Luca had contracted to purchase one hundred kilograms of Libyan-manufactured Semtex at a price of one thousand euros per kilo. The unexpected difficulties in the supply chain would cost him an additional one hundred thousand euros.
“Out of the question,” he said. “We agreed upon a price. I expect delivery at that price. If you come to me to buy a stallion and that stallion runs away or, God forbid, dies in a stable fire, I must find you another equal animal at the same price. You said it is your job to fulfill, then fulfill…but at the price agreed upon.”
“Libya is a war zone, Signor Borgia,” said Peppe. “These are not ordinary circumstances.”
“A war zone,” said Luca, dismissively. “A few skirmishes, perhaps.”
“A true war zone,” said Peppe, offended. “Artillery, machine gun fire, fighter jets.”
“Fine, if you say so. If circumstances were ordinary, I could have flown down myself, knocked on the front door, and placed my order. It is exactly because these are unordinary circumstances that I contacted you.”
Peppe’s face darkened. He was not a man accustomed to being insulted.
“Signor Borgia, I’m sorry, but that is not true,” said Toto, as diplomatically as he knew. “I saw the factory with my own eyes. A bomb from a plane landed directly on it. Many people died.”
“You were there?”
Toto nodded. “With Peppe.”
Luca looked between the men. Both nodded gravely, testifying to the tragedy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea. My thanks.”
The men bowed their heads. Apology accepted.
“So where did you find my merchandise?” asked Luca.
“We have friends there, of course. They looked around. A little here, a little there. It was difficult, but we get what you want.”
“And the rest?” Semtex was not the only item he’d asked for.
“The rest…no problem,” said Toto. “Very easy.”
“At the price we quoted,” said Peppe.
Luca bit his lip, stepped toward the water, a man forced into making a decision against his better judgment. He had no choice but to pay. He made a note to tell Bruno Melzi. The police could deal with Peppe Nassa later.
“Any other problems I should know about?” asked Luca.
The Neapolitan gangsters shook their head.
“Well, then, gentlemen. I appreciate the risk you took on my behalf.”
Borgia returned to the van.
“How much more?” asked David.
“One hundred thousand.”
“Half what you expected.”
“Family,” said Borgia, and the men shared a look. He opened a briefcase and counted out an additional one hundred thousand euros, placing the bills in a satchel containing the amount originally agreed upon.
Besides Semtex, he had purchased one hundred Beretta semiautomatic handguns, ten thousand rounds of ammunition, fifty hand grenades, and fifty KA-BAR knives.
It took thirty minutes to load everything into Borgia’s van. As he closed the doors, Peppe came close. One final question. “May I ask what all this is for?”
“Friends in the north,” said Borgia. The north: cradle of right-wing politics, bastion of anti-labor, anti-communist, anti-immigrant supporters. Heirs to Benito Mussolini.Il Duce.
Toto and Peppe nodded approvingly. After all, they were not bad men. They would not want to see the weapons used for the wrong purposes.
