Costa 08 - City of Fear (30 page)

She flicked through them and saw mug shots of herself and Petrakis, pictures taken in Afghanistan. No one else. Not Joseph Priest or Deniz Nesin anywhere.

Three of the passports were sets, made for a couple who would pose as man and wife.

“I have a name already,” Anna Ybarra told him.

“A good general plans for all eventualities,” Petrakis said, watching her. He’d poured the champagne into two cheap glass beakers. The drink was the color of straw. She let him hand her a glass and took a sip. Vintage champagne didn’t taste like anything she’d ever tried before. It made her throat feel a little numb, made her head spin for a moment.

She took one more sip and put the glass down.

“The passports …” she murmured. “My photo. Anyone would think I get out of this alive, Andrea.”

He toasted her with the champagne. “Is there any reason you shouldn’t?”

“Three I can think of so far.”

“They were drones. There’s something different about you.” He took a long draft of the drink and briefly closed his eyes. “You don’t care, do you?”

“Not much.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Where would we go? Afterwards?”

He shrugged. “Where would you like?”

“Somewhere there’s not many people. A desert island. Antarctica.”

“I’ll book the tickets.”

He took one step forward and chinked his glass against hers.

Petrakis placed his hand against her jacket and began to unfasten the buttons. Then he bent down, pulled her into him with his arm, placed his face in the nape of her neck, kissed her neck with an amateurish roughness.

She put the passports back on the table.

Anna Ybarra couldn’t get their faces out of her mind. Joseph, the stupid Kenyan, thinking he was working his way to a different kind of life. Deniz, miserable, coldhearted Deniz, who had no love for anything.

And the man-child Danny, which was not his real name and never
had been. She’d heard him chattering in his sleep, frightened murmurings, the product of nightmares she could only guess at. In those extreme moments he used one language and one alone: It sounded like Russian, and it had the plaintive, pleading tone of a captive.

Petrakis was working at her clothes with awkward, fumbling fingers. She let him. She’d allow him anything at that moment, however much it revolted her. Anna Ybarra knew she was lucky to be alive, and somehow, for the first time in ages, this seemed to matter.

IT WAS PAST THREE IN THE MORNING BY THE TIME THEY got on the road: Falcone at the wheel, Peroni in the front seat, Costa squeezed in the back between Teresa and Rosa, both of whom began to doze as the car worked its way back to the highway on the coast.

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking. About how Mirko Oliva died and they survived. And the way the black helicopters of Luca Palombo had descended from the night sky unbidden, only to disappear just as quickly once the Ministry of the Interior spook had found what he was looking for.

As they drove from Tarquinia toward the coast and the glittering sea beyond, Costa pulled Teresa’s phone out of her bag and called the Quirinale Palace, asking to be put through to the duty Corazzieri captain.

“Nic …” Falcone began to say testily from the front.

It was too late. The palace switchboard sounded alert and a little frightened. He had to talk his way past three people before Fabio Ranieri answered, sounding tired and close to the end of his tether.

“It’s Costa. I can’t talk to you the usual way. Sorry.”

Ranieri went quiet for a moment, then asked, “What was I doing twenty years ago?”

“Working for military liaison with NATO in Brussels. And looking for somewhere decent to eat.”

“Let me call you back on another line.”

The phone rang again almost immediately.

“This time I do need to speak to him,” Costa insisted.

“Do you have any idea what happened tonight?”

“Some. That’s why.”

There was a moment’s silence, another attempt at prevarication, which Costa avoided. Then he heard a familiar voice and a face rose in his memory: the long, extended features of the Bloodhound, a friendly, inquisitive countenance that seemed to have been ever-present in his childhood.

“This is not the best of times, Sovrintendente,” Sordi said in a tone of mild irritation.

Costa kept the narrative short and to the point, and found he was able to imagine the shock and outrage on Sordi’s sad, pale face as he spoke. He left out nothing that had happened at the site of the tomb of the Blue Demon. Not Mirko Oliva’s sudden end or Luca Palombo’s threats.

When he was done, there was silence. Then Dario Sordi said, with a sigh, “I blame myself. I should never have asked you to undertake this task. You must stop immediately. Let me call Esposito. It’s … busy here, as you may imagine.”

“We can’t stop,” Costa interrupted.

There was a pause. Sordi was unaccustomed to being refused something.

“Why not?”

“Because we lost someone.”

“I’m deeply sorry about that, Nic. I don’t want any more casualties on my conscience.”

Costa sat up straight and was aware of the charged atmosphere in Falcone’s Lancia. “It doesn’t work like that, Dario. You can’t turn these things off and on when you feel like it. You can’t …”

“I am the president of Italy!”

“You’re one more individual under the law. No different from any of us. You gave us this job. We haven’t finished it, and we’ve more reason than ever to do that now. This is where we are, where you sent us.”

“No!”

He was aware that the car had stopped. Falcone had pulled into a turnout on the highway. They were all staring at him.

“What?” Costa asked, looking at the four faces peering in his direction.

“Do we get a say?” Peroni demanded.

“Do you need one?”

“Not really,” the big man answered. “But it would be nice to be asked.”

Falcone held out his hand for the phone. Sordi’s voice was coming out of it, a tinny, angry shriek. The inspector waited and then introduced himself, listened for a moment, and said, “Mr. President, you heard the
sovrintendente
. We have a dead colleague, and Luca Palombo thinks it’s none of our business. He is wrong. If you agree with him, you are wrong too. Now, kindly answer my colleague’s questions.”

He handed the phone back.

Sordi let loose an old and uncommon epithet, then bellowed, “Who the hell do you people think you are?”

“We’re the police,” Costa responded. “We ask the questions you want answered, but are too polite to ask. We go to the places you want to know about, but dare not enter. You started this, Dario. Don’t think you can call it off now. You can’t.”

“Jesus! You are your father’s son. What was I thinking?”

“I was under the impression you were trying to find out the truth.”

“I was, Nic. I am. But not at any cost …” Costa listened to Sordi’s long intake of breath. It was slow, a little wheezy, the sound of an old man. “Tomorrow morning
—this
morning—is the principal meeting of the summit. I have the most important men and women in the world under my roof. Sucking up to Ugo Campagnolo because they know he’s the man with the real power, and I’m just some old has-been with the keys to the front door. Good God.” A note of self-contempt entered his voice. “What am I talking about? This is to do with Rome. She’s like a ruin in the wilderness. Full of frightened people, wondering what they did to deserve any of this. And somewhere …” Another long sigh. “Petrakis and his people are still out there, planning. Do you have any idea where they are? What they really want?”

“No.”

“Can you find out?”

“We can try. If you can stop Palombo getting in the way. Why do you think I called?”

“Palombo is Campagnolo’s man, not mine. Now that we have a state of emergency …” There was desperation in his tired tones, something Costa had never heard before. “I’m head of the armed forces. But there are limits. You have to understand. In times like these the power lies with those in the field. Even a commander has little control over individual events, hour by hour. Luca Palombo is much more the master of Italy than I am at this moment, and through him Ugo Campagnolo.”

“Do what you can,” Costa suggested.

“Yes, sir,” Sordi answered drily.

One question bothered Costa.

“I tried to call earlier.”

“Ranieri told me. I’m sorry. I was talking to our charming prime minister, about art and other things he doesn’t understand.”

“I’m sure you meant well when you told Palombo we were in Tarquinia, but in the future …”

“Excuse me?” Sordi interrupted.

“Palombo came straight to us—I assumed …”

“I never told anyone, Nic. I would never dream of such a thing. No one was aware of your work for me, outside the people you know already.”

It was the middle of the night. Costa felt exhausted. He couldn’t think straight. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse.”

“I must go. We have a security briefing. Palombo will believe you were simply overzealous police officers who refused to know their place. If the subject comes up, I shall defend you and insist we have more important matters to deal with. This is true, by the way. Is there something else I can tell you?”

Probably, Costa thought, if only he could find the right question. But he said, “No.”

“Then good night,” the president said. “And take care.”

They were all wide awake and looking at him.

“How did they find you?” Falcone wondered. “Who knew you were there?”

“The women at the tomb in Tarquinia. But”—it seemed inconceivable—“I can’t believe it was them.”

“Look for links,” Teresa suggested.

Rosa moaned, “There aren’t any.”

“There are always links,” the pathologist said patiently. “The hard part is finding them.” She thought for a moment, then said, “How many phone calls did you make from the tomb?”

“Two. One to the Quirinale on that private cell phone Sordi gave me.” Costa shook his head. “Dario isn’t lying. He’s adamant we can trust Ranieri.”

“And the second?” she persisted.

A little light came on, and with it a memory: Luca Palombo snatching from his fingers the phone he’d taken from the corpse in the Blue Demon’s chamber.

He retrieved the SIM he’d got from the handset in the tomb, then looked at her, grateful she’d got this out of him.

“This wasn’t about us. It was about tracking Stefan Kyriakis. For whatever reason. They picked up my call when they were listening for him.”

She nodded. “Good guess. Let’s get that thing to Silvio, shall we?”

IT WAS A LONG, SLOW DRIVE, ONE IN WHICH COSTA drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. Close to the city, he awoke, suddenly alert, to find Falcone driving down some long, winding road, one that finally emerged at the gigantic subterranean parking lot hidden beneath the earth just a short way from St. Peter’s. There was an all-night cafe there. The man behind the counter nodded at Falcone as if they were old acquaintances. Costa wondered how well he really knew this man, even after all these years.

They got coffee and pastries in paper bags, returned to the car, and then he drove them somewhere they all recognized, the summit of the Gianicolo hill nearby, and Garibaldi’s monument, a place every Roman child was taken to at least once. It was a picturesque spot, with wonderful views back to the city. Listening to his father’s tales of the patriots, fighting a desperate battle they would come to lose, Costa, as a child, had found it difficult to equate these bloody stories with the verdant, lovely park to which ordinary Romans retreated of a weekend, seeking a little peace and quiet. He had, he now realized, yet to learn the lesson of adulthood: that evil was a mundane thing, present everywhere, even in places of beauty.

Falcone got out of the car and walked to the balustrade of the viewpoint, popping open his coffee, biting into a
cornetto
, looking as if he’d done this a million times on perpetual sleepless nights.

The city looked dead, but a ray of light was breaking in the east, rising over the distant Sabine Hills. There was scarcely any traffic on either side of the river. The
centro storico
seemed devoid of life.