The Burial Hour

by Jeffery Deaver

  Capodichino Reception Center Kidnapping

  --Victim: --Khaled Jabril, Libyan citizen, 36. Asylum-seeker. Tripoli.

  --Eurodac: No criminal/terrorist connection.

  --Tire print Michelin 205/55R16 91H, same as at other scenes.

  --Perpetrator's shoe recovered in struggle. --Converse Con, Size 101/2 (m)/13 (f)/45 (European) --Minimum wear.

  --No fingerprints, but evidence of latex glove prints present.

  --DNA evidence collected. --Matches Composer's.

  --Gamma hydroxybutyric acid.

  --Triacylglycerols, free fatty acids, glycerol, sterols, phosphatides, dark-green pigment. Microscopic fragments of what appears to be organic material.

  --Miniature noose, from musical instrument string, as at other scenes. --Cello.

  --No fingerprints.

  --No DNA.

  --Trace collected from clothing of Fatima Jabril. --Soil from Capodichino area.

  --Nothing else distinctive.

  "No fingerprints on his shoe?" Rhyme muttered. "What the hell does he do? Wear gloves in his sleep?" Then, frowning. "That entry: the gamma hydroxybutyric. The hell is that doing there?"

  Spiro said, "Yes, how can that be?"

  Ercole had a conversation with Beatrice. He said, "It was recovered from soil in the tread of the Composer's shoe."

  "Impossible. It's not from this case. It's from the Garry Soames case. That's the date-rape drug. There's been cross-contamination. Hell."

  Rossi now explained this to Beatrice, who replied in an even tone, not in the least defensive. The inspector said, "She says she too was surprised to find the drug on the shoe. She was very careful with the evidence. There was no contamination in the lab. Garry Soames's clothing was processed in a different part of the lab and by a different examiner."

  All eyes were now on Ercole. Spiro said, "You picked it up, Forestry Officer. And you collected the drug trace at Garry Soames' apartment."

  "Yes. And I wore gloves. Then and now. And the shoes were in a sealed evidence bag."

  "Still, there is obvious contamination."

  "If I am responsible for this, then I'm sorry. But I do not believe I am."

  Beatrice turned her round, stony face his way.

  Rhyme saw the dismay in the young man's eyes. Lesson delivered. "It's not the end of the world, Ercole. The problem will be at trial. A defense lawyer could get the evidence from the shoe thrown out on those grounds. But we can ignore it for the moment. Our goal is to find him. The contamination'll be the U.S. attorney's problem at trial in the Southern District."

  Spiro chuckled. "You mean, Lincoln, it will be my problem in the Tribunale di Napoli."

  Rhyme shot him a wry look.

  The Wolf Tits Rule...

  Reading again, Rhyme said, "Now, those triacylglycerols, free fatty acids, pigment."

  Ercole said, "Beatrice has provided a chemical chart here. Should we write that down?"

  Rhyme glanced at the molecular diagram. "No, not necessary. We've got what we need. Triacylglycerols--or triglycerides."

  "What are they?" Spiro asked.

  "Fat basically. They're energy reserves for living things. Molecules that contain glycol and three fatty acid chains. Hence, tri-glyceride. They're found in both plants and animals. But animal fats tend to be saturated."

  "What does that mean?" Rossi made this inquiry.

  "In a nutshell, saturated fats--the bad ones, if you listen to the health-minded--are so named because their carbon chains are saturated with hydrogen. This makes them more solid than unsaturated fats, which have less hydrogen." He nodded at the diagram. "These are missing some hydrogen and therefore it is a plant fat."

  "But what kind?" Ercole asked.

  "The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question."

  "The...what? I am not understanding," Beatrice said.

  "American cultural reference from a long time ago, fifty, sixty years or so."

  The officer translated for Beatrice, who gave a rare smile and said something, which Ercole translated: "She said that is not so 'long ago,' compared with cultural references in Italy."

  Sachs laughed.

  Rhyme said, "We need to find out what plant. Is there a database of plants in the Scientific Police?"

  Beatrice's response was that there was one in Rome. She would go online and search it. She typed and spoke to herself as she did so. "Allora. A triglyceride molecule, unsaturated, una hydrocarbon chain, twenty-two carbon atoms in way of length. Dark green, the pigment. What plant, what plant...?" Finally she nodded. "Bene. I have gotten it. But helpful, I am not thinking so much. It is olive oil."

  Rhyme sighed, then glanced at Rossi. "How much olive oil would you say is produced in Italy?"

  The inspector, in turn, handed off to Ercole. This would be, of course, his area of expertise. The young officer answered, "About four hundred and fifty thousand tons every year. We're the world's second-largest producer." He grimaced and added defensively, "But we are closing in on Spain."

  How helpful is this? Rhyme thought, irritated. It could have come from anywhere in the country. "Hell."

  This was the most frustrating occurrence in forensic work, struggling to discover a clue, only to learn that while it probably did have some connection with the perpetrator, the substance was so common that it was useless forensically.

  Then Ercole said something to Beatrice and she stepped away, returning a moment later with some photographs.

  He studied them carefully.

  "What, Ercole, you see something?" Rhyme asked.

  "I believe I do, Capitano."

  "And?"

  "The reference on the chart--to the organic material. Bits of solids. Look at the photo."

  Rhyme glanced at the images. He could see hundreds of tiny dark fragments.

  Ercole added, "Since we now know about the olive oil, I would say that this trace is not olive oil alone. It is pomace. That is the paste left over after the pressing of the olives."

  Spiro said, "So this might have come not from a restaurant or someone's home but from a producer?"

  "Yes."

  Narrowing things down some. But how much? He asked, "Do you have a lot of producers here?"

  "In Campania, our region, we don't have as many as in Calabria, farther south. But still many, many, yes."

  Rhyme: "Then why is this helpful? And why do I see a goddamn smile on your face?"

  Ercole asked, "Are you so often in an unpleasant mood, Captain Rhyme?"

  "I'll be considerably more cheerful if you answer my question."

  "I am smiling because of the one thing I do not see in this picture?"

  Rhyme lifted an impatient eyebrow.

  "I do not see any residue of olive stones--the pits, you know."

  Sachs asked, "Why is that important?"

  "There are two ways to make olive oil. To crush the fruit with the pits intact or to destone them first. Cato, the Roman writer, felt that denocciolato oils--destoned before pressing--were superior. Some swear by this, others say no. I am familiar with the subject because I have, in fact, fined producers for claiming their oil is denocciolato when it is not."

  "And," Rhyme said, not exactly smiling himself, but close, "it is a much more time-consuming and expensive process and therefore fewer producers use that technique."

  "Exactly," Ercole said. "I would think there are only a few in the area that do so."

  "No," Beatrice said, head down as she viewed her computer. "Not 'few.' Solo uno." She stabbed a blunt finger onto the map of Naples, indicating a spot no more than ten miles away. "Ecco!"

  Chapter 48

  Through the dirty windshield, Amelia Sachs looked over the hilly fields outside Naples.

  The afternoon air was dusty, filled with the scent of early autumn. Hot too, of course. Always hot here.

  She and Ercole were driving past hundreds of acres of olive trees, about eight to ten feet high. They were untidy, branches tangled. On the nearest, she could see the tiny green ol
ives--fruit, Ercole said they were called.

  They were not having much luck in the hunt for the Composer.

  The Police of State and the Carabinieri had divided up the fields around the Barbera olive oil factory--the only one making oil from destoned olives--in their search for Khaled Jabril and the Composer. This was the sector Sachs and Ercole had drawn. As they had approached down a long road, she was discouraged to see...well, very little. This area, northeast of Naples, was largely deserted. Farmhouses, small companies--generally construction and warehousing--and fields.

  They stopped at the few residences scattered around the Barbera factory. And they learned that, no, a man resembling the Composer was not inside. No, a man resembling Khaled Jabril was not inside, either. And neither of them had been seen recently. Or ever.

  Ci dispiace...

  Sorry.

  Back into the car.

  Soon Sachs and Ercole were bounding along a badly kept road. Now there were no businesses or residences at all, just the acres and acres of Barbera company olives.

  "Dead end," Ercole said.

  "Call the other teams," Sachs said, distracted. She swatted lazily at a bee that had zipped into the Megane. "See if they've had any success."

  But after three conversations, Ercole reported unsurprisingly that none of the other search parties had found anything helpful. And he confirmed that the Postal Police were carefully monitoring social media and streaming sites. But: "He has not uploaded the video yet."

  So Jabril was still alive. Probably.

  They returned to the road.

  "Hm." Sachs was frowning as she looked over the fields.

  "Yes, Detective? Amelia?"

  "The paste in the Composer's shoe? The olive oil residue. You call it what again?"

  "The word is 'pomace.'" He spelled it.

  "Is it thrown out after the oil is extracted?"

  "No, no, it's valuable. It can be used for fuel in producing electricity. But around here it is mostly used to make organic fertilizer."

  "Then he might not have picked it up at the Barbera oil operation."

  He gazed at her with a look of concern. "In fact, he would not pick it up here. This factory would be careful not to spill or waste any. They would package it and sell it. Now that I am thinking: Most likely the Composer would have picked it up on his shoes at an organic fertilizer farm. Not here."

  "And do you know where one of those farms might be?"

  "Ah, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. And the answer is, yes, I do."

  In twenty minutes they were deep in the countryside, near a town called Caiazzo, surrounded by pale wheat crops glimmering in the hazy sun.

  Sachs was racing along the highway that would take them to Venturi Fertilizzanti Organici, SpA. She pushed the tiny car up to 120 kph, thinking: Oh, what I could do on this road with a Ferrari or Maserati...She downshifted and took a turn at close to forty. The skid was not remarkable; the volume of Ercole Benelli's "Mio Dio" was.

  A glance at the GPS map told her they were approaching the turnoff road and she slowed and veered onto it.

  Five minutes later: "Look there." Ercole pointed.

  The operation was small: what appeared to be an office structure and several warehouses or processing plants, then fields containing ridges of dark material, about fifty yards long and three feet high. "There. Those are the composting piles?"

  "Yes."

  She braked to a stop.

  "Look, that one at the end is on top of a slope. With any rain the pomace could run down to the property in the valley. Is there a house there, can you see?"

  Ercole could not.

  Sachs drove to the end of the fertilizer company's property. They discovered a small road that skirted the place. It was dirt. She started down it slowly.

  "There!" Ercole called.

  Ahead of them, set back a hundred feet from the road, was a structure just barely visible through the weeds, shrubs and oak, myrtles, pine and juniper trees

  Sachs kept the car in third gear to make sure the transmission was quiet. She tricked the clutch constantly to keep from stalling.

  Finally, near the driveway that led to the house, she pulled off the road into a stand of bushes and killed the engine.

  "I don't think I can get out." Ercole was trying the door--the blockade of vegetation prevented its opening.

  "Need to stay as much out of sight as we can. Climb out my side."

  Sachs got out and he joined her, awkwardly surmounting the gearshift.

  Ercole pointed down at their feet. "That's pomace." Indicating a dark grainy substance. She could definitely smell the pungent scent of fertilizer in the making.

  He asked, "Should we call Inspector Rossi?"

  "Yes, but just have him send a half-dozen officers. There's still a chance he's somewhere else."

  As he called she looked toward the house. It appeared quite old, a farmhouse, of wood and uneven brick construction. The place wasn't small. She motioned to him and they started down the long driveway, sticking to the shadows of the trees along the side.

  When Ercole had disconnected, she said, "Let's move fast. He hasn't uploaded his video yet but I don't think Signor Khaled has much time."

  Through brush, over fallen trees, they moved steadily toward the building. Insects streaked toward them, mosquitoes and gnats. Not far away a dove exhaled its breathy call, mournful, comforting and eerie. The smells were of smoke and something pungent, perhaps the decaying olive oil fertilizer.

  They followed the driveway to the left, where the unattached garage was located. The home was even bigger than it had appeared from the road, a rambling structure of several buildings, connected by windowless hallways.

  "Gothic," she whispered.

  "Like Gotico? Spooky? Stephen King."

  She nodded.

  The garage was locked and there were no windows. It was impossible to tell if anyone was inside.

  "What do we do now?"

  "Do you know Peeping Toms, in Italy?"

  "Yes, yes. We know the term. From a movie, many years ago, that was popular here." He gave a harsh laugh. "And curious. The movie is about a serial killer who films his victims. The English title is Peeping Tom."

  "Well, we're going to peep." She drew her weapon. She turned to Ercole to tell him to do the same but saw that he already had. They circled the house and began looking, quickly, through the few curtainless windows. At first it didn't seem like anyone lived here but then she caught a glimpse of clothing in a pile. Some empty soda cans.

  Was there a light on? In a distant room? Or was the illumination from the sun falling through a slit in a curtain?

  Sachs saw inside a large wooden door that, she believed, led down to a cellar. It was closed. Could Khaled be down there now?

  Stephen King...

  They had nearly completed the circuit of the house. One window remained. It was to the left of the front door. The curtain was partially askew so she lifted her head quickly and glanced inside.

  Well.

  The room was unoccupied but there was plenty to seize her attention. Above the fireplace was a hunting rifle. She couldn't be sure, but it might very well have been a .270-caliber.

  And sitting prominently in the middle of a table were a half-dozen musical-instrument strings. One had been tied into a noose.

  Chapter 49

  Khaled Jabril woke to fear, pure fear.

  He found himself in a dim room that was damp and fetid with mold and rotting food smells. Perhaps sewage too.

  Where, where?

  God, praise be to Him, where am I?

  Nothing made sense. He had no memory of the past...well, how long? An hour, a week? No memory at all. A vague recollection of being in a tent. It was--yes, it was under the sun. Hot sun. A tent, his home. Why was he in a tent? Had something happened to his home in Tripoli?

  No, their home.

  He and others. Someone...Yes! His wife! He could now picture her. Ah: Fatima! He remembered th
e name, praise be to God! And their child.

  And she--he believed the child was a girl--was named...He could not recall, and this made him want to cry.

  So cry he did.

  Yes, yes, she was a girl. A beautiful curly-haired daughter.

  Although was she, the girl he pictured, in fact, their daughter? She might have been his brother's. Then another thought came to him. Italy. He was in...in Italy.

  Wasn't that right?

  But where was he now? Here? He'd been in a tent. That he was pretty sure about, though for what reason, he had no idea. A tent, then nothing, then he was in this place. That was all he could recall. His memory was so bad--the result of some drug? Or had he been suffocating, his brain cells dead? Maybe. His throat hurt. And his head too. Dizzy.

  A dark room. Cold.

  A basement, he believed.

  Who had done this? Why?

  And why was his mouth gagged, sealed with tape?

  Something brushed his bare feet and he screamed, loud to him, soft to the world, because of the gag.

  A rat! Yes, there were several of them. Skittering, twitchy.

  Were they going to devour him alive?

  Oh, my God, praise be to You!

  Save me!

  But the half-dozen--no, dozen, no, more!--creatures passed him by on their way toward the wall to his right. They weren't interested in him.

  Not yet.

  All right. What is happening here? Hands bound, feet bound. Kidnapped. Gagged. But why on earth? Why would God--praise be to Him--allow this? Now more pieces of memory returned--though none recent. Recalling being a teacher in Tripoli until education in Libya became so fraught that his secular school was closed. Then he managed an electronics store, until the economy in Libya became so fragile that the shop was looted.

  Only his wife's salary as a nurse was left to support them.

  And life grew even worse. No dinars, no food, the spread of the fundamentalists, ISIS and Daesh, taking over Derna, Sirte and other cities and towns, like an infection. Were they behind his kidnapping? Those men would certainly abduct and torture. Khaled and his family were moderate Sunnis, and believed in secular government. Yet he'd never vocally opposed the extremists. How could the mullahs and generals of ISIS even know he existed?

  And the Libyan government?

  Well, governments, plural. There was the House of Representatives, in Tobruk, along with the Libyan National Army. And then there was the rival General National Congress, based in Tripoli, whose questionable claim was enforced by the Libya Dawn militia. Yes, Khaled favored the House of Representatives but did so discreetly.