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His rambling--and red face--amused them all.
"Not Daniela?" Sachs asked. "I thought you were attracted to her."
"Daniela? Well, her beauty is quite clear. And she is very keen in her police skills. But, how can I say?" He looked to Sachs. "You, as a lover of automobiles, will understand: The gears do not engage between us. Am I making sense?"
"Perfectly," Sachs replied.
So, Rhyme had been wrong. It had been Beatrice who'd lit the fire in Ercole's heart, challenging though she was. Well, Lincoln Rhyme himself would take challenge over slipped gears any day, however beautiful the automobile.
The restaurant door opened and a tall woman--with a fashion model's figure and poise--stepped into the room, smiling to the table. She wore a dark-blue suit and carried an attache case. Her dark hair was pulled back into a buoyant ponytail. Spiro rose. "Ah! Ecco mia moglie--my wife, Cecilia."
The woman sat and Spiro signaled to the waitress for the meal to begin.
Tuesday, September 28
VIII
The Dragonfly and the Gargoyle
Chapter 72
May have a problem."
Thom was speaking over his shoulder to Rhyme and Sachs. He was peering through the front window of the accessible van as it approached the security entrance to the private aircraft portion of Naples airport.
Rhyme cricked his neck to the left--the wheelchair was fixed perpendicular to the direction of traffic--and noted the black SUV, pulling forward and blocking their way.
Behind it were uniformed guards--Italian officers--standing at lackadaisical attention at the gate but they had little interest in either vehicle. This was not their business.
Sachs sighed. "Who? Massimo Rossi?"
"On what theory?"
Thom offered a potential answer. "He and Mike Hill share a certain bigoted philosophy? Brothers in arms?"
Hm. A reasonable theory.
Sachs nodded. "Possible, sure. Though I think Dante's right and Rossi wants as little publicity as possible about the whole thing now. Besides, I wonder if vans like that are in the Police of State budget."
They certainly weren't in the NYPD's.
But as the ominous vehicle bounced forward over the uneven asphalt, like a boat in chop, closing the distance, Rhyme could see the U.S. diplo license tag.
So the odds of ending up in an Italian jail were minimized.
A U.S. penitentiary?
Ahead of them, on the other side of the chain link, was their borrowed jet, waiting to hustle the three of them away. The aircraft, with stairs extended, was nearby, in terms of distance, and the phrase "making a run for it" tipped into Rhyme's mind. Though the wheelchair made that cliche technically impossible, and in any case it was an unlikely solution to the problem of avoiding arrest by the U.S. authorities.
No, there was nothing to do but stop. And Rhyme told Thom to do so.
The aide eased to a halt, the brakes giving a triplet squeak.
After thirty seconds the SUV passenger door opened and Rhyme was surprised to see who climbed out. The diminutive man, face so very pale, sweat stains visible on his shirt under the gray suit, smiled amiably and held up a wait-a-minute finger; he was on his mobile. Rhyme looked to Sachs. She too was frowning. Then she recalled, "Daryl Mulbry. From the consulate."
"Ah. Right." The community and public relations liaison.
"The door," Rhyme said.
