David Hewson (54 page)

Great,
she thought. Nic finally gets a girl and she lives in America, a different
world, across a distant ocean. Probably jobless too, though with that beautiful
blonde hair and a pretty, magnetic face that went from cool to angry to
childlike in the space of a couple of seconds it wouldn't take long. God,
she thought. Can't men pick them?

After
all, Gianni Peroni had picked her and that made no sense at all.

"Who
am I kidding?" she murmured, suddenly furious with herself. "I'm
the catch of a lifetime."

She
watched Laila place the carrot in the centre of the snowman's face, turn
to Falcone and smile. Such an open, untainted smile, one she'd not
managed to get out of the girl however hard she tried. One that, to her alarm,
Falcone returned with just as much sudden, unbridled warmth. Then his phone
bleated and the old Leo resurfaced. An urgent desire for a glass of grappa rose
in Teresa. She walked into the living room, saw Gianni Peroni there, alone on
the sofa, head back on a cushion, mouth open.

"Move
over, you big lunk," she grumbled, then shuffled down beside him and
poured herself a big glass of the clear stuff.

Those
smart, piggy eyes opened and looked at her. "Yes?"

"Yes
what?"

"You
look like you want to get something off your chest."

"No,
I don't!"

He
shrugged. She was going to have her say anyway and he knew it.

"I
wish you were right, Gianni. I wish you could talk someone out of being ill. And
Laila is ill, you know. All that stealing. It's just a part of something
else. Being sick. Not quite able to work out what's real and what's
not."

"I
know."

He
was being infuriating. It was deliberate.

"This
cousin of yours. They're farmers or something? It's not enough. You
can't just explain the situation and watch the child's eyes light
up listening and then suddenly she goes, "Aahhh." "

He
thought about it. "This is true. But I think she's a country girl,
really. You can see the city harms her. A move might help. Just a step in the
right direction. Maybe. I don't know. It's Christmas. Can't
we leave all the worrying to one side for a day?"

He
was right. It was another of his infuriating habits. No one could cure Laila in
a day. But getting her out of Rome, with its vicious round of traps waiting to
ensnare even the most street-smart of kids, was surely a good idea.

"OK,"
she conceded. "But will you kindly disagree with me when I want an
argument? I hate punching thin air."

She
wanted to pummel her fists on his big chest. She wanted to take him home, throw
him in her bed, ignore all the precautions and see what happened when you
stopped thinking about the future for once.

"No,"
Gianni Peroni replied and kissed her a couple of times on each cheek.

"What's
going to happen?" she demanded quietly.

"Why
ask me?" He shrugged. "I'm the last person to know about
anything around here."

To
her amazement, Peroni hadn't sulked--not seriously--when he
discovered what she, Nic and, to an extent, Falcone had cooked up between them
to try to persuade Thornton Fielding to give himself away. Peroni was, she now
understood very clearly, as straight a cop as anyone could find in Rome. The
idea of trusting someone like Kaspar--even for what seemed to be the best
of reasons--that there simply was no choice--was one he'd found
deeply uncomfortable.

"I
said I was sorry, Gianni. There really wasn't time. Or an
alternative."

And also
,
she thought,
you're just too damn honest to get away with deceptions
.

"I
just felt awkward that you put your job on the line. Going into the embassy.
Calling the Carabinieri, for God's sake. I mean... That's just
downright rude!"

"Sorry,"
she said meekly. "Won't happen again, honest." Then, more
seriously, "So what happens to us?"

The
shadow of a grimace flickered on his ugly face. "Between Leo, Nic and me
we seem to have pissed off plenty of people. You should be OK, though.
Leapman's got bigger things to worry about. Besides, you're a
civilian. You can support me. That was a good meal, huh? Bet you didn't
know I could cook, too. I could have a meal waiting for you on the table when
you come home. Be a househusband."

That
wasn't funny. "Sure, sure! You can cook. Is there anything you
can't do?"

"I'm
not too good at being handsome. Or...
talking
from time to
time."

She
put a hand to his cheek, lightly, because it was still bruised from the beating
Kaspar had given him, and there were black scabs hardening over the marks
he'd been carrying for years.

"You'll
do just fine," she said. "I meant what's going to happen
about you and me, actually."

"Ah,"
he said softly. "You mean will I walk away once this is over? Will I run
back to my wife? Or decide it's just better being single after
all?"

"That
and a few other things."

"As
everyone seems to have been saying these past few days, it's a new world,
girl. Who the hell knows what will happen tomorrow?"

"Who
the hell wants to know anymore?"

Peroni
put his slab of a hand on the side of her face, tousled her hair with his fat
fingers, then threw his arms around her and instigated a bone-breaking,
bear-like hug.

"Season's
greetings, Teresa," he whispered. "Let's go home soon, huh? Laila
gets picked up in an hour or so anyway."

"I've
got that spare bedroom. If you like, she could..."

He
smiled. "You don't have to do that."

No,
she thought. It was unnecessary. But she wanted to ask. She felt the need to
please him, still, and there hadn't been many men who'd prompted
that urge in her.

"It's
a deal," she said, and watched Leo Falcone come in through the back door,
Laila behind him, the tall bony inspector looking pleased as punch.

He
stood there, smirking.

"Leo...
?" Peroni asked hesitantly.

THE
STUDIO WAS A MESS. Cobwebs hung down from the ceiling in thick, extended
clumps. Canvases stood on easels, half-hidden by old sacking. There were
suitcases on the floor, brimming with dust. Scarcely a soul had been in the
room since his sister Giulia moved out to Milan almost five years before. The
beauty of the place was obvious all the same. Floor-length French windows ran
down the southern side of the house, allowing in so much light it could be
dazzling in summer. For a painter, for anyone who dealt in the visual, Nic
Costa thought, this would be the perfect home. Giulia even slept in this room
sometimes, falling asleep on the little couch, covered in spatters of colour,
exhausted.

Emily
Deacon worked her way around each canvas, peeking under the coverings.

"She's
good."

"I
know. She's also dedicated, which means she's broke most of the
time and chasing commissions from ad agencies in Milan the other half. The
artist's life."

"That
was one reason I studied architecture. The good old Deacon upbringing. Make
sure you've got a career. Even if it's one we'll never let
you pursue."

That
morning, when she had arrived at the house, he hadn't asked her about the
meeting she'd had at the embassy the day before. All she said was that
she'd spent the whole of Christmas Eve being debriefed by a security team
and had then been shunted into human resources. He knew what that meant.
Disciplinary procedures. Or worse.

It
was impossible to avoid the question forever.

"What
are you going to do?" he asked.

Her
bright eyes locked on his face. "You mean do I quit before they fire
me?"

"If
it comes to that."

"It
already has, Nic. I've handed in my resignation. I'm done. I
don't even have to clear my desk. They'll send the stuff to me.
They hate me that much. Great, huh?"

"I'm
sorry."

"
Why
?"
she laughed. "I'm delighted. I may not know exactly who or what I
am but I'm damn sure I know what I'm not. That job was for someone
else. Besides..."

A
hint of inward anger crossed her face.

"Think
about it," she said with a shrug. "I just did what my dad did
thirteen years ago. I got to the point where I wasn't prepared to take
any more of their bullshit and I snapped. I threw out all the rules. I acted as
if rules didn't matter. I knew better."

"Emily..."
He came close and grasped her shoulders lightly. She didn't move away.
"You did what was right. We all did."

"I
know that! But if I carry that badge I do what I'm supposed to. I
don't make the rules up just to suit me. To match my own personal
hang-ups. That's selfish, and they deserve someone better. Someone
who's more professional than me. More professional than Joel Leapman too.
Even if I stayed I'd screw up again before long. It's just not me.
I have a renegade gene, Nic. Got it handed down to me. Should have known as
much all along. And so have you. And Gianni. Maybe even Falcone, I think. How
you get away with what you do amazes me."

There
was something in what she said. Costa recognized it, feared it a little too.

"Nic,"
she asked, "would you really have tried to arrest them all? If you
hadn't managed to find out about Thornton Fielding? And Kaspar had simply
walked in there?"

"Would
he have walked in?" Costa had been asking himself that a lot.

"If
he'd got that folder instead of Thornton Fielding? I think so. He was
tired. He was sick of being broke and on the street. He was scared, too, of
himself, and for a man like that I doubt there's anything scarier. The
fact he couldn't control what he was doing anymore. That was the last
roll of the dice. All the same"--she glanced at him--"the
idea of you taking those guys on. You didn't have the numbers. They had
the authority."

"Authority's
not the same as being right."

"True,"
she agreed. "And being right's not the same as being the one who
wins."

Costa
had avoided thinking about the alternative too much. The odds would have been
stacked against them. Even so, Falcone had been adamant. Whatever the
consequences, there would have been no way they would have allowed Leapman and
Viale a free hand.

"So
what happens to you guys?" she asked. "Are they throwing the book
at you?"

"Maybe,"
he said quietly. "Emily, I wish I'd known. That it was all some
kind of game. That you had soda cans round your neck, not real bombs. You
scared the life out of me, out of all of us."

She
waved a finger at him, an expression so Italian he had to remind himself she
was a foreigner. "Oh no. I'm not taking flak on that. I guess you
don't do Gilbert and Sullivan in Italy. "Corroborative detail
intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing
narrative." As long as you guys thought they were real bombs, your minds
stayed focused. You didn't go near the detail, trying to pick holes in
it. This was a one-shot deal. I couldn't take any risks."

"We
were running errands for the man we were trying to take." He didn't
want to push it. He didn't want to leave it unsaid either. "That
was a little unusual."

She
wanted to clear the air too. "You were running errands for me too, Nic. I
sent you running round to the Piazza Mattei, remember? Kaspar was just going
along with my hunch that you'd find something there he couldn't.
Besides, do you think we could have won it on our own?"

He
didn't have a ready answer there.

"I
know," she went on. "You feel deceived. With some justification. I'm
sorry. But I'd do the same thing again. Convincing you everything was for
real was the only way. All anyone had to do was look at your face and they knew
they had to go along with you. Besides, it was real. Just not in the way you
all expected."

He
laughed a little. She looked relieved this wasn't going to turn into an
inquisition.

"Also,"
she added, "Kaspar was going to use me one way or another. I had a
choice. Be a reluctant hostage. Or go along with him, try to steer things a
little and see where they led."

"Legally..."
He didn't want to push the point. They could have picked her up
themselves if they wanted. Wasting police time. Running a bomb hoax. Falcone
had ruled the idea out immediately. Another officer could have thought
differently.

"I
don't think anyone would dare throw the law at me," she answered. "Or
at any of us. That would be too embarrassing all round, surely. I'm
sorry, Nic. I imagine you thought you knew me. But how could you? We only met a
few days ago."

"True."

She
lifted the lid on a box folder that stood on a table, the only thing in the
room that didn't seem covered in dust. It was new. Without asking, she
lifted the lid and stared at the prints inside.