What country am I in? Libya?
No, he didn’t think so.
But I am certainly in a burial chamber...
The room was silent except for the drip of water somewhere in the chamber.
He was gagged, a piece of cloth in his mouth, which was covered with tape. Still, he tried calling for help — in Arabic. Even if he were elsewhere and a different language was spoken, he hoped the tone of his voice would draw rescuers.
But the gag was efficient and he made hardly any sound whatsoever.
Ali now gasped in shock as there was sudden pressure against his windpipe. What could this be? He couldn’t see clearly and he had no use of his hands but by twisting his head from side to side and analyzing the sensation, he realized that his head was in a hoop of what seemed to be thin twine. It had just grown slightly tauter.
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 him 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 café.’ 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 US. Here, Italy versus America. It happens everywhere, looks like. This is bullshit, Rhyme.’
‘Is, yes.’
‘You don’t look that upset.’
‘Hm.’
She glanced back at the building. ‘We need to stop this guy. Damn it. Well, we can still help them from New York. I’ll call Rossi when we get back home. He seemed reasonable. More reasonable, at least, than the other one. The prosecutor.’
Rhyme said, ‘I like the name: Dante Spiro. Coffee?’ he repeated.
As they headed for the place, which seemed to specialize in pastry and gelato, Thom said to Rhyme, ‘You’re tired, you should have tiramisu. The dessert, you know. It means “pick me up” in Italian. Like tea in England — gives you energy in the afternoon. Remember, “coffee” here is what we call espresso. Then there’s cappuccino and latte and Americano, which is espresso with hot water, served in a larger cup.’
The hostess found a space for them outside, near a metal divider, separating the tables from the rest of the sidewalk. It was covered with a painted banner, probably red when it was installed, now faded pink. It bore the word Cinzano.
The server, a laconic woman, mid-twenties, in a dark skirt and white blouse, approached and asked for their order in broken English.
Sachs and Thom ordered cappuccino and the aide a vanilla gelato as well. She turned to Rhyme, who said, ‘Per favore, una grappa grande.’
‘Sì.’
She vanished before Thom could protest. Sachs laughed. The aide muttered, ‘You tricked me. It’s an ice cream parlor. Who knew they had a liquor license?’
Rhyme said, ‘I like Italy.’
‘And where did you learn the Italian? How do you even know what grappa is?’
‘Frommer’s guide to Italy,’ Rhyme said. ‘I put my time on the plane to good use. You were sleeping, I noticed.’
‘Which you should have been doing too.’
The beverages came and, with his right hand, Rhyme lifted the glass and sipped. ‘It’s... refreshing. I would say an acquired taste.’
Thom reached for it. ‘If you don’t like it...’
Rhyme moved his hand away. ‘I need a chance to complete my acquisition.’
The server was nearby and had overheard. She said, ‘Ah, we are not having the best grappa here.’ Her tone was apologetic. ‘But go to a bigger restaurant and they will offer more and betterer grappa. Distillato too. It is like grappa. You must have them both. The best are from Barolo, in Piemonte, and Veneto. The north. But that is my opinion. Where is it are you visiting from?’
‘New York.’
‘Ah, New York!’ Eyes shining. ‘The Manhattan?’
‘Yes,’ Sachs said.
‘I will go someday. I have been to Disney with my family. In Florida. Someday I will go to New York. I want to skate on the ice at Rockefeller Center. It is possible doing that all the time?’
‘Only the winter,’ Thom said.
‘Allora, thank you!’
Rhyme took another sip of grappa. This taste was mellower now but he was now determined to try one of the better varieties. His eyes remained where they had largely been, on the front of police headquarters. He finished the sip and had another.