第 48 页

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 …’