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A voice intruded on her troubled thoughts.

‘There is something I would like to do. Please.’

Rania turned to the woman, who had spoken in Arabic. The director scanned the pretty face, the deep-brown eyes, the faint hint of makeup on the light-mocha skin. The name …? Ah, yes, Fatima. Fatima Jabril. Behind her was her husband. His name, Rania recalled, was Khaled. The couple whose intake she herself had processed just the other day.

In the husband’s arms lay their sleeping daughter, whose name she’d forgotten. Fatima apparently noted the director’s frown.

‘This is Muna.’

‘Yes, that’s right – a lovely name.’ The child’s round face was surrounded by a mass of glossy black curls.

Fatima continued, ‘Earlier, I was outspoken. The journey was very difficult. I apologize.’ She glanced back at her husband, who had apparently encouraged her to say this.

‘No, it’s not necessary.’

Fatima continued, ‘We have asked and have been told that you are the director of the camp.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I come to you with a question. In Tripoli I worked in health care. I was a midwife and served as a nurse during the Liberation.’

She would be talking, of course, about the fall of Qaddafi and the months afterward, when the peace and stability, so long anticipated and so bravely fought for, had vanished like water in hot sand.

‘Liberation’ – what a mockery.

‘I would like to help here in the camp. So many people, pregnant women, about to give birth. And sick too. The burns.’

Sunburn, she meant. Yes, a week on the Mediterranean with no protection took a terrible toll – especially on young skin. And there were other diseases too. The camp’s sanitation was as good as it could be, but many refugees were racked with illness.

‘I would appreciate that. I will introduce you to the medical center director. What are your languages?’

‘Other than Arabic, some English. My husband.’ She nodded to Khaled, who gave an amiable smile. ‘He is good with English. We are teaching Muna both languages. And I am learning Italian. An hour a day at the school here.’

Rania nearly smiled – the girl was only two, and bilingual instruction seemed a bit premature. But Fatima’s eyes were hard and her mouth taut. The director plainly saw that the woman’s determination to help, and to be granted asylum and assimilate, was not a matter for humor.

‘We have no way to pay you. No funds.’

Fatima said quickly, ‘I don’t wish to be paid. I wish to help.’

‘Thank you.’

The refugees were mixed when it came to generosity. Some – like Fatima – volunteered selflessly. Others remained reclusive and a few were resentful that more was not being done for them or that the asylum-seeking process took so long.

Rania was telling Fatima about the medical center facilities when she happened to look through the fence and saw something that gave her pause.

Outside, amid the hundreds of those milling about – reporters, family members and friends of the refugees – a man stood by himself. He was in the shadows, so she had no clear image of him. But it was obvious he was staring in her direction. The thickset man wore a cap, the sort American sports figures wore, a cap you didn’t see much in Italy, where heads went mostly uncovered. His eyes were obscured with aviator sunglasses. There was something troubling about his pose.

Rania knew she had incurred the anger of many people for her devotion to these poor people. Refugees were hugely unpopular among certain segments of the population in the host countries. But he was not standing with the protesters. No, his attention – which seemed focused on Rania herself – appeared to be about something else entirely.

Rania said goodbye to Fatima and Khaled and pointed to the medical facility. As the family walked away, Rania pulled her radio off her hip and summoned the head of security – a Police of State captain – to meet her fifty meters south of the main gate.

Tomas radioed back immediately saying he was coming.

He arrived just two or three minutes later. ‘A problem?’

‘A man outside the fence. Something odd about him.’

‘Where?’

‘He was by the magnolia.’

She pointed but the view was blocked by yet another refugee bus crawling along the road.

When it passed, and the view was clear once again, she could see the man no more. Rania scanned the road and fields bordering the camp but found no trace.

‘Do you want me to call a team together?’

She debated.

A voice from the office called, ‘Rania, Rania! The shipment of plasma. They can’t find it. Jacques needs to talk to you. Jacques from the Red Cross.’

Another scan of the roadway. Nothing.

‘No, don’t bother. Thank you, Tomas.’

She swiveled about, to return to her office and cope with yet another cascade of crises.

Endless …

CHAPTER 28

‘Don’t really want it to deflect us too much from the Composer, do we now, Sachs? But it’s a curious case. An intriguing case.’

Rhyme, referring to the Garry Soames matter.

She gave a wry laugh. ‘A landmine of a case.’

‘Ah, because of Dante Spiro? We’ll be careful.’

They were in their secondary situation room: the café across the street from the Questura. Sachs, Rhyme and Thom. Rhyme had tried to order a grappa but Thom, damn it, had preempted him with sparkling water and coffee for everyone. How was he going to acquire a taste for the liquor if he was denied access?

In fairness, however, the cappuccino was good.

‘Ah, here we go.’

Rhyme noted the lanky figure of Ercole Benelli stride from the police headquarters toward the café. He spotted the Americans, crossed the street, stepped past the Cinzano barrier and sat down on a rickety aluminum chair.

‘Hello,’ he said formally, the tone revealing his curiosity. The young officer was, of course, wondering why Sachs had called and asked to meet out here.

Rhyme asked, ‘Has Beatrice found any prints on the plant leaves or any trace from the Composer’s surveillance outside the restaurant near D’Abruzzo?’

Ercole grimaced. ‘The woman is quite insopportabile. You say, intolerable?’

‘Yes, or insufferable.’

‘Sì, insufferable is better! I asked her several times of her progress and she glared at me. And I wished to know if you can fingerprint the bark of a tree. An innocent question. Her expression, frightening. As if saying, “Of course you can! What fool doesn’t know that?” And can she not smile? How difficult is that?’

Lincoln Rhyme was not one to turn to for sympathy in matters like this. ‘And?’ he asked impatiently.

‘No, nothing, I’m afraid. Not yet. She and her assistants are working hard, however. I will give her that.’

Ercole ordered something from the waitress and a moment later an orange juice appeared.

Rhyme said, ‘Well, we have another situation we need help with.’

‘You have more developments about our musical kidnapper?’

‘No. This is a different case.’

‘Different?’

On the small table before them Sachs was spreading out documents: copies of the crime scene reports and interviews regarding the rape Garry Soames was accused of, provided by the lawyer he and his family had retained.

‘We need translations of these reports, Ercole.’

He looked them over, shuffled through them. ‘How does this connect to the Composer?’

‘It doesn’t. Like I said, it’s another case.’

‘Another …?’ The officer chewed his lip. He read more carefully. ‘Yes, yes, the American student. This is not one of Massimo Rossi’s cases. It’s being run by Ispettore Laura Martelli.’ He nodded at the Questura.

Rhyme said nothing more and Sachs added, ‘We’ve been asked by a State Department official to review the evidence. The defendant’s lawyer’s convinced the boy is innocent.’

Ercole sipped his orange juice, which – like most non-coffee beverages in Italy, Rhyme had observed – had been served without ice. And Coca-Cola always came with lemon. The Forestry officer said, ‘Oh, but, no. I cannot do this. I am sorry.’ As if they’d missed something blatantly obvious. ‘You do not see. This would be un conflitto d’interesse. A—’

Rhyme said, ‘Not really.’

‘No. How is that possible?’

‘It would be, no, it might be a conflict of interest if you were working for the Police of State directly. But you are, technically, still a Forestry officer, isn’t that right?’

‘Signor Rhyme, Capitano Rhyme, that is not a defense that will be very persuasive at my trial. Or will stop Prosecutor Spiro from beating me half to death if he finds out. Wait … who is the procuratore?’ He flipped through the pages. And closed his eyes. ‘Mamma mia! Spiro is the prosecutor. No, no, no. I cannot do this! If he finds out, he will beat me fully to death!’

‘You’re exaggerating,’ Rhyme reassured, though he admitted to himself that Dante Spiro seemed fully capable of a blow or two.

Difficult, vindictive, cold as ice …

‘Besides, we’re simply asking you to translate. We could hire someone but it will take too long. We want to look over the evidence quickly, give our assessment and get back to the Composer. There’s no reason for Dante to find out.’

Sachs added, ‘This is very likely a case of an innocent American student in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.’

He muttered, ‘Ah, we had a case like that a few years ago. In Perugia. It did not go well for anybody.’

Rhyme nodded to the file. ‘And the evidence may very well prove Soames is guilty. In which case we will have done the prosecution and the government a service. At no charge.’

Sachs: ‘Please. Just translation. What’s the harm in that?’

With a resigned look on his face, Ercole pulled the papers forward and, with a glance around, as if Spiro were hiding in the shadows nearby, began to read.

Rhyme said, ‘Make a chart, a mini chart.’

Sachs dug into her computer bag and pulled out a yellow legal pad. She uncapped a fine-pointed marker and looked toward Ercole. ‘You dictate and I’ll write.’

‘I am still an accessory to a crime,’ he whispered.

Rhyme only smiled.

Garry Soames Investigation – Sexual Assault

• Location of attack.

Via Carlo Cattaneo, 18, top floor apartment (of Natalia Garelli) and roof (party Victim attended).

Via Carlo Cattaneo, 20, roof (site of attack).

• Examination of Victim. Frieda S.

She had experienced minor vaginal bleeding from forceful penetration.

Garry’s DNA on her neck and cheek. Sweat or saliva, not semen.

Within Victim’s vagina:

Cyclomethicone, polydimethylsiloxane (PDMS), silicone, dimethicone copolyol, and tocopheryl acetate (vitamin E acetate). Silicone-based lubricant. Probably from Comfort-Sure condoms. No match with condoms in Garry’s apartment or on person when arrested.

Unidentified DNA from single source in vagina (sweat or saliva, not semen – from attacker applying condom to penis, most likely). No match in Europol, Interpol or CODIS (US), Italian databases. Samples taken from 14 of 29 men present at party reveal no match. Presently scheduling additional tests. Samples will be taken from Victim’s prior sexual partners.

In Victim’s blood, traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid, similar to Rohypnol, a date-rape drug.

• No condom discovered.

Thorough search of neighborhood, trash containers and sewers, five-block radius.

• Location of Implicating Evidence: Garry’s apartment, bedroom.

Jacket worn to party.

Contains small traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.

Victim’s hair. Head hair, not pubic.

Victim’s DNA, saliva.

Additional items of clothing: shirts, underwear, socks.

Contain small traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.

• Two wineglasses on ledge, near the scene of the rape.

Garry’s DNA on both glasses.

Frieda’s DNA on one. Residue contained traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.

• Crime Scene: Roof of Via Carlo Cattaneo, 20 (Next door to Garelli’s).

Pebbles on roof disturbed, where Victim was assaulted.

Hair of Victim.

Saliva of Victim.

No other evidence found.

• Roof deck of Natalia Garelli’s flat (the smoking station).

Five wineglasses.

No trace of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.

Eight prints, no hits on any national or international databases.

No DNA hits in any national or international databases.

Two butts of marijuana cigarettes, burned down to 8mm stubs.

No DNA hits in any national or international databases.

Seven small plates, traces of food, sweets.

Thirteen prints; two match hostess of party; no hits on any national or international databases.

No DNA hits in any national or international databases.

Wine bottle on deck table near party.

Pinot Nero.

No trace of gamma hydroxybutyric acid in remaining wine.

Six fingerprints – hostess of party and two female guests, Natalia’s boyfriend, Dev Nath.

No DNA hits in any national or international databases.

27 cigarette butts in ashtray and on deck.

Four prints matched hostess of party and her boyfriend.

16 other prints at smoking station. One positive, individual arrested on drug charge six months ago, Puglia. Said individual had left party before the assault.

♦ No other hits in any national or international databases.

No DNA hits in any national or international databases.

When she had finished writing, they looked the pad over. Rhyme reflected: Solid work. He would have liked to have samples of the trace from the deck or roof area where the smoking station was located, and from the site of the attack itself. But this was good for starters.

Sachs glanced at the remaining pages of notes in Italian Ercole was staring at, the official report. ‘Go on,’ she insisted kindly. ‘Please. I want to hear the accounts.’

Ercole apparently hoped he’d be let off the hook by simply translating the forensics. Reciting the witnesses’ and suspect’s statements seemed perhaps, in the young officer’s mind, to move his crime into a different category, misdemeanor to felony.

Reading, he said, ‘Natalia Garelli, twenty-one, attends the University of Naples. She hosted a party in her flat for fellow students and friends. The victim, Frieda S., arrived at ten p.m. Alone. She remembered drinking and talking with some people – mostly Natalia or her boyfriend – but was a bit shy. She too is a student, just arrived from Holland. She vaguely recalls around eleven or midnight the defendant approaching her and talking. They both had glasses of wine at the table where they were sitting – this is downstairs – and Garry kept refilling her glass. Then they embraced and … limonarono … I do not know.’

‘Made out?’ Sachs suggested.

‘Sì. Made out.’ He read more. ‘It was crowded so they went to the roof. Then Frieda has no memory until four in the morning, waking on the roof of the adjacent building and realizing she’d been assaulted. She was still quite drugged but managed to get to the wall separating the two rooftops. She climbed over, fell and was calling for help. Natalia, the hostess, heard her cries and got her downstairs into the apartment. Natalia’s boyfriend, Dev, called the police.