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Rossi was silent for a moment, considering Rhyme's question, it seemed. "Ah, yes. From what I know, it is different in America. Here, in Italy, prosecutors function as policemen, in some ways. Procuratore Spiro and I are the lead investigators in the Composer case. Working together."
Spiro's dark eyes lasered into Rhyme's. "Our tasks are to identify this man, to ascertain where he is hiding in Italy and where he is keeping the victim, and to marshal evidence to be used at the trial when we capture him. As to the first, you clearly cannot help because you have failed to identify him in your country. The second? You know nothing of Italy so even your expertise in evidence would offer little help. And as to the third, it is not in your interest to assist in a trial here, as you wish to extradite the suspect back to America for trial there. So, you see, your involvement would at best be unhelpful and at worst a conflict of interest. I thank you for the courtesy of providing us with your files. But now you must leave, Mr. Rhyme."
Ercole started to blurt, "It is Capitano--"
Spiro shut him off with a glare. "Che cosa?"
"Nothing, Procuratore. Forgive me."
"So, you must leave."
Apparently prosecutors--or this prosecutor, at least--carried more authority than police inspectors when it came to investigations. Rhyme sensed no disagreement on the part of Rossi. He nodded to Sachs. She dug into the shoulder bag and handed the inspector a thick file. Rossi flipped through it. On the top were photos of the evidence and profile charts.
He nodded and handed them to Ercole. "Put this information on the board, Officer."
Spiro said, "Do you need assistance getting to the airport?"
Rhyme said, "We'll handle our departure arrangements, thank you."
"He has a private jet," Ercole said, still awestruck.
Spiro's mouth tightened, approaching a sneer.
The three Americans turned and headed to the door, Ercole escorting them--as Rossi's nod had instructed.
Just before they left, though, Rhyme stopped and pivoted back. "If I can offer an observation or two?"
Spiro was stone-faced but Rossi nodded. "Please."
"Does fette di metallo mean 'bits of metal'?" Rhyme's eyes were on the chart.
Spiro's and Rossi's eyes swiveled to one another's. "'Slices,' yes."
"Fibre di carta is 'paper fibers'?"
"That is correct."
"Hm. All right. The Composer has changed his appearance. He's shaved his beard and I am fairly certain his head as well. He has the victim hidden in a very old location, and it's deep underground. It's most likely urban, rather than rural. The building is not now accessible to the public and hasn't been for some time but it once was. It's in a neighborhood where prostitutes used to work. They still might. That I couldn't tell you."
Ercole, he noted, was staring at him as if mesmerized.
Rhyme continued, "And one more thing: He won't use YouVid again. He uses proxies to hide his IP address but he's not good at it and I'm sure he's smart enough to know that. So he'll expect your computer people, and YouVid security, to be onto him. You should start monitoring other upload sites. And tell your tactical people to be ready to move quickly.
The victim doesn't have much time at all." As he turned his chair toward the door he said, "Goodbye now. I mean, arrivederci."
Chapter 15
Am I dead?
And in Jannah?
Ali Maziq could honestly not say. He believed he had been a good man and a good Muslim all his life, and he thought that he had earned a place in Paradise. Perhaps not the highest place, Firdaws, reserved for prophets and martyrs and the most devout, but certainly in a respectable locale.
Yet...yet...
How could Heaven be so cold, so damp, so shadowy?
Alarm coursed through his body and he shivered, only partly from the chill. Was he in al-Nar?
