by David Hewson
“No!” Her eyes were pleading with him. “He won’t buy that, Nic. He’s too smart. You do things his way. Or…”
Kaspar would be utterly inflexible, Costa understood this. He was offering to surrender. The terms would surely be his.
“I’ll call Falcone when I can get through,” he promised her. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“And me?” Teresa asked.
Emily reached into her jacket, took out a plastic security swipe card, then scribbled an incomprehensible jumble of letters and numbers and an e-mail address on the napkin. “If you can talk your way into Leapman’s office, this will get you on the system. After that… You and Nic need to try and find some way to work this out together. I can’t…”
Maybe it was some kind of delayed shock. She rocked back onto her chair. Her face was white. She was on the verge of breaking. Costa could see it and he didn’t have the words to help.
Teresa Lupo intervened. She bent forward and put her arms around Emily’s slight shoulders. “Emily,” she whispered, “keep going. We can do this.”
Then Teresa was gone, not looking back, not wanting to see what Costa knew would be a difficult moment of intimacy.
The American’s hands felt his again, just the briefest touch. She was cold now, she was sweating.
“Make it work, Nic,” Emily Deacon told him softly. “This isn’t just for me.”
She leaned forward, kissed his cheek, her lips cold. Then she shuffled the hood around her head, disappeared into its bulk and, eyes firmly on the floor, walked away, out into the bright, biting morning, out towards the hulking presence of the ancient building around the corner.
PERONI LISTENED WITH a growing sense of unease as Falcone forced them to focus on the message Kaspar had given him the previous night: proof.
Leapman was adamant, in a confident way that worried Peroni no end. “It was Dan Deacon. This was Deacon’s show all along. Kaspar’d know that if he had half a mind left.”
That wasn’t the point, Peroni thought, and surely they knew it. “Can you prove it?” he asked. “I looked into that man’s face last night and he’s going to take some convincing. I told you. He spoke with Deacon. I don’t think—”
“Deacon! Deacon!” Leapman yelled. “The bastard was a traitor! How the hell can anyone rely on a word Dan Deacon ever said?”
“The man was trying to save his life at the time. I don’t think people are very adept at lying in those situations.”
Leapman glowered at the SISDE man. “Tell him.”
Viale made that slight, amused gesture he used to put people down. “We lie anytime we damn well feel like. Welcome to our world. Best accept it.”
“What we accept,” Falcone said curtly, “is that Kaspar is making a direct threat, one he is doubtless determined to carry out, in this city.We’re under a duty to understand and respond to that. It’s important we know what we can offer him to get him to back down. Can you prove it was Deacon?”
“No,” Leapman replied. “If you want a straight answer.”
Peroni felt like grabbing the guy by the throat again. He seemed so detached from the problem. He looked as if he were turning down an expense account. “Why not? These things must cost millions of dollars. You’ve got to have accounts, records, something.”
The American actually laughed. Gianni Peroni found he had to make a conscious effort to stay in his seat.
“What planet are you people living on?” Leapman asked. “That’s the last thing any of us would want. These operations are specifically designed so that if they go wrong, the shit stays on the ground and doesn’t seep anywhere near the rest of us. That’s the only way they can succeed. Kaspar knows that as well as anyone. He invented half the rules. Asking for an audit trail now shows how deranged the guy is. He might as well ask us to go public and hang ourselves.”
“You’ve got—” Peroni persisted.
“No!” Leapman snapped. “Listen. These were the rules Kaspar played by. He can’t buck them now. Deniability’s everything. No papers. No bank transactions. Nothing. Just a bunch of money going missing in some accounts in Washington, in ways no one’s ever going to notice.”
Commissario Moretti finally found his voice. “You heard what they said, Viale. I’ll go along with this so far, but I don’t want trouble here on the streets of Rome. That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It’s a tough world out there,” Viale said softly, staring at the table. “We’ll cope.”
“Dammit!” Moretti screeched. “We do cope. We’re the police. We’re here for a reason.”
“You’re here because you’re convenient,” Viale reminded him nastily. “I’ve never met a cop who rolled over as easily as you did. Jesus. Leo here wouldn’t have fallen for a trick like that. He’d have checked. He did check. You…”
The grey man didn’t even attempt to disguise his contempt for the man in the uniform. “You’re just a stuffed-up buffoon with a pen and a few shiny buttons on your jacket. You’re useful to me, Bruno, but don’t overestimate your value. And don’t get in the habit of talking back.”
The commissario went silent, shaking his head. Shock, Peroni thought. And maybe even a little well-deserved shame.
“He’s going to contact us somehow,” Falcone insisted. “He’s going to want something.”
Viale reached over, took Moretti’s pen and notepad and made a couple of indecipherable scribbles. “Then we’ll give him it. I’m not having another innocent death here. I can put some documents together. Keep him occupied until we find him.”
Peroni wanted to scream. “Don’t you understand? This guy’s no fool. You can’t just slip him some phoney letters and hope he’ll swallow it. He’s wise to tricks like that.”
Leapman nodded. “He’s right. If you give him fake stuff it’ll only make him madder. Then what?”
Viale looked immensely pleased with himself. “Who said it was going to be fake, Joel?”
“What?” the American snarled.
“You heard.”
The SISDE man got up from the desk and walked over to the far side of the office where there was a set of heavy-duty, old-fashioned filing cabinets secured by combination locks. He flicked through some numbers on the nearest, slid open a drawer and retrieved a blue file.
Leapman uttered a low, bitter curse.
“Oh, please!” Viale was loving this. “This was your show. We were just housekeeping. And”—he waved the file at the American—“housekeepers keep records. I was just rereading them last night, Joel. To refresh my memory. We have a habit around here. We note down conversations afterwards. We like to make sure we remember what we can. You may have had lots of reasons to cut off everything at the source. We had just as many to keep a few reminders of what really happened. Just in case someone started pointing fingers in our direction later. We’re your allies. We’re not your lackeys. Or your fall guys. You didn’t really think we’d be willing to go down with the ship, if it came to that, did you?”
“Well, well, well,” Leapman spat back at him. “It’s the people on your own side who fuck you up the most.”
Viale withdrew a photo from the file and threw it on the desk. It was of a group of men and women in casual, semi-military uniform, working on a jeep. The shot looked unposed. None of them knew they were being photographed. The location was wild countryside, maybe Italy, maybe not.
Leapman glowered at the image in front of them. “What the hell were you doing taking that?”
Viale scattered some more photos on the desk, all of the same scene.
“Being prudent,” Viale answered, pointing at one picture. “Look at the date.”
It was printed on the bottom of the photo: 12 October 1990.
“This is before Kaspar even knew about the mission. And there’s Dan Deacon.”
“That just means Deacon was in on the deal,” Peroni objected. “Doesn’t mean he was running it.”
“Details, details.” Viale dismissed the idea with a wave
of his hand. He patted the file. “Kaspar just needs something new to interest him and here it is. Some documents. Some photos. Something that points the finger straight at Deacon. While Kaspar’s looking at that… Can’t you see what I’m offering you?” Viale opened his arms, a gesture of generosity. “These men you have here? They’re good, aren’t they?”
“They’re good,” Leapman agreed.
“Then what more can you want?”
Peroni shook his head. It wasn’t supposed to work out this way. He looked at Falcone, who was watching Viale, idly stroking his silver goatee, not an iota of expression on his lean face.
“Am I really hearing this?” Peroni demanded. “Do you think we’re just going to stand to one side while you people run up a little assassination squad under our noses?”
Viale pulled a puzzled face. “What’s the alternative? He can’t go into a courtroom in Italy. That would be much too embarrassing all round. And I don’t just mean for present company either. You don’t think we’re our own masters in all this, do you? We’re just following orders too, from people who want results without having to bear the consequences. It’s an invidious position. It always is. The people who were involved in this are still around. You don’t honestly think you’d be allowed to bring down a minister? Or an entire government?”
Falcone looked at Leapman. “You can prosecute him. We could arrange extradition.”
“I wish,” the American replied.
“I thought he was a hero!” Peroni yelled. “He’s in this situation because you people screwed up!”
“True,” Leapman said with the merest expression of regret. “But the operative word there is ”was.“ Before he went really nuts I thought maybe we could just tuck him in a cabin in the woods someplace. Let him spend the day reading his books and taking potshots at the bears. But this latest killing… That woman was nothing to do with him or us. That changes the game for me. He’s an animal. A liability.”
Falcone stood up and said, simply, “No. This has gone far enough.”
“Sit down, Leo,” Viale sighed. “Let’s not be over-hasty.”
“This is not—”
“Sit down and hear me out,” the SISDE man bellowed. “Or I will, I swear, destroy every last vestige of your career this instant. And his too.” He stabbed a finger at the big cop.
Peroni leaned forward and gave him the scowl. “It’s rude to point,” he said.
Viale looked hard at him across the table, then lowered his extended finger. Falcone returned to his seat. The SISDE man nodded.
“You will both do what I say,” he ordered. “This… creature will get in touch with us before long. We will deal with that as we should. Two of Leapman’s men—”
“No, no, no!” Leapman objected. “Not enough. You haven’t been listening to what I said. You can’t deal with Bill Kaspar as if he were some kind of street hood.”
Viale wouldn’t budge. “Two’s all you get. This gets done discreetly or it doesn’t get done at all. I’ve seen the heavy-handed way your people work, Leapman, and I’m not going down because they’re trigger-happy. Take it or leave it. I will deal with the logistics. Falcone will deal with the practical side of things. He can use this goon here. And the other one. Costa. Best keep this between the three of you, Leo. No point in taking chances. Kaspar has to be made to meet someone to take delivery. Once that’s taken care of, then…”
Viale didn’t say any more.
Peroni undid his jacket, pulled his gun from the holster, rolled it onto the table, then flung his police ID on top. “I won’t be a part of this. Not for you, not for anyone.”
“You already are a part of it,” Viale spat back at him. “If you drag me or anyone else into a court, Peroni, I’ll tell them you knew all along. Same goes for you, Leo. Don’t threaten me, either of you. Ever.”
“Now, that,” Leo Falcone said thoughtfully, “is an interesting exercise in interagency liaison.”
Viale’s stony gaze was full of pure hatred. “You stuck-up prick. You think you’re so much better than the rest of us. Use your head, Leo. Did you never ask yourself why I took such a close interest in you in Al Pompiere the other night? You don’t really think you’re still in line for a job here, do you? You blew that years ago. I was just covering all bases. We met. We talked privately. We were seen.”
He nodded at Moretti. “It all happened with his permission.”
The commissario stared at his fingertips and remained silent.
“I seem to recall,” Viale continued, head cocked to one side as if he were remembering something real, “we discussed the ramifications of this case in full then. Don’t you, Leo? And I’d certainly have to mention that if I got asked in a courtroom.” He beamed at them. “After all, a man can’t lie under oath.”
Falcone thought about this for what seemed to Gianni Peroni an eternity. Finally, he turned to Moretti. “They’ll throw you to the dogs when this is over. You know that, don’t you? The moment it’s convenient. They can’t use you again, not after this. You’re tainted.”
“Don’t worry about me,” the commissario muttered. “Worry about yourself. And”—Peroni was smiling very hard at him—“your ape.”
Peroni could feel the doubt and the tension rising inside the man next to him. Falcone had been through civil wars inside the Questura many a time and usually came off best. This was altogether different.
“Leo…” Peroni began to say.
Falcone put a hand on his arm and said, “Not now.”
Filippo Viale smiled. Then he pushed Peroni’s gun and ID back across the table.
“You two can wait downstairs,” he said. “Call when you hear something.”
AROUND MIDDAY the caretaker looked up, saw Nic Costa walking towards the booth inside the great bronze doors of the Pantheon and emitted a long, low howl of grief.
Costa stopped in front of him and took out his ID card.
The florid, cracked face crumpled into an expression of intense distaste. “No! Why me? Why don’t you bastards turn up on someone else’s shift? I’ve been shot at. I’ve been beaten up and locked in a closet. Stay away. Please. I just do the menial stuff around here. I want a quiet life for a day or two.”
Nic Costa surveyed the vast, airy interior of the building. There were just five other people there. Four of them—two men, two women—were walking around the walls, idly staring up at the oculus, now letting a bright, blinding stream of white winter sunlight into the shadowy hall. The men seemed too young to be Bill Kaspar. Leapman had officers on the street, though. It was possible they’d gotten wind of the situation and had decided to get into position.
The fifth person, Emily Deacon, had, Costa presumed, done exactly as she was told. She’d pulled a light metal chair out of the congregation area and placed it on the circle that represented the epicentre of the building, the spot directly beneath the opening above. Now she sat there, hunched over, hugging herself in the lumpy parka, allowing him the occasional glance.
“We need to empty the building,” Costa said.
“Oh! Really?” the caretaker snarled. “What is it this time? Alien invasion? The plague?”
Costa was walking over towards Emily, the man following in his footsteps, emitting a stream of sarcastic bile.
He stopped and turned to face the caretaker. “It’s a bomb scare.”
“Oh yeah?” The man was furious. “Well, let me tell you, mister. We have procedures for bomb scares. I’ve done training. I know the rules. Someone calls me. Police cars turn up outside big-time making a lot of noise. Not one scrawny little cop who hasn’t got his ugly partner in tow this time…” He remembered something of the night before and added hastily, “Not that I’m complaining, you understand.”
Costa knelt in front of Emily. She sat underneath the bright white eye, hands on her lap, calm, expectant, the focus of the building’s powerful, living presence. He took her fingers in his and looked into her face.
“How are you?” he asked qu
ietly.
“Ready.”
“Emily…”
She reached up, flicked open the collar, letting him see the mike. A reminder: somewhere close by Bill Kaspar was listening.
Besides, she knew what he was going to say. There could be other ways. They could try and sneak in a sniper. Or track down Kaspar before he had the chance to hit the trigger.
“I want to go through with this, Nic. I need to know.”
“Understood,” he said, stood up, reached forward, took her face in his hands, kissed her forehead, just for a moment.
The caretaker was standing beside them, tapping the stone floor with his right foot. The sound echoed round and round the hemisphere, bouncing back from every angle of its curves.