Jeffery Deaver: The Burial Hour

Sachs then said, ‘We can’t guarantee that someone in our Justice Department, back in the States, won’t want to pursue extradition. But my recommendation’s going to be against that.’

Spiro said, ‘And I suspect you carry some weight back there, Detective Sachs.’

Yep, she did.

‘ Allora. Thank you, Captain, Detective. This man, Hill, I despise what he did. I want justice served.’ He smiled. ‘Such a cliché, no?’

‘Perhaps. But some clichés are like comfortable, well-worn shoes or sweaters. We need them.’ Rhyme lifted his wineglass toward the man. Then his face grew somber. ‘But, Dante, you’ll have a difficult time with the case. If you charge Hill and Gianni — Procopio — with the whole scheme, you’ll have no witnesses: The refugees’ memories are shot. And Charlotte and Stefan are out of the country. I’d recommend you simplify the case. You could—’

‘Charge them only with illegal importation of explosives,’ Spiro interrupted.

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes, I have been thinking this is what we must do. The Albanian airport worker will give evidence. We have the C4. Fatima Jabril can testify to that aspect of the plot. Hill and his accomplice will get a suitable sentence.’ A tip of his wine glass. ‘A sufficient justice. Sometimes that is the best we can do. And sometimes it is enough.’

This plan would also align with the Composer’s fate. News stories, based on accounts by a ‘reliable but anonymous’ source (surely Charlotte McKenzie or one of her associates at AIS) were leaked that the serial killer had fled Italy for parts unknown. The kidnapper, this individual stated, had been stymied by the Italian police and knew he was days away from being captured. Among the possible destinations were London, Spain, Brazil or, heading home, America.

Thom returned to the dining room, bearing a bag. ‘Pasta, cheese, spices. The chef insisted.’ He took his place at the table and asked for, and received, a glass of the white wine. At Rhyme’s request he took pictures of the labels.

A figure appeared in the doorway of the restaurant. And Rhyme was surprised to see Ercole Benelli approach.

The young officer, in his gray Forestry Corps uniform, had a matching expression.

Greetings all around.

‘Ah, Hercules,’ Spiro said, offering the English pronunciation. ‘The man of the twelve labors.’

‘Sir.’

The prosecutor gestured toward the table and caught the waitress’s eyes.

Ercole sat and took a glass of red wine. ‘Once again, Prosecutor Spiro, I must apologize for my error the other day. I know there were... conseguenze .’

‘Consequences. Oh, yes. Without the evidence there can be no case against the American spy and her psychotic musician. But I did not ask you here to berate you. I would not hesitate to do that, as you know, but not under these circumstances. Now, let me explain why you are here. I will say this up front, bluntly, for if you are going to make your way in the world of law enforcement, you cannot shy, like a colt, from the truth — unpainted?’ He looked at Rhyme and Sachs.

She said, ‘Unvarnished.’

‘ Sì. You cannot shy from the unvarnished truth. And that truth is this: You have done nothing wrong. Even if the evidence against Stefan Merck and Charlotte McKenzie had been properly logged in, it would still have gone missing.’

‘ No! Procuratore, è vero? ’

‘Yes, sadly it is quite true.’

‘But how?’

‘I am sorry to have to tell you, and our guests here, that it was Inspector Massimo Rossi who arranged for the disappearance and destruction of the evidence.’

The young officer’s face was the epitome of shock. ‘ Che cosa? No. That cannot be.’

Rhyme and Sachs shared a surprised look.

‘Yes, it is the case. He—’

‘But he was managing the case, he is a senior member—’

‘Forestry Officer.’ Spiro lowered his head toward the young officer.

‘ Mi perdoni! Forgive me.’ He fell silent.

‘You have learned quite a bit about the nature of police investigation in the past few days.’ Spiro leaned back. ‘Forensics, tactical operations, body language, interrogation...’

A wry expression on his face, Ercole glanced toward Sachs and whispered, ‘High-speed pursuit.’ Then back to Spiro, who fixed him with a glare for interrupting again. He repeated, ‘ Mi perdoni. Please continue, sir.’

‘But I think you have yet to master one other important, no, vital aspect of our profession. And that is the politics within law enforcement. Is this not true, Captain Rhyme?’

‘As certain as fingerprints are unique.’

Spiro said, ‘We have more police officers per capita than any other country in the European Union. More police forces too. So, logically, we have more law enforcement individuals to... what is the word in English, “game” the system.’

Rhyme said, ‘“Game” is a noun. I don’t accept it as a verb. But I will concede that many people use it. The Jargonites, I call them.’

Spiro chuckled. ‘ Allora , but you understand my meaning. And do you, as well, Ercole?’

‘I believe I do, sir.’

‘Our colleague Signor Rossi has gamed the system. Though he is admittedly a most talented investigator and civil servant, he is somewhat more. He is active politically.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘It is not known to the public but he’s a member of the NN.’

Rhyme recalled: the Nuovo Nazionalismo. The right-wing anti-immigrant party. The one guilty of violence against refugees... and originally suspected by the team of setting up the fake terror attacks.

‘He is allied with a senior government official in Campania, Andrea Marcos, who also is a member of NN. Rossi uses his role as a police inspector to give himself credibility but in fact when the possibility arises he tries to further the goals of his brethren. Goals that I myself find unfortunate. No, reprehensible . Yes, the refugees are a burden. And some are risks, and we must be vigilant. But Italy is a country of so many different peoples: Etruscans and Germans and Albanians and Silesians and Greeks and Ottomans and North Africans and Slavs and Tyroleans. Why, we even have French here! There are northern Italians and southern and Sicilians and Sardinians. The United States is perhaps the greatest melting pan on earth but we are a mixed country, as well. We are also a nation with a heart, moved by the plight of families risking death to escape the madness of failed states.

‘Inspector Rossi believes — indeed believed from the moment he realized that this serial kidnapper might be targeting refugees — that the perpetrator was doing the right thing. Oh, Massimo did his job but in his heart he wished asylum-seekers to be punished. If the killer succeeded, word might get back that Italy was as dangerous as Libya and they might think twice about coming to our shores.’

‘The Burial Hour.’ Sachs said these words.

They looked her way, and she explained to them about a speech in Parliament, one that Rania Tasso, of the Capodichino refugee camp, had mentioned. An Italian politician had coined the phrase to refer to the belief that citizens were being suffocated by the waves of immigrants.

Spiro said, ‘Yes, I have heard that. The Burial Hour. Massimo Rossi felt that way, apparently.’

Ercole said to Spiro, ‘Inspector Rossi fought to take over the Ali Maziq case. At the bus stop, he tricked the Carabinieri so that he could retain control of the investigation and interfere with it. And he might have, sir, had you not been the prosecutor.’

Spiro tilted his head, acknowledging the comment. Then added, ‘And had our American friends not come here to assist.’ The prosecutor took a sip of wine and savored it. ‘Now, Ercole, I must deliver news more difficult than this. And that news is that Massimo Rossi invited you onto the case for the sole purpose of you being a scapegoat.’