The Burial Hour

by Jeffery Deaver

  Pretty funny actually.

  "Allora!" Spiro called. "Enough! Leave the sheets! Stand and keep your hands raised. Yes, yes, turn around." In Italian he spoke to the woman, apparently repeating the command.

  His boyish face blazing, hair askew, Mike Hill, the American businessman whose private jet had shepherded Sachs to Milan the other day, did as ordered. He glanced once at Michelangelo's pistol, then at Sachs and apparently decided to keep his hands raised and not cover his conspicuous groin. The woman with him did the same.

  One officer had gone through their clothes. He said, "Nessun arma."

  Spiro nodded and the officer handed the garments to the couple.

  As he dressed, Hill snapped, "I want an attorney. Now. And make sure it's one who speaks English."

  Chapter 68

  The suspects were in jail.

  Il Carcere di Napoli.

  Michael Hill was in a holding cell, awaiting the arrival of his "ball-breaking" attorney, who would show them a thing or two about criminal law.

  Rhyme and Sachs were in the Questura situation room, receiving updates from a number of sources.

  Hill's wife had arrived at the jail at the same time as the prostitute in the pensione was being released. The teenager had received a legal warning. Spiro had reported that "the businessman's spouse's expression, I will say, was a bit like that of fans witnessing a car crash at an auto race. Horrified, yes, but modulated with a certain hint of glee. I suspect the divorce settlement will be impressionante."

  Mike Hill's arrest had come about quickly, after Sachs's speculation that the infamous Gianni might, in fact, be the American businessman's chauffeur, name of Luigi Procopio.

  What had brought the man to the forefront of suspects was a series of recollections by Sachs as she had stared over Naples Bay not long ago, following Fatima's arrest.

  Beatrice had found volcanic soil trace in the warehouse. Which meant someone from Naples had likely been in the warehouse recently. The forensic scientist had also discovered the grease there, the sort used in heavy, outdoor equipment. The Albanian who provided the explosives was a mechanic at Malpensa airport, working on such equipment. He had probably met the person who'd traveled from Naples at the warehouse to deliver the explosives.

  Who had a connection with both Malpensa and Naples? Mike Hill. Since he knew about the traffic from the airport to downtown Milan, he had obviously been there before--and on the private plane tarmac, where explosives could have been transferred out of sight of Customs and security.

  Hill himself probably wouldn't deal with bombs or paying Albanian smugglers. But his driver might. Luigi--a smoker, clean-shaven, long dark hair, swarthy complexion. And he was a man who traveled a great deal, as Fatima had told them, often driving.

  Had it been coincidence that Hill just happened to call Consulate General Musgrave, mentioning that his private plane was headed north, so Sachs could hitch a ride to Milan? Of course not. Hill, Gianni and Ibrahim would have known all about Rhyme's and Sachs's presence here and would have bugged either their phones or hotel room, learning that they had a lead to Milan. Concerned about the progress of the investigation, Hill had immediately contacted the consulate general and let it be known that he had a plane ready to go...so he could keep an eye on the investigators.

  Hardly certain, it was, nonetheless, a reasonable theory worth exploring.

  To find out, Sachs sent Luigi's picture to her snitch, Alberto Allegro Pronti, the homeless Don Quixote of a Communist in Milan. Ercole translating, Pronti verified that Luigi Procopio was the man who had thrown him out of the warehouse.

  Ercole had smiled as he'd listened to the man's words. He said to Sachs, "Alberto asks if the cat-kicker will go to jail." He turned back to the phone. "Si certamente."

  Luigi had surrendered to Michelangelo's second tactical team in the parking lot behind the pensione, where he'd been smoking and texting, as he waited for his boss to finish his liaison with the local call girl.

  Dante Spiro had been particularly pleased to nab Procopio. Not only was he instrumental in Hill's plot to implicate refugees in the fake terror attacks, but he was an international member of the 'Ndrangheta. Spiro explained that Flying Squad officer Daniela Canton, who specialized in gang work, had learned days ago of some 'Ndrangheta operative active in the area. She'd learned nothing more about it. Now the source of the intelligence was clear.

  Mike Hill's involvement changed the entire focus of the plot. It was not an Italian official or member of a right-wing party, like the Nuovo Nazionalismo, who was the mastermind of the fake terrorist plot; it was an American.

  Mike Hill's plan had the purpose they'd originally speculated--though not to derail Italian immigration reform. It was to sway public opinion in the United States and turn lawmakers against the pro-refugee bill in Congress, offering "proof" that terrorists were hiding among immigrants like tainted pieces in a bag of candy.

  Hill was not in Naples by coincidence. He'd come here to oversee his operation and make sure that it succeeded. There remained the question as to whether Hill himself was the sole mastermind. His phone records revealed texts to and from a Texas senator, Herbert Station, a staunch opponent of the immigration bill and a nationalist in his own right. The texts were innocent--but too innocent, Sachs thought. "The senator's guilty as sin," she said. "It's code. You don't text overseas to tell somebody about the best potato salad in Austin and ask at three in the morning when's UT going to play Arkansas next."

  Time--and the evidence--would tell.

  Spiro now walked into the room, cheroot in one hand, his own Louis L'Amour Western-in-progress in the other.

  "About our friends," he said. Referring to Charlotte McKenzie and Stefan Merck.

  Now that they'd snagged Gianni and Hill, the case against the Composer was back on keel. That Hill had manipulated her--and her AIS--was irrelevant: Kidnapping is a crime.

  And so is wrongful accusation.

  Just ask Amanda Knox...

  Both McKenzie and Stefan were presently in the lockup, too, in separate cells.

  Massimo Rossi walked into the room. "Ah, ah, here you are. Don't you say 'y'all' in America?"

  "I don't," replied Rhyme.

  The inspector continued, "We have interviewed Fatima. She is being held downstairs. It is a complicated case, regarding her. She is accused--and clearly guilty--of terrorism and attempted murder. We cannot ignore that. There are mitigating factors, though. She planted the bomb in a way that it would have been very unlikely that someone would be hurt. And she had taken a job at the refugee camp hospital in part to obtain bandages and medical supplies to help anyone who was wounded in the explosion. They were in her backpack. She has cooperated in finding Signor Hill and Luigi Procopio, and offering information on Ibrahim, or Hassan, or whatever his name might really be. It's clear that she--like Ali Maziq and Malik Dadi--was forced to do what Ibrahim wished, fearing for her family's life back in Libya. Those will be important factors in the case against her and Maziq."

  He turned to Rhyme. "In Italy, if you haven't already gathered, we have a more--come si dice?--a more holistic approach to justice. The magistrates and the juries take many things into account--not just in setting the punishment but in establishing guilt in the first place." He added, "One last remaining matter has been resolved. Garry Soames has been released, and Natalia Garelli formally charged for Frieda S.'s assault." He rubbed a finger across his mustache. "Natalia was quite astonishing. Her first question, upon hearing the formal charges, was what brand cosmetics were sold in prison and if she could get a cell with a makeup table and mirror."

  Ercole Benelli appeared in the doorway. Rhyme saw immediately that his face was troubled.

  "Sir?"

  Both Rossi and Spiro looked his way, though it was clear he meant the inspector.

  "Si, Ercole?"

  "I just...something is curious. Troublesome, that is to say."

  "Che cosa?"

  "You recall, as you wanted, I took th
e evidence to the locker room, everything the Scientific Police and Detective Sachs and I collected regarding Fatima and Mike Hill and the incident at the Castel dell'Ovo--everything, of course, except the C4 explosive itself, which is at the army bomb facility. I asked that this evidence be filed with the Stefan Merck and Charlotte McKenzie evidence."

  "That was right," Rossi said. "The cases are related, of course."

  "But the administrator of the evidence room looked at the records and said there was no file for Stefan or Charlotte. No evidence had been logged in."

  "Not logged in?" Rossi asked. "But didn't you do so?"

  "Yes, sir. Yes. Just as you asked. Everything from the bus stop, the camp, the aqueduct and underground, the farmhouse near the composting facility, the factory in Naples...all the scenes! Everything! I went directly there from here. But the administrator looked twice--and then, at my request, again." His miserable eyes zipped from Rossi's to Spiro's and settled on Rhyme's. "Every bit of evidence in the Composer case. It has vanished."

  Chapter 69

  Massimo Rossi strode to the landline telephone unit on a fiberboard table and placed a call, dialing three numbers. After a moment, he cocked his head and said, "Sono Rossi. Il caso del Compositore? Stefan Merck e Charlotte McKenzie. Qual e il problema?"

  He listened and his face grew troubled. After a moment, he looked toward Ercole. "Hai la ricevuta?"

  Ercole fell into English. "The receipt? For the evidence, you mean?"

  "Si. When you logged it in."

  The young officer was blushing furiously. "I received one just now--for the recent evidence. But earlier? No. I left everything at the Evidence Room intake desk. There was a man in the back--I didn't see who. I called to him that I was dropping off evidence, along with the proper paperwork, and I left."

  Rossi stared at him, whispering, "Nessuna ricevuta?"

  "I...no. I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  Rossi closed his eyes.

  As a forensic scientist, Rhyme could think of no greater sin among law enforcers than being careless with--much less losing--the evidence in a case.

  Another string of words into the phone, Rossi's face growing more grim yet. He listened. "Grazie. Ciao, ciao." He disconnected, eyes on the floor, his expression one of incredulity. "It's gone," he said. "Vanished."

  Rhyme snapped, "How?"

  "I do not understand. It's never happened before."

  Sachs said, "CCTV?"

  "Not in the evidence room itself. It is not a public area. There's no need."

  Spiro looked suspicious. "Charlotte McKenzie?"

  Rossi considered. "Officer, you took the evidence there when I told you to."

  "Immediately, sir."

  "Charlotte was in custody by then. Stefan too. They could not have done it. Her associates--whoever they might be--might have been behind this. A theft from the Questura...that is something not even the Camorra would dare attempt. But American intelligence?" He shrugged.

  Rhyme said, "We need the evidence. We have to find it." Without that, the cases against McKenzie and Stefan could proceed only with witness statements and confessions...and he knew that everything McKenzie had told them about the Alternative Intelligence Service and the operation here she would deny. And Stefan, of course, would not dare to contradict his muse.

  In a stumbling voice, Ercole said, "Inspector, sir...I am sorry. I..." The voice faded to thick silence.

  Rossi was looking out the window. He turned back. "Ercole, I must tell you that this is a problem. A serious one. It is of my making. I should have known that you were inexperienced, yet I asked you onto our operation."

  His long face crimson, Ercole was chewing his lip. He probably would have preferred a tongue-lashing to this quiet regret.

  "I think it is best you report back to Forestry Corps now. I'll send this matter to Rome. There will be an inquiry. You will be interviewed and make a statement."

  Ercole seemed far younger than his thirty-some-odd years at the moment. He nodded and then his gaze dipped to the floor. He wasn't completely to blame, Rhyme supposed, though he recalled Rossi saying that the officer should "log in" the evidence, which suggested there would be a paper trail for the transfer.

  Rhyme knew Ercole had hoped this assignment might be a springboard to a career with the Police of State.

  And with this one incident, that chance was probably over.

  Spiro asked him, "Ercole? The evidence against Mike Hill and Gianni? That receipt?"

  He handed it to the prosecutor, who took it.

  Ercole's eyes were sweeping everyone in the room. "I have been honored to work with you. I have learned a great deal."

  His expression seemed to add the qualifier: But, it seems, I didn't learn enough.

  Sachs hugged him. He and Rhyme shook hands, then with a last glance at the evidence board, he nodded and left.

  Rossi's gaze followed the man's receding figure. "A shame. He was smart. He took initiative. And, yes, I should have been more attentive. But, well, not everyone is made out to be a criminal officer. He is better off in Forestry. More to his nature, I would think, anyway."

  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 fight. 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 U.S. 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 tim
e 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.