All under the perverse banner of nationalism.
Spiro was listening to police transmissions through a wired earpiece. His head was cocked. He said, ‘Sì, sì.’ Then to Sachs and Rhyme: ‘Yes, he’s in there.’ A grim smile. ‘And the assessment is that he’s unarmed.’
‘How do they know that? Do they have eyes on him?’ Rhyme asked insistently.
He would be thinking, Sachs knew, that if she was walking into the room where the mastermind of the scheme was — as Spiro would say — holed up, they should damn well know for sure whether he was armed or not.
She was less concerned; she had her Beretta. And a fine piece of work it was, she’d announced. The Italians were good at food, cars, fashion and weapons. None better.
Spiro replied, ‘Michelangelo reports that their surveillance has determined he will certainly be unarmed. But that will not last for long. We should move now.’
Sachs glanced at Rhyme, who said, ‘Don’t let anyone shoot anything up if they can avoid it, Sachs. This’s important evidence. This’s the main bad boy.’
Then she and Dante Spiro were out the van’s door.
They moved quickly to the front of the structure, where four SCO officers met them, led by Michelangelo. Unlike their commander, these men were not large, though they were made bulky because of their gear: body armor, breaching equipment, boots, helmets. The H&K submachine guns favored by the tac teams were unslung and ready to fire.
Spiro gestured and the men moved through the front door of the pensione and, as quietly as they could, up the stairs to the first floor.
The hallway was dim and hot, the air oppressive. The rooms might have air-conditioning but the hallways did not. Paintings of old Italy dotted the walls, most of them of Naples; a smoking volcano looming in the background. In one, though, Vesuvius was busily erupting as toga-clad citizens stared in horror, while a small dog seemed to be smiling. Every piece of artwork hung crookedly.
After a pause and a listen to the surveillance control van outside, Michelangelo gave hand signals and the SCO officers divided into two teams. One, crouching below the peephole, moved past the door of the suspect’s room and turned. The second team remained on the near side. Sachs and Spiro stopped ten feet short. What was that noise? Sachs wondered.
Screech, screech, screech...
Stefan could have told them in an instant.
Then Sachs heard a moan.
Of course. A couple was making love.
That was why the assault team, with the auditory surveillance system, had concluded that the occupants of the room were not armed. A gun might be nearby but it was highly unlikely either one was concealing a weapon on their person.
Michelangelo heard something through his headset — Sachs could tell from his cocked head. He stepped back to Spiro and spoke in Italian. The prosecutor said to Sachs, ‘The second team is behind our other target. He is up the street, in his car. They’ll move in when we do, coordinated.’
From the room the sounds of lovemaking had grown louder, the grunts more frequent. Michelangelo whispered something to Spiro, who translated his comment to Sachs. ‘He’s wondering if we should wait a moment. Just because...’
Sachs whispered, ‘No.’
Michelangelo grinned and returned to his men. He gestured toward the door, his hand making a slicing movement, like a priest blessing a communicant.
Instantly they went into action. One hefted a battering ram and swung it hard into the door near the knob. The flimsy wood gave way instantly. He stepped back, dropped the ram and unslung his machine gun as the others sped in, their weapons up, muzzles sweeping back and forth. Sachs hurried forward, Spiro behind her.
In the bed, in the center of the quaint room, a dark-haired Italian woman, no older than eighteen or nineteen, was squealing and frantically grabbing at bedclothes to cover herself. But it was a tug-of-war for the sheet and blanket with the man in bed with her. She was winning.
Pretty funny actually.
‘Allora!’ Spiro called. ‘Enough! Leave the sheets! Stand and keep your hands raised. Yes, yes, turn around.’ In Italian he spoke to the woman, apparently repeating the command.
His boyish face blazing, hair askew, Mike Hill, the American businessman whose private jet had shepherded Sachs to Milan the other day, did as ordered. He glanced once at Michelangelo’s pistol, then at Sachs and apparently decided to keep his hands raised and not cover his conspicuous groin. The woman with him did the same.
One officer had gone through their clothes. He said, ‘Nessun arma.’
Spiro nodded and the officer handed the garments to the couple.
As he dressed, Hill snapped, ‘I want an attorney. Now. And make sure it’s one who speaks English.’
Chapter 68
The suspects were in jail.
Il Carcere di Napoli.
Michael Hill was in a holding cell, awaiting the arrival of his ‘ball-breaking’ attorney, who would show them a thing or two about criminal law.
Rhyme and Sachs were in the Questura situation room, receiving updates from a number of sources.
Hill’s wife had arrived at the jail at the same time as the prostitute in the pensione was being released. The teenager had received a legal warning. Spiro had reported that ‘the businessman’s spouse’s expression, I will say, was a bit like that of fans witnessing a car crash at an auto race. Horrified, yes, but modulated with a certain hint of glee. I suspect the divorce settlement will be impressionante.’
Mike Hill’s arrest had come about quickly, after Sachs’s speculation that the infamous Gianni might, in fact, be the American businessman’s chauffeur, name of Luigi Procopio.
What had brought the man to the forefront of suspects was a series of recollections by Sachs as she had stared over Naples Bay not long ago, following Fatima’s arrest.
Beatrice had found volcanic soil trace in the warehouse. Which meant someone from Naples had likely been in the warehouse recently. The forensic scientist had also discovered the grease there, the sort used in heavy, outdoor equipment. The Albanian who provided the explosives was a mechanic at Malpensa airport, working on such equipment. He had probably met the person who’d traveled from Naples at the warehouse to deliver the explosives.
Who had a connection with both Malpensa and Naples? Mike Hill. Since he knew about the traffic from the airport to downtown Milan, he had obviously been there before — and on the private plane tarmac, where explosives could have been transferred out of sight of Customs and security.
Hill himself probably wouldn’t deal with bombs or paying Albanian smugglers. But his driver might. Luigi — a smoker, clean-shaven, long dark hair, swarthy complexion. And he was a man who traveled a great deal, as Fatima had told them, often driving.
Had it been coincidence that Hill just happened to call Consulate General Musgrave, mentioning that his private plane was headed north, so Sachs could hitch a ride to Milan? Of course not. Hill, Gianni and Ibrahim would have known all about Rhyme’s and Sachs’s presence here and would have bugged either their phones or hotel room, learning that they had a lead to Milan. Concerned about the progress of the investigation, Hill had immediately contacted the consulate general and let it be known that he had a plane ready to go... so he could keep an eye on the case.
Hardly certain, it was, nonetheless, a reasonable theory worth exploring.
To find out, Sachs sent Luigi’s picture to her snitch, Alberto Allegro Pronti, the homeless Don Quixote of a Communist in Milan. Ercole translating, Pronti verified that Luigi Procopio was the man who had thrown him out of the warehouse.