Authors: The Sacred Cut
5. We got to toughen you up, we got to work on those desert skills. You
need to learn what goes inside a military Humvee in the magical nineties (and
these ladies the Marines sent me are putting toys on board those two iron
beauties you just won't believe, toys that can shoot and burn and kill,
then talk you straight out to safety even if it's pitch dark and spitting
fire out there). Plus I got two Black Hawks waiting in Saudi ready to sling
those babies under their guts and deliver us out into no-man's-land. This
is serious shit, Steely. We're all coming home afterwards. That I promise
you. Also: I'll kill any damn man who gets in the way. Anyone who
don't understand the meaning of the word "mission" had better
look it up in the dictionary "cos there's no time for bookwork on
the road
.
6. We got friends. You know how many Iraqis it takes to change a
president? Just a couple, provided you got the dough. We've been buying
buddies on the ground there for years, making the down payments, preparing the
way. They're waiting on us to show up and close the deal. That
check's just burning a hole in someone's back pocket right now
.
7. We got a home. A nice home too, picked it myself. No tent for us,
boy. No running hot water and mints on the pillow at bedtime either. But this
place has got class. I'm a history man, Steely, got campaigns going back
to Mesopotamia locked in these brain cells. Never forget that. This place is
like you, it's got breeding. Also, it's real nice and peaceful, a
little oasis in the desert where the Republican Guard got no reason to visit at
all. Here's a word to think about, Steely. Ziggurat
.
Your old friend Billy K. bids farewell now. Eat this paper after
reading. Wipe your ass with it if you like. Or even--no, I mean this, this
is the best of all!!!--file the damn thing somewhere among all those big
metal cabinets you people in the Via Veneto love so much. Put away a little
piece of my ramblings for history. It doesn't matter a damn
.
I am William F. Kaspar which means, as you understand well, I
don't exist
.
And you know the good news, Steely? For the next few months, neither do
you
.
We are the Babylon Sisters. Shake it
.
"I
AM CALM," Peroni protested, storming towards Falcone and the American,
his face a dangerous shade of red.
The
big man stopped and Costa felt the full force of his frank and intelligent
stare.
"Nic,"
Peroni raged, "Falcone has half the Questura here. He doesn't need me.
That runaway kid does. I know what I'm doing. Trust me. Leo will love
this one."
"Oh
great," Costa replied ruefully. He knew it was no damn good arguing
anyway. In this mood Peroni was unstoppable.
They
marched over to the big black car where Falcone and Leapman stood smoking,
watching the SOCOs and Teresa Lupo's team at work, not exchanging a word.
"Sir,"
Peroni said briskly.
The
inspector cast him a puzzled glance. "Officer?" Leapman looked him
up and down.
"I
came to hear the theory," Peroni demanded.
"The
theory?" Falcone repeated.
"Yeah.
There's some lunatic out there with a scalpel. This dead woman's
been cut with one, too. Seems obvious to me what's going on, but I gather
our friend here's got a theory. I was wondering what it was."
Falcone
nodded at the American. "Agent Leapman seems to think it's
coincidence. And we're not absolutely sure about the scalpel, Peroni.
Let's not jump to conclusions."
Peroni
pulled a face at Falcone. The two men exchanged a brief knowing look that made
Costa think something interesting was in the cards. Then Peroni gave his
partner that "Can you believe this?" expression and glowered at the
FBI agent. "Coincidence? You've got to be kidding."
Leapman
blinked slowly, as if to show he was dealing with very stupid people. "No,
it's not coincidence. It's just sloppy police work. You guys have
been so goddamn lax with your news management, half of Rome knows what this guy
does to get his kicks. It's in all the papers. Everyone in Rome is
sitting around the breakfast table out there reading every last detail and
guess what? Someone's starting to think maybe he'd like to get in
on the act too. This is just copycat stuff, that's all. Maybe some guy
was going to kill the woman anyway and thought he'd mess around with a
scalpel just so's we'd think it was our man all along. Who knows?
Not you, that's for sure."
Costa
couldn't believe his ears. "Copycat? What the hell does that
mean?"
"Read
the stuff I send you," Leapman barked. "Think about it. This
guy's a perfectionist. He kills these people in a specific way. He lays
them out in a specific place, cuts pieces into their backs like he's a
surgeon or something. He doesn't slash them around, then chop "em
into pieces and stuff them into suitcases. This is just run-of-the-mill stuff.
It's out of his class. Beneath him. Besides..."
Leapman
stopped himself, as if he were about to go too far.
"Besides
what, Agent Leapman?" the inspector asked.
"Besides...
nothing. This is
not
our man. I've been working on this longer
than you. I've got a feel for this guy."
Falcone
was quiet for a moment, thinking, watching the path team work at the car. "I
didn't think that was the way you people worked. Feelings."
"Yeah,
yeah," Leapman grumbled. "Come up with the smart stuff. Get it off
your chest."
"Perhaps
something went wrong," Costa suggested. "Maybe he's losing
his self-control. Maybe this wasn't someone he intended to kill."
Leapman
screwed up his face in disbelief. "Don't you people understand a
criminal profile when you see it? Don't you have a word for "modus
operandi" in Italian?"
Falcone's
eyebrows rose in amusement.
"I'll
check," he said dryly. "Where's the girl, Peroni? I thought
she was in your care."
The
big man grimaced. "I don't know. I thought I'd got her trust.
I didn't realize we needed to keep her under lock and key. I'll
happily go looking if you want."
"What's
the point?" Leapman snarled. "Immigrant brat like that. She can run
rings round you guys. Not that it seems hard. I mean... letting a material
witness go--"
The
expression on Peroni's face cut him short. Nic Costa had to hand it to
his partner sometimes. The big cop surely knew how to scare the daylights out
of people.
Peroni
prodded Leapman in the chest and muttered, "I wasn't aware I was
talking to you. Sir."
Leapman
bridled and eyed Falcone. "You got a discipline problem here too,
Leo?"
Peroni
breathed deeply, gave the American a stony stare, then turned and walked inside
the empty McDonald's. The three of them watched as he marched to the
deserted counter, jabbed a finger at something on the rack, then returned with
a burger, which he unwrapped steadily on the way, tossing the paper into the
street with the casual nonchalance that drove Nic Costa crazy.
Peroni
rejoined them, with the burger now steaming in his hand.
Costa
knew what was coming next.
"Whoa!"
the FBI man yelled as loud as he could manage, so loud even Teresa Lupo turned
to listen from the wrecked Renault. "Do you people own some weird work
practices or what? I mean, you've got a dead woman here carved up in suitcases.
You got uniforms wandering round throwing up like punks at a prom. And the best
this guy can do is go feed his ugly face. I mean what the fu--"
Peroni
stepped forward, seized Leapman by the collar of his winter coat, then crammed
the burger full into the American's gaping mouth, pushing damn hard so
that the bun, the mayo, the vegetables and the grey, greasy meat splattered all
over his face, down to his bright white cotton shirt and expensive black wool
coat.
Leapman
reeled back, spluttering, hands waving, food falling down his front, eyes fixed
on Peroni, scared of what the big man would do next.
"Ah,
ah," Peroni warned, waggling a finger in his face. "The next burger
goes up your ass and that
won't
be pretty."
"Morons!"
Leapman yelled, beside himself with fury. "Utter fucking morons!
They'll hear about this, Falcone. I'm warning you!"
"About
what?" Falcone wondered placidly.
"About
him
!" Leapman screamed, stabbing a finger at Peroni.
Falcone
folded his arms over his camel-hair coat. "Oh,
him
."
He
exchanged a single, sly glance with Peroni.
"Officer,"
Falcone said in a flat monotone, "that was quite unacceptable behaviour. Do
you have an explanation for it?"
Peroni
pulled Teresa's report out of his pocket. "Yeah. This."
Leapman
stared at the sheet of paper, puzzled, suddenly a little worried. "What
the hell's that? I don't read Italian too well."
"Forensic
report," Costa answered. "When we looked at the cord he used to
kill the woman in the Pantheon we found it wasn't a cord at all. It was a
piece of material, cut into those shapes he likes, then rolled up tight like
rope."
Leapman
blinked. He couldn't decide whether to be defensive or furious.
"You
were supposed to hand over everything you had to us," he snapped. "I
gave you that goddamn order."
Falcone
sniffed and stared at Leapman. "Your men left the item behind when they
came to collect the body. What were we supposed to do? Chase after them? You
can send someone round for it whenever you like."
"Dammit,
Falcone..." Leapman muttered, then went abruptly quiet, probably
realizing the three Italians surrounded him now.
Peroni
began to read the report. "
The fabric in question is all one-inch by
three-quarter-inch textile webbing. Desert brown and green 483, mildew
resistant, type X, class 2B, made in accordance with MIL-W-5665K
, whatever
the hell that is. Maybe the shape it's got. The shape all American
military webbing's got. You know that shape, Agent Leapman?"
"It's
just how it is," the American replied.
"Is
that the best you can do?" Peroni demanded. "This is the shape of
US military webbing. He's killing them with it. He's cutting it
into their backs when they're dead. And this is US Army issue. No one
else uses it. It never gets near to being sold to the public in any way."
"Hey!"
Leapman yelled. "What the fuck do you guys know about the US military? Stuff
leaks out of the army like candy from a store. Everything's for sale if
you want it."
"I'll
take your word on that," Falcone intervened, before Peroni could reply. "The
problem we have, Joel, is this. The forensic evidence is quite clear. It's
not just that the only people who use this material are your military. It's
a new fabric too. It was produced for desert warfare. It only went into
production a year ago. From what we can gather, the only place it's been
deployed in the field is covert operations in Iraq."
Leapman
glowered at him. "You knew about this all along, Falcone. This is just
some stupid setup."
Costa
pulled out Teresa's evidence bag, with the latest cord noose inside it. "This
came from the car here. We never knew about the cord until a few hours ago. It
certainly never found its way into the press. So you see, Agent Leapman, this
isn't a copycat at work. This
is
the same man. It has to be. So
we were wondering, is this what you found with the others, too? And, if it is,
why didn't you tell us? Because surely this man's been near some US
military facility. Recently, too."
The
FBI man was lost, shaking his head.
"Maybe,"
he murmured. "But who the hell
is
the woman here? It
doesn't make any sense. It doesn't..."
He
clammed up, as if he'd said too much already.
"You
know, I'm sorry about that," Peroni said, brushing some of the
burger off the lapels of Leapman's coat. "I sort of lost my temper.
It's a shame, Leapman. We could all get along really well."
"Really."
"Yeah.
If it weren't for one thing."
Leapman
waited.
Peroni
bent forward and removed a slice of pickle off the American's collar.
"You've
got to start telling us the truth," he said. "Maybe not me. Maybe
not even my partner. But Inspector Falcone here. He's a good guy. A
reliable guy. He deserves your trust, don't you think?"
Leapman
just glared back at him, glassy-eyed.
"You
need to trust us," Peroni continued, "because if you don't
we're just going to keep going round and round in circles, not getting
anywhere at all. With this person of yours--of
yours
--still
out there."
The
FBI man sniffed, then looked down the street and signalled for his driver.
"I
don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about," he said
and pushed his way between Costa and Falcone, taking the easy route, the one
that didn't go near Gianni Peroni, stomping off down the street towards
his car, not bothering to look back.