Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘No!’

‘They would have asphyxiated if their son hadn’t run up to me and said, “Why are Mommy and Daddy sleeping?”’

‘Not Bedouins, of course,’ Rania said.

‘No. Tribal peoples would know how to live in tents. What is safe and what is not. These were from the suburbs of Tobruk. They will be fine, though their clothing will smell thick with smoke forever.’

‘I will send out a flyer that people are not supposed to do that.’

Fatima picked up the package, which Rania glanced at. The refugee smiled — perhaps the first such expression she’d shared with anyone here, other than her husband or Muna. She indicated the wrapped paper parcel. ‘A miracle! My mother sent some tea from Tripoli. It was addressed to me at the “Cappuccino” Reception Center in Naples.’

‘Cappuccino?’ Rania laughed.

‘Yes. Yet it arrived.’

‘That is quite amazing. The Italian post has been known to misdeliver mail with even the accurate addresses.’

The women exchanged parting nods and went their separate ways, Fatima laboring under the backpack. She returned to the tent and, setting down the burdens, greeted her husband, then scooped up her daughter and hugged the girl. Khaled had a pleased look on his face. Also, one of conspiracy.

‘What, my husband?’

‘I have just learned of some chance for work, after our asylum is approved. There’s a Tunisian who’s lived here for years, who owns an Arab-language bookshop and he might want to hire me.’

Khaled had been happiest as a teacher — he loved words, loved stories. After the Liberation, when that was no longer possible, he had become a merchant. That was both unfulfilling and unsuccessful (largely because the men in the streets would rather loot than build a democracy). Fatima smiled at her husband but then looked away... and did not share with him that in her heart she knew it wouldn’t work out. All that had happened over the past month told her it would be impossible to simply restart a content, pleasant family life here in Italy, as if nothing had happened.

Impossible. She felt a mantle of doom ease down upon her shoulders and she clutched her daughter more tightly.

Yet her husband was so naive, she couldn’t destroy his hope, and when Khaled said that the bookseller would meet him for tea, outside the camp, would she join them, she said yes. And struggled to put aside memories of drinking tea with him on their first evening together, near the massive plaza in Tripoli that was, ironically, built by the Italians in the colonial days, originally called Piazza Italia. Now, Martyrs’ Square.

Liberation...

She shivered with rage.

Fools! Madmen! Who are ruining our world, who...

‘What, Fatima? Your face, it seems troubled?’

‘Ah, nothing, my husband. Let us go.’

They stepped outside and delivered Muna to a neighbor, who had four children of her own. Her tent was an informal child-care center.

Together, husband and wife walked to the back of the camp. Here was one of the impromptu gates — really just a cut in the chain link. The guards knew about these exits but no one made much of an effort to keep people from slipping out to make purchases or to visit with friends and relatives who had been granted asylum and moved out of the camp. They now ducked through the cut portion of the fence and walked along a row of trees and low brush.

‘Ah, look,’ Fatima said. Khaled continued a few steps on while Fatima was pausing at a low, flowering plant. The blossoms were like tiny purple stars, set among deep green leaves. She would pick some for Muna. She started to bend down. And froze, gasping.

A large man was pushing suddenly through the brush. He was light-complexioned and wore dark clothing, a dark cap and had sunglasses on. His hands were encased in blue rubber gloves.

The sort that she’d just worn to deliver beautiful little Margherita.

One hand held what seemed to be a hood, made of black cloth.

She began to scream and turn toward her husband.

But the intruder’s fist, coming from nowhere, connected solidly with her jaw and she fell backward, as silent as if God, praise be to Him, had struck her mute.

Within the hour, the Composer task force had assembled in the windowless situation room, just off the forensic lab. In addition to Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were Spiro and Rossi, and Giacomo Schiller, the sandy-haired Flying Squad officer.

‘You are injured?’ Spiro asked, his eyes dipping to Sachs’s cut.

Sachs replied that she was fine.

Rhyme asked about any more news of the Composer’s getaway after the sniper attack on Sachs and Benelli.

‘No,’ Rossi said. ‘But the Scientific Police found his sniper’s nest. Prints of his Converse shoes. They are scanning all the ridges with metal detectors but it is likely he took with him the shell casings.’ A shake of his head. ‘And I am sorry to report that there are no fingerprints on the recovered bullet, nor does it match any in our national criminal firearms database. I assume it would be a weapon he acquired or stole here.’

Rhyme agreed. The Composer wouldn’t dare bring a gun in from the United States. Even if he could do so legally, there would be too many questions at Customs.

Ercole Benelli now arrived, offering, ‘ Scusatemi, scusatemi! I am late.’

Spiro eyed the young man with concern. ‘Not a worry, Ercole. Untouched?’

‘Yes, yes, fine. It is not the first time I have been shot at.’

‘Shot at before, Forestry Officer?’

‘Yes, a blind farmer believed I was a thief, on his property to steal his prize sow. He missed by a long way.’ A shrug.

Spiro said, ‘Still, a bullet is a bullet.’

‘Exactly.’

Sachs: ‘Any witnesses?’

‘No, we searched the whole area. None.’ The officer frowned. ‘It makes little sense. It doesn’t seem to fit his profile. A weapon like that.’

Sachs disagreed. ‘I think he’s getting desperate. The amobarb drug tells us he has panic attacks and suffers from anxiety. His condition could be getting worse.’

Rhyme asked, ‘Where would he get the weapon?’

Rossi said, ‘It would not be so difficult. Handguns and automatic weapons, yes. You would need an underworld connection; the Camorra has access to whole arsenals. But I would think he stole it. There are many hunters in the countryside.’

Rhyme added, ‘We all need to be particularly careful now. Assume scenes are hot. You know what I mean? That the Composer is nearby with his rifle or another weapon.’

Rossi said he would put the information out on the law enforcement wire, alerting all the officers to the risk.

‘So,’ Spiro said to Sachs, ‘I understand from Lincoln that there seemed to be no connection between the Composer and the warehouse?’

‘Very unlikely. No one saw anybody matching his description. There were footprints but no Converse Cons. No fingerprints. I’ve left soil samples with Beatrice. She might find there’s trace that connects him with the place but I really doubt it.’

Ercole said, ‘I will say too that after we had dinner I spent the evening reviewing airport security footage looking for someone who might resemble the Composer, flying to Milan. Unfortunately, most flights are connections through Rome. I had hundreds to look at. And it was several days’ worth of video. But I saw no sign of him.’

Rhyme noted the pronoun. We had dinner. And recalled Ercole’s texts and his glances toward Daniela Canton.

Beatrice walked into the office. She addressed them, struggling through English. ‘I am having the results of the tests that have been run. Primo , the soil samples you have gave to me, Ercole, from Garry Soames’s apartment, near the break-in. There is not some distinctive profile. If we are locationing some other spot, other shoes, we can link them but now, there is not a thing helpful.’