Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

He heard, in his mind’s ear, the creak of boards of the frail ships, the thump of the Zodiac boat pontoons, the unsteady stutter of struggling motors, the cries of babies, the slap of waves, the call of birds, the hiss and flutter of wind. Eyes closed, shivering as he was momentarily overwhelmed by sounds he could not hear. He calmed and wiped the sweat, putting away the tissue. See, he thought to Her, I’m being careful.

Always, for his muse.

The thirty-odd refugees disembarked from the newly arrived truck and stood near the entrance to the camp, under the eyes of two guards. No machine guns. Just white leather holsters containing pistols on lanyards. They were directing the arrivees into a processing station — a long, low table where four aid workers sat, over clipboards and laptops.

Stefan moved closer yet. It was so crowded that no one paid him any mind. He was near to a couple who stood sullen and exhausted looking — nearly as tired as the two-year-old child asleep in the mother’s arms. They stepped to the table and the husband — they wore wedding rings — said, ‘Khaled Jabril.’ A nod to his wife. ‘Fatima.’ Then he brushed the child’s hair. ‘Muna.’

‘I’m Rania Tasso,’ said the woman they stood before. Heads nodded, but no hands were shaken.

Khaled was dressed Western — jeans and a counterfeit Hugo Boss T-shirt. Fatima was scarfed and wore a long-sleeve tunic, but was also in jeans. They both had running shoes. The little girl was in a costume, yellow. Some Disney character.

The woman reviewing their passports, Rania, had dark-red hair, done in a double braid, down to the small of her back. The radio on her hip and badge dangling from her neck meant she was an employee of the organization. After some minutes of watching her, Stefan decided she was very senior, perhaps the director of the camp. She was attractive. Her nose was Romanesque and her skin an olive shade that suggested her Italian ancestry was mixed with Greek or perhaps Tunisian.

The refugees answered questions. And, oh my, Stefan did not like Fatima’s voice one bit. ‘Vocal fry,’ the tone was called — a condition afflicting more women than men, he believed. A rasping, growling quality to the voice.

She spoke more words.

Oh, he didn’t like that sound at all.

Rania typed some data into the computer. She wrote some information — in Arabic — on a three-by-five card and handed it to Fatima, who then asked some questions. She was frowning. It was almost as if she, here by the grace of the country, were interviewing Rania about her intentions and worth.

The director answered patiently.

Fatima began to speak again, but her husband, Khaled, spoke softly to her — he had quite the pleasant baritone. Fatima fell silent and nodded. She said something else, which Stefan took to be words of apology.

Then the exchange was over and, clutching a backpack, two large plastic bags and their child, the couple vanished into the camp, directed down a long row to the back of the place.

Suddenly, and surprisingly, music swelled. Middle Eastern music. The sound came from the front of one of the tents, where a clutch of young men had set up a CD player. The music of the Arab world was curious. Not thematic, not narrative, it lacked the familiar timings and progressions of the West. This was like a tone poem, repetitious but in its own way pleasing. Seductive. Almost sensual.

If Ali Maziq’s gasps provided the beat for Stefan’s waltz, this music would be the buzz and hum of the body.

In any event, the music calmed him and stubbed out a budding Black Scream. The flow of sweat seemed to lessen.

Fatima paused in mid-step and aimed her beautiful but witchy face toward the cluster of young men. She frowned and spoke to them — in her sizzling voice.

Looking awkward, one shut the radio off.

So, not only did she cackle when she spoke, but she disliked music.

Euterpe would not like her.

And it was never wise to incur the anger of a muse. You thought they were charming, you thought they were delicate creatures who lived quietly in the sequestered world of art and culture, lounging about on Olympus. But they were, of course, the daughters of Olympus’s most powerful and ruthless god.

Amelia Sachs was downstairs in the lobby of the hotel where they were staying, the Grand Hotel di Napoli.

Quite the place. The design was, she believed it was called, rococo. Gold-and-red wallpaper, flecked velvet, elaborate armoires, glass-fronted, filled with ceramics and silver and gold and ivory artifacts like ink wells, fans and key fobs. On the walls were paintings of Vesuvius — some depicting eruptions and some not. The artist might have applied brush to canvas on this very spot; looking east and south, one could see the sullen, dusky-brown pyramid. It seemed gentle, not the least imposing or ominous — but then, Sachs reflected, wasn’t that the case with many killers?

Also on the walls of the Grand Hotel were photos of the famous, presumably guests or diners: Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, Faye Dunaway, Jimmy Carter, Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni, Harrison Ford, Madonna, Johnny Depp, and dozens of others, actors, musicians and politicians. Sachs recognized perhaps half of them.

‘Breakfast, Signorina?’ The clerk behind the desk was smiling.

‘No, grazie .’ She was still on US time, which meant her body was clocking in about 2 a.m. Besides, she’d stuck her head into the breakfast room, to get a glass of orange juice, and been overwhelmed by the spread. There was enough food for an entire day’s calories. She wouldn’t know where to begin.

At exactly nine, Ercole Benelli pulled up in front of the hotel. Via Partenope was largely pedestrian but no one stopped the lanky man, dressed in his gray uniform, even if his vehicle was the well-worn baby-blue Mégane, missing any insignia, except for a bumper sticker with a silhouette of a bird on it. Curious.

She stepped outside into the heat and was rewarded with a spectacular view of the bay and, directly in front of the hotel, a castle, no less.

Ercole started to get out, keys in hand, but she waved him back into the driver’s seat, and a look of relief spread over his face. No need for Formula One driving today.

She was amused to see a tube of Dramamine sitting in the cup holder. It had not been there yesterday.

Sachs took off her black jacket, revealing a beige blouse, tucked into black jeans, and dropped the Beretta into her shoulder bag, which she set on the floor.

They belted in. Ercole signaled — though his was the only car on the road — and steered into the crowded, chaotic streets of Naples.

‘The hotel, she is nice?’

‘Yes, very.’

‘It is quite famous. You saw the people who have stayed there?’

‘Yes. It’s a landmark, I assume. Nineteenth century?’

‘Oh, no, no. There are certainly old buildings here — as you and I know from the ruins where Ali Maziq was held. But many of the wood and stone structures on the surface were destroyed.’

‘The war?’

‘Yes, yes. Naples was the most bombed Italian city in World War Two. Maybe in all of Europe. I do not know that. More than two hundred air strikes. You understand, one thing I am worried about: You know I do not expect you to be my translator.’

‘That was a bit odd.’

‘Yes, yes. I know the area well. I know the countryside outside of Naples like my hand’s back. And I know there are no Arab-speaking communities there. But, you see, I think this is an important possibility of a lead.’

‘Lincoln and I do too.’

‘But I am not up to the task. I don’t know the questions to ask and the places to look. But you do. This is your specialty. And so I needed you.’