The Neapolitan Heist (Chapters 1 and 2)

Thursday, April 6th, 1995

Night One

I

One knows no fear like a loaded gun aimed straight at one’s face. This is a sensation few living people have experienced. In most cases, a barrel in your face spells certain doom, and yet for some, it is merely a threat. The matriarch of the Neapolitan Russo family, her husband, and their two adult sons hoped that this extremely long and traumatizing moment would be one such threat. And yet, deep in the minds of all family members was this agonizing fear that she would not live to tell of that sensation.

"Cooperate with us or die," commanded the man holding the gun. His voice was as icy as the feel of the barrel against Anita Russo’s forehead. He and his partner were dressed in Polizia Locale uniforms, but it was obvious that those uniforms did not belong to them when you looked carefully. The arm with the gun’s sleeve was too short for him, exposing the bottom of a tattoo on his forearm. His partner’s hat was too wide for his head, touching his ears and casting his face in a light shadow which called attention to how concaved it was.

“What do you want?” Nicola Russo, the patriarch and husband of Anita asked weakly. His fists were balled as he sat next to his wife, beads of sweat falling down his face. He had an urge to kick or punch the taller guy holding the gun or maybe the moon-faced man in front of him. But something about the way the tall man so coolly threatened to murder Nicola’s sweet Anita in cold blood told him that fighting would certainly result in watching the mother of his children die a terrifying death. So instead of fighting, he waited for a response, his legs and chest shivering involuntarily.

The moon-faced man looked over to Nicola and replied with a cold tone, “We want to speak in private with your bank teller son, Gabriel.” Gabriel, the youngest son, sat in a chair beside the parents. He had a bad feeling that he knew what the two fake police officers wanted.

“I’m Gabriel,” he said meekly, raising his shaky hand. His brother, Luigi, was on the other side of the room and was glaring at the man with the gun, sharing his father’s desire to punch him.

“Excellent,” the moon-faced man said with a snicker, gesturing for Gabriel to follow while smirking. Gabriel stood, unsure what this whole nightmare was about, though it didn’t take much imagination to piece it together.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995

Day Fifty-Eight

II

Michèle Moreau needed the distraction of packing more than she had initially anticipated. She was anxious in the quiet of her flat. Even with the thought-provoking task of deciding what to bring for her trip to Naples, her mind always wondered about the difficult subjects in her life. Had it truly been two weeks since her brother was arrested? It had to have been more than a week since she submitted a notice of separation from the police, a job she fought so hard to join and progress in now a fading aspect of her past. The idea of never wearing her police uniform with the red and white cravat unnerved her so. She was a free woman. Free and unemployed.

She felt extremely fortunate to be with Navon during that topsy-turvy time in her life. Had she never met him, she would have probably been the one in jail, and her brother would have been in a coffin. It was crazy to think that it had only been such a short time since she met Navon, more commonly known as private detective N. It felt to her that it had been years.

Her suitcase was opened on top of her bed, and the clothes she was planning to bring to Naples were lined beside it. She was not a particularly stylish woman; her outfit decisions focused more on ensuring the outfit matched the season than on what was in season. Therefore, seeing as they were now in the peak of summer and going to a Mediterranean country, her choices were all her loose-fitting clothes like airy blouses and slacks along with a few pairs of shorts. The colors were not diverse or summery, mostly blues and blacks apart from a yellow pair of sweatpants.

I have no clue how long we will be in Italy. All he told me was that we were going to be there until we caught the bank thieves. It was infrequent for members of the Moreau family to take trips, so the large, dark grey suitcase she was now in front of was a new purchase.

She concluded the best start for packing would be to just put all the shorts and shirts in. She was surprised to realize that the suitcase was deceptively small. With effort, she fought to make room for several pairs of socks and could just barely fit enough underwear to last a week.

I wish Navon were here. Life lately was incredibly stressful anytime she was alone. She loved every moment he was around her because she knew he would never let anything bad happen to her, but the moment he left and every second until they met once again was painful because all she could think about was Maxim, her brother, sitting in his cell awaiting trial. There was still no word on when he would be in court, only that he and Walter Wailes would be tried separately.

She didn’t know when she and Navon would be leaving the country either. Navon said he would be getting the tickets that day before coming over to help her start packing. He said he would be at her flat by 11, but as she took a glance at the clock beside her bed, she saw the dull red numbers display 2:16. This was why she was now attempting to pack alone. She concluded she would need to remove some of the shorts and shirts, whittling them down to a week’s worth as well. This left room still for her toiletries which would be the last thing she packed, and she was happy to see room for her copy of The Color Purple.

She loved reading Alice Walker books, especially as a nice relaxer before bed. The messaging inherent in her books was comforting, particularly in trying times. She rested the book with its yellowed pages on the top of her clothes in the suitcase.

She stood back, trying to feel pride for her packing job so far, but she still could not get her mind off of Navon. I hope he isn’t being delayed because he’s hurt.

Knock

Knock

Knock

A cold shiver flew like a winter breeze down her spine at the sound of knuckles on the metal of her flat’s front door. It had been half a month since that night at the Longwater estate when Wailes knocked on the front door with such force that her heart felt as though it changed rhythms to match it. Half a month, yet the fear that knocks instilled in her had not faded. She told Navon half a dozen times to not knock on the door and about her anxiety, but obviously, he still was struggling to remember. She closed the top of the suitcase and combed her fingers through her hair as she walked to answer the door.

With a wide smile, she opened the door, but to her surprise and disappointment, it was not her new partner standing in front of her flat, but instead, two people, one female and one male dressed in fitted suits. The woman wore a white blouse under her black and white checked jacket. That jacket had three buttons and matched the tall ovoid pants her blouse was tucked into. The man wore a black jacket with two buttons over his white button-down and black slacks. Around his neck was a navy-blue tie. They both wore polished leather shoes. Hers were heels.

“Um, hello? May I help you?” A small tinge of stress was beginning to build in Michèle as she examined their outfits. She had never had anyone visit her in such fancy, pressed clothes, and she had a feeling something may be wrong with Navon.

“Are you Ms. Michèle Moreau?” asked the male, his accent unmistakably American. Something about hearing an American saying her name brought with it an extra layer of worry to the encounter, as though her life was worldwide news.

“Yes, I am. Is something wrong with N?” she asked, unable to withhold some quivering in her voice.

The two in suits looked to one another in silent confirmation that this was the correct address, and the female took the lead. “I am Special Agent Reed, and my partner here is Special Agent Vega. We are with the FBI.”

Agent Reed withdrew from her front pocket a wallet that held her FBI identification and showed it to the dumbfounded Michèle. Michèle looked it over carefully, and, sure enough, the badge looked real enough and had her name, “Reed, Laura.”

Michèle gripped the door tightly and opened it wider so now her full body was visible, dressed unfashionably in a two-piece pajama set, teal with little rainclouds on the top and a city scape with farmland and streets with cars on the pants. “Is something wrong with Mr. Nemo?”

Special agent Vega shook his head. “Not necessarily. We have come because we have been made aware that you are a new and close associate of his.”

“I… I am.” Man, that didn’t take long to get out.

Vega continued. “We just need to make sure you understand that Nemo is not as ‘private’ as he tries to present himself. He is a major asset to the American government, and anything which could go wrong with him, including the disclosure of his personal information, injury, or death are risks to the safety of the American people.”

Michèle was aware that Navon had a history of working with foreign agencies, even knowing details of a particular case only a few months prior, resulting in an embarrassing outcome. However, the FBI, in particular going out of their way to come to her flat and issue this warning seemed a bit overkill.

“Under absolutely no circumstances are you to disclose the true identity of Nemo,” said Reed. “Under no circumstances are you to discuss with private citizens his history to include his little secret. And under absolutely no circumstances is he to protect you with his own life.” This last statement seemed to echo throughout Michèle’s flat, reverbing back to her.

“I would never ask him to risk his life for me. Why would you even say that?” Michèle was bewildered and altogether insulted. Like I would just willingly let him do something that would result in his death… for me. She also thought it was ridiculous to assume that she had any control over what Navon did. Another thing bothered her. Little secret? Do they think I would just announce that N’s real name is Navon London?

Special Agent Reed was the one who replied. “We know that your partnership is more than platonic, Ms. Moreau. Former Commissioner Wailes made sure to inform the authorities of that, so don’t play dumb that you don’t think someone like Nemo is above proving how much of a man he is by dying for his-” She coughed quietly. “Girlfriend.”

Michèle blushed involuntarily at the term “girlfriend.” She had never been called that regarding Navon, and it was a shame the first time was by this FBI agent. She also felt odd about how she said, “someone like Nemo.”

A voice bellowed from the lift behind the FBI agents. “I’ll have you know that what I choose to risk my life for and who I choose to risk it for is entirely my own choice to make.” The deep hum in that voice was undoubtedly that of Navon, and when the FBI agents turned around, Michèle was pleased to find it was. He was dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a black polo. He clutched the handle of a large suitcase in his hand, the top of which reached his belt loops. Michèle smiled at the sight of him.

“And another thing. The American government does not own me. No government owns me, not even that of her majesty, the queen. I am truly a detective without borders, and if the FBI desires to ever receive my help tracking down another terrorist again, you will cease intimidating my partner or using my past as blackmail.” He cut between the FBI agents and got to Michèle’s side. His face was icy stone, his grey eyes cutting into the FBI agents like a freshly ground scythe.

Recognition seemed to hit Agent Reed at that moment, and she seemed to understand the situation in a new way based on something N said. She withdrew a business card from her pocket along with a pen.

Meanwhile, the more aggressive of the two agents, Agent Vega sneered at Michèle. “We aren’t intimidating her. We are simply talking to-“

“Talk to the front of this door,” N said, smirking as he gripped the door handle and slammed it in their faces. He turned around and smiled genuinely for the first time that morning. “I love those pajamas, honey, but I hope you’ve been working on the packing this morning.”

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