Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘Well, if—’

Click.

Rhyme turned his attention to the man he’d referred to, who was approaching the breakfast table: their server, a slim fellow in a white jacket with a flamboyant mustache. He asked Rhyme, ‘ Un altro caffè? ’

Thom began, ‘It means—’

‘I can figure it out and yes.’

The man left and returned a moment later with the Americano.

Thom looked around the room. ‘Nobody’s fat in Italy. Have you noticed?’

‘What was that?’ Rhyme asked Thom. His tone suggested he was not fully present mentally. He was considering both the Garry Soames and the Composer case.

The aide continued, ‘Look at this food.’ He nodded to a large buffet of different kinds of ham, salami, cheese, fish, fruit, cereal, pastries, a half-dozen varieties of fresh bread, and mysterious delicacies wrapped in shiny paper. And there were eggs and other dishes cooked to order. Everyone was eating a full meal, and, yes, nobody was fat. Plump, maybe. Like Beatrice. But not fat.

‘No,’ Rhyme said in a snappy tone, summarily ending what would probably have been a conversation about American obesity — a topic that he had absolutely no interest in. ‘Where the hell is she? We need to get going.’

Mike Hill’s private jet had collected Amelia Sachs in Milan and had transported her back to Naples. She’d landed a half hour ago. She was going to meet Ercole to check out a possible clue in the hills above the refugee camp, but Rhyme hadn’t thought that would take long.

The waiter was hovering once again.

Thom said, ‘ No, grazie. ’

‘ Prego. ’ Then, after a dawdle: ‘It is possible for un autografo ?’

‘Is he serious?’ Rhyme muttered.

‘Lincoln,’ Thom said in his most admonishing tone.

‘I’m a cop. A former cop. Who cares about my autograph? He doesn’t know me from Adam.’

Thom said, ‘But you’re on the trail of the Composer.’

‘ Sì! Il Compositore! ’ The waiter’s eyes were bright.

‘He’d be happy to.’ Thom took the waiter’s proffered order pad and set it in front of Rhyme, who gave a labored smile and took the offered pen. In a stilted maneuver, he signed his name.

‘ Grazie mille! ’

Thom admonished ‘Say—’

‘Don’t be a schoolmarm,’ Rhyme whispered to Thom and then said to the server: ‘ Prego. ’

‘The eggs are excellent,’ Thom said. ‘ Le uova sono molto buone. Is that right?’

‘ Sì, sì! Perfetto! Caffè? ’

‘ E una grappa. ’ Rhyme gave it a shot.

‘ Sì. ’

‘No.’ From Thom.

The man noted the aide’s steely eyes and headed off, with a conspiratorial glance toward Rhyme. He took this to mean perhaps not now, but grappa would figure in the near future. Rhyme smiled.

He glanced through the large plate-glass window and noted Mike Hill’s limousine pulling to a stop in front of the hotel. Sachs climbed out and stretched.

Something was odd. Her clothes were dusty. And, what was this? She had a fleck of blood on her blouse. She wasn’t smiling.

He looked Thom’s way. The aide too was frowning.

The driver, a big, dark-complexioned, hirsute man — so very Italian — leapt out and grabbed her small bag from the trunk. She shook her head — at the unnecessary gallantry; the bag weighed ten pounds, tops. They exchanged a few words and he tipped his head, then joined a cluster of other drivers for a smoke and — as Rhyme had observed about the Italians — conversation.

She joined Rhyme and Thom.

‘Amelia!’ Thom said, rising, as she walked into the lobby.

‘What happened?’ Rhyme asked firmly. ‘You’re hurt?’

‘Fine. I’m fine.’ She sat down, drank a whole glass of water. ‘But...’

‘Oh, hell. A trap?’

‘Yep. The Composer. He’s got a rifle, Rhyme. High caliber.’

Rhyme cocked his head. ‘Ercole? He was with you.’

‘He’s all right too. I thought he’d been hit, but the Composer was probably shooting iron sights, no scope. He missed and Ercole went to cover. He just dropped. Played dead. I got a slug parked near me but then I laid down covering fire and we got off the hill.’

‘You’re all right?’

She touched some scrapes on her neck. Then glanced down at her tan blouse, grimacing. ‘Got some spray, gravel or something, but Hill’s driver, he’d called the police and they were there real fast. The Scientific Police’re running the scene now. But I had no clue where he was shooting from and he only fired twice, so he probably took the brass with him. They’ll find the slugs, I hope. They were using metal detectors when I left. Ercole’s there helping.’

The Composer, armed. Noose. Then a knife. Now a rifle.

Well, that changed everything. Every scene, from now on, they’d have to assume he was nearby and eager to stop them.

Whatever his mission was, saving the world from demons or reincarnated Hitlers, it was important enough for him to do anything — even killing police — to make sure he finished it.

Sachs sipped from Rhyme’s coffee. Calm, as always after a run-in like this. It was only boredom and quiet that flustered her. She took a call, listened and hung up.

‘That was Ercole. They can’t find the site of the shooter and he’s bypassed or gotten through all the roadblocks they set up. They found one slug. Looks like a Winchester two-seventy round.’

A popular hunting rifle cartridge.

Rhyme explained about Spiro’s catching the unauthorized operation, to try to exculpate Garry Soames. But then softening.

‘Did Beatrice blow the whistle?’

‘No, she didn’t know it wasn’t officially sanctioned. I think Dante’s just a very, very good investigator. But we kissed and made up. That is, up to a certain point. But from now on, we clear things with him.’

Rhyme then added details about the analysis of evidence from the roof of Natalia Garelli’s flat, where the attack took place, and at Garry’s flat.

‘Well. Interesting development.’

‘Still waiting for the Rome date-rape drug analysis. And some soil samples Ercole picked up at Garry’s. But let’s get to the Questura. See if our friend was careless enough to load his hunting rifle without those damn latex gloves.’

‘Fatima!’

Hearing the friendly voice, Fatima Jabril turned and saw Rania Tasso approaching through the crowded walkways between the tents. The woman, normally severe — as much as Fatima herself — was smiling.

‘Director Tasso.’

‘Rania, please. Call me Rania.’

‘Yes, you said that. I am sorry.’ Fatima set down her backpack, filled with medical supplies — it must have weighed ten kilos — and the paper package she held. She straightened and a bone in her back popped.

‘I heard about the baby!’ Rania said.

‘Yes, both are well. The mother and the child.’

Fatima had been the midwife for a delivery just a half hour ago. Births were not uncommon, in this ‘village’ of thousands, but the baby girl had been a milestone — the hundredth infant born in Capodichino this year.

And, surprising everyone, the Tunisian parents had named her Margherita, after the queen consort of the king of Italy in the late nineteenth century.

‘It is going well for you?’ Rania asked. ‘In the clinic.’

‘Yes. The facilities are not bad.’ She nodded at the backpack of medical supplies. ‘Though I feel like a doctor in a battle zone sometimes. Going here and there, fixing scraped knees, bandaging burns. The people are careless. A man bought some goat — from the vendors.’ Fatima glanced outside the fence, where the booths and kiosks were set up. ‘And he started a fire in his tent!’