“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 attaché case. Her dark hair was pulled back into a buoyant ponytail. Spiro rose. “Ah! Ecco mia moglie—my wife, Cecilia.”
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 cliché 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?”