Jeffery Deaver: The Burial Hour

She mused, ‘Malpensa’s the other airport in Milan.’

‘Yes,’ Spiro said.

She said, ‘Didn’t Beatrice say she’d found samples of industrial grease at the warehouse in Milan? And jet fuel too?’

‘She did, yes. But we didn’t pursue it because it didn’t seem there was any connection between the warehouse and the Composer.’

She turned to Spiro. ‘Everyone in Italy, citizens had an ID card, right?’

‘Yes. It is the law.’

‘With a picture?’

‘That’s right.’

‘If I give you a name can you get me an image?’

‘If the name is not too common, yes. Or you have an address or at least a comune, a town.’

‘It’s not that common a name. I’ll need the picture sent to my phone and I’ll forward it to someone.’

‘I will arrange it. Who is this person you wish to send it to?’

‘Do you know the phrase “confidential informant”?’

‘Ah, so you have a snitch, do you?’ Spiro asked, pulling out his mobile.

Amelia Sachs sat beside Lincoln Rhyme in the back of the disabled-accessible van, parked on one of the better streets in Naples, the Via di Chiaia, overlooking the beautiful park that had, in part, tipped her to Fatima’s presence. It would be here, not the Castel dell’Ova, where a single mother would stroll with her child.

Dante Spiro was with them, listening through an earbud to the operation, which was being run by Michelangelo.

Dirty Harriet.

The view out one window was a magnificent panorama of the bay, the Castel dell’Ovo to the right and the deceptively placid Vesuvius to the left.

Like everyone else, however, Sachs was uninterested in the bay; she was concentrating on the considerably more modest sight through the other window: a pleasant, if old, residential abode, stone construction, yellow paint. A pensione — a bed-and-breakfast-style inn. It was gem-like and would have cost plenty per night.

‘We’re sure he’s inside?’ she asked. Referring to the man who had put together the entire plan. Who had hired Ibrahim and Gianni. Who had tried to kill dozens of innocents, solely to turn public opinion further against the refugees, and defeat the pending legislation that might improve their plight.

All under the perverse banner of nationalism.

Spiro was listening to police transmissions through a wired earpiece. His head was cocked. He said, ‘ Sì, sì. ’ Then to Sachs and Rhyme: ‘Yes, he’s in there.’ A grim smile. ‘And the assessment is that he’s unarmed.’

‘How do they know that? Do they have eyes on him?’ Rhyme asked insistently.

He would be thinking, Sachs knew, that if she was walking into the room where the mastermind of the scheme was — as Spiro would say — holed up, they should damn well know for sure whether he was armed or not.

She was less concerned; she had her Beretta. And a fine piece of work it was, she’d announced. The Italians were good at food, cars, fashion and weapons. None better.

Spiro replied, ‘Michelangelo reports that their surveillance has determined he will certainly be unarmed. But that will not last for long. We should move now.’

Sachs glanced at Rhyme, who said, ‘Don’t let anyone shoot anything up if they can avoid it, Sachs. This’s important evidence. This’s the main bad boy.’

Then she and Dante Spiro were out the van’s door.

They moved quickly to the front of the structure, where four SCO officers met them, led by Michelangelo. Unlike their commander, these men were not large, though they were made bulky because of their gear: body armor, breaching equipment, boots, helmets. The H&K submachine guns favored by the tac teams were unslung and ready to fire.

Spiro gestured and the men moved through the front door of the pensione and, as quietly as they could, up the stairs to the first floor.

The hallway was dim and hot, the air oppressive. The rooms might have air-conditioning but the hallways did not. Paintings of old Italy dotted the walls, most of them of Naples; a smoking volcano looming in the background. In one, though, Vesuvius was busily erupting as toga-clad citizens stared in horror, while a small dog seemed to be smiling. Every piece of artwork hung crookedly.

After a pause and a listen to the surveillance control van outside, Michelangelo gave hand signals and the SCO officers divided into two teams. One, crouching below the peephole, moved past the door of the suspect’s room and turned. The second team remained on the near side. Sachs and Spiro stopped ten feet short. What was that noise? Sachs wondered.

Screech, screech, screech...

Stefan could have told them in an instant.

Then Sachs heard a moan.

Of course. A couple was making love.

That was why the assault team, with the auditory surveillance system, had concluded that the occupants of the room were not armed. A gun might be nearby but it was highly unlikely either one was concealing a weapon on their person.

Michelangelo heard something through his headset — Sachs could tell from his cocked head. He stepped back to Spiro and spoke in Italian. The prosecutor said to Sachs, ‘The second team is behind our other target. He is up the street, in his car. They’ll move in when we do, coordinated.’

From the room the sounds of lovemaking had grown louder, the grunts more frequent. Michelangelo whispered something to Spiro, who translated his comment to Sachs. ‘He’s wondering if we should wait a moment. Just because...’

Sachs whispered, ‘No.’

Michelangelo grinned and returned to his men. He gestured toward the door, his hand making a slicing movement, like a priest blessing a communicant.

Instantly they went into action. One hefted a battering ram and swung it hard into the door near the knob. The flimsy wood gave way instantly. He stepped back, dropped the ram and unslung his machine gun as the others sped in, their weapons up, muzzles sweeping back and forth. Sachs hurried forward, Spiro behind her.

In the bed, in the center of the quaint room, a dark-haired Italian woman, no older than eighteen or nineteen, was squealing and frantically grabbing at bedclothes to cover herself. But it was a tug-of-war for the sheet and blanket with the man in bed with her. She was winning.

Pretty funny actually.

‘ Allora! ’ Spiro called. ‘Enough! Leave the sheets! Stand and keep your hands raised. Yes, yes, turn around.’ In Italian he spoke to the woman, apparently repeating the command.

His boyish face blazing, hair askew, Mike Hill, the American businessman whose private jet had shepherded Sachs to Milan the other day, did as ordered. He glanced once at Michelangelo’s pistol, then at Sachs and apparently decided to keep his hands raised and not cover his conspicuous groin. The woman with him did the same.

One officer had gone through their clothes. He said, ‘ Nessun arma. ’

Spiro nodded and the officer handed the garments to the couple.

As he dressed, Hill snapped, ‘I want an attorney. Now. And make sure it’s one who speaks English.’

The suspects were in jail.

Il Carcere di Napoli.

Michael Hill was in a holding cell, awaiting the arrival of his ‘ball-breaking’ attorney, who would show them a thing or two about criminal law.

Rhyme and Sachs were in the Questura situation room, receiving updates from a number of sources.

Hill’s wife had arrived at the jail at the same time as the prostitute in the pensione was being released. The teenager had received a legal warning. Spiro had reported that ‘the businessman’s spouse’s expression, I will say, was a bit like that of fans witnessing a car crash at an auto race. Horrified, yes, but modulated with a certain hint of glee. I suspect the divorce settlement will be impressionante .’