The Burial Hour

by Jeffery Deaver

  The woman sat and Spiro signaled to the waitress for the meal to begin.

  Tuesday, September 28

  VIII

  The Dragonfly and the Gargoyle

  Chapter 72

  May have a problem."

  Thom was speaking over his shoulder to Rhyme and Sachs. He was peering through the front window of the accessible van as it approached the security entrance to the private aircraft portion of Naples airport.

  Rhyme cricked his neck to the left--the wheelchair was fixed perpendicular to the direction of traffic--and noted the black SUV, pulling forward and blocking their way.

  Behind it were uniformed guards--Italian officers--standing at lackadaisical attention at the gate but they had little interest in either vehicle. This was not their business.

  Sachs sighed. "Who? Massimo Rossi?"

  "On what theory?"

  Thom offered a potential answer. "He and Mike Hill share a certain bigoted philosophy? Brothers in arms?"

  Hm. A reasonable theory.

  Sachs nodded. "Possible, sure. Though I think Dante's right and Rossi wants as little publicity as possible about the whole thing now. Besides, I wonder if vans like that are in the Police of State budget."

  They certainly weren't in the NYPD's.

  But as the ominous vehicle bounced forward over the uneven asphalt, like a boat in chop, closing the distance, Rhyme could see the U.S. diplo license tag.

  So the odds of ending up in an Italian jail were minimized.

  A U.S. penitentiary?

  Ahead of them, on the other side of the chain link, was their borrowed jet, waiting to hustle the three of them away. The aircraft, with stairs extended, was nearby, in terms of distance, and the phrase "making a run for it" tipped into Rhyme's mind. Though the wheelchair made that cliche technically impossible, and in any case it was an unlikely solution to the problem of avoiding arrest by the U.S. authorities.

  No, there was nothing to do but stop. And Rhyme told Thom to do so.

  The aide eased to a halt, the brakes giving a triplet squeak.

  After thirty seconds the SUV passenger door opened and Rhyme was surprised to see who climbed out. The diminutive man, face so very pale, sweat stains visible on his shirt under the gray suit, smiled amiably and held up a wait-a-minute finger; he was on his mobile. Rhyme looked to Sachs. She too was frowning. Then she recalled, "Daryl Mulbry. From the consulate."

  "Ah. Right." The community and public relations liaison.

  "The door," Rhyme said.

  Thom hit a button. With another squeak, not unlike that of the brakes, the door beside which Rhyme sat slid open.

  "The ramp?" Thom asked.

  "No. I'm staying put. He can come to us."

  Mulbry disconnected the call and put his phone away. He walked to the van. Without waiting for an invitation he pulled himself up inside and sat directly in front of Rhyme.

  "Hey there," he said to them all, an amiable voice, the dusting of Southern accent upon both words, the second of which was pulled into two syllables.

  Sachs asked, "Busy day for public relations?"

  Mulbry smiled. "After that news story that the Composer vanished from the country, journalists have been pelting us with requests. Positively pelting."

  Rhyme said, "You wrote that story. You're one of Charlotte McKenzie's associates."

  "Her boss, actually. I'm director of Alternative Intelligence Service."

  Ah, the New York actor. Yes, Rhyme could see him getting great notices for a character part. Probably stealing the show.

  Rhyme asked, "Is anybody in your business who they seem to be?"

  Mulbry laughed once more and wiped sweat.

  "One question?" Rhyme asked.

  "Only one?"

  "For the moment. Ibrahim."

  Mulbry grimaced. "Ah, yes. Ibrahim. Aka Hassan, our 'trusted' asset in Tripoli. Ibrahim's real name is Abdel Rahman Sakizli. Freelancer. Mercenary. He'll run ops for ISIS, he'll run ops for the Lord's Resistance Army, he'll run ops for the Mossad. He's loyal to whoever pays him the most. Sadly, Hill had more money than we did, so Ibrahim chose to cheat on us." Mulbry clicked his tongue.

  "Where is he?"

  A frown, but an exaggerated frown. "Good question. He seems to have disappeared."

  Rhyme chided, "And you, the kinder, gentler face of national security."

  "'T'wasn't us. Last we heard he was in the company of a couple of women who were charming and beautiful and, coincidentally, rumored to be members of the Italian external security agency. Now, Captain Rhyme--"

  "Lincoln really is fine. If you're going to detain us at least use my first name."

  "Detain?" He seemed genuinely confused. "Why would we detain you?"

  "Because we handed Mike Hill over to Dante Spiro for trial here without a fight."

  "Oh, that. We'll let him float in the soup here for five to ten years. You knew we couldn't bring a case on the terrorism charges. Since we don't exist. Dante'll get justice enough for both countries. Damn smart, charging Hill for the explosives only. You have a hand in that?"

  Rhyme's expression: Don't know what you mean.

  Mulbry continued, "As for his buddy, the senator from Texas?"

  Sachs asked, "You're aware of him?"

  Mulbry settled for a sardonic smile. "Some folks in Washington'll take him out to the woodshed on the QT. Y'all might appreciate this: I had a thought last night: Compared with Mike Hill, Stefan Merck was the saner of the two. More interesting too. I'll tell you, I'd have a beer with that fellow. Now, I'm sure you're wondering, what exactly am I doing here?"

  The interior of the van was hot and getting hotter, with the full-on sun taxing the lethargic AC. Mulbry dried his brow yet again. "Want to hear a story? You know that years ago CIA technical services tried to build a fake dragonfly? It's in the museum at Langley. It's quite something. A work of art. Equipped with an early miniature video camera, an audio system, a flight mechanism that was revolutionary for the time. And guess what? It didn't work worth squat. The least headwind would send it all over the landscape. But a few years later, the inspiration behind those dragonflies gave us drones. S'all about refinement. Story of life.

  "Now, you could say that the AIS is an attempt to build a dragonfly. The Composer project would have worked pretty well. Except for one thing."

  "A headwind."

  "Exactly! And that'd be you and Detective Sachs. I'll say--this isn't flattery--not many people could have figured out the story we'd put together, the musical kidnapper and all."

  Not many? Rhyme thought.

  "When you raided Charlotte's home, you explained how you figured it all out." A big grin. "We were listening, sure."

  Rhyme tipped his head.

  "Impressive, Lincoln, Amelia. And hearing you--how you figured out the plan--I got myself an idea."

  "Your dragonfly molting into a drone."

  "I like that. So. In the world of intelligence gathering, there's HUMINT--that's info from people, assets on the ground. Then there're satellites, computer hacking, wiretapping and video surveillance. That's signals and electronic intelligence. SIGINT, ELINT. But until you took down our dragonfly, Lincoln, it never occurred to me how much intelligence we might learn from...evidence. Forensic evidence."

  "Really?"

  "Oh, we have teams we use, or borrow the Bureau's or army's or somebody's. But it's usually after the fact, when an op goes bad. Get fingerprints or blast signatures or handwriting. We don't use forensic investigation..."

  Please don't say proactively.

  "...proactively. The way you analyze evidence, it's like it talks to you."

  Sachs laughed, a clear, ringing sound. "Rhyme, I think he wants to hire us."

  Mulbry's pale face betrayed that this was exactly what he was suggesting. "Remember, we're 'Alternative' intelligence gathering. What's more alternative than a forensic team running an espionage op? You consult for the NYPD. Why not for us? You've broken the international barrier. Here you a
re--in Italia! We have private jets too. They're government, so no liquor cabinets. But you can BYOB. Not against the rules. Or not against any rules anyone cares about."

  Mulbry's eyes actually shone. "And it occurred to me: What a great cover you'd have! A fabled forensic scientist and his associate. A professor, no less. Yeah, I'll admit I looked you up, Lincoln. Imagine how it would work: You're in Europe assisting local officers in an intractable crime, a serial killer, a cult leader, a master money launderer. Or you're in Singapore to lecture at the criminal justice institute on the latest developments in crime scene techniques. And, in your spare time, you look into whether Natasha Ivanovich has been listening in on conversations she shouldn't, naughty girl. Or Park Jung went shopping for a teeny piece of nuclear trigger he's not supposed to have."

  Mulbry eased a glance toward Sachs. "There'd be the issue of your being on the payroll of the NYPD. But that's not insurmountable. They have liaison offices overseas, you know. Or maybe a leave of absence. It's all negotiable."

  If Rhyme's torso had been sensate, he suspected he would have been feeling a stirring. Certainly, he was aware that his pulse had increased; this he knew from the rhythm in his temples. Not patriotism, which was a subcategory of sentimentality, an emotion he bluntly rejected. No, what stirred him was the possibility of a whole new set of challenges.

  A thought occurred. He said, "EVIDINT."

  "Evidence intelligence." Mulbry's lower lip extended and he nodded. "Nice."

  "Don't get your hopes up, though," Rhyme muttered. "We're not closing the deal yet."

  A nod from Mulbry. "Sure, sure. But say what, just for the fun of it, let me run this by you. Of course, just as an example." The words seemed spontaneous but Rhyme guessed the dangle had been prepared ahead of time, tied like a fly with painstaking care by a fisherman intent on catching a particularly elusive and astute bass.

  "Go ahead."

  "We have intel that someone connected with the World Criminal Court in The Hague has been targeted for assassination. Not immediately but in the next month. There's a Prague connection. Unfortunately, at this point we have mostly SIGINT--wiretaps and emails, all of which is as vague as the narrator in a Viagra ad. Our people have only one bit of physical evidence related to the plot."

  Rhyme lifted an eyebrow.

  "A gargoyle's head."

  "Gargoyle."

  "Apparently a souvenir from, well, wherever one buys gargoyle head souvenirs. It's gray. Plastic. Gargoyley."

  "And this is evidence why?" Sachs asked.

  "We still use dead drops. A public location where one asset leaves a message for another, usually--"

  Sachs said, "I've seen the Bourne movies."

  "I haven't," Rhyme said. "But I get the idea."

  "We received intel that the bad guys had a dead drop in the square by the astronomical clock in Prague, the famous one. We started surveillance."

  "'Round the clock?" Sachs asked, a faint smile. Rhyme nodded to acknowledge the pun.

  Smiling too, Mulbry said, "That one did make the rounds. Anyway, after two days, a man in hat and sunglasses walked past the location and left the gargoyle on a windowsill, the dead drop. It meant something--a go-ahead, we assume. We're still trying to find out more."

  "Anyone come by and do something with the gargoyle?"

  "Some kids, teen kids, saw it and stole it. But we moved in and got it from them." Mulbry shrugged. "We could show it to you if you like. Maybe you could find something."

  "When was this?"

  "About a week ago."

  Rhyme scoffed, "Too late, too late. All the important evidence is long gone."

  "Only the asset and the boy who stole it touched the thing. We couldn't find any note or code inside. The presence of the gargoyle was a message in itself. Like a go-ahead for a prearranged meeting. So, we thought you could take a look at it and--"

  "No point."

  "It's preserved in plastic. Our people wore gloves. And the dead drop--the windowsill--hasn't been touched. We've been monitoring it."

  "The dead drop's not a scene. That's a non-scene. There's another one, one that would have been important if you'd moved quickly."

  "You mean where he bought the gargoyle?"

  "Of course not," Rhyme muttered. "And he didn't buy it. He stole it. Lifted it from a stand nowhere near any CCTV, in gloved fingers. So there'd be minimal transfer of trace. No, the important scene is the one where the other side was sitting with their beer or coffee."

  Mulbry's face stilled. "Could you elaborate?"

  "If I were a spy putting together an operation in a city like Prague, my first job would be to identify the foxes. That is, your people."

  "It was another outfit actually. We were working with them."

  "Fine. Whoever. Now, the gargoyle served no purpose other than to expose your surveillance team."

  Mulbry tilted his head, brow furrowed.

  Rhyme continued, "A gargoyle is obvious, it's sure to attract attention. So that your team stayed in place filming anyone who walked by and paid attention to it. The minute those kids copped it, your team was after them. As soon as your people stood up, the bad guys saw and got their IDs, probably followed them. Bugged their homes, scanned their phones. Hm, a plastic toy worth a euro or whatever the denomination is in the Czech Republic took down an entire cell of yours. The table and chairs where the enemy was sitting waiting for you to reveal yourselves would've told us legions. Told you legions. But of course furniture's been cleaned, the napkins washed, the bill tossed out, the money in the bank, the cobblestones scrubbed--I'm assuming that's the terrain there--and the CCTV footage overwritten."

  Mulbry was completely still for a moment. He whispered, "Goddamn."

  Sachs said, "You better tell the team they've been compromised."

  Another glance between Rhyme and Sachs. He said to the agent, "We'll talk about your offer. And be in touch."

  "I hope you will." Mulbry shook their hands, said goodbye to Thom and climbed from the van, pulling out his phone.

  Thom put the gearshift into drive and eased forward. They stopped at the Passport Control and Customs kiosk and handed over documents, which were returned. The van continued on.

  Rhyme gave a laugh. "The Czech Republic."

  Thom said. "I've been to Prague a couple of times. I'm partial to the cesnecka. Garlic soup. Oh, and the fruit dumplings. The best."

  "What's the local liquor like?" Rhyme asked.

  "Slivovitz. Really potent. At least a hundred proof--fifty percent alcohol."

  "You don't say?" Rhyme was intrigued.

  They pulled up to the aircraft and Thom began the complicated procedure of lowering the ramp. Sachs climbed out, slung her computer bag over her shoulder. "Spies, Rhyme? Seriously?"

  "Stranger things have happened."

  His eyes strayed to the copilot, who was completing the preflight walk-around.

  Everything on the aircraft seemed properly attached and functioning.

  The strapping young man--in a suit, white shirt and tie--approached his passengers now. "We're all set, sir. Flight time should be about an hour and a half."

  Sachs was frowning. "To New York?"

  The copilot's brows furrowed. He glanced toward Rhyme, who said, "We're not going back to the U.S. just yet. We're meeting some friends in Milan."

  "Friends?" She glanced at Thom, who was looking over the airplane as if he himself were about to conduct a second preflight check. And avoiding eye contact. He was, however, smiling.

  "Lon Sellitto. Oh, and Ron Pulaski." The young NYPD officer they worked with regularly.

  "Rhyme?" Sachs asked slowly. "What's in Milan?"

  He frowned and looked at Thom. "What is it again?"

  "A Dichiarazione Giurata."

  "A particularly delicious dinner entree?"

  "Ha. No, it's an affidavit we need to swear to before the consulate general there."

  "And why?"

  "Obviously. Because we can't get married without
it. Ercole and Thom arranged the whole thing. Then we drive to Lake Como. The mayor there'll perform the ceremony. We need to rent the marriage hall--part of the arrangement. It's bigger than we need, I imagine, but that's the way it works. Lon and Ron'll be the witnesses."

  "A honeymoon on Lake Como, Rhyme," Sachs said, smiling.

  Rhyme tossed a look Thom's way. "He was pretty insistent."

  She asked, "And what about Greenland?"

  "Maybe our first anniversary," Rhyme said and drove his chair toward the ramp that would take him up to the cabin of the sleek, idling jet.

  Acknowledgments

  With undying gratitude to: Will and Tina Anderson, Cicely Aspinall, Sophie Baker, Felicity Blunt, Penelope Burns, Jane Davis, Julie Deaver, Andy Dodd, Jenna Dolan, Jamie Hodder-Williams, Kerry Hood, Cathy Gleason, Emma Knight, Carolyn Mays, Wes Miller, Claire Nozieres, Hazel Orme, Abby Parsons, Michael Pietsch, Jamie Raab, Betsy Robbins, Lindsey Rose, Katy Rouse, Deborah Schneider, Vivienne Schuster, Louise Swannell, Ruth Tross, Madelyn Warcholik...and especially to my Italian friends: Roberta Bellesini, Giovanna Canton, Andrea Carlo Cappi, Gianrico Carofiglio, Francesca Cinelli, Roberto Costantini, Luca Crovi, Marina Fabbri, Valeria Frasca, Giorgio Gosetti, Michele Giuttari, Paolo Klun, Stefano Magagnoli, Rosanna Paradiso, Roberto and Cecilia Santachiara, Carolina Tinicolo, Luca Ussia, Paolo Zaninoni...and I must note the passing of the wonderful Tecla Dozio, whose mystery bookshop in Milan was always one of the highpoints of my international tours.

  About the Author

  A former journalist, folksinger and attorney, Jeffery Deaver is an international number one bestselling author. His novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world, including the New York Times, The Times of London, Italy's Corriere della Sera, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Los Angeles Times. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages.

  He currently serves as president of the Mystery Writers of America.

  The author of thirty-eight novels, three collections of short stories and a nonfiction law book, and the lyricist of a country-western album, he's received or been shortlisted for dozens of awards.

  His The Bodies Left Behind was named Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers association, and his Lincoln Rhyme thriller The Broken Window and a stand-alone, Edge, were also nominated for that prize, and one of his recent stories was nominated for ITW's short story of the year. He has been awarded the Steel Dagger and the Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers' Association and the Nero Award, and he is a three-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Readers Award for Best Short Story of the Year and a winner of the British Thumping Good Read Award. Solitude Creek and The Cold Moon were both given the number one ranking by Kono Misuteri Ga Sugoi in Japan. The Cold Moon was also named the Book of the Year by the Mystery Writers Association of Japan. In addition, the Japanese Adventure Fiction Association awarded The Cold Moon and Carte Blanche their annual Grand Prix award. His book The Kill Room was awarded the Political Thriller of the Year by Killer Nashville. And his collection of short stories Trouble in Mind was nominated for best anthology by that organization, as well.