The Burial Hour

Chapter 58

At 9 a.m., much of the team was assembled once more in the situation room, the basement of the Questura.

Rhyme, Sachs and Dante Spiro, along with Thom, of course, ever-present Thom. Ercole Benelli was in the building, but elsewhere at the moment. Massimo Rossi had ordered him to bundle up all of the physical evidence in the Composer case, now that it was more or less closed, and log it into the Questura’s evidence room.

Rossi himself would join them soon. He was in his office upstairs with fellow inspector Laura Martelli, preparing the documentation to have Garry Soames officially released, verifying the evidence and interviewing Natalia, her boyfriend and others who’d been at the party. Garry had been released from prison but was still being held in a minimum-security facility in downtown Naples, pending the magistrate’s signature.

Stefan was in a holding cell, too, but Charlotte McKenzie was present. No longer saddled with her fake role as a diplo, she was wearing black slacks, a dark blouse and a supple leather jacket. She was still grandmotherly — but she was a grandmother who might practice tae kwon do and enjoy white-water rafting, if not big-game hunting.

A uniformed officer wearing a shiny white belt and holster stood, nearly at attention, outside the door with orders not to let her leave the room.

Before he’d left, Rossi had said to him sternly: ‘Qualcuno la deve accompagnare alla toilette,’ which was pretty clear, even in Italian.

Though Ercole had taken the evidence to storage, the charts were still in place, on the easels surrounding them, and Sachs had created a new one — about their prey, Gianni, the terrorist Ibrahim’s accomplice.

With such a sparse description and no helpful physical evidence — and with Ali Maziq unable to provide details, after the drugging and electroconvulsive treatment — Rhyme, Spiro and Sachs decided that the best way to track him was through phone calls made to and from the mobile of the refugee he’d run: Ali Maziq.

Both the Postal Police and the domestic Italian spy agency had spent the night establishing calling patterns to and from the phones. They could identify Gianni’s phone, from which he’d sent and received calls to and from Maziq, and learned that Gianni had also frequently called and received calls from a landline — a café in Tripoli. It was undoubtedly the phone Ibrahim was using, not a mobile, for security’s sake.

Gianni’s phone, however, was now dead; he’d have a new one. And it was this new mobile they needed to find, so they could triangulate and track it — or at least tap the line and see if he gave away his location or more about his identity in conversation.

Massimo Rossi returned to the office and regarded the occupants, debating a strategy to discover Gianni’s new number. Spiro explained the situation.

Rossi said, ‘A landline, hm. Clever of him. In no small part because there has always been antagonism between Italy and Libya — we occupied them, you know, as a colony. And now our government is angered by their approach to the immigrant crisis — which is no approach at all. No one in Tripoli or Tobruk will cooperate with us.’

Dante Spiro said, ‘I must say I can think of a solution.’

Everyone in the room turned his way.

He added, ‘The only difficulty is that it is in a small way illegal. A prosecutor could hardly suggest it.’

‘Well, why don’t you tell us,’ Rhyme suggested, ‘hypothetically?’

New York has been called the City That Never Sleeps, though in fact that motto applies only to a few isolated establishments in Manhattan, where expensive liquor licenses and early work schedules keep the place pretty well shut down in the wee hours.

Contrast that with a very different burg, a small town outside Washington, DC, where thousands labor constantly in a massive complex of buildings, day and night, no holidays, no weekends off.

It was to one of those workers, a young man named Daniel Garrison, that Charlotte McKenzie had placed a call a half hour before, at Dante Spiro’s coy suggestion.

Garrison had some fancy title within the National Security Agency, which was located in that never-sleeping town: Fort Meade, Maryland. But his informal job description was simple: hacker.

McKenzie had sent Garrison the information about the coffeehouse whose pay phone Ibrahim had probably used to communicate with Gianni about the terrorist plans. Now, with the okay from bigwigs in Washington, Garrison was overseeing the effort of a very earnest, hardworking bot, as ‘she’ (the NSA officer’s pronoun) prowled at lightning speed through the records of Libya Hatif w Alaittisalat, or ‘Telephone and Telecom.’ Theirs was not, Garrison had reported, a difficult ‘switch to run an exploit on. Stone easy. I’m embarrassed for them. Well, not really.’

Soon Garrison’s bot was plucking records of calls between the pay phone in the Yawm Saeid — Happy Day — coffeehouse in Tripoli, where Ibrahim hung out, and mobiles in the Naples area: scores in the past day, many hundreds over the past week. Apparently — and unfortunately — the landline was a popular means of communicating with those in southern Italy.

Ercole Benelli was printing out the lists and taping them to the wall. If there were not too many numbers the Postal Police could trace them. With some luck, one might turn out to be Gianni’s new phone.

As he looked over the numbers, Rhyme was startled to hear a pronounced gasp from beside him.

He looked at Charlotte, actually thinking she was ill, the sound from her throat was so choked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘My God.’

‘What is it?’ Rossi asked, seeing her alarmed face.

‘Look.’ She was pointing to the chart. ‘That outgoing call there — from the coffeehouse in Tripoli to Gianni’s old phone. A few days ago.’

‘Yes. We can see.’ Spiro was staring at McKenzie, clearly as confused as Rhyme.

‘The number above it? The call made from the coffeehouse just before he called Gianni?’

Rhyme noted it was to a US line. ‘What about it?’

‘It’s my phone,’ she whispered. ‘My encrypted mobile. And I remember the call. It was from our asset on the ground in Libya. We were talking about Maziq’s abduction.’

‘Cristo,’ Spiro whispered.

Sachs said, ‘So your asset, the one who gave you the intel about the attacks in Austria and Milan, is Ibrahim, the man who recruited the terrorists in the first place.’

Chapter 59

‘Mi dispiace,’ Dante Spiro snapped. ‘Forgive me for being blunt. But do you not vet these people?’

‘Our asset—’ McKenzie began.

Rhyme, his voice as testy as the Italian’s, said, ‘Not your asset. The man who pretended to be your asset, the man who sold you out. Not to put too fine a point on it.’

‘We know him as Hassan.’ She muttered this defensively. ‘And he came highly recommended. He was accredited at the highest levels — the US Senate Intelligence Committee, the CIA. He was a veteran of the Arab Spring. A vocal supporter of the West and of democracy. Anti-Qaddafi. He was nearly killed in Tripoli.’

‘You mean, he said he was,’ Sachs replied laconically.

‘His history was that he was a small businessman, not a radicalized fundamentalist.’ She added to Spiro, ‘In answer to your question, yes, we vetted him.’

Ercole Benelli had returned from the evidence room and Rossi had briefed him on the latest developments. The young officer now said, ‘Mamma mia! This is true?’

Spiro was speaking. ‘Allora. A US government asset — Ibrahim/Hassan — in Libya recruits two terrorists, Ali Maziq and Malek Dadi, and sends them to Italy masquerading as asylum-seekers, to orchestrate bombings in Vienna and Milan. He’s got an operative on the ground here — this Gianni — who is providing explosives and helping them. The two men are in place and the weapons are ready. But then this Ibrahim/Hassan gives you information about the attacks, so you can put together an operation with your madman kidnapper to foil them. Why? I see no avenue in which this makes sense.’

McKenzie could only, it seemed, stare at the floor. Who knew what she was thinking?

Spiro extracted and sniffed his cheroot then replaced it in his pocket, as if the accessory distracted him.

Rhyme said to Spiro, ‘Something you mentioned. A moment ago.’

‘What was that?’

‘“Masquerading as asylum-seekers.”’

‘Sì.’

Rhyme to McKenzie: ‘You reported to Washington who the terrorists were, how they’d gotten into Italy — pretending to be refugees.’

‘Of course.’

‘And the CIA would contact the Italian security services about it?’

She hesitated. ‘After our operation was over, yes.’

Rossi said, ‘But I don’t see the implication that seems significant to you, Captain Rhyme.’

Spiro was nodding. ‘Ah, but I do, Massimo.’ He looked toward Rhyme and added, ‘The conference that’s going on in Rome now. About the immigrants.’

‘Exactly.’

Rossi was nodding. ‘Yes. A number of countries are attending.’

Rhyme said, ‘I read about it on the flight over. The New York Times. Can we find the article?’

Ercole sat down at a computer and called up the online version of the paper. He found the story. Those in the room clustered around the screen.

‘Ah, Capitano Rhyme,’ Rossi said, his face twisted into a troubled smile, ‘this makes sense: Ibrahim and Gianni are not terrorists at all but soldiers of fortune.’

Rhyme said, ‘They were hired by someone on the political right, here in Italy, to recruit asylum-seekers to carry out terrorist attacks. Not for any ideological reasons but just to make the case that refugees pose a threat. It’d be used as ammunition by opponents of the new measure that your parliament’s considering, about relaxing deportation.’ A chill laugh. ‘Seems you got played, Charlotte.’

She said nothing but gazed at the article with a stunned expression.

‘Cristo,’ whispered Ercole.

‘We thought it was curious,’ Charlotte McKenzie said, ‘Ali Maziq and Malek Dadi were the actors. Neither of them was radicalized. They had moderate, secular histories.’

Rossi offered, ‘They were coerced, forced to go on their missions.’

Amelia Sachs was grimacing. ‘You know, I was thinking when we heard the story about the planned attack in Vienna — the consulate general mentioned a half kilo of C4. Dangerous, yes. It could cause fatalities, but not a massive explosion.’

Rhyme added, looking at McKenzie, ‘In Milan too. Didn’t you say, in the warehouse, it was just a half kilo?’

Dismay on her face, McKenzie said, ‘Yes, yes. Of course! Whoever hired Ibrahim and Gianni didn’t need to kill a lot of people. It was just to show that terrorists could be hidden among the refugees. And that would scare parliament in Rome into rejecting the proposal.’

‘So who is the mastermind? Behind the plan?’

Spiro looked at Rossi and shrugged briefly. Rossi said, ‘There are many who would oppose making immigration easier or deportation harder. The Lega Nord Party, of course, which opposes our being in the EU and accepting refugees. There are others as well. But for the most part those movements are regular political parties not given to violence or illegal activity like this.’

Spiro’s eyes gleamed coldly. ‘Ah, but there is also Nuovo Nazionalismo. The New Nationalism.’

Rossi nodded. He seemed troubled at the mention of the name.

The prosecutor continued, ‘The NN does advocate violence against immigrants. And the movement has boasted they have infiltrated governmental institutions. I wouldn’t be surprised if a senior NN official hired Ibrahim and Gianni to carry out this plan.’

Rhyme’s attention then slipped to Ercole Benelli, who was gazing at a blank wall, troubled.

‘Ercole?’

He turned back to the others. ‘There’s something that occurs to me. It might be nothing...’ He paused. ‘No, I think it is something. Most definitely it is something.’

‘Go on,’ Spiro said.

Ercole cleared his throat: ‘Your spy,’ he said to McKenzie. ‘Hassan, or Ibrahim, told you there were three plots, not two. Vienna, Milan and another one. Correct?’

‘Yes, here in Naples. But Khaled Jabril was thoroughly interrogated and he knew nothing of any attacks. That was the failure of intelligence I mentioned. It was a mistake.’

‘No, no,’ Rhyme whispered, understanding Ercole’s point.

The Forestry officer continued, speaking in an agitated voice, ‘But mistake is impossible. If Ibrahim reported three attacks, there had to be three attacks because he’d arranged all three of them himself!’

Wide-eyed, McKenzie said, ‘Yes, I see what you’re saying. But Khaled, he knew nothing. I’m sure. Our techniques work.’

Rhyme asked, ‘Did your asset actually give you the name “Khaled”?’

‘Yes, and that he was being held in the Capodichino Reception Center.’ She fell silent. ‘But, wait, no. Actually he didn’t. All he gave me was the family name. Jabril.’

Rhyme glanced toward Spiro, who said, ‘You kidnapped the wrong person, Signorina McKenzie. The terrorist is Khaled’s wife, Fatima.’

Chapter 60

Sachs and Ercole sped to the refugee camp, about ten kilometers from downtown.

Sachs parked outside the camp, at the main gate, where they were greeted by Rania Tasso, who gestured them inside and hurried them through the congested spaces between the tents.

Breathing hard from the fast pace, Rania said, ‘As soon as you called, I sent our security people to seal all the exits. All around the perimeter. It’s secure. We have guards and police watching Fatima’s tent — they are being discreet, hiding nearby — and she has not come out... if she was inside. That we don’t know.’

‘Could she have left the camp?’

‘It’s possible, before we sealed it. As you asked, we haven’t been inside the tent or contacted her husband. He has not been seen either.’

After a fast walk to the center of the camp, Rania pointed. ‘This is the tent.’ Light blue, mud-spattered, several rips in the Tyvek. Laundry hung outside like semaphore flags on old-time ships. Only bedding and men’s outer clothing and children’s garments fluttered in the wind. Was that all that could be properly displayed to the world?

The tent door was closed. There were no windows.

A uniformed officer, very dark skin, dark eyes, sweat dripping from beneath his beret, joined them. He’d been watching from behind a stand offering water bottles.

‘Antonio? Have you seen inside?’

‘No, Signorina Rania. I don’t know if Fatima’s there or not. Or anyone else. No one has come in or out.’

Sachs opened her jacket, exposing the Beretta. Ercole unsnapped his holster.

Sachs said, ‘Ercole. I know what you’re thinking. She’s a woman and a mother. And may not be a hard-core terrorist. We don’t know what Ibrahim and Gianni are using as leverage to force her to do this. But we have to assume she’ll detonate the device in an instant if she thinks we’ll stop her. Remember: Shoot for her—’

‘Upper lip.’ He nodded. ‘Three shots.’

Rania was looking about her, her quick gray eyes reflecting both bright sun and her heart’s dismay. ‘Please be careful. Look.’

Sachs saw what the woman indicated: in a vacant area next to the tent a half-dozen women sat on impromptu seats like tires and railway ties and water cartons, holding babies. Other children — from ages two to ten, or so — ran and laughed, lost in their improvised games.

‘Clear the area as best you can. Quietly.’

Rania nodded to Anton and he reached for his radio.

‘No,’ Sachs said fast. ‘And turn the volume off.’

Both he and Rania silenced their units and gestured to other security people. The officers did their best to shepherd people away from the tent. As soon as the officers moved on, though, the empty space filled with the curious.

Sachs glanced at them. Well within stray bullet range.

Nothing to do about it.

She asked Rania about the layout of the interior of the tent. The woman replied from memory: clothes neatly folded in cardboard boxes against the right wall, a dining area to the left. Prayer rugs rolled and put away. Three beds — one for the adults, one for their daughter, and a spare. Separated by sheet-like dividers.

Hell, good cover.

And the daughter, Muna, had a number of toys given to the family by volunteers. Rania remembered them scattered on the floor. ‘Be careful not to trip.’

‘Suitcases or trunks that someone might hide behind?’

Rania gave a sad laugh. ‘Plastic bags and backpacks are the only luggage these people bring with them.’

Sachs touched Ercole’s arm and he looked down into her eyes. She was pleased to see his own were confident, balanced. He was ready. She whispered, ‘You go right.’

‘Destra, yes.’

Drawing her pistol, Sachs held her left index finger up in the air then pointed it forward. He too drew his Beretta and then she gestured to the door and, with a nod, pushed inside, moving very quickly.

Khaled Jabril gasped and dropped his glass of tea, which bounced on the Tyvek floor, scattering the steaming contents everywhere. Sachs stepped over the toys — and the boxes they had come in — and quickly swept aside the divider sheets. He was the only occupant.

Khaled recognized Sachs, of course, but he was still groggy and disoriented from the drugs. ‘Aiiii. What is this?’

Sachs motioned Rania inside, then said to Khaled, ‘Your wife. Where is she?’

‘I don’t know. What is going on here? Is she all right?’

‘Where did she go? And when?’

‘Please tell me! I’m frightened.’

It was clear he hadn’t known about his wife’s mission when he’d been interrogated, though Fatima might have explained later. But, after Sachs gave him a synopsis of Ibrahim and Gianni’s plan of using her as an apparent terrorist, it was clear he was taken completely aback.

His initial response was a gasp of horror. But then he was nodding. ‘Yes, yes, she has not been herself. She has not been acting in a normal manner. Someone forced her to do this!’

‘Yes, probably.’ Sachs crouched across from him and said in a firm tone, ‘Still she’s going to hurt people, Khaled. Help us. We need to find her. Is she in the camp?’

‘No. She left an hour ago. She was going to be buying some things for Muna. At the shop here in the camp or maybe at one of the vendors outside. I don’t know if she said more. She might have. After my incident, after what happened to me, my mind is very, you would say, uncertain. Confused.’

‘Does she have her phone?’

‘I suppose she does.’

‘Give me the number.’

He did and Charlotte McKenzie, listening over speaker, said, ‘Got it. I’ll send it to Fort Meade, see if they can track it.’

Sachs asked the refugee, ‘Do you remember if she’d met with anyone recently? Did anyone give her anything?’

He frowned. ‘Perhaps... Let me think.’ He actually tapped his forehead. ‘Yes. She got a package. It was tea from her family.’

Rania’s stern but pretty face tightened in a grimace. ‘Yes, I remember.’

He pointed to a locker. ‘I think she put it in there.’

Ercole opened the lid and handed Sachs a brown cardboard carton.

Sachs held the box to her nose.

A sigh.

‘This too,’ Ercole said. He’d found plastic wrapping for a cheap mobile phone, but not the label that gave the phone’s number or details of the sim card; Fatima had taken that with her.

Pulling on her headset, Sachs speed-dialed a number.

‘What?’ came the abrupt response. ‘We’ve been waiting.’

‘She’s not here, Rhyme. And she got a delivery: C4, maybe Semtex. Like the others, looks like a half kilo. And another phone. For the detonator.’

Mobile phones had supplanted timers and radios as the most popular way to set off explosive devices.

‘A bomb? Are we the target here?’ Rania asked Sachs in a grim voice.

Those in the Questura had heard and, after a brief discussion, Rhyme answered, ‘No, very unlikely. The whole point of the plot is to sabotage the immigration legislation in Parliament. That means Italian citizens have to be hurt, not refugees.’

Khaled found his own mobile and asked, ‘Should I call her? Try to talk her out of this madness?’

Rhyme and Spiro, she could hear, were debating this.

But McKenzie came on the line. ‘Never mind. Meade says it’s dead. They’ll keep monitoring but I’ll bet she tossed it.’ Then the woman said, ‘Wait. They’ve got something.’ There was a pause and Sachs could hear computer keyboard clatter. ‘This could be good. The NSA bot just logged a call to the coffeehouse in Tripoli from a burner mobile in Naples that was just activated this morning. It’s still live.’

‘Gianni?’ Sachs asked.

Rossi said, ‘If we are lucky. Where is it?’

McKenzie called out longitude and latitude, and a moment later, after some keyboarding, the police inspector said, ‘At the Royal Palace. Downtown Naples. I’m sending a team there now.’

Chapter 61

Luigi Procopio, for this job known also as ‘Gianni,’ was presently leaning against his car parked on the edge of the plaza in front of the Royal Palace of Naples, the massive and impressive structure that had once been home to the Bourbon kings, when they were rulers of the Two Kingdoms of Sicily, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Procopio loved his Italian history.

Procopio came from the Catanzaro district of Calabria, a region south of Campania.

Calabria is the very tip of the boot of Italy. This region is known for its fiery pork paste, stoccafisso dried cod and many types of preserved foods, owing to the hot climate, which traditionally meant that meats and seafood should be cured to avoid spoiling.

Calabria is known too for the ’Ndràngheta, the famed organized crime outfit. The name ‘’Ndràngheta’ means ‘loyalty,’ and it was a well-known fact that the six thousand members of the organization were true to their comrades, who made up the 150 or so small cells within Italy. But that didn’t mean that members might not strike out on their own — they could, and did, as long as no conflicts of interest existed.

This was especially the case when the member was affiliated not with a crew in Calabria itself but with one of the satellite operations, such as those in the UK or the United States. The ’Ndràngheta had, in fact, been active in East Coast criminal activity for more than a hundred years. A gang in Pennsylvania mining country had extortion and protection rackets in the early 1900s, and the organization had been involved for years in US drug and money-laundering operations, often working with transplanted members of the Mafia and Camorra, as well as local Anglo and Caribbean gangs. (Senior ’Ndràngheta officials in America were reportedly angered by The Godfather, as they felt the Mafia was far less glamorous and clever and ruthless than they were.)

Big, dark, hairy and intimidating, Luigi Procopio was one such freelance operator. His good language skills, military and trade union contacts, and willingness to do whatever he needed to had let him carve out a specialty as a middleman, putting together deals among interests in southern Italy, North Africa, Europe and the United States.

His instinct let him walk the delicate high-wire between self-interest and the ’Ndràngheta’s, and he’d become successful.

Anywhere there was money to be made, Procopio had a presence: the old standbys, of course, arms, drugs and human trafficking, as well as newer twenty-first-century markets.

Say, terrorism, for instance.

He had just called Ibrahim at the Happy Day coffeehouse in Tripoli to update him on the developments here in Naples, and was now smoking and looking over the massive square.

Glancing up the street he happened to see black vans and marked police cars speeding his way. Lights were flashing but the vehicles’ sirens were silent.

Close, closer...

Then the entourage zipped past him, not a single driver or passenger looking his way.

Instead, the law enforcers sped across the square and skidded to a stop in a semicircle around a trash container. They jumped out, highly armed men and women, and scanned about them for their target.

Which was, of course, him.

Or, to be more accurate, the mobile phone on which he’d just called Ibrahim. Procopio had left the phone live in a paper bag at the foot of the trash bin. A young Police of State officer carefully examined the container — a bomb was a possibility under the circumstances — and then found the phone. He held it up. One officer, apparently the commander, shook his head, undoubtedly in disappointment, if not disgust. Other officers looked at nearby buildings, surely for CCTV cameras. But there were none. Procopio had made sure of that before leaving the bait phone.

He now stubbed out his cigarette. He had learned all he needed to. This, in fact, was the entire point of the call to Tripoli. He needed to see just how far along the police had come in their investigation.

So. They knew about Ibrahim’s existence, if not his name, and that there was an operative here. And they were scanning the landline and mobiles.

It would be total phone silence for the time being.

He settled into the car’s comfortable seat and started the engine. He wanted to find a café and enjoy another cigarette, along with an aperitivo of a nice Cirò red wine, and some hard, dried Calabrian salami and bread.

But that would have to wait.

Until after the bloodshed.

Chapter 62

The street was colorful.

Some tourists, but also many people who seemed to be true Neapolitans — families, women with strollers, children on bicycles... and preteens and teen, boys and girls. They strutted and shied and revealed themselves, wearing proud boots and bold running shoes and high heels and patterned tights and languid shirts, and they displayed, with understated pride, their latest: necklaces and clever purses and anklets and eyeglasses and rings and ironic mobile phone covers.

The flirts seemed harmless and charming, the youngsters innocent as preening kittens.

Oh, and the view: beautiful. Vesuvius ahead in the distance, the docks and massive ships. The bay, rich blue.

But Fatima Jabril paid little attention to any of this.

Her focus was on her mission.

And pushing the baby carriage with care.

‘Ah, che bellezza!’ the woman of a couple, herself pregnant, cried. And, smiling, she said something more. Seeing that the Italian language wasn’t working, she tried English. ‘Your daughter!’ The woman looked down into the carriage. ‘She is having the hair of an angel! Look, those beautiful black curls!’ Then, noting the hijab her mother wore, she paused, perhaps wondering if Muslims believed in angels.

Fatima Jabril understood the gist. She smiled and said an awkward, ‘Grazie tante.’

The woman cast another look down. ‘And she sleeps so well, even here, the noise.’

Fatima continued on hiking the back-pack higher on her shoulder. Moving slowly.

Because of the crowds.

Because of her reluctance to kill.

Because of the bomb in the carriage.

How has my life come to this?

Well, she could recall quite clearly the answer to that question. She’d replayed it every night falling asleep, every morning rising to wakefulness.

That day some weeks ago...

She remembered being pulled off the street in Tripoli by two surly men — who had no trouble touching a Muslim woman not a relation. Terrified and sobbing, she had been bundled off to the back room of a coffeehouse off Martyrs’ Square. She was pushed into a chair and told to wait. The shop was called Happy Day. An irony that brought tears to her eyes.

An hour later, a horrific hour later, the curtain was flung aside and in walked a sullen, bearded man of about forty. He identified himself as Ibrahim. He looked her over stonily and handed her a tissue. She dried her eyes and flung it back at his face. He smiled at that.

In Libyan-inflected Arabic, a high voice, he had said, ‘Let me explain why you are here and what is about to happen to you. I am going to recruit you for a mission. Ah, ah, let me finish.’ He called for tea and almost instantly it arrived, carried by the shopkeeper, whose hands trembled as he’d set out the cups. Ibrahim waited until the man left, then continued, ‘We have selected you for several reasons. First, because you are not on any watch lists. Indeed, you are what we call an Invisible Believer. That is, you are to our faith what a Unitarian might be to Christianity. Do you know what Unitarian is?’

Fatima, though familiar with much Western culture, was not aware of the sect. ‘No.’

Ibrahim said, ‘Suffice to say moderate. Hence, to the armies and the security services of the West you are invisible. You can cross borders and get to targets and not be regarded as a threat.’

Targets, she thought in horror. Her hands quivered.

‘You will be assigned a target in Italy and you will carry out an attack.’

She gasped, and refused the tea Ibrahim offered. He sipped, clearly relishing the beverage.

‘Now we come to the second reason you have been selected. You have family in Tunisia and Libya. Three sisters, two brothers, all of whom, praise be to God, have been blessed with children. Your mother too is still upon this earth. We know where they live. You will fulfill your obligation to us, complete these attacks, or they will be killed — every family member of yours from six-month-old Mohammed to your mother, as she returns from the market on the arm of her friend Sonja, who will die too, I should say.’

‘No, no, no...’

Ignoring the emotion completely, Ibrahim whispered, ‘And now we come to the third reason you will help us in this mission. Upon completion of the assignment, you — and your husband and daughter — will be given new identities and a large sum of money. You will get British or Dutch passports and can move where you wish. What do you say?’

The only word she could.

‘Yes.’ Sobbing.

Ibrahim smiled and finished the tea. ‘You and your family will travel to Italy as refugees. A smuggler I work with will give you details tonight. Once you arrive, you will be taken to a refugee camp for processing. A man named Gianni will contact you.’

He’d risen and left, with not another word.

They’d no sooner landed in the Capodichino Reception Center than Gianni in fact called her. He explained in a guttural voice, clear and still as ice, that there would be no excuses. If she fell ill and could not detonate the bomb, her family would die. If she were arrested for stealing a loaf of bread and could not detonate the bomb, her family would die. If the bomb did not go off because of mechanical failure, her family would die. If she froze at the last moment... well, she understood.

And what should happen but, of all horrific coincidences, her husband had been snatched by that psychotic American! That in itself had been terrible — she loved him dearly — but the incident had also brought the police. Would they find the explosives and phone and detonator that Gianni had left for her? Would they relocate her and her daughter while they searched for Khaled?

Yet he had been saved.

That was, of course, wonderful. Yet it tore Fatima’s heart in two. Because everyone, from Rania to the American police to the Italian officers, had worked so very hard — some even risking their lives — to save Khaled, a man they didn’t know, a man who had come to this country uninvited.

Certainly there were those who resented immigrants but, apart from some protestors outside the camp, Fatima had yet to meet them. Why, look at the woman a moment ago.

Your daughter, she has the hair of an angel!

Most Italians were heartbreakingly sympathetic to the asylum-seeker’s plight.

Which made what she was about to do, two hours from now, all the more shameful.

But do it she would.

If you fail in any way, your family will die...

But she wouldn’t fail. She saw the target ahead of her. Less than two hours remained until the attack.

Fatima found a cluster of unoccupied benches not far from the water. She sat in one that faced the bay. So that no one could see her tears.

Chapter 63

The lead to the Royal Palace had been a bust. Rhyme was sure Gianni had made the call to the Tripoli coffeehouse solely to see how much the police knew and if they were tracking phones. He’d learned that they were and so he’d gone off the grid.

Without any chance of finding him via phones, and no physical leads to Fatima, the team turned to the question of what might the intended target of the bombing be. Speculation, sure, but it was all they had.

Because the refugee camp was near Naples airport, Rhyme and Spiro thought immediately that Fatima was going after an airplane or the terminal.

The prosecutor said, ‘She can’t get a bomb on board an aircraft. But she might cut a hole in the fence, run to a full aircraft about to take off and detonate the device on the runway.’

McKenzie said, ‘These aren’t suicide attackers. They’re remote detonation devices, using cell phones. I don’t see airports. Train station maybe. Less security.’

Rossi called security at Trenitalia. After disconnecting he said, ‘They’re sending officers into the stations. We have our history of domestic terrorism too, like you in America. In nineteen eighty a terrorist group left a bomb in the central train station in Bologna — nearly twenty-five kilos. It was placed in the waiting room and because the day was hot — it was August — many people were inside the air-conditioned room. Very few buildings were air-conditioned in Italy then. Over eighty people were killed and more than two hundred wounded.’

Spiro said, ‘And shopping malls, city centers, amusement areas, museums...’

Rhyme’s eyes were on the map of Naples.

A thousand possible targets.

Charlotte McKenzie’s phone hummed. She glanced at the screen and took the call.

‘What?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Good, good... ’Crypt it and get it to me ASAP. Thanks.’

She responded to the querying glances from the men in the room. ‘We’ve caught a break. That was Fort Meade again. When I sent them Fatima’s phone, the number was automatically checked against the NOI list. That’s Number of Interest. The supercomputers snagged a conversation on that phone a few days ago. The bot heard the word “target” in a conversation between Libya and Naples, where there’ve been recent terrorist alerts. The algorithm recorded the conversation. As soon as I sent the request with her number, the bot flagged the recording and it went to First Priority status. They’re sending it now, the recording.’ She tapped a few keys, read a screen. She hit a button and placed her phone on a table near them all.

From the speaker: the sound of ringing.

‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice, speaking English with an Arabic accent. Fatima.

The gruff Italian male voice — it would be Gianni — said, ‘It is me. You are in Capodichino?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘You’ll be getting the package soon. Everything will be inside. Ready to go. A new phone too. Don’t take this one with you. Throw it away.’

‘I will doing that.’ Fatima’s voice was shaky.

‘Your husband, when he was kidnapped? He told no one anything that would make them suspicious?’

‘What could he say? He knows nothing.’

‘I...’ He paused. There was a great deal of ambient noise — which seemed to be coming from Gianni’s end of the line. He continued, ‘I’m in Naples now. I can see the target. It’s good. At the moment, there are not so many people.’

More noise. Motor scooter engines, shouts. Voices calling.

Gianni said something else, but the words were drowned out. Birds screeching and more shouts.

‘... not so busy now, I was saying. But on Monday, there will be many people. A good crowd and reporters. You must do it at fourteen hundred hours. Not before.’

Beside Rhyme, Spiro whispered, ‘Ninety minutes from now. Cristo.’

‘Tell me the plan,’ Gianni instructed.

‘I remember.’

‘If you remember then you can tell me.’

‘I go to location you have told me. I will go into a bathroom. I will have Western clothes with me and I wear them. I turn on the mobile taped to the package. I leave it where the most people will be. Then I walk to a big doorway.’

‘The arch.’

‘Yes, the arch. The stone will protect me. I dial the number and it will go off.’

‘You remember the number?’

‘Yes.’

Rhyme, Spiro and Rossi looked at each other. Please, Rhyme thought. Say it out loud! If either of them did, the team could send it to the NSA to hack and disable the phone in seconds of its being turned on.

But Gianni said only, ‘Good.’

Fuck, thought Rhyme. Spiro mouthed, ‘Mannaggia.’

‘After the explosion, you will fall down, cut your face on the stone and stumble out of the wreckage. You know stumble?’

‘Yes.’

‘The more injured you are, the more everyone will think you are innocent. Bleed, you should bleed. They will think it was a suicide bomb at first and you are merely another victim.’

‘Yes.’

‘I am going now.’

‘My family...’

‘They are relying on you to make sure this happens.’

There was the click of disconnection.

Rhyme muttered, ‘Any location for his phone?’

McKenzie said, ‘No. The NSA bot wasn’t tracking GPS. Just recording.’

Again the map of Naples took his attention.

Spiro said, ‘Can we tell anything more about the site of the attack from their conversation? It seemed like an event of sorts today. Fourteen hundred hours. And something that will draw media. What could it be?’

‘In the afternoon. A sports event? A store opening? A concert?’

‘On Monday, though?’ Ercole asked.

Rhyme said, ‘There’s a stone arch, a doorway she’ll hide in. For protection from the blast.’

Ercole scoffed. ‘That is about three-quarters of Naples.’

Silence for a moment.

Then Rhyme said, ‘Dante, you asked if we can tell anything more from the recording. You meant the conversation. What about what isn’t in the conversation?’

‘The background sounds, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘It’s a good thought.’ Spiro said to McKenzie, ‘Can you send the recording to the email here? We will put it through good speakers, so we can hear better.’ The inspector gave her the address.

A moment later the computer chimed. Rossi nodded to Ercole, who looked over the in-box and downloaded what Rhyme could see was an MP3 file.

The young man typed keys and the conversation played again. Through these speakers the words were much more distinct. But try though he might to hear past Gianni’s and Fatima’s words, Rhyme could draw no conclusions about the source of the sounds.

‘Hopeless,’ Rossi said.

‘Maybe not,’ Rhyme offered.

Chapter 64

Stefan Merck was a curious man.

Shy, and with eyes that were dark yet glowed in a child’s glimmer. An innocence about his round face.

Still, he was large and strong as an engine, Rhyme could see. Just his genes, probably. He didn’t have the physique of someone who worked out.

His hands were shackled when he was brought to the situation room. Rhyme said, ‘Take them off.’

Spiro considered this, nodded to the officer with Stefan and spoke in Italian.

The chains were removed, and Stefan had a very odd reaction. Rather than rub his wrists, as anyone else might have done, he cocked his head, closed his eyes and listened, it seemed, to the tinkling of the tiny steel rings of the shackles as they were pocketed by the officer.

Similar to what he’d done in Charlotte McKenzie’s house the night they were arrested.

It was as if he was memorizing the sound, storing it away.

He opened his eyes and asked for a tissue. Rossi handed him a box and he plucked one from the top and wiped his face and the crown of his head. When McKenzie said, ‘Sit down, Stefan,’ he did, immediately. Not from fear, but as if she were a portion of his conscious mind and he himself had made the decision.

She was, of course, more than an associate. She was Euterpe, his muse, the woman guiding him on the path to Harmony.

‘These men will explain what we need to do, Stefan. I’ll tell you later everything that’s happened. But for now, please do what they say.’

His head rose and fell slowly.

She looked at Rhyme, who said, ‘We have a recording, Stefan. Would you listen to it and tell us all the information you can figure out? We need to find somebody and we think the background sounds might be able to lead us to them.’

‘A kidnapping phone call?’

Rhyme said, ‘No, a call between two people who’re planning a terror attack.’

He looked at McKenzie, who said, ‘Yes. One of the people we were after. I made a mistake and we got the wrong one. There’s someone else. We need to stop her.’

‘Her. Ah. I kidnapped her husband, and it was really the wife.’ A smile. ‘Who stole my shoe.’

‘Yes.’

Intelligent. Good.

Spiro asked, ‘Would it help to shut the lights out?’

‘No, I don’t need to do that.’

Ercole played the audio. Now that he was aware of its potential value, Rhyme listened carefully. He made out a few noises that he hadn’t noticed in the first or second hearing but not much.

‘Again.’ Stefan’s voice was firm. He wasn’t the least deferential. Odd how even the most insecure grow assertive when practicing their special art.

Ercole played it once more.

‘And again.’

He did so.

‘Can I have a pen and paper, please?’ Stefan asked.

Spiro produced them instantly.

‘It is hard, I am sure, to hear past the voices,’ Rossi said.

Stefan responded with a bemused frown. Apparently he could hear past the voices just fine.

‘Sound is better than words. Sounds have meanings that are more trustworthy. Robert Frost, the poet, talked about the sound of sense. I love that, don’t you? He said you could experience a poem recited on the other side of a door without hearing the words. The sounds alone would convey the intended emotion and meaning to you.’

Not exactly the ramblings of a madman.

He began to jot notes in perfect script. Beatrice Renza would approve of it.

As he wrote, he said, ‘The caller was not far from the harbor. I hear Klaxons and warning and announcement horns. Passenger and commercial vessels. Tugboat diesels.’

‘Not from trucks?’ Rossi asked.

‘Of course not, no. They are clearly echoing off undulating water. You can hear the horns and ocean liner diesels too, right?’

Rhyme could not. They were hidden in a morass of noise.

Stefan scribbled quickly, then stared at the sheet. Closed his eyes. They sprang open and he crossed out what he’d just inscribed and then started again.

‘I need to control the playback.’ He scooted close to the computer, nudging Ercole out of the way.

‘These keys can—’

‘I know,’ Stefan said brusquely and typed. He rewound the audio and replayed certain parts, jotting notes. After ten minutes, he looked up.

‘I can hear transmissions downshifting and increasing in volume, as the cars get closer to the phone. That means the caller’s on top of the hill. The hill’s steep. They are mostly cars, mostly small ones, both diesel and gas. One has a muffler about to go. Some vans, I think. But no large trucks.’

Another playback. Staring at a blank wall. ‘Birds. Two different types. First, pigeons. There are many of them. I can hear their wings flutter from time to time: once, when a roller board — those things boys ride on — went by. Once, when children, about four or five years old, ran after the birds. I can tell the age from their footfalls and the laughs. The pigeons returned at once. They didn’t fly off when cars went by. That tells us that they’re in a square or plaza. Not a street.’

Their eyes went to the map of Naples, where Spiro had circled the docks with a red marker. He now put X’s near a number of public squares and piazzas in the general area of the waterfront and on what he must have known were hills.

‘The second birds are seagulls. They’d be everywhere in and around Naples, of course, but here there are only four, I think. One is giving a copulation call. He’s some distance. The three closer to the phone are giving assault calls and alarm calls. They’re fighting aggressively, probably over food, since they wouldn’t be nesting there. And because there are only three, I think they’re fighting over trash in a small bin, behind a restaurant or house. They are farther away from the waterfront; closer, there would be more and there would be a lot of sources for food — fishermen and trash — so the fighting would not be as vicious.’

Stefan played the tape back once more and paused it. ‘There is a school nearby, grade school, we’d say in America. I would guess it’s a parochial or a private school — many of the children have leather soles. I can hear no running shoes. Leather soles would mean uniforms. So private or religious. It’s a school because they’re laughing and running and playing and then, almost at once, it stops, and the sound of their feet changes as they all walk at the same pace back to class.’ He looked at the others, all staring at him. ‘They’re grade school — I can tell this because of the sound of the voices and the interval of their footfalls. I said that before. There is construction going on not far away. Metal work. Cutting metal and riveting.’

‘The ironwork of a building,’ Rossi said.

‘I don’t know if it’s a building,’ Stefan corrected. ‘It might be anything metal. A ship.’

‘Of course.’

‘Now, we can’t ignore words. Do you hear that American voice? A man’s asking, “How much?” Speaking slowly and loud, as if that will improve understanding. Anyway, he’d be speaking to an outdoor vendor. Or, possibly, a shop with an open window.

‘There’s a man vomiting. Then he receives angry comments. So, I would think he’s a drunk, not somebody who’s sick. Somebody ill would get sympathy, and we’d hear a siren. This means there might be a bar not far away. I hear scooter engines starting, then running for a few minutes, then stopping. They seem, some of them seem, to be misfiring. The sound of tools.’

‘A repair shop,’ Ercole said.

‘Yes.’ He listened to more of the tape. ‘Church bells.’ Stefan replayed it. ‘The notes are D, G, G, B, G, G.’

Spiro asked, ‘You are able to tell?’

‘I have absolute pitch. Yes, I know those notes. I don’t know what they are playing. We have to find out.’

Rossi asked, ‘Perhaps, can you sing it?’

Without referring to the tape again Stefan sang the notes in a clear baritone. ‘I’m an octave lower,’ he said, as if that were important information.

Ercole was nodding. ‘Yes, yes, it’s the Angelus, l’Ave Maria del mezzogiorno, I would guess. The midday tolling.’

‘A Catholic church,’ Rhyme said.

‘Not very close but no more than a hundred yards, I’d think. Perhaps connected to the school.’

Dante Spiro marked churches in the area they’d been focused on.

Stefan listened to the tape once more. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s about it.’

Spiro asked. ‘That’s all you can hear?’

Stefan laughed. ‘Oh, no, I hear much more. Airplanes, the trickle of gravel, a gunshot very far away, a glass breaking — a drinking glass, not a window... but they are too general. They won’t help you.’

‘You’ve done fine, Stefan,’ Rhyme said.

‘Thank you,’ McKenzie said to the young man.

Spiro exhaled. ‘Sei un’artista. That is to say, you are a true artist.’

Stefan smiled, shy once more.

Spiro was then leaning forward, his dark, focused eyes staring at the map. His finger stabbed a spot. ‘Ecco. I think Gianni had to be here. Monte Echia. It is not far from here. A large hill downtown overlooking the bay. That would explain the gear shifting. It’s largely residential but below are shops like the one that could be the scooter repair place and the bar where the man was sick. With the vistas, it is a tourist spot, so there could be vendors there, selling food and souvenirs. The docks are not that close but within hearing range. And there is a church just below it, the Chiesa di Santa Maria della Catena.’

‘Tourists?’ Rhyme asked. ‘It might be a good target.’

Rossi said, ‘It’s not a major tourist attraction but, as Dante says, there are many residents and some restaurants. The gulls might have been fighting at one of their trash bins.’

Ercole then said, ‘Ah, there is a possible target for Fatima: the military archive, Caserma Nino Bixio.’

‘I don’t know that it’s still open,’ Spiro said. ‘But, even if not, there would be residents and tourists nearby and bombing a state building would get the attention of the world.’

Rossi was already calling the SCO team.

Rhyme looked at the digital clock: 12:50.

An hour and ten minutes until the attack.

Amelia Sachs was pushing Ercole’s poor Mégane to the limit once more, though this time not speeding; the unfortunate lower gears were struggling to ascend the steep slope of Monte Echia.

They breached the top and saw ahead of them two dozen tactical officers from the SCO, as well as a number of regulars from the Police of State and the Carabinieri. The Naples Comune Police was present too, along with soldiers from the Italian army.

Towering Michelangelo, the tactical force commander, gestured angrily for two police cars to back up and let Sachs pull closer. He smiled as Sachs jumped from the car and they played the Dirty Harriet/Make My Day game again.

She rigged her headset, and she and Ercole walked into a square beside the large red stone building that was the archive. At the western edge, where a sheer cliff descended to the street below, there were tourist stations — a sketch artist who’d do a portrait of customers with Vesuvius in the background, vendors of gelato and flavored shaved ice, a man behind a pushcart, selling Italian flags, limoncello liqueur in bottles the shape of Italy, Pinocchio dolls, pizza refrigerator magnets, maps, and cold drinks.

Though the day was sunny, the temperature moderate, the area was largely deserted.

Now that Rhyme had told her of Stefan’s analysis of the phone call between Fatima and Gianni, she too was aware of the sounds that he’d identified — the pigeons, the gulls ganging over a garbage bin nearby, cars downshifting to make the summit, as she’d just done. Much dimmer were the other sounds — the ships at the docks in the far distance, south toward the volcano, the scooter repair shop, other vendors, tourists, children in a parochial school yard.

She and Ercole joined in the search, and the Forestry officer told Michelangelo that they would survey the vendors and the customers, since the police soldiers had the archives covered.

‘Sì, sì!’ the massive man said and plunged toward the archives with his men, his face registering disappointment, as if peeved that there was no one yet to shoot. The big, dun-colored building was not, in fact, open at the moment, but there were many alcoves and shadows and doorways where a bomb might be hidden — and that would kill or injure dozens, as Dante Spiro had pointed out.

Ercole and Sachs canvassed up and down the streets, she displaying the picture of Fatima, he asking if anyone had seen her, adding that she would be dressed in Western clothing and without the head covering, most likely. Since the photo, though, depicted the woman in hijab, the tourists and vendors surely thought that terrorism might be involved and they gazed at the picture with the eager intent to remember seeing her.

But none had.

The two walked up and down the winding street, stopping at residences and questioning people they passed, while uniformed police officers and Carabinieri swept the cars lining the curbs, some using mirrors on poles to look beneath them for the explosive.

And how much time?

Sachs’s phone showed: 1:14.

Forty-five minutes till the attack.

They returned to the top of the plateau, where Michelangelo was talking to a Carabiniere, obviously a commander, to judge from the medals and insignias on his breast and shoulder. His hat was quite tall.

The tactical commander saw Sachs and shook his head, ringed with fuzzy, red hair, with a grimace. He returned to the search.

She called Rhyme.

‘Found anything, Sachs?’

‘Nothing. And, you know what? This doesn’t feel right.’

‘As in, it doesn’t seem like a target?’

‘Exactly.’ She was looking around her, as wind stirred up shrapnel of crisp food wrappers and plastic bags and newspapers and dust. ‘The archive’s closed and there just aren’t that many people around.’

Rhyme was silent a moment, and then: ‘Odd. Gianni said the target would be crowded today.’

‘It ain’t going to get more crowded in forty minutes, Rhyme. And no press. No reason for any press.’

Then: ‘Ah, no. Goddamn it.’

Sachs’s pulse quickened. This was his tone of anger.

She gripped Ercole’s arm and he stopped quickly.

Rhyme was saying, ‘I made a mistake.’ He was then speaking to the others in the Questura — Charlotte McKenzie, Spiro and Rossi — but she couldn’t hear the words.

He came back on the line. ‘Monte Echia isn’t the target, Sachs. I should have known that!’

‘Didn’t Stefan identify it right?’

‘He did fine. But I didn’t pay attention to what Gianni told Fatima. He didn’t say he was at the target. He said he could see the target. He was standing there and looking it over.’

She explained this to Ercole, who grimaced. They caught Michelangelo’s attention and Sachs gestured him over. The man stalked closer and Ercole told him about the mistake.

He nodded and spoke into his microphone.

Sachs was staring over the vistas. ‘I can see the docks, Rhyme.’

He was on speaker and Spiro had heard. He said, ‘But, Detective, they are filled with security. I do not think she could get close.’

Ercole said, ‘We see the Partenope walkway and street. It is somewhat crowded.’

Then Sachs’s eyes slipped to the stony island in front of Via Partenope. ‘What’s that?’

‘Castel dell’Ovo,’ he answered. ‘A popular tourist attraction. And there are, as you can see, many restaurants and cafés.’

Spiro said abruptly. ‘That could be it. Gianni told Fatima to get behind a stone wall before the explosion. Yes, the castle has dozens of alcoves where she can hide.’

‘And look!’

Two large buses were just then pulling up in front of the bridge that led to the island the castle was on. People in suits and elaborate dresses began to climb out. On the side were banners.

‘What do they say?’ Sachs asked Ercole.

‘It’s publicity for a fashion event here. Some designer or clothing company.’

‘And there would have been a press announcement, so Gianni would have learned it started at two o’clock.’

She told those in the Questura what they were looking at.

‘Yes, yes, that has to be it!’ Rossi said.

Sachs tugged Ercole’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’ Into the headset she said, ‘We’re headed there now, Rhyme.’

She disconnected and they jogged to the Mégane, which she fired up and put into gear. Michelangelo and the tactical officers were jogging back to their vehicles.

Sachs skidded in a U-turn and sped down the switchbacks to the street beneath the mountain. She swerved onto the concrete, steered into the skid and floored the accelerator. Sachs was blustering her way through an intersection when she glanced in her rearview mirror, wondering how close Michelangelo was, when she saw a flash of yellow and orange flame.

‘Ercole, look. Behind us. What happened?’

He turned as best he could and squinted. ‘Mamma mia! A fire. At the bottom of the road we just came down, there’s a car on fire. Sitting in the middle of the street.’

‘Gianni.’

‘He’s been watching us! He’s running guard for Fatima. Of course. He broke into a car, I’d guess, and rolled it into the road, then set it on fire.’

‘To block the police. They’re trapped on the mountain now.’

Ercole was calling in this latest development.

On speaker she heard Rossi say he would get more officers and a fire brigade to the base of the mountain to the castle.

‘Looks like it’s just us, Ercole.’

No longer an uneasy passenger, he stabbed his finger toward the road and cried, ‘Per favore, Amelia. Can you not go any faster?’

Chapter 65

Like a hockey player swerving around the goal, the Mégane veered onto Via Partenope and screeched to a stop, deftly — and narrowly — avoiding a gelato vendor, two fashion models in neon-green dresses and, by inches, a Bugatti coupe, which Sachs believed was worth just north of a million dollars.

Then she and Ercole were out and sprinting to the promontory that tied Castel dell’Ovo to the mainland.

Sachs called, ‘Fatima’s in street clothes, remember.’

‘Sì.’

‘And remember your target. You’ve got to stop her instantly.’

‘Upper lip. Sì. Three bullets.’

Sirens cut through the air — the fire trucks headed to clear the way from Mont Echia, and the urgent wail from reinforcements, Police of State and Carabinieri heading to the castle now, to join Sachs and Ercole in the search for Fatima Jabril.

It was 1:30.

What a fat target this was: To the left of the massive castle, on the island, there were shops and restaurants and docks, today filled with tourists and locals enjoying the sun and the promise of Neapolitan food and wine and a lazy voyage in a sailing or motorboat upon cerulean Naples Bay. The site was plumped up all the more by the hundred or so fashion industry glitterati. A tent had been set up in the shadows of the towering castle.

Add the many tourists, and there had to be a thousand people here.

Sachs jumped as her phone rang, thinking of the bomb, which would have a cell-phone-activated detonator; that her sensitivity to ringtones was unreasonable didn’t calm her heart.

‘Rhyme.’

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘On the promontory to the castle.’

Spiro’s voice. ‘Yes, yes, Detective. We see you. CCTV.’

Two uniformed officers — guards at the castle — approached. They had apparently been briefed by Rossi or Spiro and the pair, a blond woman and dark-haired man, hurried to Ercole, who confirmed their identities, as if the badges and weapons left any doubt.

Sachs said into the phone, ‘Evacuate the place, Rhyme?’

Rossi spoke. He explained that they had decided against that approach, at least for now; the castle and the island on which it sat was accessed only by the narrow strip of land, like a bridge, they were moving over now. Panic would create a deadly crush, and more would die from a leap into the water or onto the rocky shore. ‘At five minutes until two, perhaps we will have no choice. But that will be certain death for a number of people. We will be closing off the entrance now.’

Sachs, Ercole and the two castle guards walked quickly over the promontory and into the throngs on the island. The officers were scanning the grounds and docks where hundreds of pleasure craft bobbed lazily at their slips. Looking for a slim, dark-haired woman, probably by herself, dressed in Western clothing and carrying a package or purse or backpack. Of course, Sachs reflected, here they were in a region brimming with slim, dark-haired women, dressed Western.

Scanning, scanning the crowds.

Impossible...

Rossi came on the line. ‘The fire’s out and the car is being moved aside. Michelangelo’s men will be ten or fifteen minutes.’

Just in time for the detonation.

Rossi now said, ‘Ah, I’ve heard from some undercover officers. They were investigating a smuggling case on the dock, coincidentally. They are nearby and moving in. They’re aware of you and Ercole. They should be there now. They have Fatima’s picture.’

Sachs told Ercole about the undercover officers — and just at that moment one young man in a leather jacket and tight jeans caught their eye. He moved aside his jacket and displayed a badge. He was with a woman in her thirties. She, too, nodded. They, the two castle guards and Sachs and Ercole met near the entrance to a seafood restaurant. They agreed to split up and go in three different directions.

It was 1:40.

She and the lanky Forestry officer were moving quickly west, toward the side of the castle that jutted farthest into Naples Bay. The tourists here were listening to a street musician, playing guitar and singing what sounded like an Italian ballad from the last century. She saw couples embracing, teenagers flirting and joking, a young blonde pushing a baby carriage, families strolling, men walking side by side, their wives arm in arm behind, children in giddy orbit, boys with soccer balls unable to resist showing off their crafty footwork.

No one who looked like Fatima, even in Western clothing.

And as for the bomb?

It could be anywhere. In one of the trash receptacles, under a table in one of the restaurants or bars, behind a kiosk, near the raised stage for the fashion show.

Perhaps in the potted plant she was walking past just now.

C4 explosive, known officially as RDX, Research Department Explosive, travels outward at nineteen thousand miles per hour, nearly sixty times the speed of sound. The vapors and blast wave annihilate anything in their path. Skin, viscera and bone simply disappear into a crimson mist.

She sent Ercole to the left, toward the stage where the fashion show was about to start. Reporters were taking random shots of some of the more beautiful women — and a beautiful man or two. In a soft voice, as if not wishing to startle her, Rossi spoke into her earbud, ‘Detective Sachs, Michelangelo and the other officers are almost there. We have to evacuate now. It’s thirteen fifty.’

Ten minutes to two.

Ten minutes till the bomb.

‘I do not want to, Detective. I know there will be a panic. But there is no choice. I’ll send the officers in—’

‘Wait,’ she said. A thought: The woman with the baby carriage... it was out of place. There was a park nearby, at the western end of the Via Partenope. The pretty place, nicely landscaped, had pathways and gelato stands and gardens and benches. Ideal for a mother with a carriage. But the Castel dell’Ovo, with the crowds and warren of docks? No.

And she’d had a backpack over her shoulder. Where better to hide a bomb?

Blond, though? Well, if you were going shopping for a baby carriage for a prop, why not buy a wig too?

Turning abruptly back to where she’d seen the woman. ‘Give me just a minute more,’ she whispered into the headset. ‘I have a lead.’

‘Detective, there’s no time!’

Rhyme’s voice said, firmly, ‘No. Let her run with it.’

‘But—’

Spiro said, ‘Sì, Massimo. Let her.’

Sirens were sounding now, growing closer. Heads were turning toward the mainland. Smiles cooling to frowns of curiosity... and then concern.

Sachs continued south, in the direction she’d last seen the woman and the baby carriage. Hurrying over the stone paths, hundreds, perhaps a thousand years old. Her head swiveled, eyes squinted.

Her hand? Inches from the grip of the Beretta.

1:55.

Where are you, Fatima? Where?

And then the answer: At the southernmost wall of the castle, the blonde with the carriage emerged from the building’s shadows near the docks. She stopped beside a pier, at which were tied a half-dozen gorgeous yachts, white as cold moonlight, ropes coiled perfectly on the decks and silver fixtures glinting. On the boats: older beautiful people, tanned and coiffed — ‘jet-setters’ in an earlier era.

There was no target here — it wasn’t that crowded — but there was a solid archway that would protect her from the blast.

Fatima — Sachs could see her face clearly now as she looked back nervously — was wheeling toward this archway. The dull-toned blond wig clashed with her olive skin. The backpack was over her shoulder still. It wouldn’t contain the bomb any longer. No, she would have planted it in a more populated part of the island.

Sachs drew her weapon but kept it hidden under her arm and jogged forward. She was thirty feet away when, eyes wide, the woman saw her and froze.

Speaking softly, Sachs said slowly and in a low, clear voice, ‘You have been tricked, Fatima! Ibrahim is not who you think. He is using you. He’s lied to you.’

Fatima frowned, shook her head. ‘No. No trick!’ Her eyes were wide — and damp with tears.

Sachs walked a few feet closer. Fatima moved back, turning the carriage and keeping it between her and Sachs.

‘I don’t want to hurt you. You’ll be safe. Just put your hands up. Let me come talk to you. You don’t want to do this. You’ll be hurting people without any reason. Please!’

Fatima stiffened.

Sachs said, ‘I saved your husband. I saved his life. Remember?’

Then Fatima lowered her head. A moment later she looked up with a smile. ‘Yes. Yes, miss. Yes. Thank you for that. Shukran!’ The smile twisted into a look of profound sorrow and Sachs saw tears. Then Fatima shoved the baby carriage toward the water. There was no barrier, or even a low lip, on the pier and it tumbled, as if in slow motion, twenty feet into the water.

Sachs caught a glimpse of blankets and black hair rising inside as it landed with a loud splash. The carriage settled and sank fast.

Sachs, however, didn’t do what Fatima hoped. She ignored the buggy and went into a combat shooting stance as the woman dug for her phone to call the mobile wired to the detonator.

‘No, Fatima, no!’

Above them, screams pealed from the top of the castle, fifty feet above her, where tourists had seen the carriage go into the water.

Fatima yanked the phone free. It was a flip phone. She opened it, looking down at the keypad, reaching a finger out.

Amelia Sachs inhaled, held her breath and squeezed the trigger. Three times.

Chapter 66

‘Non siamo riusciti a trovare nulla,’ the scuba diver said.

Ercole Benelli translated. The man was sorry but he and his colleagues in the Italian navy had found nothing in the water below the looming castle.

‘Keep searching,’ Lincoln Rhyme said. He, Ercole, Sachs, Spiro and Rossi were near the spot where Fatima had shoved the carriage into the water, in the shadow of the blunt, ruddy castle. Curiously much of the entrance route to the edifice, centuries old, was disabled-accessible.

The diver nodded and walked backward along the pier — he wore flippers — then turned and, stiff-legged, strode into the water. Rhyme glanced at the half-dozen eruptions of bubbles on the surface of Naples Bay from the aquatic search party below.

A wail sounded to their left, a woman’s keen of despair. The sixtyish-year-old matron pointed at Sachs and fired off a vicious fusillade of words.

Ercole started to translate but Rhyme interrupted. ‘She’s upset that my Sachs here was so devoted to stopping a terror attack that she ignored a drowning baby. Am I in the ballpark?’

‘Ballpark?’ A questioning frown.

‘Am. I. Correct?’

‘You are close, Captain Rhyme. But she didn’t raise any question of devotion to stopping the villain. In essence she accuses your partner of being a child killer.’

Rhyme chuckled. ‘Tell her what really happened. If it’ll shut her up.’

Ercole gave the woman the story — a very abbreviated version of the full tale, which was that it wasn’t a baby in the carriage but a doll.

Sachs had known all along that Fatima’s and Khaled’s little girl, Muna, was not in the carriage. When she’d been to the Capodichino Reception Center earlier that day, after Fatima had vanished, Sachs had seen Muna in the care of a neighbor, in the vacant lot beside their tent. And among the boxes inside their tent was an empty carton that had once held — from the picture on the side — a dark-haired doll, the size of a large baby. Sachs had caught a glimpse of the toy in the carriage.

A clever diversion. Rhyme had to give Fatima credit.

He glared at the agitated tourist until she fell silent, turned and left.

Prosecutor Spiro approached. ‘Have they found the phone yet?’

‘No,’ Rossi told him. ‘Five divers in the bay. But nothing.’

This was the object of the navy divers’ search. They hoped to recover the sim card from Fatima’s new phone and track Gianni’s or other numbers that might lead to him, to Ibrahim, or to whoever within the Italian anti-immigrant movement had hired them to derail the pro-immigrant legislative proposal in Rome.

But the currents in the bay were not, it seemed, cooperating.

The Carabinieri’s bomb team, directed by Fatima Jabril, had found and removed the explosive device, which had been placed deep in a stone recess of the castle, not far from the fashion show reception. It was a bad placement, from a terrorist’s point of view. The solid walls would have protected almost everyone from the blast. Dogs had searched and found no other explosives and a team had cleared Fatima’s backpack, too, which contained no weapons, but only medical supplies — bandages and antiseptics and the like. An ID badge from the refugee camp indicated that Fatima was a nurse/aide.

The woman herself was nearby — in the castle, being treated by a medical team. The injuries were minor — two broken carpals, finger bones, and one hell of a bruise. But the 9mm slugs, which had destroyed the phone, had not broken any skin.

Sachs had not shot to kill.

After the phone had been so dramatically removed from her hand, Fatima had grown hysterical. She said that — because she’d failed — Ibrahim would now kill her family in Libya.

But Sachs explained that that was unlikely, given that the plot was not what it seemed. Ibrahim and Gianni weren’t terrorists; they were mercenaries being paid to stage phony attacks. Still, to reassure Fatima — and snag her cooperation — Spiro told her that Italian agents in Libya would keep an eye on her family.

She readily agreed and gave a statement about everything she knew about him: It wasn’t much, true, but she confirmed he was a tanned, unsmiling man who smoked foul-smelling cigarettes, was clean-shaven and had thick curly hair, an athletic build. She described him as a man who traveled much, whose hours were not his own. When they spoke he was often out of town and usually on the road.

Rossi’s phone hummed and he answered. ‘Sì, pronto?’

Rhyme couldn’t deduce from the conversation whether the inspector was receiving good news or bad. At one point he lifted a pen from his breast pocket, pulled the cap off with his teeth and jotted something in a notebook.

After he disconnected he turned to the others and said, ‘Beatrice. She found one print on the detonator phone. It came back positive. An Albanian — in the country legally.’

‘Legally?’ Rhyme asked. ‘Then why was he in the system?’

‘He was required to have a security check because he works at Malpensa airport. In Milan. He is a mechanic for fuel trucks and those big vehicles that tow and push airplanes. All airport workers are fingerprinted. He would have, I think, some connection with the Albanian gangs. He could run arms and smuggle drugs without having to pass through Customs. Explosives too, it seems.’

Sachs was looking out to sea, squinting. It was her intense look. Her huntress look. Rhyme enjoyed watching her at moments like that.

Rhyme repeated, ‘Sachs? Enjoying the view?’

She mused, ‘Malpensa’s the other airport in Milan.’

‘Yes,’ Spiro said.

She said, ‘Didn’t Beatrice say she’d found samples of industrial grease at the warehouse in Milan? And jet fuel too?’

‘She did, yes. But we didn’t pursue it because it didn’t seem there was any connection between the warehouse and the Composer.’

She turned to Spiro. ‘Everyone in Italy, citizens had an ID card, right?’

‘Yes. It is the law.’

‘With a picture?’

‘That’s right.’

‘If I give you a name can you get me an image?’

‘If the name is not too common, yes. Or you have an address or at least a comune, a town.’

‘It’s not that common a name. I’ll need the picture sent to my phone and I’ll forward it to someone.’

‘I will arrange it. Who is this person you wish to send it to?’

‘Do you know the phrase “confidential informant”?’

‘Ah, so you have a snitch, do you?’ Spiro asked, pulling out his mobile.

Chapter 67

Amelia Sachs sat beside Lincoln Rhyme in the back of the disabled-accessible van, parked on one of the better streets in Naples, the Via di Chiaia, overlooking the beautiful park that had, in part, tipped her to Fatima’s presence. It would be here, not the Castel dell’Ova, where a single mother would stroll with her child.

Dante Spiro was with them, listening through an earbud to the operation, which was being run by Michelangelo.

Dirty Harriet.

The view out one window was a magnificent panorama of the bay, the Castel dell’Ovo to the right and the deceptively placid Vesuvius to the left.

Like everyone else, however, Sachs was uninterested in the bay; she was concentrating on the considerably more modest sight through the other window: a pleasant, if old, residential abode, stone construction, yellow paint. A pensione — a bed-and-breakfast-style inn. It was gem-like and would have cost plenty per night.

‘We’re sure he’s inside?’ she asked. Referring to the man who had put together the entire plan. Who had hired Ibrahim and Gianni. Who had tried to kill dozens of innocents, solely to turn public opinion further against the refugees, and defeat the pending legislation that might improve their plight.

All under the perverse banner of nationalism.

Spiro was listening to police transmissions through a wired earpiece. His head was cocked. He said, ‘Sì, sì.’ Then to Sachs and Rhyme: ‘Yes, he’s in there.’ A grim smile. ‘And the assessment is that he’s unarmed.’

‘How do they know that? Do they have eyes on him?’ Rhyme asked insistently.

He would be thinking, Sachs knew, that if she was walking into the room where the mastermind of the scheme was — as Spiro would say — holed up, they should damn well know for sure whether he was armed or not.

She was less concerned; she had her Beretta. And a fine piece of work it was, she’d announced. The Italians were good at food, cars, fashion and weapons. None better.

Spiro replied, ‘Michelangelo reports that their surveillance has determined he will certainly be unarmed. But that will not last for long. We should move now.’

Sachs glanced at Rhyme, who said, ‘Don’t let anyone shoot anything up if they can avoid it, Sachs. This’s important evidence. This’s the main bad boy.’

Then she and Dante Spiro were out the van’s door.

They moved quickly to the front of the structure, where four SCO officers met them, led by Michelangelo. Unlike their commander, these men were not large, though they were made bulky because of their gear: body armor, breaching equipment, boots, helmets. The H&K submachine guns favored by the tac teams were unslung and ready to fire.

Spiro gestured and the men moved through the front door of the pensione and, as quietly as they could, up the stairs to the first floor.

The hallway was dim and hot, the air oppressive. The rooms might have air-conditioning but the hallways did not. Paintings of old Italy dotted the walls, most of them of Naples; a smoking volcano looming in the background. In one, though, Vesuvius was busily erupting as toga-clad citizens stared in horror, while a small dog seemed to be smiling. Every piece of artwork hung crookedly.

After a pause and a listen to the surveillance control van outside, Michelangelo gave hand signals and the SCO officers divided into two teams. One, crouching below the peephole, moved past the door of the suspect’s room and turned. The second team remained on the near side. Sachs and Spiro stopped ten feet short. What was that noise? Sachs wondered.

Screech, screech, screech...

Stefan could have told them in an instant.

Then Sachs heard a moan.

Of course. A couple was making love.

That was why the assault team, with the auditory surveillance system, had concluded that the occupants of the room were not armed. A gun might be nearby but it was highly unlikely either one was concealing a weapon on their person.

Michelangelo heard something through his headset — Sachs could tell from his cocked head. He stepped back to Spiro and spoke in Italian. The prosecutor said to Sachs, ‘The second team is behind our other target. He is up the street, in his car. They’ll move in when we do, coordinated.’

From the room the sounds of lovemaking had grown louder, the grunts more frequent. Michelangelo whispered something to Spiro, who translated his comment to Sachs. ‘He’s wondering if we should wait a moment. Just because...’

Sachs whispered, ‘No.’

Michelangelo grinned and returned to his men. He gestured toward the door, his hand making a slicing movement, like a priest blessing a communicant.

Instantly they went into action. One hefted a battering ram and swung it hard into the door near the knob. The flimsy wood gave way instantly. He stepped back, dropped the ram and unslung his machine gun as the others sped in, their weapons up, muzzles sweeping back and forth. Sachs hurried forward, Spiro behind her.

In the bed, in the center of the quaint room, a dark-haired Italian woman, no older than eighteen or nineteen, was squealing and frantically grabbing at bedclothes to cover herself. But it was a tug-of-war for the sheet and blanket with the man in bed with her. She was winning.

Pretty funny actually.

‘Allora!’ Spiro called. ‘Enough! Leave the sheets! Stand and keep your hands raised. Yes, yes, turn around.’ In Italian he spoke to the woman, apparently repeating the command.

His boyish face blazing, hair askew, Mike Hill, the American businessman whose private jet had shepherded Sachs to Milan the other day, did as ordered. He glanced once at Michelangelo’s pistol, then at Sachs and apparently decided to keep his hands raised and not cover his conspicuous groin. The woman with him did the same.

One officer had gone through their clothes. He said, ‘Nessun arma.’

Spiro nodded and the officer handed the garments to the couple.

As he dressed, Hill snapped, ‘I want an attorney. Now. And make sure it’s one who speaks English.’

Chapter 68

The suspects were in jail.

Il Carcere di Napoli.

Michael Hill was in a holding cell, awaiting the arrival of his ‘ball-breaking’ attorney, who would show them a thing or two about criminal law.

Rhyme and Sachs were in the Questura situation room, receiving updates from a number of sources.

Hill’s wife had arrived at the jail at the same time as the prostitute in the pensione was being released. The teenager had received a legal warning. Spiro had reported that ‘the businessman’s spouse’s expression, I will say, was a bit like that of fans witnessing a car crash at an auto race. Horrified, yes, but modulated with a certain hint of glee. I suspect the divorce settlement will be impressionante.’

Mike Hill’s arrest had come about quickly, after Sachs’s speculation that the infamous Gianni might, in fact, be the American businessman’s chauffeur, name of Luigi Procopio.

What had brought the man to the forefront of suspects was a series of recollections by Sachs as she had stared over Naples Bay not long ago, following Fatima’s arrest.

Beatrice had found volcanic soil trace in the warehouse. Which meant someone from Naples had likely been in the warehouse recently. The forensic scientist had also discovered the grease there, the sort used in heavy, outdoor equipment. The Albanian who provided the explosives was a mechanic at Malpensa airport, working on such equipment. He had probably met the person who’d traveled from Naples at the warehouse to deliver the explosives.

Who had a connection with both Malpensa and Naples? Mike Hill. Since he knew about the traffic from the airport to downtown Milan, he had obviously been there before — and on the private plane tarmac, where explosives could have been transferred out of sight of Customs and security.

Hill himself probably wouldn’t deal with bombs or paying Albanian smugglers. But his driver might. Luigi — a smoker, clean-shaven, long dark hair, swarthy complexion. And he was a man who traveled a great deal, as Fatima had told them, often driving.

Had it been coincidence that Hill just happened to call Consulate General Musgrave, mentioning that his private plane was headed north, so Sachs could hitch a ride to Milan? Of course not. Hill, Gianni and Ibrahim would have known all about Rhyme’s and Sachs’s presence here and would have bugged either their phones or hotel room, learning that they had a lead to Milan. Concerned about the progress of the investigation, Hill had immediately contacted the consulate general and let it be known that he had a plane ready to go... so he could keep an eye on the case.

Hardly certain, it was, nonetheless, a reasonable theory worth exploring.

To find out, Sachs sent Luigi’s picture to her snitch, Alberto Allegro Pronti, the homeless Don Quixote of a Communist in Milan. Ercole translating, Pronti verified that Luigi Procopio was the man who had thrown him out of the warehouse.

Ercole had smiled as he’d listened to the man’s words. He said to Sachs, ‘Alberto asks if the cat-kicker will go to jail.’ He turned back to the phone. ‘Sì certamente.’

Luigi had surrendered to Michelangelo’s second tactical team in the parking lot behind the pensione, where he’d been smoking and texting, as he waited for his boss to finish his liaison with the local call girl.

Dante Spiro had been particularly pleased to nab Procopio. Not only was he instrumental in Hill’s plot to implicate refugees in the fake terror attacks but he was an international member of the ’Ndràngheta. Spiro explained that Flying Squad officer Daniela Canton, who specialized in gang work, had learned days ago of some ’Ndràngheta operative active in the area. She’d learned nothing more about it. Now the source of the intelligence was clear.

Mike Hill’s involvement changed the entire focus of the plot. It was not an Italian official or member of a right-wing party, like the Nuovo Nazionalismo, who was the mastermind of the fake terrorist plot; it was an American.

Mike Hill’s plan had the purpose they’d originally speculated — though not to derail Italian immigration reform. It was to sway public opinion in the United States and turn lawmakers against the pro-refugee bill in Congress, offering ‘proof’ that terrorists were hiding among immigrants like tainted pieces in a bag of candy.

Hill was not in Naples by coincidence. He’d come here to oversee his operation and make sure that it succeeded. There remained the question as to whether Hill himself was the sole mastermind. His phone records revealed texts to and from a Texas senator, Herbert Station, a staunch opponent of the immigration bill and a nationalist in his own right. The texts were innocent — but too innocent, Sachs thought. ‘The senator’s guilty as sin,’ she said. ‘It’s code. You don’t text overseas to tell somebody about the best potato salad in Austin and ask at three in the morning when’s UT going to play Arkansas next.’

Time — and the evidence — would tell.

Spiro now walked into the room, cheroot in one hand, his own Louis L’Amour Western-in-progress in the other.

‘About our friends,’ he said. Referring to Charlotte McKenzie and Stefan Merck.

Now that they’d snagged Gianni and Hill, the case against the Composer was back on keel. That Hill had manipulated her — and her AIS — was irrelevant: Kidnapping is a crime.

And so is wrongful accusation.

Just ask Amanda Knox...

Both McKenzie and Stefan were presently in the lockup, too, in separate cells.

Massimo Rossi walked into the room. ‘Ah, ah, here you are. Don’t you say “y’all” in America.’

‘I don’t,’ replied Rhyme.

The inspector continued, ‘We have interviewed Fatima. She is being held downstairs. It is a complicated case, regarding her. She is accused — and clearly guilty — of terrorism and attempted murder. We cannot ignore that. There are mitigating factors, though. She planted the bomb in a way that it would have been very unlikely that someone would be hurt. And she had taken a job at the refugee camp hospital in part to obtain bandages and medical supplies to help anyone who was wounded in the explosion. They were in her backpack. She has cooperated in finding Signor Hill and Luigi Procopio, and offering information on Ibrahim, or Hassan, or whatever his name might really be. It’s clear that she — like Ali Maziq and Malik Dadi — was forced to do what Ibrahim wished, fearing for her family’s life back in Libya. Those will be important factors in the case against her and Maziq.’

He turned to Rhyme. ‘In Italy, if you haven’t already gathered, we have a more — come si dice? — a more holistic approach to justice. The magistrates and the juries take many things into account — not just in setting the punishment but in establishing guilt in the first place.’ He added, ‘One last remaining matter has been resolved. Garry Soames has been released, and Natalia Garelli formally charged for Frieda S.’s assault.’ He rubbed a finger across his mustache. ‘Natalia was quite astonishing. Her first question, upon hearing the formal charges, was what brand cosmetics were sold in prison and if she could get a cell with a makeup table and mirror.’

Ercole Benelli appeared in the doorway. Rhyme saw immediately that his face was troubled.

‘Sir?’

Both Rossi and Spiro looked his way, though it was clear he meant the inspector.

‘Sì, Ercole?’

‘I just... something is curious. Troublesome, that is to say.’

‘Che cosa?’

‘You recall, as you wanted, I took the evidence to the locker room, everything the Scientific Police and Detective Sachs and I collected regarding Fatima and Mike Hill and the incident at the Castel dell’Ovo — everything, of course, except the C4 explosive itself, which is at the army bomb facility. I asked that this evidence be filed with the Stefan Merck and Charlotte McKenzie evidence.’

‘That was right,’ Rossi said. ‘The cases are related, of course.’

‘But the administrator of the evidence room looked at the records and said there was no file for Stefan or Charlotte. No evidence had been logged in.’

‘Not logged in?’ Rossi asked. ‘But didn’t you do so?’

‘Yes, sir. Yes. Just as you asked. Everything from the bus stop, the camp, the aqueduct and underground, the farmhouse near the composting facility, the factory in Naples... all the scenes! Everything! I went directly there from here. But the administrator looked twice — and then, at my request, again.’ His miserable eyes zipped from Rossi’s to Spiro’s and settled on Rhyme’s. ‘Every bit of evidence in the Composer case. It has vanished.’

Chapter 69

Massimo Rossi strode to the landline telephone unit on a fiberboard table and placed a call, dialing three numbers. After a moment, he cocked his head and said, ‘Sono Rossi. Il caso di omicidio seriale? Stefan Merck e Charlotte McKenzie. Qual è il problema?’

He listened and his face grew troubled. After a moment, he looked toward Ercole. ‘Hai la ricevuta?’

Ercole fell into English. ‘The receipt? For the evidence, you mean?’

‘Sì. When you logged it in.’

The young officer was blushing furiously. ‘I received one just now — for the recent evidence. But earlier? No. I left everything at the Evidence Room intake desk. There was a man in the back — I didn’t see who. I called to him that I was dropping off evidence, along with the proper paperwork, and I left.’

Rossi stared at him, whispering, ‘Nessuna ricevuta?’

‘I... no. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

Rossi closed his eyes.

As a forensic scientist, Rhyme could think of no greater sin among law enforcers than being careless with — much less losing — the evidence in a case.

Another string of words into the phone, Rossi’s face growing more grim yet. He listened. ‘Grazie. Ciao, ciao.’ He disconnected, eyes on the floor, his expression one of incredulity. ‘It’s gone,’ he said. ‘Vanished.’

Rhyme snapped, ‘How?’

‘I do not understand. It’s never happened before.’

Sachs said, ‘CCTV?’

‘Not in the evidence room itself. It is not a public area. There’s no need.’

Spiro looked suspicious. ‘Charlotte McKenzie?’

Rossi considered. ‘Officer, you took the evidence there when I told you to.’

‘Immediately, sir.’

‘Charlotte was in custody by then. Stefan too. They could not have done it. Her associates — whoever they might be — might have been behind this. A theft from the Questura... that is something not even the Camorra would dare attempt. But American intelligence?’ He shrugged.

Rhyme said, ‘We need the evidence. We have to find it.’ Without that, the cases against McKenzie and Stefan could proceed only with witness statements and confessions... and he knew that everything McKenzie had told them about the Alternative Intelligence Service and the operation here she would deny. And Stefan, of course, would not dare to contradict his muse.

In a stumbling voice, Ercole said, ‘Inspector, sir... I am sorry. I...’ The voice faded to thick silence.

Rossi was looking out the window. He turned back. ‘Ercole, I must tell you that this is a problem. A serious one. It is of my making. I should have known that you were inexperienced, yet I asked you onto our operation.’

His long face crimson, Ercole was chewing his lip. He probably would have preferred a tongue lashing to this quiet regret.

‘I think it is best you report back to Forestry Corps now. I’ll send this matter to Rome. There will be an inquiry. You will be interviewed and make a statement.’

Ercole seemed far younger than his 30-some-odd years at the moment. He nodded and then his gaze dipped to the floor. He wasn’t completely to blame, Rhyme supposed, though he recalled Rossi saying that the officer should ‘log in’ the evidence, which suggested there would be a paper trail for the transfer.

Rhyme knew Ercole had hoped this assignment might be a springboard to a career with the Police of State.

And with this one incident, that chance was probably over.

Spiro asked him, ‘Ercole? The evidence against Mike Hill and Gianni? That receipt.’

He handed it to the prosecutor, who took it.

Ercole’s eyes were sweeping everyone in the room. ‘I have been honored to work with you. I have learned a great deal.’

His expression seemed to add the qualifier: But, it seems, I didn’t learn enough.

Sachs hugged him. He and Rhyme shook hands, then with a last glance at the evidence board, he nodded and left.

Rossi’s gaze followed the man’s receding figure. ‘A shame. He was smart. He took initiative. And, yes, I should have been more attentive. But, well, not everyone is made out to be a criminal officer. He is better off in Forestry. More to his nature, I would think, anyway.’

Tree cop...

Rossi said, ‘Mamma mia. La prova. The evidence...’ He asked Spiro, ‘Where do we go from here, Dante?’

Regarding the inspector for a moment, Spiro finally said, ‘I don’t see how we can proceed against Signorina McKenzie and Stefan. They will have to be released.’

Rossi said to Rhyme, ‘The case against Mike Hill and Procopio, however, will proceed. I know you wish to extradite Hill, at least, back to the United States for trial. But we cannot let you do that. Rome — and I — intend to try him and his associate here. I’m sorry, Lincoln. But there is no other way. Are you going to look for a lawyer from Wolf Tits now?’

The new friends were now opponents once again.

‘We have no choice, Dante.’

With a sad face, Spiro ran his cheroot beneath his nose. ‘Did you know that the emperor Tiberius, one of our more infamous forebears, had a luxurious villa not far from where we are just now? Perhaps more than most emperors, he loved gladiatorial contests.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I will paraphrase what he said at the beginning of each, when the warriors and spectators faced him: “Let the extradition games begin.”’

Chapter 70

‘You don’t trust us?’

Charlotte McKenzie was speaking to Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs outside police headquarters. Stefan stood beside her.

Two agents from the FBI’s Rome office were standing beside a black SUV, a man and woman, both in dark suits that must have been nearly unbearable; a heat wave had settled over Naples, as if Vesuvius had woken and spewed searing air over all of Campania.

Rhyme himself was sweating fiercely but, as with most other sensations, good and bad, he was largely immune. His temples tickled occasionally but Thom was always there to mop.

And remind. ‘Out of the sun soon,’ the aide said sternly. Extreme temperatures were not good for his system.

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

Sachs repeated to Charlotte McKenzie, ‘Trust you?’

‘No,’ Rhyme answered bluntly. They’d found no proof but he thought it likely that the AIS unit had somehow staged an op to steal the evidence against her and Stefan from the Questura evidence room and ditch it. He added, ‘But it wasn’t really our call. Your travel arrangements were made by Washington. You’ll be on a government jet to Rome, then onward to Washington, and agents’ll meet the flight. They’ll make sure that Stefan gets to his hospital. And you get to... wherever your mysterious headquarters is.’

‘A parking garage at Dulles will be fine.’

‘After that it’ll be up to the US attorney and the DA in New York to see where your new address’ll be.’

Though he knew there would be no charges brought for the Robert Ellis kidnapping, which was not, of course, a kidnapping at all.

Stefan was looking over the city, which here was filled with a cacophony of sounds. His attention was entirely elsewhere and his head bobbed from time to time and his lips moved once or twice. Rhyme wondered what Stefan was hearing. Was this, for him, like an art lover gazing at a painting? And, if so, was the experience a Jackson Pollock spatter or a carefully composed Monet landscape?

One man’s lullaby is another man’s scream.

A Flying Squad car pulled up and an officer climbed out, collecting two suitcases and a backpack from the trunk: McKenzie’s and Stefan’s belongings — from her place and from the farmhouse near the fertilizer operation, Rhyme supposed.

‘My computer?’ Stefan asked.

The officer said, in fair English, ‘It was with the items stolen from the file room. It is gone.’

Rhyme was watching McKenzie’s eyes. No reaction whatsoever at this reference to the theft of the evidence against them.

Stefan grimaced. ‘My files, the sounds I’ve collected here. All gone?’

McKenzie touched his arm. ‘Everything’s backed up, Stefan. Remember.’

‘Not Lilly. In the cemetery. Tap, tap, tap...’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

The officer said, ‘Arrivederci.’ His tone was not unfriendly. He returned to his car and sped off.

Stefan focused on those around him now and walked up to Rhyme. ‘I was thinking about you, sir. Last night.’

‘Yes?’

He smiled, genuine curiosity on his face. ‘With your disability, your condition, do you think you hear things better? Sort of like compensation, I mean.’

Rhyme said, ‘I’ve thought about that. I’m not aware of any experiments but, anecdotally, yes, I think I do. When someone walks into my town house I know them instantly from the sound, if I’ve heard them before. And, if not, I can tell height from the length of time between steps.’

‘The interval, yes. Very important. And sole of shoe and weight too.’

‘That might be beyond me,’ Rhyme said.

‘You could learn.’ Stefan offered a shy smile, stepped into the SUV and moved over to the far seat.

McKenzie began to climb in too, then turned to Rhyme. ‘We’re doing good things. We’re saving lives. And we’re doing that in a humane way.’

To Rhyme, this was as pointless a comment as could be.

He said nothing in reply. The SUV door closed and the vehicle eased away: Charlotte McKenzie to return to her world of theatrical espionage, Stefan to his new hospital, where — Rhyme hoped — he would find harmony in the music of the spheres.

Rhyme turned to Thom and Sachs. ‘Ah, look, across the street. It’s our coffee shop. And what does that mean? It’s time for a grappa.’

Chapter 71

At six that evening Lincoln Rhyme was in their suite at the Grand Hotel di Napoli.

His phone hummed. He debated and took the call.

Dante Spiro. He suggested they meet in an hour to discuss their gladiatorial contest, the extradition motion.

Rhyme agreed and the prosecutor gave them an address.

Thom fetched the van, plugged in the GPS and soon they were cruising through the countryside outside Naples — a route that took them, coincidentally, past the airport and the sprawling Capodichino refugee camp. At this time of night, twilight, the place exuded the ambience of a vast, medieval village, as it might have existed when Naples was its own kingdom in the fourteenth century (Ercole Benelli, Forestry officer and tour guide, had explained this). Perhaps the only differences were that now the flickers of light came not from smoky, sputtering fires but the many handheld screens, small and smaller, as the refugees texted or talked to friends, to family, to their overburdened lawyers, to the world. Or perhaps they were simply watching Tunisian or Libyan... or Italian soccer.

The place Spiro had chosen for the meeting was not a hotel conference room or even the prosecutor’s own villa. Their destination was a rustic restaurant, ancient but easily accessible for Rhyme’s chair. The owner and his wife, both stocky forty-somethings, both immensely cheerful, were honored to have esteemed American guests of this sort. That the fame was B list — not movie stars, not sports figures — did little to dim their excitement.

The husband shyly brought out an Italian-language edition of a book about Rhyme — detailing his hunt for a killer known as the Bone Collector.

That overblown thing?

‘Rhyme,’ Sachs admonished in his ear, noting his expression.

‘I’d be delighted,’ he said enthusiastically and did the autograph thing; his surgically enabled hand actually produced a better signature than his natural fingers had, before his accident.

Spiro, Sachs and Rhyme sat at a table before a massive stone fireplace — unlit at the moment — while the owners took Thom, the only cook among them, on a tour of the kitchen, which was not accessible.

A server, a lively young woman with flowing jet-black hair, greeted them. Spiro ordered wine: a full-bodied red, Taurasi, which he and Rhyme had. Sachs asked for a white and was given a Greco di Tufo.

When the glasses came, Spiro offered a toast, saying in a rather ominous tone, ‘To truth. And rooting it out.’

They sipped the wine. Rhyme was impressed and would tell Thom to remember the name of the red.

Spiro lit his cheroot — a violation of the law but then again he was Dante Spiro. ‘Now, let me explain what I have planned for our meeting this evening. We will conduct our business regarding the extradition and, if we are still speaking to one another, then dine. My wife will be joining us soon. And another guest too. The menu I think you will enjoy. This restaurant is unique. They raise or grow everything here, except for the fish — though the owner’s sons do catch it themselves. The place is completely self-sufficient. Even these wines come from their own vineyards. We will start with some salami and prosciutto. Our next course will be paccheri pasta. Made from durum flour. Hard flour. It is the best.’

‘Like the Campania mozzarella is the best,’ Sachs said, with a smile that was both wry and sincere.

‘Exactly like the cheese, Detective. The best in Italy. Now, accenting the pasta, the sauce will be ragù, of course. And then branzino fish, grilled with oil and rosemary and lemon only, and to accompany: zucchini, fried, and served with vinegar and mint. Finally, una insalata of incappucciata, a local lettuce that you will find heavenly. Dolce will be, as it must, sfogliatelle, the shell-shaped pastry that Naples gave to the world.’

‘Not for me,’ Rhyme said. ‘But perhaps grappa.’

‘Not perhaps. Definitely. And they have a fine selection here. We can try distillato too. Distilled wine. They have here my favorite, Capovilla. It is from Veneto, in the north. It is superb. But that will be for after the meal.’

The server refilled the wineglasses, as Spiro directed.

Sachs eyed the prosecutor warily.

He laughed. ‘No, I’m not trying to “liquor you down.”’

‘“Up,”’ she corrected.

Spiro said, ‘I must change that in my Western novel.’ He actually made a note, using his phone. He set it down and placed his hands flat on the table. ‘Now, obviously, we are opponents once again.’

Rhyme said, ‘When it comes to negotiation about legal issues, I have no say in the matter. I’m a civilian. A consultant. My Sachs here is an officer of the law. She’s the one who pitches the case to the powers that be in New York. And of course, there will be FBI agents involved, from the field office in Rome. US attorneys too, in the United States.’

‘Ah, a truly formidable army of legal minds I am up against, it seems. But let me state to you my position.’ His narrow, dark eyes aimed their way.

Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded, and he said, ‘You win.’

Spiro blinked. One of the few times since they’d met that he seemed surprised.

‘Our position is we’re going to recommend against extraditing Mike Hill back to the United States.’

Sachs shrugged. ‘He’s all yours.’

Spiro drew on his cheroot, blew smoke ceilingward. He said nothing, his face revealed nothing.

Rhyme said, ‘Hill is technically in violation of US laws, sure. But the kidnap victims weren’t US citizens. And, yes, he scammed a US intelligence agency but the AIS doesn’t exist, remember? Everything Charlotte McKenzie said was hypothetical. We wouldn’t get very far with that case.’

Sachs then said, ‘We can’t guarantee that someone in our Justice Department, back in the States, won’t want to pursue extradition. But my recommendation’s going to be against that.’

Spiro said, ‘And I suspect you carry some weight back there, Detective Sachs.’

Yep, she did.

‘Allora. Thank you, Captain, Detective. This man, Hill, I despise what he did. I want justice served.’ He smiled. ‘Such a cliché, no?’

‘Perhaps. But some clichés are like comfortable, well-worn shoes or sweaters. We need them.’ Rhyme lifted his wineglass toward the man. Then his face grew somber. ‘But, Dante, you’ll have a difficult time with the case. If you charge Hill and Gianni — Procopio — with the whole scheme, you’ll have no witnesses: The refugees’ memories are shot. And Charlotte and Stefan are out of the country. I’d recommend you simplify the case. You could—’

‘Charge them only with illegal importation of explosives,’ Spiro interrupted.

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes, I have been thinking this is what we must do. The Albanian airport worker will give evidence. We have the C4. Fatima Jabril can testify to that aspect of the plot. Hill and his accomplice will get a suitable sentence.’ A tip of his wine glass. ‘A sufficient justice. Sometimes that is the best we can do. And sometimes it is enough.’

This plan would also align with the Composer’s fate. News stories, based on accounts by a ‘reliable but anonymous’ source (surely Charlotte McKenzie or one of her associates at AIS) were leaked that the serial killer had fled Italy for parts unknown. The kidnapper, this individual stated, had been stymied by the Italian police and knew he was days away from being captured. Among the possible destinations were London, Spain, Brazil or, heading home, America.

Thom returned to the dining room, bearing a bag. ‘Pasta, cheese, spices. The chef insisted.’ He took his place at the table and asked for, and received, a glass of the white wine. At Rhyme’s request he took pictures of the labels.

A figure appeared in the doorway of the restaurant. And Rhyme was surprised to see Ercole Benelli approach.

The young officer, in his gray Forestry Corps uniform, had a matching expression.

Greetings all around.

‘Ah, Hercules,’ Spiro said, offering the English pronunciation. ‘The man of the twelve labors.’

‘Sir.’

The prosecutor gestured toward the table and caught the waitress’s eyes.

Ercole sat and took a glass of red wine. ‘Once again, Prosecutor Spiro, I must apologize for my error the other day. I know there were... conseguenze.’

‘Consequences. Oh, yes. Without the evidence there can be no case against the American spy and her psychotic musician. But I did not ask you here to berate you. I would not hesitate to do that, as you know, but not under these circumstances. Now, let me explain why you are here. I will say this up front, bluntly, for if you are going to make your way in the world of law enforcement, you cannot shy, like a colt, from the truth — unpainted?’ He looked at Rhyme and Sachs.

She said, ‘Unvarnished.’

‘Sì. You cannot shy from the unvarnished truth. And that truth is this: You have done nothing wrong. Even if the evidence against Stefan Merck and Charlotte McKenzie had been properly logged in, it would still have gone missing.’

‘No! Procuratore, è vero?’

‘Yes, sadly it is quite true.’

‘But how?’

‘I am sorry to have to tell you, and our guests here, that it was Inspector Massimo Rossi who arranged for the disappearance and destruction of the evidence.’

The young officer’s face was the epitome of shock. ‘Che cosa? No. That cannot be.’

Rhyme and Sachs shared a surprised look.

‘Yes, it is the case. He—’

‘But he was managing the case, he is a senior member—’

‘Forestry Officer.’ Spiro lowered his head toward the young officer.

‘Mi perdoni! Forgive me.’ He fell silent.

‘You have learned quite a bit about the nature of police investigation in the past few days.’ Spiro leaned back. ‘Forensics, tactical operations, body language, interrogation...’

A wry expression on his face, Ercole glanced toward Sachs and whispered, ‘High-speed pursuit.’ Then back to Spiro, who fixed him with a glare for interrupting again. He repeated, ‘Mi perdoni. Please continue, sir.’

‘But I think you have yet to master one other important, no, vital aspect of our profession. And that is the politics within law enforcement. Is this not true, Captain Rhyme?’

‘As certain as fingerprints are unique.’

Spiro said, ‘We have more police officers per capita than any other country in the European Union. More police forces too. So, logically, we have more law enforcement individuals to... what is the word in English, “game” the system.’

Rhyme said, ‘“Game” is a noun. I don’t accept it as a verb. But I will concede that many people use it. The Jargonites, I call them.’

Spiro chuckled. ‘Allora, but you understand my meaning. And do you, as well, Ercole?’

‘I believe I do, sir.’

‘Our colleague Signor Rossi has gamed the system. Though he is admittedly a most talented investigator and civil servant, he is somewhat more. He is active politically.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘It is not known to the public but he’s a member of the NN.’

Rhyme recalled: the Nuovo Nazionalismo. The right-wing anti-immigrant party. The one guilty of violence against refugees... and originally suspected by the team of setting up the fake terror attacks.

‘He is allied with a senior government official in Campania, Andrea Marcos, who also is a member of NN. Rossi uses his role as a police inspector to give himself credibility but in fact when the possibility arises he tries to further the goals of his brethren. Goals that I myself find unfortunate. No, reprehensible. Yes, the refugees are a burden. And some are risks, and we must be vigilant. But Italy is a country of so many different peoples: Etruscans and Germans and Albanians and Silesians and Greeks and Ottomans and North Africans and Slavs and Tyroleans. Why, we even have French here! There are northern Italians and southern and Sicilians and Sardinians. The United States is perhaps the greatest melting pan on earth but we are a mixed country, as well. We are also a nation with a heart, moved by the plight of families risking death to escape the madness of failed states.

‘Inspector Rossi believes — indeed believed from the moment he realized that this serial kidnapper might be targeting refugees — that the perpetrator was doing the right thing. Oh, Massimo did his job but in his heart he wished asylum-seekers to be punished. If the killer succeeded, word might get back that Italy was as dangerous as Libya and they might think twice about coming to our shores.’

‘The Burial Hour.’ Sachs said these words.

They looked her way, and she explained to them about a speech in Parliament, one that Rania Tasso, of the Capodichino refugee camp, had mentioned. An Italian politician had coined the phrase to refer to the belief that citizens were being suffocated by the waves of immigrants.

Spiro said, ‘Yes, I have heard that. The Burial Hour. Massimo Rossi felt that way, apparently.’

Ercole said to Spiro, ‘Inspector Rossi fought to take over the Ali Maziq case. At the bus stop, he tricked the Carabinieri so that he could retain control of the investigation and interfere with it. And he might have, sir, had you not been the prosecutor.’

Spiro tilted his head, acknowledging the comment. Then added, ‘And had our American friends not come here to assist.’ The prosecutor took a sip of wine and savored it. ‘Now, Ercole, I must deliver news more difficult than this. And that news is that Massimo Rossi invited you onto the case for the sole purpose of you being a scapegoat.’

‘L’ha fatto?’

‘Yes. He did. He wanted ways to limit or even dismiss the case, but he couldn’t do it himself. Nor did he want his protégé, that young officer... What is his name?’

‘Silvio De Carlo.’

‘Yes. He couldn’t have his protégé do so either. Silvio is destined for high places in the Police of State. Massimo wanted you, a Forestry officer, to take the blame for the case’s failure. So he assigned you to log the evidence in, arranged to have it stolen and pointed his finger at you.’

Ercole took a large sip of wine. ‘And now my name is on record as having ruined a major investigation. My chances of moving into regular policing are gone. Maybe even my career at the Forestry Corps is endangered.’

‘Ah, Ercole. Let us pause a minute here, may we? Think. Rossi has blamed you for a mistake, not a crime. Yet he himself has committed a crime by arranging for the disappearance of physical evidence. The last thing he wants is any further examination of the matter.’

‘Yes, that makes sense.’

‘So, true, within the Police of State, there will be no career opportunities for you.’

Ercole finished his wine and set the glass down. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s kind of you to tell me that I’m not, in fact, responsible for the destruction of the case. And to have the courage to break the news to me about the consequences to my career.’ He sighed. ‘So, buona notte. I will get home to my pigeons now.’ He extended his hand.

Spiro ignored it. He muttered, ‘Pigeons? Are you making a joke?’

‘No, sir. I am sorry. I—’

‘And did I say that our conversation is over?’

‘I... No. I’m...’ The stammering young man dropped to his seat again.

‘Now perhaps you will be silent and let me finish telling you why I have summoned you here. In addition to dining with our American friends, of course.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realize I was invited to dine.’

Spiro snapped, ‘Why would I ask you to a restaurant, one of the best in Campania, by the way, if not to have you join us?’

‘Of course. Very kind of you, sir.’

‘Allora. My comment is this: I have made some inquiries. It is largely unprecedented for a Forestry Corps officer, especially one as old as you, to transfer directly into the Carabinieri training program. But, of course, interoffice politics can have a positive side as well as a negative. I have called in favors and arranged for you to be accepted into the service and begin military and police training in one month.’

‘Carabinieri?’ Ercole whispered.

‘As I have just said. And as you have just heard. I was told that it has been a goal of yours for some time to join them.’

The young man was breathless. ‘Mamma mia! Procuratore Spiro, I don’t know what to say. Grazie tante!’ He took the prosecutor’s hand in both of his and Rhyme thought for a moment he was going to kiss the man’s fingers.

‘Enough!’ Then Spiro added, ‘One month should give you time to finish up any assignments that are pending at Forestry. I understand from speaking to your superior officer that your arrest of a particularly troublesome truffle counterfeiter was interrupted by the arrival of Il Compositore. I assume you wish to close that case.’

‘I do indeed.’ Ercole’s eyes narrowed.

‘One thing more I should add. The regulations of the Carabinieri have changed. You may know that in the past, officers were required to be assigned posts far from home. This was so that they might remain undistracted and do their job most efficiently. That is no longer the case. Accordingly, Beatrice Renza, of the Scientific Police, will not have to worry that her new boyfriend will be assigned some distance from Campania. You can be posted here.’

‘Beatrice? Oh, Procuratore, no, I... That is to say, yes, we had an aperitivo the other night at Castello’s Lounge. I walked her to her flat.’ A huge blush. ‘Yes, perhaps I stayed the night. And she will be attending my pigeon race tomorrow. But I do not know that there can be any future between us. She is an exceedingly difficult woman, even if she exhibits quite some intelligence and has a peculiar charm.’

His rambling — and red face — amused them all.

‘Not Daniela?’ Sachs asked. ‘I thought you were attracted to her.’

‘Daniela? Well, her beauty is quite clear. And she is very keen in her police skills. But, how can I say?’ He looked to Sachs. ‘You, as a lover of automobiles, will understand: The gears do not engage between us. Am I making sense?’

‘Perfectly,’ Sachs replied.

So, Rhyme had been wrong. It had been Beatrice who’d lit the fire in Ercole’s heart, challenging though she was. Well, Lincoln Rhyme himself would take challenge over slipped gears any day, however beautiful the automobile.

The restaurant door opened and a tall woman — with a fashion model’s figure and poise — stepped into the room, smiling to the table. She wore a dark-blue suit and carried an attaché case. Her dark hair was pulled back into a buoyant ponytail. Spiro rose. ‘Ah! Ecco mia moglie — my wife, Cecilia.’

The woman sat and Spiro signaled to the waitress for the meal to begin.