David Hewson (24 page)

He
cast one short glance back towards Barberini. A couple of guys in dark coats
were going into the Net cafe. Not the usual clientele.

Morons
.
This was like playing with amateurs. Like playing with little Emily Deacon, who
wasn't that much changed, in some ways, from when she'd been a
girl, shaking her long blonde hair to rock music in Steely Dan Deacon's
parlour a lifetime before, a little kid wondering why two grown men full of
beer found her so funny.

There
was a cafe on the corner of a side street: standard coffee, two uncomfortable
wooden seats by the window, just one customer, an old man spooning stained
sugar into his mouth out of an empty cup. Bill Kaspar ordered an overpriced
cappuccino and sat by the smeary glass, damp with condensation, looking out
into the cold world beyond, listening. Bugs were unreliable. They'd never
work from inside the embassy. There were devices to prevent that, networks of
transmitters that sent out a constant blur of electronic noise to deafen anyone
trying to intrude.

But
he was fishing too. In truth he was starting to get desperate. He'd tried
every other avenue he could think of. The idea had occurred to him the previous
night, just when he was beginning to realize who Emily Deacon was as she
struggled against his iron grip, just as he was struggling against the voices,
trying to convince them there was something better he could do with the girl
than take her life.

The
bug was the size of a one-cent coin. As he'd wrestled her into submission
under Giordano Bruno's watching statue, he'd pushed the Velcro back
into the underside of the collar on her thick black jacket, on the off chance,
not knowing how he could use this opportunity or whether she'd be smart
enough to pick it up anyway. It was worth a try.

The
earphone crackled. There was just static, the unintelligible rustling of a
digital infinity, maybe one the embassy was putting out itself. It could be two
thousand euros, the last real money he had, straight down the drain.

Then,
after thirty minutes, just when the man behind the counter was beginning to
stare at his empty cup wondering when he'd buy another, he heard
something else, the unmistakable sound of traffic heard from inside a car. Muffled
horns, a car engine, the guttural echo of a bus rumbling up the Via Veneto.

He
signalled to the barman for another. And in his ear there came two voices:
Emily Deacon and a man, a native Italian, so clear, so young and determined, he
could almost picture a face emerging out of the hissing, fizzing jingle jangle
of sound in his ear.

"YOU
CAN PULL in here, Nic. I need to go home and pick up a few things first."

She
indicated an apartment block just up from the embassy. A fancy address. From
her expression--Emily Deacon didn't miss much--Costa was aware
a look of surprise had crossed his face.

"It's
a government apartment," she told him, amused. "No, I can't
afford a place in the Via Veneto myself. Not on an FBI salary."

She
hesitated for a moment, then scribbled a number down on a notepad, ripped off
the page and handed it to him. "If you want, call direct. On my mobile.
It can be difficult getting through to the office. The apartment is the one
with Clinton on the bell. Someone's idea of a joke, I guess."

He
watched a bus work gingerly past the car, navigating the soft, grey slush, then
made a U-turn and parked a little way up from the embassy, just outside the
block she'd pointed out.

"You
should get some sleep," he suggested. "It was a long night."

"I
did sleep. Remember?"

"Ah,
right." It was easy to forget. She looked exhausted. Troubled, too. She'd
listened silently to Falcone's brusque interrogation. She was tough
enough to take it, Costa didn't doubt that. But something was bothering
her and he had a feeling it wasn't just a grilling from a pushy Italian
cop.

"What
do you do next?" he asked.

"Get
some fresh clothes, take a shower and go into the office. What else is
there?"

Not
much, he thought. For either of them. All the same it was worth making the
protest. "Why? You can't work all the time. There's nothing
new, is there? You saw the expression on Falcone's face. He's like
a barometer. When things look up so does he."

She
was silent.

"Sorry,"
he said, cursing himself. "What I meant to say was, there's nothing
new as far as we're aware. Maybe your friend in there is better
informed."

She
smiled and he saw it again: the years just fell off her. Being a pseudo-cop
didn't fit Emily Deacon. It was a deadweight on her slender shoulders,
one she wouldn't shirk, even though he didn't doubt it had never
been part of her plan.

"Maybe
he is," she answered. "Maybe not. How many times do I need to
explain this, Nic? Do you really think I'm going to find out?"

"I
don't know."

The
light blue eyes didn't leave him for a moment. It was a kind of reproach.
"You don't?"

"No.
All I know is we're getting bounced around like junior partners or
something. And this is
our
town, Emily. You should remind the man in
there of that sometime."

"I'm
sure he'd listen."

"Someone
has to," he said firmly.

She
shook her head and ran a couple of fingers through her blonde locks.

"Are
you asking what I think you're asking?"

"I'm
asking for some trust."

"I
don't know you." It came out as a flat, plain statement. It was
true too. "Do you go around trusting people you don't know?"

"All
the time," he replied. "It's one of my many
weaknesses."

"Then
you're a fool, Nic. I need to go now."

He
peered out of the jeep window, which was clouding over with condensation in
spite of the air-conditioning running full blast. She'd picked up her bag
and was reaching for the door.

Costa
leaned over and put his hand on her arm. He needed to make this point. "Leapman
refused to tell us why he knew it was worth coming to Rome before anything
happened. Did he tell you?"

"We've
been through this," she said with a weary sigh. "I've no
idea. I just know what Leapman wants me to know."

"Emily.
We told you about Margaret Kearney being a fake. We gave you that passport
photo. Seems to me that's a hell of a lot more than anyone in
there"--he nodded towards the big grey building--"has
been prepared to give us. And another thing..."

What
was the phrase the English used? "In for a penny, in for a pound."

"What
are you doing here? Don't you ever ask yourself that? Why you?
A..."

He
didn't even know what she was back in America.

She
came up with the answer for him. "Junior systems analyst."

"Exactly.
Whatever the hell that means. It doesn't sound like ideal training for
chasing a serial killer around Rome."

"Look.
I ask myself this all the time, Nic, and I don't hear any answers. What
am I supposed to do? Shout and scream at Leapman until he cracks? You're
not the only ones in the dark here. Leapman is his own man in that building. Half
the embassy staff don't know who he is and those that do daren't
talk to him."

"Well,
that's just wonderful--"

"Yes,
it is!"

"OK,"
he said, trying to bring down the temperature just a little. "Let me make
a suggestion. Maybe this is nothing, Emily. Maybe not."

He
waited. She had to ask.

"Well?"
The blue eyes wouldn't let go.

"It's
just this. We've been on a kind of alert over attacks on Americans since
October. A man called Henry Anderton was attacked in the ghetto. Badly beaten
up. Anderton lived, but he was lucky. There were a couple of uniform cops in
the area who got involved. Whoever the guy was ran off. If our men hadn't
been there..."

"I
didn't know that." She was interested. He'd caught her
attention. "What did Anderton do?"

Costa
pulled out his notebook and rifled through the pages. "I checked during
the night. He was some kind of academic working over here on a project. A
military historian. Does his name mean anything?"

She
shook her head. "Should it?"

"I
don't know. I made a few more inquiries. I can't find an academic
anywhere called Henry Anderton. He was out of hospital after two days, gone to
some private clinic, no one knows where."

"Keeps
on happening."

"Quite."

He
didn't want to come right out and ask it. He wasn't sure he was
close enough to her yet. All the same...

"Someone
in there will know, Emily. It could help. Both of us."

She
sighed, folded her arms. "This isn't about my father, Nic. Don't
try and use that. I want this guy caught for all of them. More than anything I
want him caught because that's my job now. It's what I'm
supposed to do, like it or not."

He
shrugged. "Sorry."

She
didn't move.

"Will
you at least think about it?" he asked.

A
flash of fury again. "What? Smuggling information out of the confidential
files of the US embassy? They fire you for that, I believe."

"Would
that be so bad?"

"You
mean because I'm lousy at this anyway?"

Delicate
territory. "I meant because... I don't think you enjoy this
kind of work."

"Perhaps
I don't. But they also send you to jail. I don't imagine I'd
enjoy that either."

He
couldn't stifle a brief laugh.

"What's
so funny?" she demanded.

"I
had that kind of conflict myself once. Did all the wrong things. Which were, in
my view, all the right things."

"What
happened?"

"Long
story. You can hear it sometime if you want. Anyway I'm still here,
aren't I?"

"Oh
yes," she murmured. "You're here. You and that partner of
yours. But no one's going to miss either of you."

It
hung on a knife edge. He could so easily ruin things.

"Henry
Anderton," she repeated.

"I
can write it down," he said, reaching for the pad.

She
snatched it away. "That would be really smart. Are you at home this
evening? Six or seven onwards?"

"Could
be."

"Do
me a favour too." She started scribbling something on the notepad. "Look
up this name. Everywhere you can find. Tonight we can compare notes. And...
Damn!"

There
was a shape by the car. Costa felt his spine stiffen, saw images from the
previous two nights flash through his head and reached for his gun.

The
jeep door opened. Agent Leapman stood there, staring in at them, looking even
more pissed off than usual.

"What
is this? The kindergarten run?" Leapman demanded. "You
should've been at your desk an hour ago, Deacon."

Behind
her back, Emily's hand, small, firm and warm, thrust itself briefly into
Costa's, pushing the screwed-up page from the pad into his palm. Their
fingers entwined, just briefly.

Leapman
didn't see a thing. He was too busy making an impression.

"Go
sit in there and look busy, will you, Deacon?" the FBI man snarled. "I
got things to do."

She
pulled her hand free, reclaimed her bag and started to get out of the car.

"Can't
I come along?"

"What's
the point?" Leapman's back was turned to her already; he
wasn't even bothering to watch. "Go write a report. File something.
Defrag a hard drive. Whatever..."

Costa
watched them go their separate ways. She didn't look back. A part of him
resented that. Another knew better. Falcone had said it. Perhaps he'd
seen this coming all along.

"Dangerous
games," Nic Costa murmured to himself, then opened the piece of paper and
read the name:
Bill Kaspar
.

From
across the road, seated on a hard wooden chair in a tiny cafe, someone else
watched them too, watched Emily Deacon flash a card at the gate, then walk past
the security guard, straight through the door, into a sea of bright,
unintelligible noise.

GIANNI
PERONI was good with the girl. No, Teresa Lupo corrected herself, he was
amazing
.
He built a bond with her in a way Teresa couldn't hope to comprehend,
able to communicate an emotion--sympathy, disappointment,
expectation--with just a look, able to see too that Laila had a need for
what he could provide. Reassurance. And sometimes just attention. It
wasn't easy. It wasn't all plain sailing. Each time Laila got
tired, Peroni backed off. He knew just when to stop pushing.

And
the kid wanted to be on her own a lot. Or at least that's what she pretended.
It was an act, though. After a while--ten, fifteen
minutes--she'd drift back to Peroni, nudge him with an elbow, ask
some pointless question. Her Italian was heavily accented but much better than
they'd first thought. She was quick-witted too. Teresa could see a glint
of keen intelligence in her dark eyes, though much of the time it was marred by
the stain of suspicion every street kid seemed to own. They were never quite
happy, even in their own company. Something, some cataclysm, hunger, disaster, an
encounter with the cops, was always waiting around the corner.