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He looked up and to the right.
And then he saw it--the device meant to kill him!
The cord around his neck traveled upward, to a rod stuck into the wall, then over another rod and down to a bucket. The pail was under an old rusted pipe, from which water dripped.
Oh, no, no! God protect me, praise be to Him!
He now understood the source of the sounds. Slowly the drops of water were filling the bucket. As it grew heavier, it tugged the noose tighter.
The size of the bucket suggested that it would hold easily a half-dozen liters. Ali didn't know how many kilos that represented. But he suspected that the person who had created this horrible machine did. And that his calculation was accurate enough to make certain that--for reasons only God knew, praise be to Him--the bucket would soon be more than heavy enough to choke Ali to death.
Ah, wait! Are those footsteps?
When his breathing slowed, he listened carefully.
Had someone heard him?
But, no, the sound was only the slow plick, plick, plick of water leaching from the ancient pipe and dropping into the bucket.
The noose tugged upward once more, and Ali Maziq's muffled pleas for help echoed softly throughout his burial chamber.
Chapter 16
Hm, was sure I'd get a ticket." Thom's handsome face was perplexed.
The three Americans were outside the police station and the aide was staring at the disabled-accessible van he'd leased online and picked up at Naples airport a few hours ago. The battered, dusty vehicle, a modified Mercedes Sprinter, sat more on the sidewalk than in a parking place. It had been the only spot he'd been able to find near the Questura.
Sachs surveyed the chaotic traffic zipping past and said, "Naples doesn't seem like a place that bothers much with parking tickets. Wish we saw that more in Manhattan."
"Wait here. I'll bring the van over."
"No, I'd like something to drink."
"Too much alcohol isn't good when you've been flying. The pressurization."
This concern, Rhyme was convinced, was a complete fiction. True, a quadriplegic's system is more sensitive than that of a person who isn't disabled, and stress on the body can be a problem. The confused nervous system, conspiring with an equally perplexed cardiovascular network, can sometimes send the blood pressure through the roof, which could result in stroke, additional neuro damage and death, if not treated quickly. Rhyme supposed the cabin pressure might in rare cases lead to this condition--autonomic dysreflexia--but blaming alcohol consumption for increased risk was, he was convinced, a shabby ploy to get him to cut down.
He said as much now.
Thom fired back, "I read about it in a study."
"Anyway, I was referring to coffee. Besides, what's the hurry? The pilots've gone on to London to ferry those witnesses to Amsterdam. They can't just turn around and fly us back to America. We're spending the night in Naples."
"We'll go to the hotel. Maybe later. A glass of wine. Small."
They had a reservation for a two-bedroom suite at a place Thom had found near the water. "Accessible and romantic," the aide had said, drawing an eye roll from Rhyme.
Then, looking around him, Rhyme said, "Coffee then? I am tired. Look. There's a cafe." He nodded across the street, Via Medina.
Sachs was watching a low, glistening sports car growl past. Of its make, model and horsepower, Rhyme had no clue. But to catch her attention it must have been quite a machine. Her eyes turned back to Rhyme. She said in an edgy voice, "Jurisdictional pissing contests."
Rhyme smiled. Her mind was still on the case.
She continued, "Feds versus state in the U.S. Here, Italy versus America. It happens everywhere, looks like. This is bullshit, Rhyme."
"Is, yes."
"You don't look that upset."
