He rolled down the window of the van and let a blast of sea air into the compartment. The morning was exceptionally clear. In the distance, Vesuvius, the volcano whose eruption had destroyed the city of Pompeii, appeared close enough to touch, its blue-gray slopes iridescent beneath an admiring sun.
Ahead, a squadron of vehicles was parked at odd angles at the water’s edge. A half-dozen men milled beside them. Slobs to look at: blue jeans, shirts untucked, beards that hadn’t seen a razor in days.
The van drew to a halt. David, his driver and bodyguard, turned to face him, blazer hanging open, holster and weapon visible. “You need me?”
“Thank you, David, but I’ll be fine. After all, I haven’t paid them yet.”
Borgia climbed out of the van.May the ghost of Zeffirelli look down upon me,he thought as he threw out his arms and muscled a smile into place.
“Toto, Peppe!B’giorno!”
Hugs all around. Kisses, even, as Borgia greeted each in turn. The names typed on their files at police headquarters were Salvatore Rinaldi and Giuseppe Nassa. Both were captains, orcapi,in the Camorra. Unlike the Mafia, which was organized vertically, with one capo—thecapo di tutti capi—overseeing all elements of the criminal trade in Sicily, the Camorra was organized horizontally, numerous clans operating independently, and often in competition with one another. This made doing business unpredictable and dangerous.
It seemed like an hour passed with the men talking about soccer and the trash strike, now in its sixth week, but not their concern. Toto and Peppe worked the ports. Trash collection was someone else’s business.
Talk turned to shipping. Business was not good. European economies were faltering across the board. Even Germany. And then, to make matters worse, the Chinese, undercutting them all with cheap transport costs, the price per container at a historical low.
Finally, they got down to business. Shipments from the Middle East. But not before a tirade against the Americans and the ongoing sanctions imposed on the Islamic Republic of Iran. It turned out Iran was a big buyer of Italian olive oil.
“And Libya,” said Toto. “What a mess!”
Toto Rinaldi was a lumbering bear of a man, a few inches taller than Luca, a gray stubble covering all three of his chins, hair dyed a black that would make Berlusconi blush, with great hams for arms proudly on display this fine morning.
Toto was Luca’s connection to the Camorra. Somehow it turned out they were distantly related, cousins of cousins and so on. Toto had done ten years for strangling a man with his own hands.
“Total chaos,” he went on. “Everyone fighting everyone else. One’s a warlord, another’s a chieftain. They were better off with Qaddafi.”
“About Libya,” said Peppe Nassa, a short, lithe man dressed entirely in black, with a clean-shaven head, all brooding glances and pained expressions. “There was a problem with the plastique.”
“Ah.” It was the first Borgia had heard of any problem.
“The factory you mentioned was bombed out last month.”
“Destroyed,” said Toto.
“Burned to the ground,” added Peppe.
“I hadn’t heard,” said Luca.
Peppe nodded. “We didn’t learn about it till we showed up and the place was a pile of ashes.”
The factory in question, Società Libica Prodotti Esplosivi, the Libyan Explosives Company, manufactured the plastic explosive called Semtex under license from the Czech manufacturer. There was plenty of Semtex to be had in Europe, but it was essential that Borgia purchase plastic explosive made in Libya. Chemical tags placed in each batch identified the place of manufacture.
“That complicates things,” he said.
“Of course, we didn’t stop there,” said Peppe. “You place an order, it’s our job to fulfill it. It’s what we do, after all.”
“We always keep our word,” said Toto.“Famiglia.”
“But…” Peppe made a face.
“The price,” said Toto.
“How much?” asked Luca.
“Double.”
Toto placed a hand on his heart. “Best we could do.”
