The Burial Hour

by Jeffery Deaver

  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 number, 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 U.S. 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 U.S. 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 U.S. 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.'"

  "Si."

  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 opp
oses 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--"

  "Upper lip." He nodded. "Three times."

  Rania was looking about her, her quick gray eyes reflecting both bright sun and her heart's dismay. "Please be careful. Look."

  Sachs saw what the woman indicated: In a vacant area next to the tent a half-dozen women sat on impromptu seats like tires and railway ties and water cartons, holding babies. Other children--from ages two to ten, or so--ran and laughed, lost in their improvised games.

  "Clear the area as best you can. Quietly."

  Rania nodded to Antonio and he reached for his radio.

  "No," Sachs said fast. "And turn the volume off."

  Both he and Rania silenced their units and gestured to other security people. The officers did their best to shepherd people away from the tent. As soon as the officers moved on, though, the empty space filled with the curious.

  Sachs glanced at them. Well within stray bullet range.

  Nothing to do about it.

  She asked Rania about the layout of the interior of the tent. The woman replied from memory: clothes neatly folded in cardboard boxes against the right wall, a dining area to the left. Prayer rugs rolled and put away. Three beds--one for the adults, one for their daughter, and a spare. Separated by sheet-like dividers.

  Hell, good cover.

  And the daughter, Muna, had a number of toys given to the family by volunteers. Rania remembered them scattered on the floor. "Be careful not to trip."

  "Suitcases or trunks that someone might hide behind?"

  Rania gave a sad laugh. "Plastic bags and backpacks are the only luggage these people bring with them."

  Sachs touched Ercole's arm and he looked down into her eyes. She was pleased to see his own were confident, balanced. He was ready. She whispered, "You go right."

  "Destra, yes."

  Drawing her pistol, Sachs held her left index finger up in the air then pointed it forward. He too drew his Beretta and then she gestured to the door and, with a nod, pushed inside, moving very quickly.

  Khaled Jabril gasped and dropped his glass of tea, which bounced on the Tyvek floor, scattering the steaming contents everywhere. Sachs stepped over the toys--and the boxes they had come in--and quickly swept aside the divider. He was the only occupant.

  Khaled recognized Sachs, of course, but he was still groggy and disoriented from the drugs. "Aiiii. What is this?"

  Sachs motioned Rania inside, then said to Khaled, "Your wife. Where is she?"

  "I don't know. What is going on here? Is she all right?"

  "Where did she go? And when?"

  "Please tell me! I'm frightened."

  It was clear he hadn't known about his wife's mission when he'd been interrogated, though Fatima might have explained later. But, after Sachs gave him a synopsis of Ibrahim and Gianni's plan of using her as an apparent terrorist, it was clear he was taken completely aback.

  His initial response was a gasp of horror. But then he was nodding. "Yes, yes, she has not been herself. She has not been acting in a normal manner. Someone forced her to do this!"

  "Yes, probably." Sachs crouched across from him and said in a firm tone, "Still she's going to hurt people, Khaled. Help us. We need to find her. Is she in the camp?"

  "No. She left an hour ago. She was going to be buying some things for Muna. At the shop here in the camp or maybe at one of the vendors outside. I don't know if she said more. She might have. After my incident, after what happened to me, my mind is very, you would say, uncertain. Confused."

  "Does she have her phone?"

  "I suppose she does."

  "Give me the number."

  He did and Charlotte McKenzie, listening over speaker, said, "Got it. I'll send it to Fort Meade, see if they can track it."

  Sachs asked the refugee, "Do you remember if she'd met with anyone recently? Did anyone give her anything?"

  He frowned. "Perhaps...Let me think." He actually tapped his forehead. "Yes. She got a package. It was tea from her family."

  Rania's stern but pretty face tightened in a grimace. "Yes, I remember."

  He pointed to a locker. "I think she put it in there."

 
Ercole opened the lid and handed Sachs a brown cardboard carton.

  Sachs held the box to her nose.

  A sigh.

  "This too," Ercole said. He'd found plastic wrapping for a cheap mobile phone, but not the label that gave the phone's number or details of the SIM card; Fatima had taken that with her.

  Pulling on her headset, she speed-dialed a number.

  "What?" came the abrupt response. "We've been waiting."

  "She's not here, Rhyme. And she got a delivery: C4, maybe Semtex. Like the others, looks like a half kilo. And another phone. For the detonator."

  Mobile phones had supplanted timers and radios as the most popular way to set off explosive devices.

  "A bomb? Are we the target here?" Rania asked Sachs in a grim voice.

  Those in the Questura had heard and, after a brief discussion, Rhyme answered, "No, very unlikely. The whole point of the plot is to sabotage the immigration legislation in Parliament. That means Italian citizens have to be hurt, not refugees."

  Khaled found his own mobile and asked, "Should I call her? Try to talk her out of this madness?"

  Rhyme and Spiro, she could hear, were debating this.

  But McKenzie came on the line. "Never mind. Meade says it's dead. They'll keep monitoring but I'll bet she tossed it." Then the woman said, "Wait. They've got something." There was a pause and Sachs could hear computer keyboard clatter. "This could be good. The NSA bot just logged a call to the coffeehouse in Tripoli from a burner mobile in Naples that was just activated this morning. It's still live."

  "Gianni?" Sachs asked.

  Rossi said, "If we are lucky. Where is it?"

  McKenzie called out longitude and latitude, and a moment later, after some keyboarding, the police inspector said, "At the Royal Palace. Downtown Naples. I'm sending a team there now."

  Chapter 61

  Luigi Procopio, for this job known also as "Gianni," was presently leaning against his car parked on the edge of the plaza in front of the Royal Palace of Naples, the massive and impressive structure that had once been home to the Bourbon kings, when they were rulers of the Two Kingdoms of Sicily, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Procopio loved his Italian history.

  Procopio came from the Catanzaro district of Calabria, a region south of Campania.