These fields were home to Naples airport and a number of businesses, small factories and warehouses. Modest residences too.

And here you would find something else, something that insistently drew the gaze of any passerby: the Capodichino Reception Center, one of the largest refugee camps in Italy. It was many acres in size and filled with orderly rows of blue plasticized tents, Ministero dell’Interno emblazoned in stark white letters on the roofs.

The camp was surrounded by an eight-foot fence topped with barbed wire, though it was flimsy and little-patrolled, Stefan noted. Even now, so late, the place was bustling. Many, many people milled about, or sat or squatted. He had heard that all the camps in Italy were vastly overcrowded, security inadequate.

All of which was great for Stefan, of course. A chaotic hunting ground is a good hunting ground.

Having verified that there were few guards, in vehicles or on foot, patrolling the roads surrounding the camp, he now pulled back onto the road and maneuvered his old Mercedes forward. He parked not far away from the main entrance, climbed out. He walked closer, mixing with a cluster of lethargic reporters, probably backgrounding human interest pieces. Protesters too. Most placards he didn’t understand but several were in English.

Go Back Home!

Scanning the camp: It was even more crowded than when he’d first been here, just recently. But otherwise, little had changed: Men in taqiyah or kufi skullcaps. Nearly all the women were in hijabs or wearing other head coverings. A few of the arrivals had suitcases but most carried cloth or plastic bags, filled with their only remaining possessions in the world. Some clutched the thick quilted blankets they would have been given by the Italian navy, after their human smugglers’ boats had been interdicted—or after they’d been fished from the Mediterranean. A few still held orange life vests, also given out by the military and NGOs and, occasionally, the smugglers themselves (at least those worried that drowned customers were bad for business).

Many of the refugees were families. The second-most populous group seemed to be single men. There were hundreds upon hundreds of children. Some playing, cheerful. Most sullen, bewildered.

And exhausted.

The soldiers and police officers were plentiful and, given the many different uniforms, must have come from a number of branches of government. They seemed weary and stern but appeared to treat the refugees well. None of them paid the least attention to Stefan, just like the other day.

Chaos.

Hunting ground…

Something caught his eye. Stefan could see a man slipping out at the far end of the fence, through a slit cut vertically in the link. Was he escaping? But, watching, he noticed the man stroll nonchalantly up to one of a dozen vendors ringing the camp, selling food, clothing and personal items. He made a purchase and then returned.

Yes, the camp security was porous.

Stefan bought food from one of these stands, a Middle Eastern dish. It was tasty but he had little appetite. He simply wanted some calories for the energy. He ate as he walked up and down the roadway along the camp. He then returned to the main gate.