David Hewson (47 page)

Instinctively,
Costa scanned the bar.

Emily
put her hand to his chin and pulled his attention back to her. "He could
be anywhere. Don't even think about it. There's a deal on the
table, Nic. Let's focus on that. We mustn't screw it up."

He
nodded. "I understand."

"Good."

Teresa
was staring at a mark on the other woman's neck. "Are you hurt,
Emily?" she asked.

"I
must have faIlen," she replied. "It's nothing. Don't
worry about me."

Then
Costa gently pulled down the first few inches of the zipper on the front of the
parka.

"No,
Nic," Emily ordered. She pulled his hand away, then jerked the zip back
up. "Not here. Not now. That's not what matters. Don't think
about that part. We don't even get that far."

Teresa
said quietly, "That's what we all want, Emily. But can we stop
him?"

"Yes!"

"You're
sure?" Teresa reiterated.

"I'm
sure!" she snapped. Then, more quietly, "And I'm not in a
position to argue. OK?"

Costa
found it hard to work out whether she was saying what she did for
Kaspar's benefit or because she really believed it.

"He
killed your father, Emily," Teresa pointed out. "He killed all
those other people. How can we trust him?"

Emily
Deacon frowned. "I know that. But he talked to me last night. We went
over a lot of things. He had his reasons. He feels he had some justification.
That there was no other way. I don't agree with that for one moment. I
don't imagine he'd expect me to. But..."

Nic
took out a pen from his jacket pocket, slipped it onto the table next to a
napkin.

"He
just wants to know justice--his definition of justice--has been
done," she finished, looking at the pen without moving to pick it up.

Then
she scribbled two words on the paper.

You know
?

Costa
nodded and wrote a name next to the question.

She
closed her eyes. She looked a little faint. Then she picked up the napkin,
stared at the writing there, fixed him with those sharp, incisive blue eyes and
mouthed, "Sure?"

Costa
cupped his hand over the mike, leaned close into her left ear, smelled the
trace of shampoo on her hair, a familiar scent, one from his own home, and
murmured, "I'm sure he lived in an American-owned house in the
Piazza Mattei in 1990. And that he was the only one there. Is that enough?"

Her
cheek pressed into his, her lips briefly kissed his neck.

"Oh
yes," Emily whispered into his ear.

She
took his hand off the mike, brushed her lips against his fingers and smiled
broadly, just for a moment.

"If
Kaspar wants justice," Nic said, "all he's got to do is walk
into any Questura. That's why we're there."

"He
will. I promise."

She
scribbled out an address and a time, then gave it to Teresa.

"That's
where he wants the evidence delivered and when. No one but you two know that. He
might want to test you. I'd be surprised if he didn't.
And"--she paused, making sure they understood this last
point--"make it good evidence. Please."

Nic
Costa wanted a magic wand at that moment. Something that could just spirit them
out of there, take away all the trappings of death and violence, put them back
into a world that was whole and warm and human.

"What
if something goes wrong?" he asked. "If there's a
delay... how do we get in touch with him?"

"No!"
Her eyes were pleading with him. "He won't buy that, Nic. He's
too smart. You do things his way. Or..."

Kaspar
would be utterly inflexible, Costa understood this. He was offering to
surrender. The terms would surely be his.

"I'll
call Falcone when I can get through," he promised her. "I'll
make the arrangements."

"And
me?" Teresa asked.

Emily
reached into her jacket, took out a plastic security swipe card, then scribbled
an incomprehensible jumble of letters and numbers and an e-mail address on the
napkin. "If you can talk your way into Leapman's office, this will
get you on the system. After that... You and Nic need to try and find some
way to work this out together. I can't..."

Maybe
it was some kind of delayed shock. She rocked back onto her chair. Her face was
white. She was on the verge of breaking. Costa could see it and he didn't
have the words to help.

Teresa
Lupo intervened. She bent forward and put her arms around Emily's slight
shoulders. "Emily," she whispered, "keep going. We can do
this."

Then
Teresa was gone, not looking back, not wanting to see what Costa knew would be
a difficult moment of intimacy.

The
American's hands felt his again, just the briefest touch. She was cold
now, she was sweating.

"Make
it work, Nic," Emily Deacon told him softly. "This isn't just
for me."

She
leaned forward, kissed his cheek, her lips cold. Then she shuffled the hood
around her head, disappeared into its bulk and, eyes firmly on the floor,
walked away, out into the bright, biting morning, out towards the hulking
presence of the ancient building around the corner.

PERONI
LISTENED WITH a growing sense of unease as Falcone forced them to focus on the
message Kaspar had given him the previous night: proof.

Leapman
was adamant, in a confident way that worried Peroni no end. "It was Dan
Deacon. This was Deacon's show all along. Kaspar'd know that if he
had half a mind left."

That
wasn't the point, Peroni thought, and surely they knew it. "Can you
prove it?" he asked. "I looked into that man's face last
night and he's going to take some convincing. I told you. He spoke with
Deacon. I don't think--"

"Deacon!
Deacon!" Leapman yelled. "The bastard was a traitor! How the hell
can anyone rely on a word Dan Deacon ever said?"

"The
man was trying to save his life at the time. I don't think people are
very adept at lying in those situations."

Leapman
glowered at the SISDE man. "Tell him."

Viale
made that slight, amused gesture he used to put people down. "We lie
anytime we damn well feel like. Welcome to our world. Best accept it."

"What
we accept," Falcone said curtly, "is that Kaspar is making a direct
threat, one he is doubtless determined to carry out,
in this city
.We're
under a duty to understand and respond to that. It's important we know
what we can offer him to get him to back down. Can you prove it was
Deacon?"

"No,"
Leapman replied. "If you want a straight answer."

Peroni
felt like grabbing the guy by the throat again. He seemed so detached from the
problem. He looked as if he were turning down an expense account. "Why
not? These things must cost millions of dollars. You've got to have
accounts, records, something."

The
American actually laughed. Gianni Peroni found he had to make a conscious
effort to stay in his seat.

"What
planet are you people living on?" Leapman asked. "That's the
last thing any of us would want. These operations are specifically designed so
that if they go wrong, the shit stays on the ground and doesn't seep
anywhere near the rest of us. That's the only way they can succeed.
Kaspar knows that as well as anyone. He invented half the rules. Asking for an
audit trail now shows how deranged the guy is. He might as well ask us to go
public and hang ourselves."

"You've
got--" Peroni persisted.

"No!"
Leapman snapped. "Listen. These were the rules Kaspar played by. He
can't buck them now. Deniability's everything. No papers. No bank
transactions. Nothing. Just a bunch of money going missing in some accounts in
Washington, in ways no one's ever going to notice."

Commissario
Moretti finally found his voice. "You heard what they said, Viale. I'll
go along with this so far, but I don't want trouble here on the streets
of Rome. That wasn't part of the deal."

"It's
a tough world out there," Viale said softly, staring at the table. "We'll
cope."

"Dammit!"
Moretti screeched. "We do cope. We're the police. We're here
for a reason."

"You're
here because you're convenient," Viale reminded him nastily. "I've
never met a cop who rolled over as easily as you did. Jesus. Leo here
wouldn't have fallen for a trick like that. He'd have checked. He did
check. You..."

The
grey man didn't even attempt to disguise his contempt for the man in the
uniform. "You're just a stuffed-up buffoon with a pen and a few
shiny buttons on your jacket. You're useful to me, Bruno, but don't
overestimate your value. And don't get in the habit of talking
back."

The
commissario went silent, shaking his head. Shock, Peroni thought. And maybe
even a little well-deserved shame.

"He's
going to contact us somehow," Falcone insisted. "He's going
to want something."

Viale
reached over, took Moretti's pen and notepad and made a couple of
indecipherable scribbles. "Then we'll give him it. I'm not
having another innocent death here. I can put some documents together. Keep him
occupied until we find him."

Peroni
wanted to scream. "Don't you understand? This guy's no fool.
You can't just slip him some phoney letters and hope he'll swallow
it. He's wise to tricks like that."

Leapman
nodded. "He's right. If you give him fake stuff it'll only
make him madder. Then what?"

Viale
looked immensely pleased with himself. "Who said it was going to be fake,
Joel?"

"What?"
the American snarled.

"You
heard."

The
SISDE man got up from the desk and walked over to the far side of the office
where there was a set of heavy-duty, old-fashioned filing cabinets secured by
combination locks. He flicked through some numbers on the nearest, slid open a
drawer and retrieved a blue file.

Leapman
uttered a low, bitter curse.

"Oh,
please!" Viale was loving this. "This was your show. We were just
housekeeping. And"--he waved the file at the
American--"housekeepers keep records. I was just rereading them last
night, Joel. To refresh my memory. We have a habit around here. We note down
conversations afterwards. We like to make sure we remember what we can. You may
have had lots of reasons to cut off everything at the source. We had just as
many to keep a few reminders of what really happened. Just in case someone
started pointing fingers in our direction later. We're your allies.
We're not your lackeys. Or your fall guys. You didn't really think
we'd be willing to go down with the ship, if it came to that, did
you?"

"Well,
well, well," Leapman spat back at him. "It's the people on
your own side who fuck you up the most."

Viale
withdrew a photo from the file and threw it on the desk. It was of a group of
men and women in casual, semi-military uniform, working on a jeep. The shot
looked unposed. None of them knew they were being photographed. The location
was wild countryside, maybe Italy, maybe not.

Leapman
glowered at the image in front of them. "What the hell were you doing
taking that?"

Viale
scattered some more photos on the desk, all of the same scene.

"Being
prudent," Viale answered, pointing at one picture. "Look at the
date."

It
was printed on the bottom of the photo:
12 October 1990
.

"This
is before Kaspar even knew about the mission. And there's Dan
Deacon."

"That
just means Deacon was in on the deal," Peroni objected. "Doesn't
mean he was running it."

"Details,
details." Viale dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. He patted the
file. "Kaspar just needs something new to interest him and here it is. Some
documents. Some photos. Something that points the finger straight at Deacon. While
Kaspar's looking at that... Can't you see what I'm
offering you?" Viale opened his arms, a gesture of generosity.
"These men you have here? They're good, aren't they?"

"They're
good," Leapman agreed.

"Then
what more can you want?"

Peroni
shook his head. It wasn't supposed to work out this way. He looked at
Falcone, who was watching Viale, idly stroking his silver goatee, not an iota
of expression on his lean face.

"Am
I really hearing this?" Peroni demanded. "Do you think we're
just going to stand to one side while you people run up a little assassination
squad under our noses?"

Viale
pulled a puzzled face. "What's the alternative? He can't go
into a courtroom in Italy. That would be much too embarrassing all round. And I
don't just mean for present company either. You don't think
we're our own masters in all this, do you? We're just following
orders too, from people who want results without having to bear the
consequences. It's an invidious position. It always is. The people who
were involved in this are still around. You don't honestly think
you'd be allowed to bring down a minister? Or an entire
government?"