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 time 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.
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.”