Conspiracy in Kiev

Petrare?

“That hill right in front, in the distance. You won’t want to go there,” the driver said.

“I know,” she said. “A friend warned me.”

The car turned off the elevated freeway onto the parallel street running under it. The driver executed a hair- raising U-turn in the middle of traffic, then turned right up a well-manicured driveway with palms in the center strip.

The Lexus came to a plaza with a white, low-lying building and stopped at the door. “El Tamanaco.” the driver announced. “Su hotel, Senorita.”

Alex checked in. She found a suitcase waiting for her in her room, courtesy of Sam and his operatives. Jungle clothing and a weapon. Shirts, hiking boots, shorts, a rain slicker, and a Beretta. She tried things on. She checked the weapon. She also found a small digital camera and three extra memory cards. A thoughtful addition.

She showered, ordered a light meal from room service, and realized she was exhausted. Toward ten in the evening, she collapsed into bed and slept.

SIXTY-THREE

The meeting at the Justice Ministry in Rome had not gone exactly the way Rizzo had planned. He had excluded his assistant DiPetri, the worthless one, because why should the worthless one be allowed to show up when the laurels were being awarded? The worthless one hadn’t done anything helpful, for example, except possibly just keeping his foolish hands out of the way. So why should he get any credit?

But twenty minutes into the meeting with the minister, Rizzo wished he had brought DiPetri along to take some of the heat. In response to the minister’s questions, Rizzo found himself giving a step-by-step recapitulation of his two investigations, from the commission of the crime, through their linkage, through trips to the obitorio, through the official meddling by the Americans in the custody of the bodies, through his Sailor Moon linkage of the crimes to Ukrainian Mafia.

Unimpressed, the minister sat at a wide desk with his eyes downcast, a secretary recording Rizzo’s explanation.

After several minutes, despite his years of professionalism, Rizzo got as jittery as a dozen scared cats. There had been much in the press recently about CIA agents embedded within the Roman police. The minister had no reason to suspect Rizzo of such collusion, of serving two masters like that, but Rizzo didn’t know whether he might come under accusation, anyway. Things like that happened sometimes.

Rizzo finally came to his conclusion. “And that is where we are today,” he finally said.

The minister looked up.

“Do you feel that any arrests are imminent?”

“Arrests, Signore?”

“Arrests,” the minister said in a tired voice. “Surely you know what arrests are because I’m certain you’ve made a few in your long career.”

“Arrests in Rome are unlikely,” Rizzo said, “as I strongly suspect that the gunmen have fled the country by now. As to identifying them and asking one of the other police agencies in Europe to effect the arrests, well, that-”

“Let’s save the wishful thinking for later, shall we?” the minister said, cutting him off. “Are there any Ukrainian or Russian gangsters in Rome now whom you feel that we could pin this upon?”

Rizzo’s eyes widened, clearly ill at ease with the notion.

“Pin?” he asked. “As in ‘frame’?”

He became conscious of a slow tapping on the table by the minister’s right hand.

“I believe that’s what you would call it.”

Rizzo stared at the political appointee in front of him. His eyes were fixed and steady. In a flash, he put much of the reasoning together and didn’t like this one bit. After spending twenty-two years with the homicide brigades in Rome, he was going to be asked to fudge evidence, to squander the case, to perjure himself before a magistrate, just to ease a politician out of some sort of squeeze. And if the whole thing backfired, well, his own career would crash down, he could go to prison, there would go his pension, and Sophie would end up in bed with some young musician punk like the ones he was in the habit of arresting.

He thought quickly. “No, signore,” he answered. “I know of no such criminal who would fit our needs so conveniently,” he said.

The minister looked at him with thinly veiled dismay. “Very well,” he finally said. “We will take another approach. How many detectives do you have working with you on this case?”

“Four of the best in Rome,” he said.

“And I assume each of them has an assistant?”

“That would be true, signore.”

“So that makes nine of you. What is your individual caseload?”

Rizzo did some quick math. “I would guess, each of us might have twenty, give or take. So somewhere between one hundred fifty and two hundred among all the detectives involved.”

“Bene,” said the minister. “Put them all back to work on their other cases.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me, Rizzo. And I think you understood me. Reassign everyone and make no further efforts on this case yourself.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid you don’t either, Gian Antonio. This case will most likely conclude itself. Remain available. You will need to liaison with an American agent sometime within the very near future.”

The minister motioned to the newspaper. There was a copy of Il Messaggero on the table, the headlines blaring about Kiev.

“Do you speak English?” the minister asked. “Well enough to liaise with an American?”

“Not very well, sir. I understand a little, but-”

“Strange,” the minister said. “Your file says that your father was in an American POW camp after the war. Your father spoke it quite well.”

“The memory of spoken English was not pleasant to my father,” Rizzo said. “We spoke Italian in our home.”

“Yes. Of course. What else would Italians speak, correct?”

“Latin, maybe,” Rizzo answered.

“Your sense of humor is not appreciated right now,” the minister said.

“I do have someone in my department, an intern, who could be of service with English,” Rizzo said.

“What about French, Rizzo? Do you speak French?”

“French?”

“Yes. It’s what they speak in France.”

“Si, signore,” Rizzo answered.

“Good. That’s all. Remain ready.”

Rizzo opened his mouth to ask for more details, more of an explanation. But the minister cut him off.

“Do you like art, Gian Antonio?” the minister asked, changing the subject.

Rizzo was perplexed. “Art?”

“Italian art! The works of Bernardo Cavallino, for example. Guido Reni. Seventeenth century. Ever heard of them?”

Rizzo had never heard of either. Nor did he care to. “Of course I have,” he said.

“If so, you’re the first policeman I’ve ever met who has. Do you think the works should be in Italy?”

“If they’re Italian, of course.”

“I agree. That is all, Rizzo. Grazie mille.”

The double doors opened. The minister’s guards barged in to escort Rizzo out. He left without a protest.