David Hewson (22 page)

"I
have an ID for the man we're all looking for, Agent Deacon. Your friend
Leapman doesn't know about this yet. You can give it to him when you go
into your office if you like."

Costa
and Peroni crowded round to look at the imprint of the passport. It was issued
in the name of Roger Houseman, with a contact address for a wife in London as
next of kin, and a photo of an anonymous-looking man wearing thick,
black-rimmed glasses.

"Is
this who you saw last night?" Costa asked Deacon.

She
shook her head. "No. I mean... possibly. It's a fake passport,
surely."

"It's
a fake," Falcone agreed. "We seem to be having a run on fake
passports."

"Excuse
me?" she said.

Falcone
repeated himself. "I said we seem to be having a run on them. The woman
who was killed in the Pantheon had a false passport too. But I guess you must
know that. After all, you were the people who were contacting her
relatives."

"What?"
Deacon seemed genuinely amazed, Falcone thought. And Costa was already
bristling on her behalf too, which was worth noting. "What the hell are
you talking about?"

"Margaret
Kearney. Thirty-eight. From New York City. No such woman. No such home address.
We checked. I know we're not supposed to. We're supposed to swallow
every last piece of bullshit you and Leapman push our way. But just this once
we didn't. Margaret Kearney doesn't exist. So who is she, Agent Deacon?
Whose relatives are you comforting exactly?"

"I
don't know!" She was struggling to make sense of it. It
didn't look like an act, Falcone thought, then reminded himself of what
she was. The FBI spent years training their officers. No doubt lying was top of
the curriculum. "I didn't deal with that side of things. I thought
it was all handled by the usual people."

"
"The usual people." Are these the usual people?"

Falcone
pulled out another piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table. "This
came to me this morning from the Palazzo Chigi. It's a list of five men.
All FBI agents. Do you know them?"

She
peered at the names, shaking her head. "I've no idea who these
people are."

"Really.
Do you think they're armed? I guess so. Are they looking for Roger
Houseman or whoever this man is? I guess so too. I've worked in the
Questura all my adult life, Agent Deacon, and I've never seen a piece of
paper like this before. It says you have five men here doing God knows what and
all I know is, if I happen upon them, whatever's going on, I just look in
the other direction, walk away and pretend they don't exist. So you tell
me: what's happening?"

"I
don't know! I'd no idea anyone else was working on the case. What
are they supposed to be doing?"

"You
tell me..."

"
I
don't know
."

"You
know who this man is--" Falcone began.

"
No
!"
she yelled. "Believe me. I am not part of this."

Costa
was going a little red in the face now. Peroni, sensibly, was keeping quiet. Both
knew how Falcone worked. They'd seen this tactic often enough. You push
and push and see how far you get. Emily Deacon was, it seemed to Falcone,
telling the truth. But he had to make sure.

"Sir,"
Costa interjected, "Agent Deacon helped us a lot last night at no small
risk to herself. Without her we wouldn't know anything right now."

"Thank
you, Nic," she said under her breath. "I can't believe
I'm getting interrogated like this. Not after..."

Falcone
finished the sentence for her. "After Roger Houseman, or whoever, nearly
killed you. Or, to be more precise, chose not to kill you. Why was that?"

It
was such a small thing. A flicker of hesitation in her face. But unmistakable.

"I
can't begin to guess. Perhaps it didn't fit his plan. Laila had
escaped. Perhaps he doesn't just kill for the hell of it. In fact everything
we know about him suggests that's the last thing he does. He's too
careful. Too obsessed by detail."

"I
agree with the last part," Falcone said. "Still... if he was
faced with an officer of the law. One who was determined to apprehend
him..."

"He
was too smart for me. And too strong. He..." She thought about this
carefully before saying it. "He knows how we work. He actually
complimented
me on how I'd cuffed the girl. As if he were an instructor or something.
Can you believe that?
As if he knew I'd done a good job
."

"You
didn't mention that, Emily," Peroni said quietly, a faint note of
distrust in his voice.

"It
only just came back to me."

"Of
course," Falcone said. "It must have been very shocking. You should
try to remember more."

"I
will." She sighed.

"Can
we get to hear it too?" Peroni asked.

"That's
the deal," she said icily. "Isn't it?"

"I'm
sorry, Agent Deacon," Falcone interposed. "This has been very
stressful for you. I didn't mean to offend. Or interrogate you.
It's just that I've spent rather a lot of time in the company of
your colleague today and I have to say that man gets to me."

She
wasn't rising to the bait.

"But
you see my problem?" Falcone added.

She
didn't answer for a moment. Then she looked at Costa. "Nic. I need
to be in the office. I promised."

"This
is your problem too," Falcone persisted. "If Leapman is lying to
you as much as he's lying to us there has to be a reason. Can you guess
what that might be?"

"I
don't know how you work, Inspector. But when we have problems we raise
them with our own people. Not strangers from another force. Another
country."

"Is
that what we are?" Falcone queried. "Just a bunch of odd foreigners
who happen to be in the way?"

"No.
You're the resident police force here. You've got every right to
know what we know. That's what we agreed. I'll try to honour it as
much as I can."

"I'll
hold you to that." Falcone passed the paper with the passport details
over to her. "You can give him this, for what it's worth. I
don't believe you'll find he's interested. Agent Leapman is
one step ahead of us. Of you too, but I think you know that. You ought to
consider what that means."

She
was getting up rapidly from the table, anxious to be out of there. Falcone
placed his hand on her arm.

"In
times like these, Emily," he said, "it's best we work
together. When you need us..."

She
just glared at his hand until he withdrew it. Emily Deacon was no pushover,
however uncertain she felt about the position in which Leapman had placed her.

"I'll
bear that in mind, Inspector. Nic. Can we go now?"

Peroni
watched the two of them walk out of the door.

"More
coffee, Leo?" he asked.

Falcone
grimaced at the mug. "Is this really the best Nic can do?"

"Like
Teresa said, Nic's on his own. What kind of man goes to a lot of trouble
to make good coffee just for himself?"

The
look on Falcone's face told Peroni the answer.

"OK,"
the big cop said. "I guess you've got your own espresso machine or
something. But just grin and bear it." He filled the kettle and turned it
on.

Falcone
felt troubled by his talk with Emily Deacon. He'd got most of what he
wanted, but he couldn't shake off the impression she was withholding
something too. The expression on her face when he mentioned the incident in the
Campo...

"You've
got to remember to call me by my rank in these situations, Peroni. This
relationship's getting too damn casual."

"Sorry."
Peroni smiled wanly at the surroundings. "It was this place. It's a
home, Leo. Ooh... sorry again,
sir
. At least it
was
a
home. For me it's starting to feel like one of those old tombs out by the
road right now. What am I supposed to do about my partner?"

"He
keeps asking me that about you."

"Arrogant
kids..."

Peroni
stared out of the window. Teresa Lupo and the girl were steadily building a
snowman there. It was a good metre tall. Not bad for the short time
they'd had.

"That's
worth ten euros of your money," he suggested. "Don't you
think?"

Falcone
watched the pair outside working on the cold white figure and remembered how
that felt as a child, when he'd spend hours building one alone at the
weekend house his father owned in the mountains close to the Swiss border. "It
is."

"Where
the hell did that idea come from anyway?"

"I
loved building snowmen when I was a kid. Is that so odd?"

"No,"
Peroni stuttered. "Not exactly. It's just... ah, forget
it."

Falcone
took the note out from under the plate and passed it over. "You give it
to her. You're better with kids than me. And after that, you start
talking to her. Hard. You and your friend."

Peroni
blinked. "Hard?"

"Moretti's
pushing me for progress. More than usual. Don't ask me what's going
on here, but I need to come up with something and that kid's got to have
it. There's a lot more we need to know. What really happened in the
Pantheon?"

Peroni
felt his blood begin to rise. "We know what happened!"

"Not
the details. She saw it."

"She's
a thirteen-year-old kid! You want me to drag that out of her just by yelling or
something?"

"Yes,"
Falcone barked back. "If that's what it takes. It's what
you're paid for. Remember?"

Peroni
kept quiet. He was a good cop. One of the best, Falcone reminded himself.

"And
something else," Falcone continued. "Why exactly did this creature
want the kid dead, which he surely did? Just because of what she saw? It
doesn't make sense. All it would gain him was some more time where he was
staying, and sure as hell he'd be out of there soon anyway. I don't
get it."

The
kettle came to a boil and switched itself off. Falcone looked at his watch.

"Forget
about the coffee," he said. "I don't have time. Get that kid
in here when I'm gone. Make her talk. I don't care how we get this
out of her," Falcone insisted. Peroni couldn't distance himself
from the girl. That was the problem. Maybe that would provide the solution too.
"Cruel or kind. I just want to know."

Peroni
was getting mad. "You're starting to sound like that damn American.
Is that what you want?"

"I'm
your boss, Peroni. I don't care how you think I sound."

"Really?
Well, I'm your friend, dammit. I've known you for twenty years. I
could be ordering you around by now if things had worked out
differently."

Falcone
just stared back at him, lacking the heart to say it. Peroni didn't need
to hear the words. They were there somewhere inside him, always.
Things
didn't work out differently. Something--some hidden inner
flaw--surfaced and sent a well-ordered life tumbling down the wrong
turning
.

"Fine."
Peroni sighed. "But let this humble minion offer you some advice. I know
what you're thinking. You can run this all your own way, let Moretti and
the rest of them stew in their own juices, work the old Falcone magic. But let
me tell you something. This time it won't work. That ugly American has
got the pen-pushers on his side. All those nice men in suits with titles that
never really make much sense. If you screw with them--"

"This
isn't the Wild West," Falcone spat back. "I've got the
law. That's bigger than any damn piece of paper from the Palazzo
Chigi."

Peroni
shook his big ugly head. "The law? Don't you get a flavour of
what's going on these days, Leo? Haven't you noticed the only
people who care much about the law anymore are idiots like us? These are
pick-and-choose times, my friend. Wear the coat that suits you. Forget the one
that doesn't. Start squawking about the law to the people you're
dealing with now and they'll laugh straight in your face."

He
paused to make sure this hit home. "Let me tell you something, Leo. I do
believe that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard you say. And you are not,
by nature, a dumb person."

Falcone
couldn't take his eyes off the two figures beyond the window: Teresa Lupo
watching the girl work steadily on the snowman. He could smell the mountains.
He could hear the dead voices of his parents. Single kids were like that.
Solitary years followed them around like ghosts all their lives.

"Is
that so?" he asked.

SWEET,
SWEET, SWEET,
Billy Kaspar. You're doing OK for a white kid
.

He'd
watched the car roll down the Spanish Steps (straight on the line that led past
the Pantheon, across the river, on to the Vatican, perfect in its flaming,
smoking trajectory), still hearing the voices, baffled by why they refused to
leave him, why they'd taunted him all night long, ever since he'd
killed the woman. The voices played a part in that, too, Kaspar thought, not
that he was trying to evade any of the responsibility. Something was wrong. The
last piece of the jigsaw should have fallen into place. All of Steely Dan
Deacon's team were dead now. The Scarlet Beast had died when he killed
Deacon himself back in China. He'd been sure of that. He'd worked
out the story, pieced it together in jail. There were pieces to be cleaned up.
A couple of minor scores to be settled and now some property, important
property, precious, sacred memories, to be recovered.