The Burial Hour

by Jeffery Deaver

  Rhyme turned to Thom and Sachs. "Ah, look, across the street. It's our coffee shop. And what does that mean? It's time for a grappa."

  Chapter 71

  At six that evening Lincoln Rhyme was in their suite at the Grand Hotel di Napoli.

  His phone hummed. He debated and took the call.

  Dante Spiro. He suggested they meet in an hour to discuss their gladiatorial contest, the extradition motion.

  Rhyme agreed and the prosecutor gave them an address.

  Thom fetched the van, plugged in the GPS and soon they were cruising through the countryside outside Naples--a route that took them, coincidentally, past the airport and the sprawling Capodichino refugee camp. At this time of night, twilight, the place exuded the ambience of a vast, medieval village, as it might have existed when Naples was its own kingdom in the fourteenth century (Ercole Benelli, Forestry officer and tour guide, had explained this, with bright eyes of an amateur historian). Perhaps the only differences were that now the flickers of light came not from smoky, sputtering fires but the many handheld screens, small and smaller, as the refugees texted or talked to friends, to family, to their overburdened lawyers, to the world. Or perhaps they were simply watching Tunisian or Libyan...or Italian soccer.

  The place Spiro had chosen for the meeting was not a hotel conference room or even the prosecutor's own villa. Their destination was a rustic restaurant, ancient but easily accessible for Rhyme's chair. The owner and his wife, both stocky forty-somethings, both immensely cheerful, were honored to have esteemed American guests of this sort. That the fame was B list--not movie stars, not sports figures--did little to dim their excitement.

  The husband shyly brought out an Italian-language edition of a book about Rhyme--detailing his hunt for a killer known as the Bone Collector.

  That overblown thing?

  "Rhyme," Sachs admonished in his ear, noting his expression.

  "I'd be delighted," he said enthusiastically and did the autograph thing; his surgically enabled hand actually produced a better signature than his natural fingers had, before his accident.

  Spiro, Sachs and Rhyme sat at a table before a massive stone fireplace--unlit at the moment--while the owners took Thom, the only cook among them, on a tour of the kitchen, which was not accessible.

  A server, a lively young woman with flowing jet-black hair, greeted them. Spiro ordered wine: a full-bodied red, Taurasi, which he and Rhyme had. Sachs asked for a white and was given a Greco di Tufo.

  When the glasses came, Spiro offered a toast, saying in a rather ominous tone, "To truth. And rooting it out."

  They sipped the wine. Rhyme was impressed and would tell Thom to remember the name of the red.

  Spiro lit his cheroot--a violation of the law but then again he was Dante Spiro. "Now, let me explain what I have planned for our meeting this evening. We will conduct our business regarding the extradition and, if we are still speaking to one another, then dine. My wife will be joining us soon. And another guest too. The menu I think you will enjoy. This restaurant is unique. They raise or grow everything here, except for the fish--though the owner's sons do catch it themselves. The place is completely self-sufficient. Even these wines come from their own vineyards. We will start with some salami and prosciutto. Our next course will be paccheri pasta. Made from durum flour. Hard flour. It is the best."

  "Like the Campania mozzarella is the best," Sachs said, with a smile that was both wry and sincere.

  "Exactly like the cheese, Detective. The best in Italy. Now, accenting the pasta, the sauce will be ragu, of course. And then branzino fish, grilled with oil and rosemary and lemon only, and to accompany: zucchini, fried, and served with vinegar and mint. Finally, una insalata of incappucciata, a local lettuce that you will find heavenly. Dolce will be, as it must, sfogliatelle, the shell-shaped pastry that Naples gave to the world."

  "Not for me," Rhyme said. "But perhaps grappa."

  "Not perhaps. Definitely. And they have a fine selection here. We can try distillato too. Distilled wine. They have here my favorite, Capovilla. It is from Veneto, in the north. It is superb. But that will be for after the meal."

  The server refilled the wineglasses, as Spiro directed.

  Sachs eyed the prosecutor warily.

  He laughed. "No, I'm not trying to 'liquor you down.'"

  "'Up,'" she corrected.

  Spiro said, "I must change that in my Western novel." He actually made a note, using his phone. He set it down and placed his hands flat on the table. "Now, obviously, we are opponents once again."

  Rhyme said, "When it comes to negotiation about legal issues, I have no say in the matter. I'm a civilian. A consultant. My Sachs here is an officer of the law. She's the one who pitches the case to the powers that be in New York. And of course, there will be FBI agents involved, from the field office in Rome. U.S. attorneys too, in the United States."

  "Ah, a truly formidable army of legal minds I am up against, it seems. But let me state to you my position." His narrow, dark eyes aimed their way.

  Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded, and he said, "You win."

  Spiro blinked. One of the few times since they'd met that he seemed surprised.

  "Our position is we're going to recommend against extraditing Mike Hill back to the United States."

  Sachs shrugged. "He's all yours."

  Spiro drew on his cheroot, blew smoke ceilingward. He said nothing, his face revealed nothing.

  Rhyme said, "Hill is technically in violation of U.S. laws, sure. But the kidnap victims weren't U.S. citizens. And, yes, he scammed a U.S. intelligence agency but the AIS doesn't exist, remember? Everything Charlotte McKenzie said was hypothetical. We wouldn't get very far with that case."

  Sachs then said, "We can't guarantee that someone in our Justice Department, back in the States, won't want to pursue extradition. But my recommendation's going to be against that."

  Spiro said, "And I suspect you carry some weight back there, Detective Sachs."

  Yep, she did.

  "Allora. Thank you, Captain, Detective. This man, Hill, I despise what he did. I want justice served." He smiled. "Such a cliche, no?"

  "Perhaps. But some cliches are like comfortable, well-worn shoes or sweaters. They serve a needed purpose." Rhyme lifted his wineglass toward the man. Then his face grew somber. "But, Dante, you'll have a difficult time with the case. If you charge Hill and Gianni--Procopio--with the whole scheme, you'll have no witnesses: The refugees' memories are shot. And Charlotte and Stefan are out of the country. I'd recommend you simplify the case. You could--"

  "Charge them only with illegal importation of explosives," Spiro interrupted.

  "Exactly."

  "Yes, I have been thinking this is what we must do. The Albanian airport worker will give evidence. We have the C4. Fatima Jabril can testify to that aspect of the plot. Hill and his accomplice will get a suitable sentence." A tip of his wineglass. "A sufficient justice. Sometimes that is the best we can do. And sometimes it is enough."

  This plan would also align with the Composer's fate. News stories, based on accounts by a "reliable but anonymous" source (surely Charlotte McKenzie or one of her associates at AIS) were leaked that the serial killer had fled Italy for parts unknown. The kidnapper, this individual stated, had been stymied by the Italian police and knew he was days away from being captured. Among the possible destinations were London, Spain, Brazil or, heading home, America.

  Thom returned to the dining room, bearing a bag. "Pasta, cheese, spices. The chef insisted." He took his place at the table and asked for, and received, a glass of the white wine. At Rhyme's request he took pictures of the labels.

  A figure appeared in the doorway of the restaurant. And Rhyme was surprised to see Ercole Benelli approach.

  The young officer, in his gray Forestry Corps uniform, had a matching expression.

  Greetings all around.

  "Ah, Hercules," Spiro said, offering the English pronunciation. "The man of the twelve labors." />
  "Sir."

  The prosecutor gestured toward the table and caught the waitress's eyes.

  Ercole sat and took a glass of red wine. "Once again, Prosecutor Spiro, I must apologize for my error the other day. I know there were...conseguenze."

  "Consequences. Oh, yes. Without the evidence there can be no case against the American spy and her psychotic musician. But I did not ask you here to berate you. I would not hesitate to do that, as you know, but not under these circumstances. Now, let me explain why you are here. I will say this up front, bluntly, for if you are going to make your way in the world of law enforcement, you cannot shy, like a colt, from the truth--unpainted?" He looked at Rhyme and Sachs.

  She said, "Unvarnished."

  "Si. You cannot shy from the unvarnished truth. And that truth is this: You have done nothing wrong. Even if the evidence against Stefan Merck and Charlotte McKenzie had been properly logged in, it would still have gone missing."

  "No! Procuratore, e vero?"

  "Yes, sadly it is quite true."

  "But how?"

  "I am sorry to have to tell you, and our guests here, that it was Inspector Massimo Rossi who arranged for the disappearance and destruction of the evidence."

  The young officer's face was the epitome of shock. "Che cosa? No. That cannot be."

  Rhyme and Sachs shared a surprised look.

  "Yes, it is the case. He--"

  "But he was managing the case, he is a senior member--"

  "Forestry Officer." Spiro lowered his head toward the young officer.

  "Mi perdoni! Forgive me." He fell silent.

  "You have learned quite a bit about the nature of police investigation in the past few days." Spiro leaned back. "Forensics, tactical operations, body language, interrogation..."

  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 protege, that young officer...What is his name?"

  "Silvio De Carlo."

  "Yes. He couldn't have his protege 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 will 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 attache case. Her dark hair was pulled back into a buoyant ponytail. Spiro rose. "Ah! Ecco mia moglie--my wife, Cecilia."