Dionetti looked behind him at the wreckage strewn on the embankment. “Hectic? Of course, the classic British understatement. May I be so bold as to ask whether you know anything about this outrage?”
“You may. And I'll be happy to tell you. But not here.”
Dionetti let out a sharp whistle. Almost instantly a blue-and-white police launch purred up to the steps leading from the embankment to the water.
“We can talk on the way,” Dionetti said.
“On the way to where?”
“Really, Pietro! We are going to the Questura. It would be bad manners for me to expect you to answer my questions if I do not answer yours.”
Howell followed the inspector to the stern of the craft. Both men waited until the boat had cleared the Rio del San Moise and throttled out into the Grand Canal.
“Tell me, Pietro,” the inspector said over the rumble of the diesels. “What do you know of that little horror that erupted in our fair city?”
“I'm not running an operation,” Howell assured him. “But the incident involved a friend of mine.”
“And did your friend happen to be the mysterious gentleman at the Piazza San Marco?” Dionetti asked. “The one seen with the shooting victim? The one who chased after the killers, then disappeared?”
“The same.”
Dionetti sighed theatrically. “Tell me this has nothing to do with terrorism, Pietro.”
“It doesn't.”
“We found a Ukrainian passport on the victim, but little else. He looked like he had had a hard journey. Should Italy be concerned as to why he came here?”
“Italy needn't be concerned. He was only passing through.”
Dionetti stared at the traffic on the river, the water taxis and water buses, the garbage scows and the elegant gondolas bobbing in the wakes of the larger vessels. The Grand Canal was the main artery of his beloved Venezia, and he felt its pulse keenly.
“I do not want trouble, Pietro,” he said.
“Then help me,” Howell replied. “I'll see to it that trouble leaves.” He paused. “Did you find enough to identify the killers and how they were murdered?”
“A bomb,” Dionetti said flatly. “More powerful than need be. Someone wanted to obliterate them. However, if that was their intention, they failed. We found enough for identification ? assuming those two were in our records. We shall see shortly.”
The launch slowed as it reached the Rio di Ca Gazoni, then rumbled slowly into the dock in front of the Questura, the Polizia Statale headquarters.
Dionetti led them past the armed guards stationed outside the seventeenth-century palazzo.
“Once the home of a proud family,” Dionetti said over his shoulder. “Repossessed for back taxes. When the government took it over, it became a fancy police station.” He shook his head.
Howell followed him down a wide corridor into a room that looked like it had once been a formal drawing room. Beyond the windows was a garden, lying fallow.
Dionetti went around his desk and tapped on the computer keyboard. A printer whirred to life.
“The Rocca brothers-Tommaso and Luigi,” he said, handing Howell the printouts.
Howell contemplated the photographs of two very tough-looking men in their late twenties. “Sicilians?”
“Exactly. Mercenaries. We have long suspected that they were responsible for the shooting of a federal prosecutor in Palermo and a judge in Rome.”
“How expensive were they?”
“Very. Why do you ask?”
“Because only someone with both money and connections would have hired men like them. These are professionals. They do not need to advertise.”
“But why kill a Ukrainian peasant ? if in fact he was that?”
“I don't know,” Howell replied truthfully. “But I need to find out. Do you have any idea where they were based?”
“Palermo. Their birthplace.”
Howell nodded. “What about the explosives?”
Dionetti returned to the computer.
“Yes… the preliminary report from the forensics laboratory indicates that it was C-twelve, about half a kilo's worth.”
Howell looked at him sharply. “C-twelve? You're sure?”
Dionetti shrugged. “You may recall that our laboratory has very high standards, Pietro. I would accept their conclusion at face value.”
“So would I,” Howell replied thoughtfully.
But how had the killer of the two Sicilians gotten hold of the U.S. Army's latest explosives?
Marco Dionetti's home was a sixteenth-century, four-story limestone palazzo that fronted the Grand Canal a stone's throw away from the Accademia. In the grand dining room, dominated by a fireplace sculpted by Moretta, the stern faces of Dionetti's ancestors gazed down from portraits painted by Renaissance masters.
Peter Howell finished his last bite of seppioline and sat back as an elderly servant removed his plate.
“My compliments to Maria. The cuttlefish was excellent ? just as I remembered it.”
“I'll be sure to tell her,” Dionetti replied as a tray of bussolai was presented. He picked up one of the cinnamon-flavored biscuits and nibbled thoughtfully.
“Pietro, I understand your need for discretion. But I too have masters I must answer to. Is there nothing you can tell me about the Ukrainian?”
“My job was simply to cover the contact,” Howell replied. “There was no indication that there would be bloodshed.”
Dionetti steepled his fingers. “I suppose I could make a case that the Rocca brothers had a contract and carried it out on the wrong individual, that the man seen fleeing from the piazza was the intended victim.”
“That may not explain why the Roccas were blown up,” Howell pointed out.
Dionetti dismissed the possibility with a wave of his fingers. “The brothers had many enemies. Who's to say whether one of them finally managed to settle a score?”
Howell finished his coffee. “If you can put that spin on it, Pietro, I would. Now, I don't want to seem the ungracious guest but I must make that flight to Palermo.”
“My launch is at your disposal,” Dionetti said, accompanying Howell down the center hall. “I will contact you if there are any further developments. Promise me that when your business is finished you will stop by on your way home. We will go to La Fenice.”
Howell smiled. “I would enjoy that very much. Thank you for all your help, Marco.”
Dionetti watched the Englishman step over the gunwale and raised his hand as the launch slipped into the Grand Canal. Only when he was absolutely certain that Howell couldn't see him did his friendly expression dissolve.
“You should have told me more, old friend,” he said softly. “Maybe I could have kept you alive.”
CHAPTER SIX
Eight thousand miles to the west, on the Hawaiian island of Oahu, Pearl Harbor lay placid under the hot, tropical sun. Overlooking the harbor were the navy's administrative buildings and the command-and-control headquarters. This morning, the Nimitz Building was off-limits to everyone except authorized personnel. Armed Shore Patrol units were stationed both inside and out, in the long, cool corridors and in front of the closed doors to the briefing room.
The briefing room was the size of a gymnasium and could easily accommodate three hundred people. Today there were only thirty, all seated in the first few rows before the podium. The need for heavy security was reflected
