But none had.
The two walked up and down the winding street, stopping at residences and questioning people they passed, while uniformed police officers and Carabinieri swept the cars lining the curbs, some using mirrors on poles to look beneath them for the explosive.
And how much time?
Sachs’s phone showed: 1:14.
Forty-six minutes till the attack.
They returned to the top of the plateau, where Michelangelo was talking to a Carabiniere, obviously a commander, to judge from the medals and insignias on his breast and shoulder. His hat was quite tall.
The tactical commander saw Sachs and shook his head, ringed with fuzzy, red hair, with a grimace. He returned to the search.
She called Rhyme.
“Found anything, Sachs?”
“Nothing. And, you know what? This doesn’t feel right.”
“As in, it doesn’t seem like a target?”
“Exactly.” She was looking around her as wind stirred up shrapnel of crisp food wrappers and plastic bags and newspapers and dust. “The archive’s closed and there just aren’t that many people around.”
Rhyme was silent a moment, and then: “Odd. Gianni said the target would be crowded today.”
“It ain’t going to get more crowded in forty minutes, Rhyme. And no press. No reason for any press.”
Then: “Ah, no. Goddamn it.”
Sachs’s pulse quickened. This was his tone of anger.
She gripped Ercole’s arm and he stopped quickly.
Rhyme was saying, “I made a mistake.” He was then speaking to the others in the Questura—Charlotte McKenzie, Spiro and Rossi—but she couldn’t hear the words.
He came back on the line. “Monte Echia isn’t the target, Sachs. I should have known that!”
“Didn’t Stefan identify it right?”
“He did fine. But I didn’t pay attention to what Gianni told Fatima. He didn’t say he was at the target. He said he could see the target. He was standing there and looking it over.”
She explained this to Ercole, who grimaced. They caught Michelangelo’s attention and Sachs gestured him over. The man stalked closer and Ercole told him about the mistake.
He nodded and spoke into his microphone.
Sachs was staring over the vistas. “I can see the docks, Rhyme.”
He was on speaker and Spiro had heard. He said, “But, Detective, they are filled with security. I do not think she could get close.”
Ercole said, “We see the Partenope walkway and street. It is somewhat crowded.”
Then Sachs’s eyes slipped to the stony island in front of Via Partenope. “What’s that?”
“Castel dell’Ovo,” he answered. “A popular tourist attraction. And there are, as you can see, many restaurants and cafés.”
Spiro said abruptly, “That could be it. Gianni told Fatima to get behind a stone wall before the explosion. Yes, the castle has dozens of alcoves where she can hide.”
“And look!”
Two large buses were just then pulling up in front of the bridge that led to the island the castle was on. People in suits and elaborate dresses began to climb out. On the side were banners.
“What do they say?” Sachs asked Ercole.
“It’s publicity for a fashion event here. Some designer or clothing company.”
“And there would have been a press announcement, so Gianni would have learned it started at two o’clock.”
She told those in the Questura what they were looking at.
“Yes, yes, that has to be it!” Rossi said.
Sachs tugged Ercole’s arm. “Let’s go.” Into the headset she said, “We’re headed there now, Rhyme.”
She disconnected and they jogged to the Mégane, which she fired up and put into gear. Michelangelo and the tactical officers were jogging back to their vehicles.
Sachs skidded in a U-turn and sped down the switchbacks to the street beneath the mountain. She swerved onto the concrete, steered into the skid and floored the accelerator. Sachs was blustering her way through an intersection when she glanced in her rearview mirror, wondering how close Michelangelo was, when she saw a flash of yellow and orange flame.
“Ercole, look. Behind us. What happened?”
He turned as best he could and squinted. “Mamma mia! A fire. At the bottom of the road we just came down, there’s a car on fire. Sitting in the middle of the street.”
“Gianni.”
“He’s been watching us! He’s running guard for Fatima. Of course. He broke into a car, I’d guess, and rolled it into the road, then set it on fire.”
“To block the police. They’re trapped on the mountain now.”
Ercole was calling in this latest development.
On speaker she heard Rossi say he would get more officers and a fire brigade to the base of the mountain to the castle.
“Looks like it’s just us, Ercole.”
No longer an uneasy passenger, he stabbed his finger toward the road and cried, “Per favore, Amelia. Can you not go any faster?”
Chapter 65
Like a hockey player swerving around the goal, the Mégane veered onto Via Partenope and screeched to a stop, deftly—and narrowly—avoiding a gelato vendor, two fashion models in neon-green dresses and, by inches, a Bugatti coupe, which Sachs believed was worth just north of a million dollars.
Then she and Ercole were out and sprinting to the promontory that tied Castel dell’Ovo to the mainland.
Sachs called, “Fatima’s in street clothes, remember.”
“Sì.”
“And remember your target. You’ve got to stop her instantly.”
“Upper lip. Sì. Three bullets.”
Sirens cut through the air—the fire trucks headed to clear the way from Mont Echia, and the urgent wail from reinforcements, Police of State and Carabinieri heading to the castle now, to join Sachs and Ercole in the search for Fatima Jabril.
It was 1:30.
What a fat target this was: To the left of the massive castle, on the island, there were shops and restaurants and docks, today filled with tourists and locals enjoying the sun and the promise of Neapolitan food and wine and a lazy voyage in a sailing or motorboat upon cerulean Naples Bay. The site was plumped up all the more by the hundred or so fashion industry glitterati. A tent had been set up in the shadows of the towering castle.
Add the many tourists, and there had to be a thousand people here.
Sachs jumped as her phone rang, thinking of the bomb, which would have a cell-phone-activated detonator; that her sensitivity to ringtones was unreasonable didn’t calm her heart.
“Rhyme.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“On the promontory to the castle.”
Spiro’s voice. “Yes, yes, Detective. We see you. CCTV.”
Two uniformed officers—guards at the castle—approached. They had apparently been briefed by Rossi or Spiro and the pair, a blond woman and dark-haired man, hurried to Ercole, who confirmed their identities, as if the badges and weapons left any doubt.