She spoke more words.
Oh, he didn't like that sound at all.
Rania typed some data into the computer. She wrote some information--in Arabic--on a three-by-five card and handed it to Fatima, who then asked some questions. She was frowning. It was almost as if she, here by the grace of the country, were interviewing Rania about her intentions and worth.
The director answered patiently.
Fatima began to speak again, but her husband, Khaled, spoke softly to her--he had quite the pleasant baritone. Fatima fell silent and nodded. She said something else, which Stefan took to be words of apology.
Then the exchange was over and, clutching a backpack, two large plastic bags and their child, the couple vanished into the camp, directed down a long row to the back of the place.
Suddenly, and surprisingly, music swelled. Middle Eastern music. The sound came from the front of one of the tents, where a clutch of young men had set up a CD player. The music of the Arab world was curious. Not thematic, not narrative, it lacked the familiar timings and progressions of the West. This was like a tone poem, repetitious but in its own way pleasing. Seductive. Almost sensual.
If Ali Maziq's gasps provided the beat for Stefan's waltz, this music would be the buzz and hum of the body.
In any event, the music calmed him and stubbed out a budding Black Scream. The flow of sweat seemed to lessen.
Fatima paused in mid-step and aimed her beautiful but witchy face toward the cluster of young men. She frowned and spoke to them--in her sizzling voice.
Looking awkward, one shut the radio off.
So, not only did she cackle when she spoke, but she disliked music.
Euterpe would not like her.
And it was never wise to incur the anger of a muse. You thought they were charming, you thought they were delicate creatures who lived quietly in the sequestered world of art and culture, lounging about on Olympus. But they were, of course, the daughters of Olympus's most powerful and ruthless god.
Friday, September 24
IV
The Land of No Hope
Chapter 24
Amelia Sachs was downstairs in the lobby of the hotel where they were staying, the Grand Hotel di Napoli.
Quite the place. The design was, she believed it was called, rococo. Gold-and-red wallpaper, flecked velvet, elaborate armoires, glass-fronted, filled with ceramics and silver and gold and ivory artifacts like ink wells, fans and key fobs. On the walls were paintings of Vesuvius--some depicting eruptions and some not. The artist might have applied brush to canvas on this very spot; looking east and south, one could see the sullen, dusky-brown pyramid. It seemed gentle, not the least imposing or ominous--but then, Sachs reflected, wasn't that the case with many killers?
Also on the walls of the Grand Hotel were photos of the famous, presumably guests or diners: Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, Faye Dunaway, Jimmy Carter, Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni, Harrison Ford, Madonna, Johnny Depp, and dozens of others, actors, musicians and politicians. Sachs recognized perhaps half of them.
"Breakfast, Signorina?" The clerk behind the desk was smiling.
"No, grazie." She was still on U.S. time, which meant her body was clocking in about 2 a.m. Besides, she'd stuck her head into the breakfast room, to get a glass of orange juice, and been overwhelmed by the spread. There was enough food for an entire day's calories. She wouldn't know where to begin.
At exactly nine, Ercole Benelli pulled up in front of the hotel. Via Partenope was largely pedestrian but no one stopped the lanky man, dressed in his gray uniform, even if his vehicle was the well-worn baby-blue Megane, missing any insignia, except for a bumper sticker with a silhouette of a bird on it. Curious.
She stepped outside into the heat and was rewarded with a spectacular view of the bay and, directly in front of the hotel, a castle, no less.
Ercole started to get out, keys in hand, but she waved him back into the driver's seat, and a look of relief spread over his face. No need for Formula One driving today.
She was amused to see a tube of Dramamine sitting in the cup holder. It had not been there yesterday.
Sachs took off her black jacket, revealing a beige blouse, tucked into black jeans, and dropped the Beretta into her shoulder bag, which she set on the floor.
They belted in. Ercole signaled--though his was the only car on the road--and steered into the crowded, chaotic streets of Naples.
"The hotel, she is nice?"
"Yes, very."
"It is quite famous. You saw the people who have stayed there?"
"Yes. It's a landmark, I assume. Nineteenth century?"
"Oh, no, no. There are certainly old buildings here--as you and I know from the ruins where Ali Maziq was held. But many of the wood and stone structures on the surface were destroyed."
"The war?"
"Yes, yes. Naples was the most bombed Italian city in World War Two. Maybe in all of Europe. I do not know that. More than two hundred air strikes. You understand, one thing I am worried about: You know I do not expect you to be my translator."
"That was a bit odd."
"Yes, yes. I know the area well. I know the countryside outside of Naples like my hand's back. And I know there are no Arab-speaking communities there. But, you see, I think this is an important possibility of a lead."
"Lincoln and I do too."
"But I am not up to the task. I don't know the questions to ask and the places to look. But you do. This is your specialty. And so I needed you."
"You played Spiro."
"Played?"
"Tricked."
His long face tightened. "I suppose I did. Someone, another officer, told me Spiro needs to be flattered and his opinions, however wrong, must be respected. That is what I did. Or I tried to do. I am not used to such games."
"It worked out. Thank you."
"Yes."
"Just as well. I only know a few Arabic phrases--like the one I answered Dante with. And then: 'Can I see some ID?' and 'Drop the weapon, hands in the air.'"
"Let us hope we don't need the last one of those."
They drove for ten minutes in silence. The landscape grew from densely urban to a mix of factories and warehouses and residences, then finally to farmland and small villages dusty and dull in the hazy autumn sun. Ercole piloted the car with great care. Sachs was making every effort to avoid even the appearance of impatience. The Megane hovered just under the limit of ninety kph, about sixty mph. They were regularly being passed by cars--and even trucks--going much faster. One driver--in a Mini Cooper--seemed to be going twice their speed.
They passed a sprawling farm, which, for some reason, took Ercole's attention.
"Ah, look there. I will have to come back to that place."
She glanced to the left, where he was gesturing--with both hands. She'd noted that this seemed to be an Italian habit. However fast the ride, however congested the roads, drivers seemed unable to grip the wheel with both hands--sometimes not even with one--when having a conversation.
Sachs studied the farm. Pigs, she noted, were the most populous animals in the spread he was indicating, a rambling two acres of low buildings and a lot of mud. A powerful, disgusting smell swept into the car.
She noted Ercole was genuinely troubled.
"Part of my job is to monitor the condition of farm animals. And from a rapid glance it appears to me that those swine are kept in poor quarters."
To Sachs, they were pigs in mud.
"The farmer will have to improve their situation. Proper drainage and sewage. Healthy for the people, of course, and better for the animals. They have souls too. I firmly believe this."
They drove through the town of D'Abruzzo--Ercole explained that this was not to be confused with Abruzzo, a region of Italy east of Rome. She wasn't sure why he thought she'd make the mistake but thanked him anyway. They then continued into the rolling farmland and fallow ground where the Postal Police had reported that Ali Maziq's phone had been used.
Sachs had a map, on which was a large circled area, encompassing six small towns or clusters of stores, cafes, restaurants and bars where Maziq and his colleague might have met. She held it up for him. He nodded and pointed out one. "We're closest to there. In twenty minutes."
They drove along the two-lane road. Ercole spoke about any topics that came to mind: His pigeons, which he kept for no reason other than that he liked the cooing sound they made and the thrill of racing them. (Ah, the bumper sticker now made sense.) His modest apartment in a pleasant part of Naples, his family--two siblings, older brother and younger, both of whom were married--and his nephews, in particular. He talked reverently about his mother and father; they'd both passed away.
"Allora, may I ask? You and Capitano Rhyme, you will be married soon?"
"Yes."
"That is nice. When, do you think?"
"It was going to be within the next couple of weeks. Until the Composer. That delayed things."
Sachs told Ercole that Rhyme had been talking about Greenland for their honeymoon.
"That is true? Odd. I have seen pictures of the place. It is somewhat barren. I would recommend Italy. We have Cinque Terre, Positano--not so very far from here. Florence. Piemonte, Lago di Como. Courmayeur is where I would be married. It is where Monte Bianco is located, near the border, north. Ah, so beautiful."
"Are you seeing anyone?"
She had observed the admiring looks he'd shot toward Daniela Canton, and she wondered if they'd known each other before the Composer case. She seemed smart, if a bit serious; she certainly was gorgeous.
"No, no, not at the moment. It is one regret. That my mother did not see me married."
"You're young."
He shrugged. "I have other interests at the moment."
Ercole then launched into a discussion of his career and his desire to get into the Police of State or, even better, the Carabinieri. She asked the difference, and it seemed the latter was a military police organization, though it had jurisdiction over civil crimes, as well. Then there was the Financial Police, which covered crimes involving immigration as well as financial irregularities. This didn't appeal to him. He wanted to be a street cop, an investigator.
"Like you," he said, blushing and smiling.
It was clear that he saw the Composer case as an entry into that world.
He asked her too about policing in New York City, and she told him about her career--from fashion model to NYPD. And about her father, a beat patrol officer all his life.
"Ah, like father like daughter!" Ercole's eyes shone.
"Yes."
Soon they came to the first village on the list and began canvassing. It was a slow process. They would go into a restaurant or bar, approach the server or owner and Ercole would flash a picture of Maziq and ask if they had seen him on Wednesday night. The first time this happened, a lengthy and intense conversation ensued. Sachs took this as a good sign, thinking that the person he was speaking to had provided a lead.
As they returned to the car, she asked, "So he saw Maziq?"
"Who, the waiter? No, no, no."
"What were you talking about?"
"The government is desiring to build a new road nearby and that will improve business. He was saying that sales have been down lately. Even with the depressed price of gasoline, people don't seem to be taking trips out into the countryside because the old road can get washed out, even in a small rainstorm. And--"
"Ercole, we really should move along."
He closed his eyes briefly and nodded. "Oh. Yes, of course." Then he smiled. "In Italy, we enjoy our conversations."
Over the next two hours they hit eighteen establishments. The results were negative.
Just after noon they finished interviewing people in one small town and marked it off the list. Ercole looked at his watch. "I would say, we will have lunch."
She looked around the small intersection. "I could use a sandwich, sure."
"Un panino, si. Possibly."
"Where can we get one to go? Coffee too."
"To go?"
"To take with us."
He seemed confused. "We...Well, we do not do that in Italy. Not in Campania, at least. No, nowhere that I know of in Italy. We will sit down. It won't take long." He nodded to a restaurant whose owner they had just interviewed. "That is good?"
"Looks fine to me."
They sat outside at a table covered by a vinyl sheet that depicted miniature Eiffel Towers, though French food did not appear on the menu.
"We should start with mozzarella. That's what Naples is known for--pizza, too. We invented it. Whatever they say in Brooklyn."
She blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"An article I read. A restaurant in Brooklyn in New York claimed to have created pizza."
"Where I live."
"No!" He was delighted to learn this. "Well, I bring no offense."
"None taken."
He ordered for them. Yes, fresh mozzarella to start and then pasta with ragu. He had a glass of red wine and she got an Americano coffee, which the waitress thought curious--apparently it was a beverage intended for after the meal.
Before the cheese, though, an antipasto plate, which they hadn't ordered, appeared, meats sliced microscopically thin and sausages. Bread too. And the drinks.
She ate a bite of the meat, then more. Salty and explosive with flavor. A moment later the mozzarella cheese came--not slices but a ball the size of a navel orange. One for each of them. She stared. "You eat it all?"
Ercole, already halfway through his, laughed at the nonsensical question. She ate some--it was the best she'd ever had, and she said so--and then pushed the plate away.
"You don't care for it, after all?"
"Ercole, it's too much. I usually have coffee and a half bagel for lunch."
"To go." He shook his head, winking. "That is unhealthy for you." His eyes glowed. "Ah, here, the pasta." Two plates arrived. "This is ziti, which we're famous for in Campania. It is made from our hard flour, but the very finely milled variety, semolina rimacinata. Topped with local ragu. The pasta is broken by hand before cooking. The gnocchi here would be good too--it's how we get around our Campanian disdain for potatoes--but that's a heavy dish for lunch."
"You must cook," Sachs said.
"Me?" He seemed amused. "No, no, no. But everyone in Campania knows food. You just...you just do."
The sauce was rich and dense and dressed with just a bit of meat cooked down to tenderness. And there wasn't too much; it didn't overwhelm the pasta, which had a richness and flavor of its own.
They ate in silence for a few moments.
Sachs asked, "What else do you do in...what's your organization called?"
"In English you would say Corps of Forestry of the State. CFS. We do many things. There are thousands of us officers. Fight forest fires--though I myself do not do that. We have a large fleet of aircraft. Helicopters, too, for rescues of climbers and skiers. Agricultural product regulation. Italy takes its food and wine very seriously. You know truffles?"
"The chocolates, sure."
A pause, as he processed her response. "Ah, no, no, no. Truffles, fungi. Mushrooms."
"Oh, right, the ones pigs hunt for."
"Dogs are better. There's a special breed that's used. They are very expensive and prized for their fine noses. I've run several cases of Lagotti Romagnolo kidnappings by truffle hunters."
"Must be tough. I mean, without a paw print database."
He laughed. "They say humor does not cross borders but that is quite funny. And, as a serious matter, it's a shame there is no such thing. Some owners put chips in their dogs, microchips, though I've heard that's not always safe."
He proceeded to explain about how white truffles from the north of Italy and black from central and south were extremely valuable, though the former more so. A single truffle could be worth a thousand euros.
He continued to tell her a story about his search for a local truffle counterfeiter, passing off Chinese
varieties for Italian. "A travesty!" The Composer case had derailed his hunt. A grimace. "The furfante...the villain escaped. Six months of work gone." He scowled and finished his wine in a single gulp.
He received a text, read it, then replied.
Sachs lifted an eyebrow.
"Ah, not about the case. My friend. The pigeons I mentioned, he and I race them together. There is a race soon. Do you know anything about birds, Detective Sachs?"
"Amelia."
The only ones she had experience with were the generations of peregrine falcons that had nested outside Lincoln Rhyme's Central Park West town house. They were beautiful, striking and perhaps the most efficient and ruthless predator, pound for pound, in the world.
And their favorite meal was the fat, oblivious pigeons of New York City.
She said, "No, Ercole. Not a thing."
"I have Racing Homers. Mine compete at fifty to a hundred kilometers." A nod to the phone. "My friend and I have a team. It can be quite exciting. Very competitive. Some people complain that the pigeons are at risk. There are hawks, bad weather, man-made obstacles. But I would rather be a pigeon on a mission than one that sits all day on a statue of Garibaldi."
She chuckled. "That'd be my choice too."
Pigeon on a mission...
They'd taken a long-enough break. Sachs called for the check. He absolutely refused to let her pay.
They resumed their own mission.
And, curiously, the delay for lunch--the delicious lunch--paid off.
At the next town, they stopped at a restaurant in which the server had just come on duty; had they not taken their meal in the previous town they would have missed her. The waitress in Ristorante San Giancarlo was a slim blonde, with her grandmother's flip hairstyle and very up-to-date tats. She looked at the picture Sachs proffered of Ali Maziq and she nodded. Ercole translated: "The man in the picture was dining with a man who was Italian, though not from Campania, she believes. She herself is Serbian so she couldn't place the accent but it was not like the people in this region talk."
"Did she know him? Had she seen him before?"
"No," she said to Sachs, and spoke some more in Italian.
Ercole explained, telling Sachs that Maziq seemed uncomfortable the whole meal, looking around. The men spoke English but would fall silent when she approached. Maziq's companion--she didn't think they were friends--was "not so very nice." The big man, with a dark complexion and thick dark hair, complained that his soup was cold. Which it was not. And said the bill was wrong. Which it was not. His dark suit was dusty and he smoked foul cigarettes, not caring who was offended.
The Burial Hour Page 15