David Hewson (42 page)

"I'll
live," Peroni said with a smile. "But I'm getting heartily
sick of this weather. And heartily sick of this case too." He nodded at
the sky. "I know you don't run that crap, which I hate to say
doesn't look finished to me. But do you think we can do something with
the second?"

Falcone
sniffed and looked at Costa. "One way or another. Emily Deacon. Where is
she?"

"I
don't know." Costa shook his head. "She took the car. But her
computer's still in my house, which is odd. I've been calling and
calling. Maybe Leapman..."

"I
asked," Falcone replied. "He sounded a little worried for once. You
don't imagine, for one moment, that she's gone out and done something
stupid, do you?"

"I
don't think so," Costa replied, though he didn't look too
sure.

Peroni
cast a grizzled glance at Falcone and moaned, "Families. Leapman should
never have brought her in. What kind of an asshole is he?"

"The
kind who knows exactly what he's doing," Falcone said firmly. "Nic,
perhaps it's best if you skip this meeting. It could be a little...
career-damaging. You've got more ahead of you than us."

Peroni's
jaw dropped. "What? What the fu--?" He put his hands together,
praying. "Why me, Leo? Why me?"

"Put
out a call for Deacon's car," Falcone continued, ignoring him. "Try
some of the obvious places. Did you get me those printouts?"

Costa
passed over the manila envelope.

Peroni
scowled at the grey SISDE building. "Career-damaging, Leo? I've
been there often enough already. And I don't like these spooky people.
They're bad company. Let me wet-nurse Nic here, hold his hand. Or I could
go to the Questura and make some calls, clean your desk, press your suits. Anything--"

"Or,"
Falcone suggested mildly, "Nic could drop you off at home and let you get
some rest. You're not immortal, you know, Peroni. You got clobbered last
night."

"Yeah!"
the big man barked back. "All the more reason for sticking with this,
don't you think?"

Falcone
shrugged. "Your funeral, then. If you're in, you're coming
into this meeting with me. I'd appreciate a witness. Some backup. Leapman
will be there, I imagine. Commissario Moretti too, since they'll need
someone to take notes. Who knows? You might even enjoy yourself."

Peroni
groaned. "Oh, sweet Jesus... enjoy?"

Falcone
was smiling again. A big, warm smile.

"So
what are you going to do, sir?" Costa asked. "Is there anything the
two of us ought to know about in advance?"

Leo
Falcone grinned. He felt good for a change. He felt he was about to let
something go, kick off the shackles more firmly than ever, straight in their
faces, in a way they wouldn't ever forget.

"I
thought I might see how far a man can go before he gets himself fired,"
he said brightly.

COLD,
COLD, COLD.

...
the old black voice said:
Git off that fat ass, boy, and sort yourself out
.

Bill
Kaspar did as he was bidden. At nine a.m. he let himself out of the empty
office that sat on the roof of the Castel Sant" Angelo, walked past the
sheets and scaffolding of the restoration work that had closed the place, then
sauntered down the spiral stairs and out through a side door beyond the closed
ticket office. The castle had shut up shop for the holidays. The builders had
abandoned work because of the weather. There would be a trickle of dumb
tourists who didn't know this. They'd turn up puzzled at the front
gate of Hadrian's mausoleum, seated majestically on the banks of the
Tiber, a position so regal the place had later become a papal palace and refuge
joined to the Vatican by a narrow, elevated corridor down which the pope could
flee to safety in extremis.

And,
Kaspar knew, because he'd checked, those rubberneckers would never see a
thing. Inside, the mausoleum was a vast, prolix tangle of chambers, tunnels and
hallways, largely invisible from the street, where passersby saw little but the
gaunt exterior walls and the statue of the archangel Michael triumphant at the
summit, sword raised towards the Tiber. Tombs had little use for windows. What
mattered, what ran through the building like a central, muscular nerve, was the
spiral ramp that rose past the original crypt, where the emperor's ashes
once lay, up through grand halls and collections, empty staff quarters,
kitchens and galleries, out to the roof.

It
was a five-minute walk across the river to a hunting and fishing shop on the
Lungotevere. There Kaspar spent most of his remaining money on two of the
biggest, thickest winter coats he could find: khaki parkas with furred hoods
you could pull tight round your face so no one could see a thing except your
eyes. He kept his old black woollen jacket and carried his acquisitions back in
a bag, working to marshal his thoughts in the way a man of his nature always
did before a battle.

It
had been a painful night. Talking to Emily Deacon, trying to work out what to
do with her, how much faith he could place in what she told him, how easy it
was to fill in the gaps. That had gone on for hours. Then, when he
couldn't take any more, he'd shut her away and finally fallen
asleep, only for the mother of all nightmares to come roaring up from deep
inside his psyche, tormenting him with all those sounds and memories he knew
only too well.

Just
the recollection of it now made him sit down on one of the granite stanchions
stuck deep into the snow outside the Castel, sweating feverishly inside his
black coat. The human mind was a cruel, relentless mechanism. Nothing could
expunge those images--the raging squall of gunfire, the screams, the
blood. The slaughter as they fought on the geometrical floor of the temple deep
in the heart of the ziggurat, surrounded by that magical pattern, the same one
he had held in his hands as he'd dragged the webbing around him,
stupidly, as if it were some kind of disguise that could fool the vengeful wall
of hate and pain closing in on all of them.

Kaspar
looked at his watch and checked the date--23 December. Thirteen years ago
to the day. Thirteen long, long years, during which he'd prayed for
release constantly to any god he could remember. Time lost itself in that
place. Between the beatings and the torture, between the endless, pointless
interrogations, he'd fought to contain the memories deep inside himself
because they, more than anything, could keep him alive. The baleful, accusing
faces of those men and women who had died because he failed spoke to him,
demanding justice. Bill Kaspar had little affection for life, even when he got
out of the Baghdad jail and learned the harsh reality of what it meant to be
"free." This was about justice. That was all. Of silencing those
angry interior voices that rose up to taunt him anytime, anywhere.

He
thought again about the day ahead, tried to go through all the possibilities,
all the ways in which he might fail again. Then he walked around the perimeter
of the squat mausoleum, beached like a whale on a winter plain, found the side
entrance, went inside and climbed the ramp all the long winding way up to the
roof.

Emily
Deacon was locked inside the women's toilet belonging to the closed cafe.
Kaspar liked to think of himself as a gentleman, in spite of appearances. He
opened the door, stood back, gun in hand. It was damn cold up there and windy
too. She came out, teeth chattering, skinny arms wrapped around herself,
blinking at the brittle sunlight, staring up at the gleaming bronze statue of
Michael, sword in hand, poised to strike, a fearsome, vengeful figure that
dominated the skyline of this quarter of Rome.

Kaspar
nodded at the winged giant. "Scary bastard, huh?"

She
put a hand up to her eyes to shield out the sun, long blonde hair blowing
around her face.

"Depends
how you look at it," she said. "He's supposed to be sheathing
his sword. It's a symbol. The end of the plague or something. I
forget."

She
was a smart kid. Not a bad kid at all. He used to be able to see that in
people. Maybe a gift like that could come back.

"You
listened a lot when you lived here. Was it your dad who did all the
talking?"

"What's
it to you?"

He
took hold of her arm, propelled her forcefully to the edge of the parapet, with
its dizzying view down to the footbridge crossing the Tiber to the centro
storico and beyond. The wind was more blustery here, so cold it hurt.

"Did
your father teach you opera, Little Em?"

She
was struggling. Her attempts to free herself were futile against his strength. "Don't
call me that."

"
O
Scarpia, avanti a Dio
!" he yelled, half sang, over the parapet in a
loud, theatrical voice.

"Opera's
not my thing," she said quietly.

"Really?"
He felt he had the demeanour of a college professor just then. Maybe it was
Steely Dan Deacon himself, those WASP New England genes bouncing up and down. "Informative,
Emily. Do you mean to tell me you've never wanted to leap off the edge
like that yourself? Never wanted to know what happens?"

"Not
for one second. I've got too much to do."

Kaspar
shook Steely Dan's voice out of his head. He didn't believe Emily
Deacon. There was something in her eyes--he'd seen it two nights
before in the Campo. She hadn't really given a damn then whether she
lived or died. She was much more interested in seeing the thieving little kid,
the light-fingered bitch who'd walked off with what memories he still
possessed, get away scot-free. Emily Deacon didn't get that from her dad.

"Like
see me in hell?"

"That,
among other things. Besides, it wasn't about curiosity. Tosca knew what
happened, didn't she?" Emily Deacon asked. "I thought that
was the point."

"Yeah,"
he agreed, relaxing his grip a little. "I guess that's true. I used
to like opera myself. A lot. But if you don't hear it for years and years
it kind of loses its touch."

"It's
easy to lose touch, Kaspar." She spoke with a quiet, blunt certainty. "Don't
you think it's time to call it a day? I can do it for you. We could go
straight to the Italians. You don't need to say a word to the FBI at all.
There's enough for the Italians to hold you here for years, whatever
Washington tries in the courts."

She
wasn't going to back down, act timid, play the little kid. In a way he
was pleased. She was Steely Dan's daughter, with a twist.

"We've
talked this through. No going back now."

"What
if you're wrong?" she pressed. "What if you've screwed
this up, too? And it really was just my dad and those other people all
along?"

"Then
they need to give me a little proof."

Emily
Deacon peered into his face. "Tell me, Kaspar. Was it something my dad
told you? What
do
these people say?"

"Nothing,"
he grunted. "How do you talk to a ghost?"

"I
don't believe it's nothing."

He
didn't like remembering. Dan Deacon had uttered those few words at the
end, after Kaspar had tried so hard, with such vicious, constant brutality, to
squeeze it out of him some other way. Yet sharing the words diminished their
power somehow. So he told her instead about the Piazza Mattei, how Steely Dan
Deacon had mentioned it twice, how he nearly thought the answer might lie there
after all, but when he'd gone round there, tried to pound some truth out
of the man who was living in the house, it turned out to be just an illusion.

This
was important. Emily Deacon understood that too.

"What
if it's all an illusion?" she insisted. "Just some crazy
voices in your head?"

The
line between what was real and what was imaginary was tough to decipher
sometimes. Kaspar could hang on to some truths, though. An ugly black Marine
with half his face shot away. A brutal Ba'ath party torturer reaching for
his sticks, taunting Kaspar for his stupidity. They were real. Too real.

The
dark side of him, the part that had killed Monica Sawyer, wondered about
throwing Emily Deacon over the wall there and then. The girl had Steely Dan in
her veins all right. The incisive part that could look right through you.

"You
thought the voices would go away when you killed that woman in the Pantheon. What
did they call her? Laura Lee? She was the last, wasn't she?"

"Names,"
he murmured. "Don't mean a damn thing in this business."

"But
then you murdered that other woman. You never meant to. And still you're
hearing the voices. What do they say, Kaspar?
Shake it
? Are they ever
going to stop?"

"Kids,"
he said quietly and looked out over the river, nailing the pattern inside his
head again, because in those lines existed order, sanity, a kind of peace. Trinita
dei Monti hung high in the distance, the Piazza del Popolo lay to the left and
somewhere behind the bulk of the Palatine hill was the Colosseum, perfect in
its place, a monument to martyrs everywhere. Something else too. When Kaspar
stared ahead, squinted, remembered, he could see a tiny cabin set on the roof
of a block across the river. A part of him changed there. He'd taken a
life for no good reason. The journey had veered down a turning he'd never
expected.