第 42 页

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.

Gianni (cover name)

• Believed to be in Naples area.

• Associate of Ibrahim, who is presently believed to be in Libya, mastermind of terror plots in Vienna and Milan.

• White, though dark-complexioned.

• Italian.

• Described as ‘surly.’

• Large build.

• No known distinguishings.

• Curly dark hair.

• Smoker.

• Knowledge of and access to explosives.

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.

CONFERENCE SEEKS TO ADDRESS REFUGEE CRISIS

ROME – An emergency conference on the flood of refugees from the Middle East and northern Africa is under way here, with representatives of more than 20 countries present.

Humanitarian issues top the agenda, with sessions detailing the plight of the asylum-seekers, who risk death on the high seas and mistreatment at the hands of human smugglers who abandon, rob and rape those desperate to escape from war zones, poverty, drought, religious extremism and political oppression.

The crisis has reached such proportions that countries that up until now have resisted taking any significant number of asylum-seekers are considering doing so. Japan and Canada, for instance, are entertaining measures to increase the quota for refugees considerably, and the United States – traditionally resistant to the idea – has a controversial bill before Congress that will authorize the immediate intake of 100 times the number of refugees now allowed into the country. Italy’s parliament too is considering measures relaxing deportation laws and making it easier for refugees to attain asylum. Right-wing movements in Italy, and elsewhere, have vocally – and sometimes violently – opposed such measures.

‘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—’