Tarantula (3 page)

Their history was littered with tales of kidnap and murder; John Paul Getty III was reputed to be one of their victims. Politicians, judges and the police had all been targeted and, eventually, cowed. There had been internal feuding between the clans that made up the syndicate, and hundreds of deaths, but the organisation that had been birthed in all that blood was more powerful and dominant from Naples all the way south into the Italian boot. There were rumours that the the syndicate was casting its eye north, and members had been arrested as far up as Lombardy.

Intelligence suggested that the deal between the Camorra and the Patterson family had been consummated two years ago. The Liverpool family had an established distribution network and they had ramped it up again and again as the relationship had been developed. They cut the pure cocaine with laxatives and baby powder, bulking it out so that one kilogram became one and a half. The product was divided and passed to the wholesale providers, who then supplied it to the local dealers. It was cut and recut again and again until the purity was just forty or fifty percent. By the time it hit the streets in the north of England it was wholly adulterated and retailing for forty pounds a gram.

Number Three had filed his final report the day before he had dropped out of contact. He noted that he had made contact with a go-between who, he believed, would be able to introduce him to the capo of the Camorra crew responsible for the deal with the Patterson family.

Her name was Antonietta Agosti and she managed a Camorra restaurant in Castellabate.

Milton decided he would visit the restaurant for dinner tonight.

THE SMALL town of Santi Maria di Castellabate was found between Paestrum and Velia, nestled in a hollow in the rugged coastline. The night was drawing in as Milton rode towards it, the lights glittering against the darkening green of the surrounding countryside and the velvety dark of the sea. The breeze whipped around him as he gunned the bike, eventually slowing it to a languid forty miles an hour as the road twisted and turned and led into the buildings that marked the edge of town.

The town centre was at the top of the hill that offered a stunning view of the gulf between the Punta Licosa and Punta Tresino. The place had a medieval feel, especially at night, with a series of narrow streets, ancient stairs, and arches that appeared unannounced around corners. There was the Angel’s Castle, a Papal basilica and a bell tower that dated from the twelfth century.

Milton rode down into the Santa Maria area. The houses were painted in traditional white with bright red roofs, the street lights were strung across the road on ropes and lines, verdant ivy clambered across walls, and the air was salty with brine. The restaurant was right on the esplanade. A wide promenade separated it from the sea wall and the expanse of sand that led to the tide’s reach. Tables and chairs had been positioned on the promenade with an awning that could be extended in uncertain weather. The main body of the establishment was opened out with a series of wide French doors and Milton could hear the sound of conversation and the tinkle of cutlery against china as he descended the stone steps that led down to it. The landward side was bordered by a road into which a line of cars had been crammed, with barely enough space for others to pass.

Number Three had identified the place in one of his reports as the place where he had engineered a meeting with the Camorra. It was not unusual in that it was owned by the mafia, since they owned most of the property in this part of the country, but it was apparently the venue that they had chosen to vet those who wanted to see them. Milton went inside: wooden floors, simple wooden furniture, nautical items on the walls and ceiling, soft jazz playing through discreet hidden speakers. There was a simple bar with a generous array of bottles racked behind it. The food smelled good, and featured the staples of the area: fish, olive oil, mozzarella, garbanzo beans, salami, and confections made from figs.

It took Milton ten seconds to identify Antonietta Agosti from her mugshot. She had been arrested by the carabinieri on a minor drugs charge six months earlier and Number Three had been able to find a copy of the photograph. She had looked sultry then, despite the bleaching from the harsh artificial lights and the orange jumpsuit that she had been wearing. The woman at the bar had the same thick black hair, the same olive skin and the same arrogant, expressive lips. She was dressed in a simple black dress that emphasised her natural curves.

Milton crossed the room and took a space at to the bar next to her.

“Miss Agosti?”

She turned to him, wafting sweet scent in his direction. She looked at him with a cool, almost regal, regard.

“Who is asking?”

“My name is Smith.”

“Do I know you?”

“No.”

“Then I am sorry, Signor Smith…”

“But you know Mr. Owen Grieve, I believe.”

A pause.

“The name is not familiar.”

Milton had seen the flicker in her eye and he knew what that meant. “Really? You met him here,” he said. “A week ago.”

She frowned. “I do not know him.”

He held her gaze until she had to look away. “That’s a pity. I want to speak to the men Mr. Grieve was dealing with. I have a very lucrative opportunity for them.”

She shrugged expressively and said nothing.

Milton stood. “Never mind. My mistake. I’m going to take a seat over there for half an hour. If you do find you remember him, you should come over and have a drink with me.”

MILTON ORDERED a gin. He found a table where he could observe the bar and waited. He watched the woman. She spoke with the barman, spoke with a couple of the waiters from the restaurant. She looked at him on occasion and, upon noticing that he was looking at her, she turned her head away. He watched as she took a phone from her purse and pressed it to her ear. She glanced back at him again as she spoke and then looked away.

He finished the drink and stood, taking the empty glass back to the bar so that he was stood next to her.

“What do you want?” she said, her voice tight with nerves.

“I’m not a policeman, Miss Agosti. Far from it.”

“Then who are you?”

“I worked with Mr. Grieve. We were part of the same enterprise. The same business. I don’t need to spell it out, do I?”

“No.”

“You knew him, then?”

She paused and then, a decision made, she spoke quietly. “I met him here, as you say. Two times.”

“You made some introductions for him?”

She was flustered for a moment.

“I’m not here for revenge. And, if I was, I wouldn’t be here for you. You’re just the go-between. I know that. My employer knows that.”

“Yes,” she said, her confidence returning. “That is right. That is what I am.”

His precise definition of her role, and the absolution of any responsibility she might have had in Number Three’s death, seemed to restore a measure of her previous haughtiness.

“Would you have a drink with me?”

She turned her head to look at him. He thought she was going to turn him down until she said, “Very well,” and gave a shallow nod of her head.

Milton ordered two vodka martinis. The bartender shook vodka and vermouth together with ice, strained it into two fresh glasses and garnished with olives.

Her eyes shone with a darkness and her lids were heavy and languorous, her lashes long and thick. Milton took his glass and touched it against hers.

“Cheers.”

“
Salute
.”

She sipped it carefully, watching him over the top of the glass.

As he drank he became aware that he was being watched. There was a mirror above the bar. He looked up at it discreetly and saw two men behind them. They were sitting at a table towards the rear of the room, partially shrouded by the gloom, but he was sure that they were observing him. He drank a little more and then glanced up again. One of the men had risen from the table and was moving towards the exit. He was slim and wiry and moved with jerky energy. The other man, bigger than his friend, stayed at the table and watched.

“Signor Smith,” the girl said quietly. “Do you know who owns this bar?”

“The Camorra.”

“And you know who they are? What that means?”

“Yes. My colleague was doing business with them.”

“And so what could you possibly want?”

“May I call you Antonietta?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I spoke to Mr. Grieve. He spoke very warmly of you.”

“How so?”

He smiled, teasing her a little. A pretty woman fishing for compliments? “He said you were very pleasant to deal with. And that you were able to set up the meeting that he wanted.”

She nodded. Her dark, lustrous eyes flashed and Milton decided that she was very attractive indeed.

“Do you know what they did to him?” he asked.

“I do not know the details. They say he was shot.”

“He
was
shot. A sniper.”

“I do not know this word.”

“A man with a long gun. He was shot from almost several hundred yards away, while he was driving. Near Castellabate. He lost control of the car and drove it into the sea. I saw it on the television and then I went to have a look. It was very well done. Very professional.”

“And still you come here?” She glanced up at the mirror. “The man at the table. I know you have seen him. Do you know who he is?”

“One of them, I presume.”

“He is a soldier. His friend, the man who went outside, he is also a soldier. They are bad men, Mr. Smith. You do not want to cross these men.”

“Did one of them shoot my colleague?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“I do not know.”

Milton sipped his drink and looked into the mirror for a third time. The bigger of the two mafiosi was still there, making no effort to be discreet. There were two possibilities to explain where the other man had gone. He might have gone outside to call for backup. That was the least likely explanation. He could easily have called from the table and, anyway, there were two of them and only one of him, and, what was more, he was not particularly physically imposing. Why would they think they needed more numbers to deal with him? The other reason, the more likely one, was that the man had gone outside to prepare for Milton’s exit. Perhaps he had gone to one of the cars that had been parked along the edge of the road to collect a weapon. A gun, perhaps, or, more likely, the kind of weapon you would use to make a statement. A baseball bat. A knife. Something that would send a message, prevent the organisation that you had just attacked from sending more men to interfere where they were not wanted.

“Antonietta,” Milton said. “I’m going to leave now. I want you to do me a favour. I assume you are still on good terms with the man you spoke to on my colleague’s behalf?”

“Yes,” she said, a shiver of tremulousness in her voice.

“Good. I want you to tell him that I want to meet him. Tell him my employer is not angry at what happened to Mr. Grieve. You can tell him that we’re curious, because we are, but that he can rest assured that we are only interested in profit. The opportunity that my colleague discussed with him and his friends was obviously not attractive enough. Tell him that I am authorised to make it much more attractive. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she said. “But, I…” She couldn’t help but glance over at the table.

“Yes,” Milton said, “there’s one other thing. Tell him that I mean no disrespect for what I’m about to do. But I don’t believe I have a choice.”

He looked into her face and smiled. It was a bright smile, with lots of teeth, but Milton’s smiles rarely reached his eyes. They burned out at her, icy blue, pitiless, and he could see that, whatever fear she felt for the man at the table and his friend outside, it had just been eclipsed.

“Yes,” she said.

Milton stood and settled his tab. He took a napkin from the bar and a pen from a pot next to the till and wrote down his cellphone number in careful, deliberate script. He pressed it on the bar next to Antonietta’s fingers and collected his jacket. He didn’t put it on but held it in the crook of his arm. He walked straight to the exit, noticing in the corner of his eye that the big man had also stood and was picking his way around the tables to follow him. Milton kept walking. The bar had a narrow lobby between the inner and the outer door where there was a cigarette machine and pay-phone. He knew that the first man would have gone through the main door, into the road. There was no space in the lobby for three men. There was barely enough for two.

Milton was counting on that.

He opened the door to the lobby and went inside. There was a door that led to the men’s restroom and he opened it and stood just inside, out of sight of anyone who might follow him.

The door opened again.

The big man came through. He didn’t see Milton until it was too late, and, by then, Milton had thrown his coat over his head and followed in with a right and a left hook into his ribs and then, the man bending down from the sudden pain, he grabbed him around the head, drew him towards him and lifted his knee, hard, into his covered face.

Milton released his grip on the man’s head and he dropped to the floor of the lobby.

Three seconds, start to finish, just like that.

He retrieved his coat and frisked the man with quick and expert hands. He was carrying a Beretta 96A1, chambered for .40 S&W. Milton checked: twelve rounds in the magazine and another in the chamber.

Useful.

He rested his coat over his arm again so that the gun was hidden beneath it, opened the exterior door and walked outside.

Milton checked his surroundings carefully. He had parked the Ducati twenty feet away, pressed up against the side of the road. There was a line of cars ahead and behind it, and the courtesy light was shining from one of them.

Milton tightened his grip on the Beretta and walked toward the car. The door was open and the second man was inside it.

Milton guessed that he wouldn’t have been expecting to see him. His friend should have been more than able enough to take care of him. He was bigger, for a start, and he had surprise on his side. Their plan was probably to let the big man sort him out with the little one staying out here for backup, just in case.