“I’m carrying a pistol that doesn’t belong to me, my colleagues are hunting for me, and I’m driving a drug dealer’s car. Yes, everything’s hunky-dory.”
“ ‘We’re on a mission from God,’ ” said Dante.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Are you saying you’ve never seen The Blues Brothers?”
“Those guys in black? No.”
“Those guys in black . . . CC, you need to get yourself some culture.”
Colomba heaved a sarcastic sigh and jammed her foot down on the gas, crushing Dante against his seat like an astronaut during takeoff. He focused on images of calm seas and the rustling of wind through the leaves, but the mercury in his internal thermostat shot straight up until the bell went “clang.” He blacked out until Colomba slowed down, as she bumped along the last pothole-riddled stretch of Via Affile, which ran parallel to the Via Tiburtina and was used by heavy trucks on their way to the industrial park. “There are hundreds of companies here,” she said. “That’s if we don’t take into consideration the private homes, the bars and cafés, and the shops.”
“Any good cop ideas to narrow the field a little?”
Colomba thought it over while driving slowly and looking around, as if hoping to see Musta emerge from somewhere. “Maybe,” she said. “Let me make a couple of phone calls.”
She put the battery back in her phone and called the police burglar-alarm switchboard, then the same office of the Carabinieri, identifying herself but keeping her reasons to herself. When she hung up, she jammed her foot down on the accelerator. “There was an intruder alarm ten minutes ago in a high-tech electronics manufacturer, CRT. The alarm was immediately deactivated, but it might be worth taking a look.” Colomba ran two red lights and, five minutes later, pulled up on Via Cerchiara, a broad artery that ran through the heart of the quarter. There was a mixture of homes, apartment houses, one-story shops, manufacturers, and empty fields. CRT was at number 200, a rectangular one-story building, black and white and surrounded by hedges and low green fencing. On the way over, Dante had tried to put a call through to the switchboard on Colomba’s cell phone, but he’d just gotten the sound of background music and a bilingual announcement informing him that the offices were closed now.
They parked in front of the building, and Colomba called the company that was responsible for the security; she’d found their phone number on one of the gates. She identified herself so she could be put through to a higher-up. “I know about the alarm, but it was deactivated immediately; sometimes that happens,” the man said.
“Who’s in there right now?”
“My man working the night shift, and Signor Cohen and his secretary. They stayed late to do inventory. I think they’re still there.”
“Who’s Cohen?” Colomba asked. The Jewish surname worried her: Jews were the chosen victims of Islamic extremists, along with other Muslims, of course.
“The chief executive.”
“Okay, call your man and let me know,” said Colomba, and waited.
The manager called back two minutes later, his voice less relaxed. “There’s no answer. It might be a problem with the radio. Cohen isn’t answering his cell phone, either. I’m sending someone over to look into it.”
“No, don’t do anything, just wait for my instructions.” Colomba ended the call and pulled out Alberti’s pistol. She removed the safety and chambered a round, then slipped it into her jacket pocket.
“We don’t know what’s going on in there,” said Dante with concern.
“That’s why I’m going in alone.” She handed him the phone. “Call Santini or Curcio. Someone who knows you. Tell them to send the NOA.”
Colomba got out. Dante hopped out right after her and stood in her way. “I’m afraid, CC. Don’t go.”
“You brought me here, Dante,” said Colomba. The mix of exhaustion and adrenaline made her voice hoarse.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“So have I, which is why I’m going in. You’re right, I want some answers.”
Dante looked at the building and licked his dry lips. The windows looked to him like so many malevolent eyes. “I’m coming with you.”
“No. You’d only get in my way. Do what I told you.”
Dante watched her trying the locked gate, then scramble over it with great agility and vanish into the darkness.
He felt as if he’d just sent her to the slaughter.
15
Colomba walked up the cement lane flanked by luminous pathlights, watchful for any movements in the rectangular hedges of the little garden. She saw nothing and heard nothing, then she pushed the front door open and entered the deserted reception area, which was illuminated by fluorescent ceiling lights that cast long shadows. Dominating the room was a large red and white counter featuring the company’s logo. There was no attendant, only a dark jacket hanging over the back of a chair and a thermos full of still-hot coffee. On the other side of the room was a turnstile with a magnetic badge reader for the employees.
Behind the counter hung a photograph of a water pumping system, as big as the wall itself. A security camera, its screen subdivided into six panels, showed the same number of areas in the building. All the hallways were deserted, but on one floor Colomba noticed what looked like a broad dark stripe that vanished behind a column. The legend overlaid on the image told her it was on the second floor.
Colomba leaped over the turnstile, avoided the elevator, and headed up a flight of stairs. Following the arrow marked EXECUTIVE AND ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES, she found herself in the hallway she’d seen on the monitor. The stripe that looked dark in the video, in real life, was the same red as fresh blood. Colomba controlled her breathing and pulled out her pistol. She followed the stripe, and behind a column, she found the body of a white-haired man in the uniform of a security guard. He’d been stabbed over and over: his throat looked like a gaping mouth. Next to the body was the remote control for the alarm, which someone else had surely deactivated. Sorry I couldn’t get here in time, she thought, fighting nausea. She squatted down for a few seconds, clutching her belly and forcing herself to remain calm. Soon it will all be over. One way or another.
Then she heard a woman moan, followed by what sounded like a man whispering. Holding her weapon at eye level with both hands, she cautiously crept forward in search of the source of those sounds. She wound up in front of a door on which was written EXECUTIVE OFFICES. The moan came again from behind the closed door, and once again it was hushed by a whisper. Colomba slowly opened the door, keeping herself behind the wall to the greatest extent possible.
The first thing she saw was another corpse. It was that of a corpulent man in a dark suit, lying facedown in a small lake of blood. At the other end of the room, a woman in a skirt suit and high heels, her face twisted in horror and stained with tears, was on her knees at the feet of a young Moroccan man, no older than twenty, who had a knife pressed to her throat: Musta. His clothing and face were spattered with blood; his curly hair was smeared and dripping.
Colomba walked in, pistol level. “Police,” she shouted. “Let her go!”
The secretary let out a scream, and Musta didn’t move. “No,” he said in a relaxed but slightly slurred voice. “I’m not going to let her go.”
“Please . . .” said the secretary.
The young man clapped the hand holding the knife over her mouth, dripping blood on her blouse. “Ssshhh,” he said.
“Your name is Musta, is that right?” Colomba asked. She was unable to see the young man’s left hand, which was hidden behind the secretary’s body.
Musta nodded with an exaggerated gesture. More red drops spattered onto the hardwood floor.
He’s drunk. Or high, thought Colomba. “I don’t want to shoot you, Musta. Let’s find a way for everyone to get out of this alive, okay?”
Musta smiled. “Do you see Signor Cohen over there on the floor?”
“I see him,” said Colomba without shifting her
gaze or her aim.
“There. It’s too late for everyone to get out of this alive.”
“It’s not too late for the woman. What did she do to you?”
“Nothing. She wasn’t even supposed to be here.” For a moment, Musta’s relaxed expression changed, and he looked perplexed. Then he went back to smiling. “But now she’s here.”
“Let her go,” said Colomba.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I have a job. An important job.” Musta smiled again, as if that were a joke, but there was something diseased in that smile. He pushed the secretary away, and she fell forward onto her hands while he raised his left arm. In his fist, he held something connected to a wire, and the wire disappeared into his jeans jacket. Musta pulled back both sides of his jacket. At his waist was a broad belt to which were attached two metal containers, each the size of a bar of soap. Running from one of them was the black cable that ended in his fist.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Colomba felt her lungs tighten. “A bomb.”
“All I need to do is push the button a little. So listen, secretary, don’t try and leave, or we’ll all be blown sky high. And you, too, po”—he stopped, unable to pronounce the word—“policewoman.”
The secretary crawled toward the wall and covered her face, while Colomba kept the gun aimed at Musta. Could she kill him before he had a chance to press down on the detonator? All it would take was a contraction to press the button. In the meantime, something was happening inside Musta. His stutter had turned into a tremor, and the smile had dissolved into a grimace.
“Please, there’s no need to do this,” said Colomba. “Whatever it is you want, I’m here to listen.”
“I should have already”—he got snagged again—“already done it. I was supposed to blow myself up the minute I arrived in this . . . off . . . off . . . office.” He pointed his knife at the secretary. “But I hesitated. For her . . . She wasn’t expected. Is the guard dead?”
“Yes.” Colomba’s shoulders and arms were aching, the gunsight wavering over Musta’s face.
“Do you know if . . . if he had children . . . grandchildren?”
“I don’t know, but I think that’s likely.”
“When we see each other afterward, I’ll have to tell him I’m sorry.”
Colomba saw Musta’s jaw clench and realized he was ready to blow himself up. “Wait. Please. Just a minute.”
“It will only take an instant. Then we’ll all be better off. Trust me. I . . . I just want some rest.”
“You can’t know how it will be.” Colomba cleared her throat, doing her best to conceal her terror. “I’ve been through this before. One time a man put a bomb in a restaurant where I was sitting. Bigger than yours, more powerful.”
“And you’re still alive.”
“I was lucky. And the ones who died instantly were lucky, too.” Colomba tried to keep her eyes focused on the young man’s eyes, but they kept darting in a thousand different directions. “But the others, they weren’t . . . One guy who was right next to the explosion survived. But he lost his arms and legs. Another one died after many minutes. His gut was torn open. It won’t be fast, Musta. You’ll suffer. We’ll all suffer. And what for, after all? I know that you’re no terrorist.”
Musta finally looked at her. His eyes were full of tears. “I didn’t used to be,” he murmured.
“We can find a solution.”
“It’s too late! I gave my word!” Musta dropped the knife and dried his tears. “If I don’t do it, she’ll . . . follow me . . . even afterward. She’ll drag me down to hell.” Then he added a phrase in Arabic that Colomba couldn’t decipher.
“We’ll protect you,” said Colomba.
“You can’t.” Musta was weeping openly. His voice had changed, had lost its dreamy timbre. Now it sounded like a child’s voice.
“Musta, please . . . let go of the detonator.” She lowered her arms, and the pistol came close to slipping out of her sweat-slick hands. “I won’t shoot, I promise you that.” Musta looked at her with eyes that were struggling to see, and Colomba thought it was all over. She went on, “Think of Mario. Your brother can’t wait to throw his arms around you again.”
Musta hesitated, and his gaze brightened. “Mario . . . I’m doing it for him, too . . . I don’t want her to go looking for him.”
“We’ll protect your brother, and we’ll protect you, too,” Colomba said hurriedly. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
“That’s impossible,” said Musta, but the hand with the detonator was trembling visibly.
“Let’s give it a try. What do you have to lose? Give me a chance to help you. Trust me.”
Musta stood motionless for a good long minute, during which sweat trickled down into Colomba’s eyes. By now she wasn’t sure she could take aim if she wanted to. Then he opened his fist, letting a little plunger switch drop out of his hand. Colomba shouted, but the switch dangled in midair, connected to the trigger wire. “Please. Don’t shout,” said Musta.
“Yes, yes. Sorry,” said Colomba, her heart trying to jump out of her ears. “It’s just that you caught me by surprise.”
The secretary took advantage of Musta’s distraction to scurry out of the office on all fours, moaning like an animal, the sounds dying as she hurried away down the hall. All that remained of her was a shoe with a broken strap.
“Now, come over to me, Musta. Let me see what you have on. But keep your hands away from your body, all right?” said Colomba.
Musta spread both arms wide and took a step toward her. “I didn’t want to . . . It was like a dream . . . Maybe this still is a dream.”
“Easy, keep walking. We’re almost there. Now tell me some more about the woman who sent you here.”
Musta started muttering under his breath. “Allahumma inni a’udhu bika minal khubthi wal khaba’ith. Allahumma inni a’udhu bika minal khubthi wal khaba’ith.”
“What’s that?” asked Colomba. “What did you just say?”
“It’s a prayer. I ought to have done more praying. That would have kept her away.” Musta took another step. Colomba found herself not even a yard away now. “She’s not a woman.”
Colomba switched the pistol over to her left hand and reached out her free hand to grab him. Her attention was fully focused on the button that dangled, but she knew she had to keep talking to maintain the contact. “Then what is she if she isn’t a woman?”
Musta stared at her, eyes open wide, pupils practically invisible. “An angel,” he said.
As if to underscore his words, there came a sound of shattering glass and the whistle of a high-velocity projectile: Musta’s head exploded.
Colomba stood frozen, watching the corpse slide to the floor, her face covered with the blood that had sprayed in all directions. She spat and screamed as she looked at the headless man who, only moments before, had been talking to her, and that was how the small platoon of NOA officers found her when they burst in, shouting and aiming their guns. Colomba was thrown to the floor and disarmed, and then her wrists were handcuffed behind her back while the officers finished their inspection of the room. It took a few more minutes before anyone thought to check up on her. Leo Bonaccorso, the likable NOA agent, took off his ski mask and leaned over her, then immediately shouted for help.
Colomba had stopped breathing.
16
The panic attack that had struck Colomba was one of the worst she’d ever had, and the fact that she was handcuffed while her lungs were bursting in her chest from lack of oxygen only made things worse. Leo pulled her to her feet and uncuffed her, and Colomba started punching the wall until her knuckles bled and she could breathe again. They led her out of the room and let her recover, slumped against the outside wall of the CRT building, surrounded by police cars and vans. They told her not to leave—for real this time—and Colomba waited for someone to come and deal with her. Leo came out to show his face a few minutes later,
a cigarette in his mouth and the ski mask rolled up over his nose. He stuck his business card into her hand, with the coat of arms of the Italian republic on it. “Call me and let me know how you’re doing. I mean it. Seriously.”
“Where’s Dante?” she asked, struggling to get the words out of her mouth.
“Your friend? My partners detained him.”
“He can’t be confined,” Colomba murmured.
“Don’t worry, we’ll treat him well. Just think about yourself for now, okay?” He started to turn away, but Colomba, with his card still clutched between her fingers, stopped him.
“How did you get here so fast?”
“An anonymous tip. A phone booth somewhere around here. Someone saw the suspect enter the building.”
“A man or a woman?”
“Is that important?”
“It is to me.”
“A woman.”
Colomba nodded. “Thanks.”
“Don’t lose my number, okay?” asked Leo, and turned to go. Colomba put his card in her pocket and had to wait another half hour before she was loaded into a government-issue car and dropped off at police headquarters.
Luckily for her, she was so exhausted that most of what happened in the following twenty-four hours slid off her back while time bent and fragmented, deleting a great deal of what she experienced. She frequently told the truth, and she occasionally lied, mainly to cover her men and Dante, sticking to the version they’d improvised in front of the occupied shop. They let her get a few hours’ rest on a sofa in the offices of the Mobile Squad, but her sleep was troubled by nightmares. She needed a shower and her own bed, but there was no way she could go home until they’d torqued everything out of her that she had to say.
The worst moment wasn’t the new interrogation by Spinelli, where, with the aid of a police union–appointed lawyer, she pretty much clammed up; nor was it the debriefing that took place in the middle of the night. That one was with an official from the intelligence agencies who looked as if he wanted to grab her and shake her every time she answered one of his questions. Instead, it was the meeting with Curcio and the look of disappointment stamped on his face. It was six in the evening, the day after Musta’s death, even if Colomba had lost all sense of time. Curcio was still wearing the same shirt he’d had on when they’d met earlier, and he hadn’t shaved; the white whiskers that had sprouted all over his face made him seem much older. “If you knew where Faouzi was going, why didn’t you tell me about it right away?” he asked her.
Kill the Angel Page 15