David Hewson (51 page)

To
Costa's amazement, that did, at least, give the FBI man pause for
thought.

"What
does
he want?" Leapman demanded.

"Just
what he asked for last night," Costa explained quietly. "Proof."

"Great,"
Leapman grunted. "And in return?"

Costa
phrased this very carefully. "In return, he swears he'll give
himself up. He'll take off the vests, disarm them both--"

"What?"
Viale looked livid. "We're supposed to take that on trust? I want
him in my sight before he gets a damn thing. I'm not waiting on a
promise."

Costa
caught Emily's eye. He wanted her to know there was still hope, still
room to make things right. "I guess he's thinking much the same
way. He wants me to take him the evidence you've got. He'll check
it out. If it's real. Then--"

"Where's
the delivery?" Falcone asked.

"I
don't know," Costa lied. "He said he'd phone along the
way. And don't try to follow me. If he sees that, sees anything that
suggests we're trying to trick him, it's all over."

Costa
watched them turn this over in their heads. He knew what defeat looked like.

"He's
set this up so we don't have a lot of choices," he argued. "He's
not stupid enough to walk in here to collect. I don't think we're
in a position to get round him either. Do you?"

Leapman
stared at the stone floor in despair. "Jesus," he moaned.
"The bastard's still running rings around us."

Costa
risked a hopeful glance in Emily's direction. "Let me do it,"
he urged. "What's there to lose? He's adamant. If he gets the
documents you promised, he comes back with me and he's all yours. He said
he'd "surrender." That was the word he used."

A
military word, Costa thought. One that would strike a chord with a man like Joel
Leapman.

"Do
we have any other options?" Falcone wondered. "Is any part of this
negotiable?"

Costa
shook his head. "Absolutely not. I wouldn't even know how to phone
him back. He blocked the number."

"Bill
Kaspar," Leapman sighed. "What a guy." He looked Costa
straight in the face. "This place is a church or something, right?"

"Among
other things."

"Really."

Leapman
walked over to Viale, held out his hand, then, when the SISDE officer
didn't move an inch, took the blue folder from under his arm.

"This
is mine," Leapman said, handing him the thing. "I read it on the
way here. There's no one in there but Dan Deacon. If that doesn't
convince him Deacon was to blame, then nothing will. You go run your errand,
Costa. We stay here and pray."

THE
SKY WAS HAVING second thoughts. It was still bright, but there was a hint of
hazy ice seeping into the blue. More snow, Costa thought. Not for a few hours,
but it was on the way, a final random throw of the dice for this extraordinary
Christmas.

He
walked out of the shadow of the Pantheon doors, waited as Peroni closed the
vast bronze slab behind him, then strode down the steps into the piazza, close
to where Mauro Sandri had fallen three nights before. So much in such a short
space of time. This must have been what it was like for Kaspar in Iraq. Constant
movement, constant threats. That experience shaped the man now, made him what
he was. Obsessed with detail and planning, tied to the symmetry of the complex
web he'd spun around all of them, weaving his way through its intricacies
with an extraordinary, lethal dexterity.

Teresa
Lupo sat outside a cafe. She looked at him and tugged her thick coat around
her, then sipped at a cup of something that steamed in the cold, dry air.

Costa
stopped by her table and scanned the square. It was almost deserted.

"Did
it work?" she asked.

"I
believe it did," he answered. "And one day you're going to
have to tell me how."

"Just
some predictable pleas and threats." She sighed. "I'm not
really cut out for this, Nic."

Just
for a moment he smiled. "You could have fooled me. Here." He threw
the file on the table. "Keep it safe."

She
glanced at the folder, opened it, flicked through the sheaf of papers, each
with the SISDE log on top, each marked "secret."

"Oh
my," she said softly. "Are we in deep now?"

"Keep
the faith," Costa said and walked on, to the far side of the square, and
waited a good two minutes.

Then
the phone rang and he heard Kaspar's now familiar voice.

"
You
got good people, Costa. I like this. So where are you going
?"

"Piazza
Sant" Ignazio," Costa said.

"
Good.
I guess you really are who you say you are. But just to be safe I'll send
you someplace else--"

"Time!"
Costa yelled.

"
Walk
fast, brother. Via Metastasio. You know it
?"

"Of
course!"

"
Good.
Look for someone dressed just like Little Em. Big parka, hood tight up to the
face. I'm not taking any chances
."

"Sure."

The
line didn't go dead. "
You didn't ask
."

"Ask
what?" Costa wondered.

"
Whether
I'd really stick to the deal
."

"What's
the point?" Costa asked. "You're going to do what
you're going to do, aren't you?"

"
Of
course, Mr. Costa
," Kaspar said, laughing.

It
was just a sound on the cold, thin wind. But Nic Costa could have sworn that
Kaspar had let his guard down at that instant. Some real snatch of his voice
had carried into the square from nearby. If only...

He
pushed the idea from his head. He wasn't up to taking on William F.
Kaspar. None of them were.

"
I'm
sorry I interrupted you last night
," the voice said. "
She's
an interesting kid. Much more so than her dad
."

"If
she dies, Kaspar..."

The
man seemed offended. "
If she dies, I'd say you've really
fouled up. Now go
."

Nic
Costa strode rapidly through the narrow back streets, hands thrust deep into
his pockets, thrashing through the slush.

He
looked at his watch. There were twenty minutes left before the deadline ran
out. Fifteen, by the time he got back. Hopefully accompanied.

Trying
to kick the doubts out of his head, to convince himself there really was no
other way, Costa looked ahead.

He
was there, just as promised. Wrapped tightly in a parka that was identical to
Emily's, bulky underneath with the same kind of deadly gear.

Nic
Costa walked up and said, "Let's go."

There
wasn't an answer. He hadn't expected one. There wasn't even
an expression Costa could read. The hood was pulled tightly over his head, so
that all the world could see was a couple of bright, intense slits for eyes, so
narrow it was hard to gauge whether there was any expression there at all.

The
two of them set off down the street in silence, walked into the square and
ascended the low steps in front of the Pantheon, where Costa called to Leo
Falcone and waited for the bronze gates to open.

TWENTY
METRES AWAY, shivering from the increasing cold, Teresa Lupo gulped down the
last of her cappuccino, watched them go inside and pulled out a phone. She had
to think about the number. It wasn't one an employee of the state police
was used to dialling.

They
took an age to answer.

"Typical,"
Teresa whispered to herself.

Then
a jaded male voice came on the line. "Carabinieri."

Even
on the phone they sounded like pricks. "I don't know if I'm
calling the right number, Officer," she said, trying to act as stupid as
possible.

"What
do you want?" the bored voice sighed.

"You
see, the problem is, I could be imagining this. But I swear I just saw a
policeman--a state policeman--getting frog-marched into the Pantheon
by some man with a gun in his hand. And the place is closed too. All shut up.
When it should be open. That's not right, now, is it?"

"You
saw what?"

She
couldn't believe she had to repeat herself. At least the idiot went quiet
when she did, adding a very few details for verisimilitude along the way.

"The
thing is," she added, "it
was
a police officer. I suppose
I shouldn't be calling you really. I suppose I ought to call them."

Some
slow-burning spark of intelligence began to glow on the other end of the line.

"We'll
deal with it," the man said. "The Pantheon?"

"Exactly."

"And
your name?"

She
took a good look around her, pulled the phone away from her face, made a bunch
of the most disgusting noises she could think of straight down into the
mouthpiece.

"Sorry,"
she shrieked, holding the thing away from her face, "you're
breaking up on me now..."

And
hit the off button. They had ways of tracing you, even when you withheld your
number. Besides, Teresa reasoned, she didn't need the phone anymore. She
just had to wait until those big bronze doors opened.

"Hate
waiting," she murmured, then dashed back into the cafe for another
cappuccino before returning to her cold and solitary chair by the cheery stone
dolphins.

IT
WAS LEAPMAN by the doors, trying not to look triumphant. Costa came in behind
the figure in the huge parka, watched him shuffle to the centre of the room,
heard the huge door close behind them.

"Nice
work," the American murmured, thumping Costa on the back, then striding
to catch up with the parka.

"You're
welcome," Costa replied and stealthily slipped his hand into his pocket,
retrieved the pistol, holding it low and hidden by his waist.

The
jacketed figure came to a halt in front of the group in the centre of the
building: Viale and the two Americans, now joined on either side by Falcone and
Peroni.

"Bill
Kaspar," Leapman murmured, no mean measure of respect in his voice. "What
a man. You just walk right in here, bold as brass, like you promised. You read
that stuff, huh? You happy now? I hope so, Kaspar. Because we've been
waiting for this moment a long, long time."

Leapman's
hand came up to the parka hood, a big service revolver in it.

"So
you just unwire yourself and the infant here. No tricks. Nothing. We've
kept to our part of the deal. Indulge us in a discussion and then we'll
be taking you home."

The
only part of the man that was moving was his head, swaying from side to side,
as if he were trying to shake something away.

"It's
not as simple as that."

Leapman
blinked, lowered the gun for a moment, turned and glowered at Emily Deacon as
if her words were some impudent intrusion into his day. "What?"

"She
said," Costa muttered into his ear, letting the barrel of his own weapon
slide with some deliberate menace onto Leapman's cheek, "it's
not as simple as that. I'm taking your weapon, Agent Leapman." He
glanced at the others. "And the rest of you."

"What
the--?" Leapman yelled, letting the pistol fall into Costa's
grip even as he did so. "Jesus, Falcone--"

To
the American's fury, Falcone and Peroni were relieving his agents of
their guns too, with a careful, professional attention that didn't brook
any resistance.

Falcone
pocketed Friedricksen's piece and watched Peroni do the same for his
partner. "You're making too much noise, Leapman," Falcone
replied. "Stop yelling and start listening."

Then
he looked at Viale. "You?"

The
SISDE man was flushed with outrage, even under the grey afternoon light. His
gloved hands waved at them in anger. "This is insane. What on earth do
you think you're doing?"

He
pulled out his phone and started stabbing at the keys.

"Peroni!"
Falcone ordered.

The
big man was over in two strides, relieving Viale of the phone.

"Check
him," Falcone barked. "He probably thinks he's too far up the
damn ladder to carry a gun but I'd like to know."

Viale
held his arms loose at his side as Peroni gave him a none-too-delicate frisk. "You
three are really at the end of the road, you know. You can't fuck with
people like me, Falcone. I'll crucify you, I swear it."

"Yeah,
yeah, yeah," Peroni grumbled. "Clean," he announced. "I
guess he expects others to do his dirty work for him. Foul mouth, though. If I
hear much more, I'll have to do something about that."

"As
good as dead!" Viale yelled. "All of you!"

Peroni
stood very close in front of him and looked down into the SISDE man's
apoplectic face and said, very slowly, in that tone Costa instantly recognized,
the one that could silence the meanest street hood: "Now be a good boy
and shut the fuck up."