David Hewson (48 page)

Falcone
looked at Leapman. "You can prosecute him. We could arrange
extradition."

"I
wish," the American replied.

"I
thought he was a hero!" Peroni yelled. "He's in this
situation because
you
people screwed up!"

"True,"
Leapman said with the merest expression of regret. "But the operative
word there is "was." Before he went really nuts I thought maybe we
could just tuck him in a cabin in the woods someplace. Let him spend the day
reading his books and taking potshots at the bears. But this latest
killing... That woman was nothing to do with him or us. That changes the
game for me. He's an animal. A liability."

Falcone
stood up and said, simply, "No. This has gone far enough."

"Sit
down, Leo," Viale sighed. "Let's not be over-hasty."

"This
is not--"

"
Sit
down and hear me out
," the SISDE man bellowed. "Or I will, I
swear, destroy every last vestige of your career this instant. And his
too." He stabbed a finger at the big cop.

Peroni
leaned forward and gave him the scowl. "It's rude to point,"
he said.

Viale
looked hard at him across the table, then lowered his extended finger. Falcone
returned to his seat. The SISDE man nodded.

"You
will both do what I say," he ordered. "This... creature will
get in touch with us before long. We will deal with that as we should. Two of
Leapman's men--"

"No,
no, no!" Leapman objected. "Not enough. You haven't been
listening to what I said. You can't deal with Bill Kaspar as if he were
some kind of street hood."

Viale
wouldn't budge. "Two's all you get. This gets done discreetly
or it doesn't get done at all. I've seen the heavy-handed way your
people work, Leapman, and I'm not going down because they're
trigger-happy. Take it or leave it. I will deal with the logistics. Falcone
will deal with the practical side of things. He can use this goon here. And the
other one. Costa. Best keep this between the three of you, Leo. No point in
taking chances. Kaspar has to be made to meet someone to take delivery. Once
that's taken care of, then..."

Viale
didn't say any more.

Peroni
undid his jacket, pulled his gun from the holster, rolled it onto the table,
then flung his police ID on top. "I won't be a part of this. Not
for you, not for anyone."

"You
already are a part of it," Viale spat back at him. "If you drag me or
anyone else into a court, Peroni, I'll tell them you knew all along. Same
goes for you, Leo. Don't threaten me, either of you. Ever."

"Now,
that," Leo Falcone said thoughtfully, "is an interesting exercise
in interagency liaison."

Viale's
stony gaze was full of pure hatred. "You stuck-up prick. You think
you're so much better than the rest of us. Use your head, Leo. Did you
never ask yourself why I took such a close interest in you in Al Pompiere the
other night? You don't really think you're still in line for a job
here, do you? You blew that years ago. I was just covering all bases. We met.
We talked privately. We were seen."

He
nodded at Moretti. "It all happened with his permission."

The
commissario stared at his fingertips and remained silent.

"I
seem to recall," Viale continued, head cocked to one side as if he were
remembering something real, "we discussed the ramifications of this case
in full then. Don't you, Leo? And I'd certainly have to mention
that if I got asked in a courtroom." He beamed at them. "After all,
a man can't lie under oath."

Falcone
thought about this for what seemed to Gianni Peroni an eternity. Finally, he
turned to Moretti. "They'll throw you to the dogs when this is
over. You know that, don't you? The moment it's convenient. They
can't use you again, not after this. You're tainted."

"Don't
worry about me," the commissario muttered. "Worry about yourself. And"--Peroni
was smiling very hard at him--"your ape."

Peroni
could feel the doubt and the tension rising inside the man next to him. Falcone
had been through civil wars inside the Questura many a time and usually came
off best. This was altogether different.

"Leo..."
Peroni began to say.

Falcone
put a hand on his arm and said, "Not now."

Filippo
Viale smiled. Then he pushed Peroni's gun and ID back across the table.

"You
two can wait downstairs," he said. "Call when you hear
something."

AROUND
MIDDAY the caretaker looked up, saw Nic Costa walking towards the booth inside
the great bronze doors of the Pantheon and emitted a long, low howl of grief.

Costa
stopped in front of him and took out his ID card.

The
florid, cracked face crumpled into an expression of intense distaste. "No!
Why me? Why don't you bastards turn up on someone else's shift? I've
been shot at. I've been beaten up and locked in a closet. Stay away.
Please. I just do the menial stuff around here. I want a quiet life for a day
or two."

Nic
Costa surveyed the vast, airy interior of the building. There were just five
other people there. Four of them--two men, two women--were walking
around the walls, idly staring up at the oculus, now letting a bright, blinding
stream of white winter sunlight into the shadowy hall. The men seemed too young
to be Bill Kaspar. Leapman had officers on the street, though. It was possible
they'd gotten wind of the situation and had decided to get into position.

The
fifth person, Emily Deacon, had, Costa presumed, done exactly as she was told. She'd
pulled a light metal chair out of the congregation area and placed it on the
circle that represented the epicentre of the building, the spot directly
beneath the opening above. Now she sat there, hunched over, hugging herself in
the lumpy parka, allowing him the occasional glance.

"We
need to empty the building," Costa said.

"Oh!
Really?" the caretaker snarled. "What is it this time? Alien
invasion? The plague?"

Costa
was walking over towards Emily, the man following in his footsteps, emitting a
stream of sarcastic bile.

He
stopped and turned to face the caretaker. "It's a bomb
scare."

"Oh
yeah?" The man was furious. "Well, let me tell you, mister. We have
procedures for bomb scares. I've done training. I know the rules. Someone
calls me. Police cars turn up outside big-time making a lot of noise. Not one
scrawny little cop who hasn't got his ugly partner in tow this
time..." He remembered something of the night before and added
hastily, "Not that I'm complaining, you understand."

Costa
knelt in front of Emily. She sat underneath the bright white eye, hands on her
lap, calm, expectant, the focus of the building's powerful, living
presence. He took her fingers in his and looked into her face.

"How
are you?" he asked quietly.

"Ready."

"Emily..."

She
reached up, flicked open the collar, letting him see the mike. A reminder:
somewhere close by Bill Kaspar was listening.

Besides,
she knew what he was going to say. There could be other ways. They could try
and sneak in a sniper. Or track down Kaspar before he had the chance to hit the
trigger.

"I
want to go through with this, Nic. I need to
know
."

"Understood,"
he said, stood up, reached forward, took her face in his hands, kissed her
forehead, just for a moment.

The
caretaker was standing beside them, tapping the stone floor with his right
foot. The sound echoed round and round the hemisphere, bouncing back from every
angle of its curves.

"So?"
the man said petulantly. "Procedures? Where's the rest of you,
huh?"

Costa
ran his hand to Emily's neck, found the zip, pulled it gently down,
carefully, carefully. She was taking shallow breaths, looking at him, not what
he was revealing.

He'd
got the zip halfway down when the caretaker saw. Strapped to Emily
Deacon's slight young chest was a military green vest loaded with bright
yellow canisters, familiar shapes, joined to one another by a writhing loom of
multicoloured wires.

"It's
a bomb," Costa said again, hearing the man retreat in a flurry of hurried
footsteps behind him. "Several, actually. I'll clear the building
myself. When it's empty, lock the doors, go to your office and await my
instructions."

The
other four visitors were French, two couples. Not Joel Leapman's team,
not unless they were unusually good at hiding who they were.

Nic
Costa let them out of the building, took a good look around and wondered where
and how William F. Kaspar had hidden himself in the tangled warren of alleys
that made up this ancient quarter of Rome. Then he took a second chair out of
the seating area, placed it next to Emily Deacon and began a long, long phone
conversation with Leo Falcone.

BACK
IN THE GREY BUILDING off the Via Cavour, Commissario Moretti squared the
closure of the Pantheon on unspecified security grounds, then fled to the
Questura pleading other appointments. Viale and Leapman went into a huddle on
their own. No one seemed much surprised by the news Costa had imparted through
Falcone. No one saw it as anything other than an opportunity to snatch Kaspar
either. Peroni was genuinely appalled that the idea of Emily Deacon sitting
with explosives strapped to her body, a deadline ticking over her head, one
that expired in precisely ninety minutes, seemed peripheral somehow, an
inconsequential fact in a larger, darker drama. Even to Leo Falcone, in a way.
The game had moved on. It was now about closure and survival. A part of
Peroni--not a part he liked--almost envied the way Moretti was able
to duck out of the door, hide in his office and try to pretend this was just
another ordinary day.

When
Viale gave the order, they left the SISDE building in two cars. Falcone sat in
the passenger seat of an unmarked police Fiat as Peroni drove through the
slushy, empty streets. The others followed in a plain grey van with a couple of
small antennae sprouting from its roof, a vehicle that to Gianni Peroni
screamed "spook" to anyone with half a mind and a small measure of
imagination.

Two
of Leapman's henchmen had materialized outside the building as they left,
unbidden as far as Peroni could work out. They were anonymous-looking
creatures, youngish, short hair, long dark winter coats, hands stuffed deep in
their pockets.

Peroni
thought about them as he drove. These men were trained in firearms and covert
operations. It was what they did and, in spite of Viale's doubts, Peroni
was in no doubt they were extremely efficient at it. Whereas he was a cop, one
who hated guns, hated the use of violence as a means of resolving an issue, saw
bloodshed as the ultimate failure. As did Costa. And, Peroni hoped, Leo
Falcone.

The
dour inspector made another call, to Costa from what Peroni could make out. It
wasn't easy. Falcone had spent most of the time listening, then asking
brief, cryptic questions.

When
Falcone was done, Peroni navigated a couple of patches of grubby snow still
staining the Piazza Venezia and decided he couldn't keep quiet any
longer. "You mind if I ask you something, Leo?"

"Is
there an answer I can give that will stop you?" Falcone replied.

"No.
What are we doing here? I mean, even if that SISDE bastard does have us trussed
up like a Christmas turkey, what's the point in making it all worse? If
we're screwed, we're screwed. Why do it twice over? Why not make
ourselves a few friends by throwing up our hands and letting someone else sort
out this crapfest?"

Falcone
rubbed his chin and stared at a pair of tourists wandering idly across the
road, oblivious to the presence of traffic.

"Very
good question," he conceded after a while.

"Do
I get a very good answer?"

"Maybe.
Maybe not."

The
grey van was now a couple of hundred metres in front, disappearing towards the
main drag of Vittorio Emanuele and the street which turned down to the
Pantheon.

"They're
right in one respect," Falcone told Peroni quietly. "Kaspar has to
come off the street. You know that as well as I do."

"Of
course I know that!" It was as if Falcone was trying to be exasperating. And
succeeding too. "It doesn't mean we just rub him out. I mean...
what kind of a world are we living in? I don't want to act like I'm
judge, jury and executioner. If I wanted that I'd move to South America
or somewhere."

"Pragmatism--"

"Bullshit!"

Falcone
pointed to the grey van ahead of them. "Keep up. So what do you suggest
we do?"

"OK!
Here's an idea. We go back to the Questura. We find some nice, powerful
uniform one office above Moretti. There has to be someone there who will
listen."

"In
the end," Falcone agreed. "But then we don't get Kaspar. Or
they get him anyway and disappear off the face of the planet, leaving us to
answer all the awkward questions. Plus, there's the small matter of Agent
Deacon. Who's looking out for her now, do you think? Leapman?"