Jeffery Deaver: The Burial Hour

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?’

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.

Sachs said into the phone, ‘Evacuate the place, Rhyme?’

Rossi spoke. He explained that they had decided against that approach, at least for now; the castle and the island on which it sat was accessed only by the narrow strip of land, like a bridge, they were moving over now. Panic would create a deadly crush, and more would die from a leap into the water or onto the rocky shore. ‘At five minutes until two, perhaps we will have no choice. But that will be certain death for a number of people. We will be closing off the entrance now.’

Sachs, Ercole and the two castle guards walked quickly over the promontory and into the throngs on the island. The officers were scanning the grounds and docks where hundreds of pleasure craft bobbed lazily at their slips. Looking for a slim, dark-haired woman, probably by herself, dressed in Western clothing and carrying a package or purse or backpack. Of course, Sachs reflected, here they were in a region brimming with slim, dark-haired women, dressed Western.

Scanning, scanning the crowds.

Impossible...

Rossi came on the line. ‘The fire’s out and the car is being moved aside. Michelangelo’s men will be ten or fifteen minutes.’

Just in time for the detonation.

Rossi now said, ‘Ah, I’ve heard from some undercover officers. They were investigating a smuggling case on the dock, coincidentally. They are nearby and moving in. They’re aware of you and Ercole. They should be there now. They have Fatima’s picture.’

Sachs told Ercole about the undercover officers — and just at that moment one young man in a leather jacket and tight jeans caught their eye. He moved aside his jacket and displayed a badge. He was with a woman in her thirties. She, too, nodded. They, the two castle guards and Sachs and Ercole met near the entrance to a seafood restaurant. They agreed to split up and go in three different directions.

It was 1:40.

She and the lanky Forestry officer were moving quickly west, toward the side of the castle that jutted farthest into Naples Bay. The tourists here were listening to a street musician, playing guitar and singing what sounded like an Italian ballad from the last century. She saw couples embracing, teenagers flirting and joking, a young blonde pushing a baby carriage, families strolling, men walking side by side, their wives arm in arm behind, children in giddy orbit, boys with soccer balls unable to resist showing off their crafty footwork.

No one who looked like Fatima, even in Western clothing.

And as for the bomb?

It could be anywhere. In one of the trash receptacles, under a table in one of the restaurants or bars, behind a kiosk, near the raised stage for the fashion show.

Perhaps in the potted plant she was walking past just now.

C4 explosive, known officially as RDX, Research Department Explosive, travels outward at nineteen thousand miles per hour, nearly sixty times the speed of sound. The vapors and blast wave annihilate anything in their path. Skin, viscera and bone simply disappear into a crimson mist.

She sent Ercole to the left, toward the stage where the fashion show was about to start. Reporters were taking random shots of some of the more beautiful women — and a beautiful man or two. In a soft voice, as if not wishing to startle her, Rossi spoke into her earbud, ‘Detective Sachs, Michelangelo and the other officers are almost there. We have to evacuate now. It’s thirteen fifty.’

Ten minutes to two.

Ten minutes till the bomb.

‘I do not want to, Detective. I know there will be a panic. But there is no choice. I’ll send the officers in—’

‘Wait,’ she said. A thought: The woman with the baby carriage... it was out of place. There was a park nearby, at the western end of the Via Partenope. The pretty place, nicely landscaped, had pathways and gelato stands and gardens and benches. Ideal for a mother with a carriage. But the Castel dell’Ovo, with the crowds and warren of docks? No.

And she’d had a backpack over her shoulder. Where better to hide a bomb?

Blond, though? Well, if you were going shopping for a baby carriage for a prop, why not buy a wig too?

Turning abruptly back to where she’d seen the woman. ‘Give me just a minute more,’ she whispered into the headset. ‘I have a lead.’

‘Detective, there’s no time!’

Rhyme’s voice said, firmly, ‘No. Let her run with it.’

‘But—’

Spiro said, ‘ Sì , Massimo. Let her.’

Sirens were sounding now, growing closer. Heads were turning toward the mainland. Smiles cooling to frowns of curiosity... and then concern.

Sachs continued south, in the direction she’d last seen the woman and the baby carriage. Hurrying over the stone paths, hundreds, perhaps a thousand years old. Her head swiveled, eyes squinted.

Her hand? Inches from the grip of the Beretta.

1:55.

Where are you, Fatima? Where?

And then the answer: At the southernmost wall of the castle, the blonde with the carriage emerged from the building’s shadows near the docks. She stopped beside a pier, at which were tied a half-dozen gorgeous yachts, white as cold moonlight, ropes coiled perfectly on the decks and silver fixtures glinting. On the boats: older beautiful people, tanned and coiffed — ‘jet-setters’ in an earlier era.

There was no target here — it wasn’t that crowded — but there was a solid archway that would protect her from the blast.