Via Delia Dataria
Rome
That night
Inspectore Santi Guiellmo paced the floor of his office, oblivious to the late hour. Zuccone! Belli was a fool! Had it not been for a couple of teenagers on bicycles looking for a deserted place to fornicate, Belli and his men would have spent a miserable night handcuffed to their own police car. Guiellmo almost wished they had. They certainly deserved it!
Belli had followed that farce with an even greater one.
He had commandeered one of the lovers' cell phones, checked in with his headquarters, and called every available polizia and carabiniere within a hundred kilometers in the name of the forze dell'ordine, a security force that was now the joke of every cop south of the Alps. It had required nearly thirty armed officers to apprehend two elderly, unarmed, and grappa-besotted stonemasons on their way home from work in a Fiat.
Guiellmo had little sense of humor, none where his agency was involved. Under Italy's civil service, firing someone was even more impossible than it was in the private sector, but Belli would reach retirement in Italy's remote northeastern Adriatic coast, the Marche, chasing Gypsy sheep thieves.
No doubt they, too, would outsmart him.
At least the imbecile had been able to give descriptions. The woman was certainly Dr. Bergenghetti, something already known. What remained a question was her involvement with the two men, and in what were they involved? Judging by the Volvo's registration, one of the men was a Scot named Adrian Graham, who had retired from the British army and resided in Sardinia. Belli had heard the woman call the second man Jason, confirming his identity.
What was going on? Peters was likely responsible for the death in Sicily and four more in Sardinia. But why? Surely the man was not on some campaign of his own, simply out to reduce the Slavic population. Such a goal might be commendable, albeit illegal, but certainly profitless. Peters was after something else.
But what?
Guiellmo spread a map of the Bay of Naples across the top of his desk, his forehead wrinkled in thought. What was Peters doing at Cumae, seeking aid from a Sibyl who had not been in residence for two thousand years? What else was there at Cumae other than ancient Greek ruins that could be of interest? He ran a finger along the crescent of the coast. If archaeological sites were of some sort of significance, the closest to Cumae would be Baia.
There was something about Baia… He couldn't remember.
Stepping across his office, he opened the drawer of a small table, taking out a number of tourist guidebooks. He had always intended to take a summer vacation, exchange the sauna that was Rome in August for the sea breezes of the Amalfi coast. These books were the closest he had come to fulfilling what he now realized was little more than fantasy.
He flipped pages of bright photographs until he came to Baia. What he read sounded more like myth than fact. Fact or fiction, whatever had brought Peters to Cumae was likely to take him to Baia or Pozzuoli next. Both were sites of significant Greek ruins. Only one, though, was likely to require self-contained breathing apparatus.
He went back to his desk and picked up the telephone. This time he would lead the operation himself, confide in no one, and have only himself to blame for failure.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Port of Savannah
Savannah, Georgia
0942 EST of the same day
The rusty freighter left a creamy wake in the mocha- colored waters as its Liberian flag hung limply in the morning's increasing humidity. There was nothing to distinguish the ship from any of the others plowing along within yards of the cobbled streets of the city's historic waterfront area, certainly no clue that the ship was owned and operated by Pacific Oriental Shipping, a partnership of entities that included the Sheikh of Dubai and Hutchinson-Whampoa. HW had controlled ports at both ends of the Panama Canal since one of America's lesser lights had used his presidential office to give that waterway to Panama. The idea could have come to him only as dementia from a peanut field's heat and been mistaken for divine inspiration. After all, God frequently gave him personal direction.
What had not been revealed from on high was that Hutchinson-Wampoa was owned by the Chinese army, hardly a force friendlier to the United States than its partner from the United Arab Emirates.
The containers stacked on deck, equally ordinary, would draw no attention, either. Specially ordered form plastic and auto parts from Japan, exotic wood from Malaya, and reproduction antiques from Taiwan (the Chinese saw no reason to let a political quarrel with the latter interfere with Western-style profit).
The ship's log included a stop at Naples, where a single container had been taken on board, marked simply, landscaping goods. The question of why any shipper would detour across the globe for such a small and mundane cargo might have caught the attention of port authorities had their union not repeatedly told them that questioning logs and cargo manifests was Uncle Sam's job, not theirs, and performing such a task gratuitously could only jeopardize the next contract negotiations.
Once quayside, the landscaping goods were lifted off the deck by a crane like any other bit of cargo and stacked on the dock five or six containers high. There was approximately a one in one hundred chance its contents might actually be inspected. The funding of the Transportation Security Administration was far too stretched to permit both the high-profile confiscation of passengers' cigarette lighters at the nation's airports as well as the far lesser known investigation of the millions of tons of shipping entering ports annually.
Few voters passed through marine ports of entry.
A large German shepherd, trained in detection of explosive material, did lead his handler down the corridor of stacked containers. Whether he discerned something or felt only the urge to leave a pee mail message for the next canine to pass this way, he cocked his leg as he panted in the increasing heat.
That was as close an inspection as the crate would receive in Savannah.
JOURNAL OF SEVERENUS TACTUS
My journey is to me a dream, as I see it now. The tiny craft, weighted by two men and the spare form of the Sibyl, wallowed precariously across a river that so reeked of rot, ^1 I put a cloth over my nose.
Charon had hardly touched the far bank with his oar to hold the little boat in place when the Sibyl jumped to shore with a nimbleness I would have expected in a much younger woman. As I have said, all the underground was enveloped in a dark haze, but I saw this other side of the river as though through a veil as well as eyes that did not want to remain open. ^2
We were in a domed cavern of some sort, the size of which I was unable to measure. The landscape was one of the most scant of features I had ever encountered, scattered sparse bushes and huge rocks. Surrounding us were faceless forms, spirits of the departed clad in hoods that shadowed faces. All were unknown to me but moaned in a manner most pitiful. As the Sibyl led me past them, many held out supplicating arms as though they suffered some torment I might relieve.
We had not gone far when the Sibyl held up a hand to restrain my further progress. In front of me stood a figure silhouetted in the fuzzy light. He was as tall as my father, but his face, like the others, was concealed by a hood. Yet I could see light reflecting from his eyes and make out the line of the wound he received when as a hoy he fell from a horse. ^3
He said nothing hut gazed at me with a steady look.
"Father," I said, "it is I, your son, Severenus, come here to the place of the dead to speak with you."
If he heard, he gave no sign.
I tried again. "Father, my mother- your wife, Celia-sends you greetings, as do your other children."
Again there was no response and I was beginning to wonder if the dead had no ears. ^4