Rhyme added, looking at McKenzie, “In Milan too. Didn’t you say, in the warehouse, it was just a half kilo?”
Dismay on her face, McKenzie said, “Yes, yes. Of course! Whoever hired Ibrahim and Gianni didn’t need to kill a lot of people. It was just to show that terrorists could be hidden among the refugees. And that would scare parliament in Rome into rejecting the proposal.”
“So who is the mastermind? Behind the plan?”
Spiro looked at Rossi and shrugged briefly. Rossi said, “There are many who would oppose making immigration easier or deportation harder. The Lega Nord Party, of course, which opposes our being in the EU and accepting refugees. There are others as well. But for the most part those movements are regular political parties not given to violence or illegal activity like this.”
Spiro’s eyes gleamed coldly. “Ah, but there is also Nuovo Nazionalismo. The New Nationalism.”
Rossi nodded. He seemed troubled at the mention of the name.
The prosecutor continued, “The NN does advocate violence against immigrants. And the movement has boasted they have infiltrated governmental institutions. I wouldn’t be surprised if a senior NN official hired Ibrahim and Gianni to carry out this plan.”
Rhyme’s attention then slipped to Ercole Benelli, who was gazing at a blank wall, troubled.
“Ercole?”
He turned back to the others. “There’s something that occurs to me. It might be nothing…” He paused. “No, I think it is something. Most definitely it is something.”
“Go on,” Spiro said.
Ercole cleared his throat: “Your spy,” he said to McKenzie. “Hassan, or Ibrahim, told you there were three plots, not two. Vienna, Milan and another one. Correct?”
“Yes, here in Naples. But Khaled Jabril was thoroughly interrogated and he knew nothing of any attacks. That was the failure of intelligence I mentioned. It was a mistake.”
“No, no,” Rhyme whispered, understanding Ercole’s point.
The Forestry officer continued, speaking in an agitated voice, “But mistake is impossible. If Ibrahim reported three attacks, there had to be three attacks because he’d arranged all three of them himself!”
Wide-eyed, McKenzie said, “Yes, I see what you’re saying. But Khaled, he knew nothing. I’m sure. Our techniques work.”
Rhyme asked, “Did your asset actually give you the name ‘Khaled’?”
“Yes, and that he was being held in the Capodichino Reception Center.” She fell silent. “But, wait, no. Actually he didn’t. All he gave me was the family name. Jabril.”
Rhyme glanced toward Spiro, who said, “You kidnapped the wrong person, Signorina McKenzie. The terrorist is Khaled’s wife, Fatima.”
Chapter 60
Sachs and Ercole sped to the refugee camp, about ten kilometers from downtown.
Sachs parked outside the camp, at the main gate, where they were greeted by Rania Tasso, who gestured them inside and hurried them through the congested spaces between the tents.
Breathing hard from the fast pace, Rania said, “As soon as you called, I sent our security people to seal all the exits. All around the perimeter. It’s secure. We have guards and police watching Fatima’s tent—they are being discreet, hiding nearby—and she has not come out…if she was inside. That we don’t know.”
“Could she have left the camp?”
“It’s possible, before we sealed it. As you asked, we haven’t been inside the tent or contacted her husband. He has not been seen either.”
After a fast walk to the center of the camp, Rania pointed. “This is the tent.” Light blue, mud-spattered, several rips in the Tyvek. Laundry hung outside like semaphore flags on old-time ships. Only bedding and men’s outer clothing and children’s garments fluttered in the wind. Was that all that could be properly displayed to the world?
The tent door was closed. There were no windows.
A uniformed officer, very dark skin, dark eyes, sweat dripping from beneath his beret, joined them. He’d been watching from behind a stand offering water bottles.
“Antonio? Have you seen inside?”
“No, Signorina Rania. I don’t know if Fatima’s there or not. Or anyone else. No one has come in or out.”
Sachs opened her jacket, exposing the Beretta. Ercole unsnapped his holster.
Sachs said, “Ercole. I know what you’re thinking. She’s a woman and a mother. And may not be a hard-core terrorist. We don’t know what Ibrahim and Gianni are using as leverage to force her to do this. But we have to assume she’ll detonate the device in an instant if she thinks we’ll stop her. Remember: Shoot for her—”
“Upper lip.” He nodded. “Three times.”
Rania was looking about her, her quick gray eyes reflecting both bright sun and her heart’s dismay. “Please be careful. Look.”
Sachs saw what the woman indicated: In a vacant area next to the tent a half-dozen women sat on impromptu seats like tires and railway ties and water cartons, holding babies. Other children—from ages two to ten, or so—ran and laughed, lost in their improvised games.
“Clear the area as best you can. Quietly.”
Rania nodded to Antonio and he reached for his radio.
“No,” Sachs said fast. “And turn the volume off.”
Both he and Rania silenced their units and gestured to other security people. The officers did their best to shepherd people away from the tent. As soon as the officers moved on, though, the empty space filled with the curious.
Sachs glanced at them. Well within stray bullet range.
Nothing to do about it.
She asked Rania about the layout of the interior of the tent. The woman replied from memory: clothes neatly folded in cardboard boxes against the right wall, a dining area to the left. Prayer rugs rolled and put away. Three beds—one for the adults, one for their daughter, and a spare. Separated by sheet-like dividers.
Hell, good cover.
And the daughter, Muna, had a number of toys given to the family by volunteers. Rania remembered them scattered on the floor. “Be careful not to trip.”
“Suitcases or trunks that someone might hide behind?”
Rania gave a sad laugh. “Plastic bags and backpacks are the only luggage these people bring with them.”
Sachs touched Ercole’s arm and he looked down into her eyes. She was pleased to see his own were confident, balanced. He was ready. She whispered, “You go right.”
“Destra, yes.”
Drawing her pistol, Sachs held her left index finger up in the air then pointed it forward. He too drew his Beretta and then she gestured to the door and, with a nod, pushed inside, moving very quickly.
Khaled Jabril gasped and dropped his glass of tea, which bounced on the Tyvek floor, scattering the steaming contents everywhere. Sachs stepped over the toys—and the boxes they had come in—and quickly swept aside the divider. He was the only occupant.
Khaled recognized Sachs, of course, but he was still groggy and disoriented from the drugs. “Aiiii. What is this?”
Sachs motioned Rania inside, then said to Khaled, “Your wife. Where is she?”