“I would like to help here in the camp. So many people, pregnant women, about to give birth. And sick too. The burns.”
Sunburn, she meant. Yes, a week on the Mediterranean with no protection took a terrible toll—especially on young skin. And there were other diseases too. The camp’s sanitation was as good as it could be, but many refugees were racked with illness.
“I would appreciate that. I will introduce you to the medical center director. What are your languages?”
“Other than Arabic, some English. My husband.” She nodded to Khaled, who gave an amiable smile. “He is good with English. We are teaching Muna both languages. And I am learning Italian. An hour a day at the school here.”
Rania nearly smiled—the girl was only two, and bilingual instruction seemed a bit premature. But Fatima’s eyes were hard and her mouth taut. The director plainly saw that the woman’s determination to help, and to be granted asylum and assimilate, was not a matter for humor.
“We have no way to pay you. No funds.”
Fatima said quickly, “I don’t wish to be paid. I wish to help.”
“Thank you.”
The refugees were mixed when it came to generosity. Some—like Fatima—volunteered selflessly. Others remained reclusive and a few were resentful that more was not being done for them or that the asylum-seeking process took so long.
Rania was telling Fatima about the medical center facilities when she happened to look through the fence and saw something that gave her pause.
Outside, amid the hundreds of those milling about—reporters, family members and friends of the refugees—a man stood by himself. He was in the shadows, so she had no clear image of him. But it was obvious he was staring in her direction. The thickset man wore a cap, the sort American sports figures wore, a cap you didn’t see much in Italy, where heads went mostly uncovered. His eyes were obscured with aviator sunglasses. There was something troubling about his pose.
Rania knew she had incurred the anger of many people for her devotion to these poor people. Refugees were hugely unpopular among certain segments of the population in the host countries. But he was not standing with the protesters. No, his attention—which seemed focused on Rania herself—appeared to be about something else entirely.
Rania said goodbye to Fatima and Khaled and pointed to the medical facility. As the family walked away, Rania pulled her radio off her hip and summoned the head of security—a Police of State captain—to meet her fifty meters south of the main gate.
Tomas radioed back immediately saying he was coming.
He arrived just two or three minutes later. “A problem?”
“A man outside the fence. Something odd about him.”
“Where?”
“He was by the magnolia.”
She pointed but the view was blocked by yet another refugee bus crawling along the road.
When it passed, and the view was clear once again, she could see the man no more. Rania scanned the road and fields bordering the camp but found no trace.
“Do you want me to call a team together?”
She debated.
A voice from the office called, “Rania, Rania! The shipment of plasma. They can’t find it. Jacques needs to talk to you. Jacques from the Red Cross.”
Another scan of the roadway. Nothing.
“No, don’t bother. Thank you, Tomas.”
She swiveled about, to return to her office and cope with yet another cascade of crises.
Endless…
Chapter 28
Don’t really want it to deflect us too much from the Composer, do we now, Sachs? But it’s a curious case. An intriguing case.”
Rhyme, referring to the Garry Soames matter.
She gave a wry laugh. “A landmine of a case.”
“Ah, because of Dante Spiro? We’ll be careful.”
They were in their secondary situation room: the café across the street from the Questura. Sachs, Rhyme and Thom. Rhyme had tried to order a grappa but Thom, damn it, had preempted him with sparkling water and coffee for everyone. How was he going to acquire a taste for the liquor if he was denied access?
In fairness, however, the cappuccino was good.
“Ah, here we go.”
Rhyme noted the lanky figure of Ercole Benelli stride from the police headquarters toward the café. He spotted the Americans, crossed the street, stepped past the Cinzano barrier and sat down on a rickety aluminum chair.
“Hello,” he said formally, the tone revealing his curiosity. The young officer was, of course, wondering why Sachs had called and asked to meet out here.
Rhyme asked, “Has Beatrice found any prints on the plant leaves or any trace from the Composer’s surveillance outside the restaurant near D’Abruzzo?”
Ercole grimaced. “The woman is quite insopportabile. You say, intolerable?”
“Yes, or insufferable.”
“Sì, insufferable is better! I asked her several times of her progress and she glared at me. And I wished to know if you can fingerprint the bark of a tree. An innocent question. Her expression, frightening. As if saying, ‘Of course you can! What fool doesn’t know that?’ And can she not smile? How difficult is that?”
Lincoln Rhyme was not one to turn to for sympathy in matters like this. “And?” he asked impatiently.
“No, nothing, I’m afraid. Not yet. She and her assistants are working hard, however. I will give her that.”
Ercole ordered something from the waitress and a moment later an orange juice appeared.
Rhyme said, “Well, we have another situation we need help with.”
“You have more developments about our musical kidnapper?”
“No. This is a different case.”
“Different?”
On the small table before them Sachs was spreading out documents: copies of the crime scene reports and interviews regarding the rape Garry Soames was accused of, provided by the lawyer he and his family had retained.
“We need translations of these reports, Ercole.”
He looked them over, shuffled through them. “How does this connect to the Composer?”
“It doesn’t. Like I said, it’s another case.”
“Another…?” The officer chewed his lip. He read more carefully. “Yes, yes, the American student. This is not one of Massimo Rossi’s cases. It’s being run by Ispettore Laura Martelli.” He nodded at the Questura.
Rhyme said nothing more and Sachs added, “We’ve been asked by a State Department official to review the evidence. The defendant’s lawyer’s convinced the boy is innocent.”
Ercole sipped his orange juice, which—like most non-coffee beverages in Italy, Rhyme had observed—had been served without ice. And Coca-Cola always came with lemon. The Forestry officer said, “Oh, but, no. I cannot do this. I am sorry.” As if they’d missed something blatantly obvious. “You do not see. This would be un conflitto d’interesse. A—”
Rhyme said, “Not really.”
“No. How is that possible?”