Eviction notice? What are you talking about?'

'Presumably Bruno is intent on forcing them out,' explained the lawyer.

'Christ give me strength.' Finelli looked towards Sal. 'We really are going to have to deal with my son-in-law sooner rather than later.' He turned back to Mazerelli. 'But what about this weasel cop? What can we do about him?'

The consigliere picked up his brandy and swirled the liquid in the crystal glass while he pondered. 'Two million is a joke. An opening negotiation. I think we can pay him much less. Maybe two hundred thousand. He will argue for more but he'll take the money. We need to secretly record the handover – this is easy enough to do – then we shift the balance of power. He can keep the 200k and we tell him there may be more. But only if he agrees to work for us when we need him, or else we expose him as a bent cop.'

Finelli wasn't convinced. 'And what if he decides 200k is not enough? Or, what if he takes it and still turns everything over to his bosses and then disappears with our money?'

'Point taken,' conceded Mazerelli. 'Then we promise him more money, but in defined stage payments. One million spread over five years in instalments of 200k. He can be a millionaire within half a decade. That is worth hanging around and keeping your mouth shut for.'

Finelli liked it. 'Also buys us time. Time to intimidate the old man. Time to get at the cop from another direction.' He turned again to Sal. 'Find out who both Raimondi and the old man care most about in their sorry little lives – family, girlfriends, boyfriends, I don't care – and then let me know how soon you could make them disappear.'