David Hewson - The Sacred Cut

“Among other things.”

“Really.”

Leapman walked over to Viale, held out his hand, then, when the SISDE officer didn’t move an inch, took the blue folder from under his arm.

“This is mine,” Leapman said, handing him the thing. “I read it on the way here. There’s no one in there but Dan Deacon. If that doesn’t convince him Deacon was to blame, then nothing will. You go run your errand, Costa. We stay here and pray.”

THE SKY WAS HAVING second thoughts. It was still bright, but there was a hint of hazy ice seeping into the blue. More snow, Costa thought. Not for a few hours, but it was on the way, a final random throw of the dice for this extraordinary Christmas.

He walked out of the shadow of the Pantheon doors, waited as Peroni closed the vast bronze slab behind him, then strode down the steps into the piazza, close to where Mauro Sandri had fallen three nights before. So much in such a short space of time. This must have been what it was like for Kaspar in Iraq. Constant movement, constant threats. That experience shaped the man now, made him what he was. Obsessed with detail and planning, tied to the symmetry of the complex web he’d spun around all of them, weaving his way through its intricacies with an extraordinary, lethal dexterity.

Teresa Lupo sat outside a cafe. She looked at him and tugged her thick coat around her, then sipped at a cup of something that steamed in the cold, dry air.

Costa stopped by her table and scanned the square. It was almost deserted.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“I believe it did,” he answered. “And one day you’re going to have to tell me how.”

“Just some predictable pleas and threats.” She sighed. “I’m not really cut out for this, Nic.”

Just for a moment he smiled. “You could have fooled me. Here.” He threw the file on the table. “Keep it safe.”

She glanced at the folder, opened it, flicked through the sheaf of papers, each with the SISDE log on top, each marked “secret.”

“Oh my,” she said softly. “Are we in deep now?”

“Keep the faith,” Costa said and walked on, to the far side of the square, and waited a good two minutes.

Then the phone rang and he heard Kaspar’s now familiar voice.

“ You got good people, Costa. I like this. So where are you going ?”

“Piazza Sant” Ignazio,“ Costa said.

“ Good. I guess you really are who you say you are. But just to be safe I’ll send you someplace else-”

“Time!” Costa yelled.

“ Walk fast, brother. Via Metastasio. You know it ?”

“Of course!”

“ Good. Look for someone dressed just like Little Em. Big parka, hood tight up to the face. I’m not taking any chances .”

“Sure.”

The line didn’t go dead. “ You didn’t ask .”

“Ask what?” Costa wondered.

“ Whether I’d really stick to the deal .”

“What’s the point?” Costa asked. “You’re going to do what you’re going to do, aren’t you?”

“ Of course, Mr. Costa ,” Kaspar said, laughing.

It was just a sound on the cold, thin wind. But Nic Costa could have sworn that Kaspar had let his guard down at that instant. Some real snatch of his voice had carried into the square from nearby. If only…

He pushed the idea from his head. He wasn’t up to taking on William F. Kaspar. None of them were.

“ I’m sorry I interrupted you last night ,” the voice said. “ She’s an interesting kid. Much more so than her dad .”

“If she dies, Kaspar…”

The man seemed offended. “ If she dies, I’d say you’ve really fouled up. Now go .”

Nic Costa strode rapidly through the narrow back streets, hands thrust deep into his pockets, thrashing through the slush.

He looked at his watch. There were twenty minutes left before the deadline ran out. Fifteen, by the time he got back. Hopefully accompanied.

Trying to kick the doubts out of his head, to convince himself there really was no other way, Costa looked ahead.

He was there, just as promised. Wrapped tightly in a parka that was identical to Emily’s, bulky underneath with the same kind of deadly gear.

Nic Costa walked up and said, “Let’s go.”

There wasn’t an answer. He hadn’t expected one. There wasn’t even an expression Costa could read. The hood was pulled tightly over his head, so that all the world could see was a couple of bright, intense slits for eyes, so narrow it was hard to gauge whether there was any expression there at all.

The two of them set off down the street in silence, walked into the square and ascended the low steps in front of the Pantheon, where Costa called to Leo Falcone and waited for the bronze gates to open.

TWENTY METRES AWAY, shivering from the increasing cold, Teresa Lupo gulped down the last of her cappuccino, watched them go inside and pulled out a phone. She had to think about the number. It wasn’t one an employee of the state police was used to dialling.

They took an age to answer.

“Typical,” Teresa whispered to herself.

Then a jaded male voice came on the line. “Carabinieri.”

Even on the phone they sounded like pricks. “I don’t know if I’m calling the right number, Officer,” she said, trying to act as stupid as possible.

“What do you want?” the bored voice sighed.

“You see, the problem is, I could be imagining this. But I swear I just saw a policeman-a state policeman-getting frog-marched into the Pantheon by some man with a gun in his hand. And the place is closed too. All shut up. When it should be open. That’s not right, now, is it?”

“You saw what?”

She couldn’t believe she had to repeat herself. At least the idiot went quiet when she did, adding a very few details for verisimilitude along the way.

“The thing is,” she added, “it was a police officer. I suppose I shouldn’t be calling you really. I suppose I ought to call them.”

Some slow-burning spark of intelligence began to glow on the other end of the line.

“We’ll deal with it,” the man said. “The Pantheon?”

“Exactly.”

“And your name?”

She took a good look around her, pulled the phone away from her face, made a bunch of the most disgusting noises she could think of straight down into the mouthpiece.

“Sorry,” she shrieked, holding the thing away from her face, “you’re breaking up on me now…”

And hit the off button. They had ways of tracing you, even when you withheld your number. Besides, Teresa reasoned, she didn’t need the phone anymore. She just had to wait until those big bronze doors opened.

“Hate waiting,” she murmured, then dashed back into the cafe for another cappuccino before returning to her cold and solitary chair by the cheery stone dolphins.

IT WAS LEAPMAN by the doors, trying not to look triumphant. Costa came in behind the figure in the huge parka, watched him shuffle to the centre of the room, heard the huge door close behind them.

“Nice work,” the American murmured, thumping Costa on the back, then striding to catch up with the parka.

“You’re welcome,” Costa replied and stealthily slipped his hand into his pocket, retrieved the pistol, holding it low and hidden by his waist.

The jacketed figure came to a halt in front of the group in the centre of the building: Viale and the two Americans, now joined on either side by Falcone and Peroni.

“Bill Kaspar,” Leapman murmured, no mean measure of respect in his voice. “What a man. You just walk right in here, bold as brass, like you promised. You read that stuff, huh? You happy now? I hope so, Kaspar. Because we’ve been waiting for this moment a long, long time.”