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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.

VIII

THE DRAGONFLY AND THE GARGOYLE

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28

CHAPTER 72

‘May have a problem.’

Thom was speaking over his shoulder to Rhyme and Sachs. He was peering through the front window of the accessible van as it approached the security entrance to the private aircraft portion of Naples airport.

Rhyme cricked his neck to the left – the wheelchair was fixed perpendicular to the direction of traffic – and noted the black SUV, pulling forward and blocking their way.

Behind it were uniformed guards – Italian officers – standing at lackadaisical attention at the gate but they had little interest in either vehicle. This was not their business.

Sachs sighed. ‘Who? Massimo Rossi?’

‘On what theory?’

Thom offered a potential answer. ‘He and Mike Hill share a certain bigoted philosophy? Brothers in arms?’

Hm. A reasonable theory.

Sachs nodded. ‘Possible, sure. Though I think Dante’s right and Rossi wants as little publicity as possible about the whole thing now. Besides, I wonder if vans like that are in the Police of State budget.’

They certainly weren’t in the NYPD’s.

But as the ominous vehicle bounced forward over the uneven asphalt, like a boat in chop, closing the distance, Rhyme could see the US diplo license tag.

So the odds of ending up in an Italian jail were minimized.

A US penitentiary?

Ahead of them, on the other side of the chain link, was their borrowed jet, waiting to hustle the three of them away. The aircraft, with stairs extended, was nearby, in terms of distance, and the phrase ‘making a run for it’ tipped into Rhyme’s mind. Though the wheelchair made that cliché technically impossible, and in any case it was an unlikely solution to the problem of avoiding arrest by the US authorities.

No, there was nothing to do but stop. And Rhyme told Thom to do so.

The aide eased to a halt, the brakes giving a triplet squeak.

After thirty seconds the SUV passenger door opened and Rhyme was surprised to see who climbed out. The diminutive man, face so very pale, sweat stains visible on his shirt under the gray suit, smiled amiably and held up a wait-a-minute finger; he was on his mobile. Rhyme looked to Sachs. She too was frowning. Then she recalled, ‘Daryl Mulbry. From the consulate.’

‘Ah. Right.’ The community and public relations liaison.

‘The door,’ Rhyme said.

Thom hit a button. With another squeak, not unlike that of the brakes, the door beside which Rhyme sat slid open.

‘The ramp?’ Thom asked.

‘No. I’m staying put. He can come to us.’

Mulbry disconnected the call and put his phone away. He walked to the van. Without waiting for an invitation he pulled himself up inside and sat directly in front of Rhyme.

‘Hey there,’ he said to them all, an amiable voice, the dusting of Southern accent upon both words, the second of which was pulled into two syllables.

Sachs asked, ‘Busy day for public relations?’

Mulbry smiled. ‘After that news story that the Composer vanished from the country, journalists have been pelting us with requests. Positively pelting.’

Rhyme said, ‘You wrote that story. You’re one of Charlotte McKenzie’s associates.’

‘Her boss, actually. I’m director of Alternative Intelligence Service.’

Ah, the New York actor. Yes, Rhyme could see him getting great notices for a character part. Probably stealing the show.

Rhyme asked, ‘Is anybody in your business who they seem to be?’

Mulbry laughed once more and wiped sweat.

‘One question?’ Rhyme asked.

‘Only one?’

‘For the moment. Ibrahim.’

Mulbry grimaced. ‘Ah, yes. Ibrahim. Aka Hassan, our “trusted” asset in Tripoli. Ibrahim’s real name is Abdel Rahman Sakizli. Freelancer. Mercenary. He’ll run ops for ISIS, he’ll run ops for the Lord’s Resistance Army, he’ll run ops for Mossad. He’s loyal to whoever pays him the most. Sadly, Hill had more money than we did, so Ibrahim chose to cheat on us.’ Mulbry clicked his tongue.

‘Where is he?’

A frown, but an exaggerated frown. ‘Good question. He seems to have disappeared.’

Rhyme chided, ‘And you, the kinder, gentler face of national security.’

‘’T’wasn’t us. Last we heard he was in the company of a couple of women who were charming and beautiful and, coincidentally, rumored to be members of the Italian external security agency. Now, Captain Rhyme—’

‘Lincoln really is fine. If you’re going to detain us at least use my first name.’

‘Detain?’ He seemed genuinely confused. ‘Why would we detain you?’

‘Because we handed Mike Hill over to Dante Spiro for trial here without a fight.’

‘Oh, that. We’ll let him float in the soup here for five to ten years. You knew we couldn’t bring a case on the terrorism charges. Since we don’t exist. Dante’ll get justice enough for both countries. Damn smart, charging Hill for the explosives only. You have a hand in that?’

Rhyme’s expression: Don’t know what you mean.

Mulbry continued, ‘As for his buddy, the senator from Texas?’

Sachs asked, ‘You’re aware of him?’

Mulbry settled for a sardonic smile. ‘Some folks in Washington’ll take him out to the woodshed on the QT. Y’all might appreciate this: I had a thought last night: Compared with Mike Hill, Stefan Merck was the saner of the two. More interesting too. I’ll tell you, I’d have a beer with that fellow. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering, what exactly am I doing here?’

The interior of the van was hot and getting hotter, with the full-on sun taxing the lethargic AC. Mulbry dried his brow yet again. ‘Want to hear a story? You know that years ago CIA technical services tried to build a fake dragonfly? It’s in the museum at Langley. It’s quite something. A work of art. Equipped with an early miniature video camera, an audio system, a flight mechanism that was revolutionary for the time. And guess what? It didn’t work worth squat. The least headwind would send it all over the landscape. But a few years later, the inspiration behind those dragonflies gave us drones. S’all about refinement. Story of life.

‘Now, you could say that the AIS is an attempt to build a dragonfly. The Composer project would have worked pretty well. Except for one thing.’

‘A headwind.’

‘Exactly! And that’d be you and Detective Sachs. I’ll say – this isn’t flattery – not many people could have figured out the story we’d put together, the musical kidnapper and all.’