The bet had been on two safe certainties. Marcantonio had watched the transfer from the fishing boat in the port of Villa San Giovanni.
It wasn’t unusual for the boat to have been out in poor weather because swordfish was a delicacy and paid better in the market than anything else dragged out of the strait. Also, the fishermen were exceptional sailors – and these were difficult financial times: work must be done. The boat had brought in two fifty-kilo packs of the highest quality cocaine, the purest – the profit margin for the family would be at least ten times what they had paid for it. It had been hidden in the space above the rudder-shaft housing before the container vessel had left Venezuelan waters. North of the strait, a crew member had checked the flotation belts and that the electronics on the packages were armed, then tipped them into the sea at a point registered by his GPS gear. The fishermen had caught no swordfish but the cargo they brought back was worth infinitely more.
Marcantonio had been at the back of the quay when the two parcels were lifted ashore, Stefano alongside him. Rigging rattled sharply around them. It would have been a hard night at sea – the gusts were fierce, channelled up the strait. Neither the fishermen nor the men who had met them spoke to him. They were freelancers, available for hire. His own family took charge of moving the cocaine, wrapped in protective canvas, with water-resistant paper underneath. Heavy adhesive strips held the packages together. It was good that he should be seen, but he would not interfere: he had to keep a firewall, if possible, between himself and those who handled the product. That he was there showed he would soon be a major player. The craft bounced against the quay, its rigging rattling. There would have been officials on duty in the port offices but they were looked after when a consignment came ashore.
They had driven north.
Now they were stopped on a side-road, south of Rosarno, due east of Gioia Tauro and a kilometre beyond the few lights of Rizziconi. The road ran straight and headlights could be seen from hundreds of metres in either direction. Two Ford vans waited and men talked quietly, smoking hard. There was occasional muffled laughter.
When the first lights appeared there was a simultaneous radio message, a number of bleeps. The backs of the vans were opened, and the drivers readied the engines. There would be two more packages, each weighing in at fifty kilos. They had been among the container ship’s cargo when it docked that evening. The men who controlled the docks could decide in which order containers were taken off by the cranes. Others, who had duplicate seals for the container locks, could open them and put the bags holding the product inside a ‘clean’ container then replace the seal. The main exporter did not know that they were being used as a mule. Dock workers at the supposedly secure complex at Gioia Tauro, could break the duplicate seal, take out the bags and replace the seal with another. A Customs check would show an unbroken seal and they would have no interest in searching the container, a slow, laborious, man-intensive job, even with dogs. The bags would have gone into the boot of a worker’s car and be driven out when he came off shift. Now that car arrived, scraped and muddy after the storm. As was usual, the affluence was hidden.
A man came up to Marcantonio and shook his hand, kissed his cheeks, then ducked his head in respect. The packages were stowed, and the vans’ doors closed. The car left, the vans followed. More switches would follow north of Naples, and then beyond Milan. The family had facilitated a sale to a dealer in Hamburg, another in Cologne, and a third package would be split for cutting and degrading, for sale on the streets of Scandinavian cities. The fourth would be shipped across southern France to northern Spain, then onwards to markets in Barcelona, Santander and Bilbao. Marcantonio did not have to be there, but it was further indication that he would soon be a true Man of Honour. He had felt the excitement and the tension on the quay and at the roadside. He felt fulfilled. Berlin was so dull.
He knew the market held up well in difficult times. It was not so true of Berlin but he had read there of an analysis of sewage in Milan, Naples and Rome: cocaine sold well and the profits they enjoyed now seemed guaranteed for the future.
Stefano would drive him home in the City-Van.