Scorpia

the photograph had been blown up a thousand times, cut out, and somehow made to stand up. It wasn’t quite real. Alex was looking at a wall of reflective glass. Even the sunlight couldn’t seem to find a way in. It was a huge silver block with a single sign—CONSANTO—cut out of solid steel.
    Jerry was standing next to him, dressed in knee-length shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. He had brought along a pair of binoculars and Alex examined the wide concrete steps that led up to the main entrance. There were a few outlying buildings, warehouses and ventilation plants, and a car park with about a hundred cars. He trained the binoculars on the roof of the main complex. He could see two water tanks, a row of solar panels and, next to them, a brick tower with a single, open door. A fire escape? If he could reach it, he might just find a way in.
    But it was obvious that he could get nowhere near. The entire site was surrounded by a fence more than six metres high and topped with razor wire. A single track led to a checkpoint, with a second one right behind it.
    Every car that went in and out was searched. And, just to be sure, cameras mounted on steel poles swivelled and rotated, the lenses sweeping over every centimetre of ground. Even a fly trying to get in would have been noticed. And swatted, Alex thought gloomily.
    Consanto Enterprises had chosen this position carefully. Amalfi, the busy, densely populated Mediterranean port, was a few miles to the south, and there were a few isolated villages to the north. The complex was in a sort of hole, a flat and rocky stretch of landscape with few trees or buildings—nowhere to hide. Alex was standing with the sea about half a mile behind him. There were sailing boats dotted about and a single ferry ploughed through the water on its way to the island of Capri. His overwhelming impression was that it would be impossible to approach Consanto from any direction without being spotted. He was probably being filmed even now.
    “You see what I mean?” Jerry said.
    Tom had his back to the buildings; he was looking at the sea. “Anyone fancy a swim?” he asked.
    “Yeah.” Jerry nodded slowly. “You bring any trunks?”
    “No.”
    “It doesn’t matter. We can swim in our underpants.”
    “I’m not wearing underpants.”
    Jerry glanced at his brother. “You are so gross!”
    Alex watched as a supply van made its way past the first control post. It really did look impossible. Even if he managed to sneak into a car or a truck, he would be found when it was searched. There was no point waiting until nightfall. There were dozens of arc lamps arranged around the perimeter and they would flick on the minute it grew dark. He could see uniformed guards patrolling the grounds with German shepherd dogs on leashes. They would probably be there all night too.
    He was about to give up. He couldn’t get in from the front or the sides; he couldn’t climb the fence. He looked past the complex. It had been set against a sheer cliff. The rock face rose at least three hundred metres and he noticed a cluster of buildings, far away, at the summit.
    He pointed. “What’s that?” he asked.
    Jerry followed the direction of Alex’s finger. “I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “It’s probably Ravello.
    It’s a hilltop village.”
    “Can we go there?”
    “Yeah. Sure.”
    Alex put it all together in an instant. The flat roof with the fire escape, seemingly open. The village perched high up on the cliff. The equipment he had seen in Jerry’s flat in Naples. Suddenly it was very simple.
    Consanto Enterprises might look impregnable. But Alex had found a way in.

    The faded eighteenth-century villa stood some distance away from Ravello, reached by a path that twisted along the side of the mountain, high above the pine trees. It was a wonderful place to escape to, lost in its own world, far away from the crowds on the beaches and in the streets below. A cool evening breeze drifted in from the sea and the light had turned from a blue to a mauve to a deep red as the sun slowly set. There was an ornamental garden with a long avenue running down the centre and, at the far end, a terrace that appeared unexpectedly with white marble heads mounted on the parapet. Beyond the terrace, there was nothing. The garden simply came to an abrupt end with a sheer drop straight down to the coastal road, the Consanto complex and the rocky flatlands three-hundred-odd metres below.
    The tourists had