Scorpia

Jerry was renting a top-floor flat. There was no lift. The three of them climbed a twisting staircase with a different smell and sound on each floor: disinfectant and a baby crying on the first, pasta and a violin playing on the second…
    “This is it,” Jerry announced, unlocking a door. “Make yourselves at home.”
    Home was an open-plan space with hardly any furniture, white painted walls, a wooden floor and views over the city. There was a kitchen in the corner, every surface piled high with dirty plates, and a door leading to a small bedroom and bathroom. Somehow, someone had dragged a battered leather three-seater sofa all the way up. It sat in the middle of the room surrounded by a tangle of sports equipment, only some of which Alex recognized. There were two skateboards, ropes and pitons, an oversized kite, a mono-ski and what looked like a parachute. Tom had already told Alex that his brother was into extreme sports. He was teaching English as a foreign language in Naples, but only to pay for his trips mountaineering, surfing or whatever.
    “You two hungry?” Jerry asked.
    “Yeah.” Tom slumped down on the sofa. “We’ve been on a train for, like, six hours. You got any food?”
    “You’ve got to be kidding! No. We’ll go out and get a pizza or something. How’s things, Tom? How are Mum and Dad?”
    “The same.”
    “As bad as that?” Jerry turned to Alex. “Our parents are complete crap. I’m sure my brother’s told you. I mean, calling him Tom and me Jerry. How crap can you get?” He shrugged. “What are you doing down here, Alex?
    You want to visit the coast?”
    On the train Alex had impressed on Tom the importance of not repeating anything he’d said. Now he winced as Tom announced, “Alex is a spy.”
    “Is he?”
    “Yeah. He works for MI6.”
    “Wow. That’s awesome.”

    “Thanks.” Alex wasn’t sure what to say.
    “So what are you doing in Naples, Alex?”
    Tom answered for him. “He wants to find out about a company. Constanza.”
    “Consanto,” Alex said.
    “Consanto Enterprises?” Jerry opened the fridge and took out a beer. Alex noticed that, apart from beer, there was nothing else in the fridge. “I know about them. I used to have one of their people learning English. He was a research chemist or something. I hope he was a better chemist than he was a linguist, because his English was awful.”
    “Who are Consanto?” Alex asked.
    “They’re one of these big pharmaceutical companies. They make drugs and biological stuff. They’ve got a plant near Amalfi.”
    “Can you get me in?” Alex was hopeful.
    “You’ve got to be kidding. I doubt the pope could get in. I drove past once and it’s this really high-tech sort of place. It looks like something out of a sci-fi film. And it’s got all these fences and security cameras and stuff.”
    “They must have something to hide,” Tom said.
    “Of course they’ve got something to hide, you dimwit,” Jerry muttered. “All these drugs companies are coming up with new patents and they’re worth a fortune. I mean, like, if someone discovers a cure for AIDS or something, it would be worth billions. That’s why you can’t get in. The guy I was teaching never said anything about his work. He wasn’t allowed to.”
    “Like Alex.”
    “What?”
    “Being a spy. He’s not allowed to say anything about that either.”

    “Right.” Jerry nodded.
    Alex looked from one to the other. Despite the fact that there were eight years between them, the two brothers were obviously close. He wished he could spend more time with them. He felt more relaxed now than he had in a long time. But that wasn’t why he was here. “Can you take me to Amalfi?” he asked.
    “Sure.” Jerry shrugged and finished his beer. “I haven’t got any lessons tomorrow. Would that be OK?”
    “It would be great.”
    “It’s not that far from Naples. I can borrow my girlfriend’s car and drive you down there. You can see Consanto for yourself. But I’m telling you now, Alex, there’s definitely no way in.”

Chapter 7: CONSANTO

    Standing beside the car, in the full heat of the mid-morning sun, Alex had to admit that Jerry Harris was right.
    Consanto had certainly done everything it possibly could to protect whatever it was hiding.
    There was a single main building, rectangular in shape and at least fifty metres long. Alex had seen the picture in the brochure and he was struck by how much the actual building resembled it—as if