Sacred Cut

by David Hewson

  With good reason too. It wasn’t just that, back in Rome before the sourness and the divorce consumed him, Dan Deacon loved that kind of music: cool, jazz-tinged rock, stuff Emily could never quite pin down, with weird, only half-comprehensible lyrics. It was because he was a tough guy too. The last few years he’d been alive he was so damn tough she scarcely dared go near him.

  She glanced at her watch—just fifteen minutes left on the system and nothing to show so far—and cursed herself, racked her brain for more of the numbers he and his buddies loved, listening to them over and over on the Bose hi-fi in the living room. They still sat in her head, dim stains on her consciousness from a time when music, for her, meant weekly piano lessons struggling with Hindemith under the sour gaze of a stuck-up old woman smelling of lavender in an apartment in the neighbouring block.

  Such a contrast to the rolling, unpredictable keyboards, stabs of lyrical guitar and the weird, weird lyrics her dad loved.

  “Babylon Sisters” most of all, with the throwaway line that came straight after the title, sung so rapidly you had to strain to catch the phrase.

  Shake it.

  She could picture her dad—Steely Dan Deacon—just a touch drunk with a couple of guys from work, singing along to the track, dancing, half swaying the way men did in that condition, yelling those words out loud.

  “You are so goddamn awful at this job, Emily Deacon,” she whispered to herself. “Any moment now Joel Leapman is going to walk in, see what you’re doing and put you on the first plane home.”

  And then she would never find out what had happened, never get to the bottom of the sacred cut.

  The network had one of those freeform text-searching systems, a kind of internal SuperGoogle reserved for spooks. You could throw any number of different terms at it—“purple Transylvanian banana fetish igloo”—and it would trawl all the zillions of words it kept in its maw, try and put two and two together to make four, then shoot a few answers straight back at you within seconds.

  It was clever for a machine, which meant it had the combined IQ of a million worker ants if you were lucky enough to hit the right buttons.

  She typed in “Bill Kaspar Dan Deacon Iraq.”

  The same old stuff as before shot up on the screen—page upon page of documents, no particular order, no particular sense. Days of work. Weeks maybe.

  She looked at her watch again. The minutes were flying by now. Soon the shutters would come down for good. Thornton Fielding was risking a lot here. His career. Maybe more. She owed it to him to get better at this.

  “Sacred Cut Bill Kaspar Iraq.”

  It just got worse. There was all manner of crap creeping in now and she knew why. “Sacred cut” meant nothing to the system.

  Wherever that came from happened after.

  “Think of the song, stupid,” she muttered. “Think of Bill Kaspar. Think of what Thornton was trying to tell you.”

  The user name wasn’t BillK. It was WillFK.

  Some people liked to shorten their names in conversation and keep it formal on paper. Some people had middle names. The FBI was an institution. The higher up the ladder you got, the more likely you were to gain a few affectations along the way.

  She typed in “William F. Kaspar Steely Dan Deacon” and said a little prayer to whatever silicon god lived behind that screen, asking it to cut her a little slack, serve up a soupçon of mercy for a change, pick the right team of worker ants for this problem because, in all truth, she desperately needed them right now.

  The system chugged. A document came up with a date from 1990. Then the message: Access denied.

  “Shit,” she muttered and watched it chug through six other files blocked by the same rule. “Shit, shit, shit …”

  The network was running with all the speed of an octogenarian athlete. It was hopeless. It was dumb. It was typical of her career in the FBI.

  Then Emily Deacon, more out of desperation than anything, typed in “William F. Kaspar Steely Dan Babylon Sisters Shake It,” sat back and wondered what she’d do next. Go see the good-looking Italian cop at his gorgeous farmhouse out there in the snowy wilds, open her hands and say, “Got nothing. How about some wine? Why don’t we forget about everything for a while and just talk because I like talking to you.”

  Nic Costa hadn’t even come close to making a pass. It was odd. It was so un-Italian because she had a feeling he’d like to, really.

  “Ask me, Nic, because I’m going crazy staring at this stupid computer,” she whispered.

  Somewhere—in Miami or Washington, Seattle or on a server just down the hall—a hard drive flipped into life and popped a single, unrestricted document on the screen.

  It was just a memo. A scanned memo too, not a whole chunk of real, readable text, which may have been why it slipped through the security cracks. She checked the keywords some dumb underling had assigned to it. Just two: “Shake It.”

  Ha, ha.

  She was breathless. She felt stupidly alive. This was the only chance. Take it or leave it, because this never comes again.

  So …

  Emily Deacon cast a quick look at the door, saw no one beyond it, then took the tiny digital camera out of her purse, the one she kept for road accidents and shots of buildings, sights that interested her out of the blue. Then, trying not to tremble, she snapped the screen, and the next one, and the one after that.

  From: William F. Kaspar To: Steely Dan B. et al

  Date: 1991, near as dammit

  Subject: Babylon Sisters

  Status: you have to ask?

  Let it be known that I, William F. Kaspar, the Lizard King, the Holy Owl, Grand Master of the Universe, etcetera, etcetera, shall be attending the court of the Scarlet Beast presently, accompanied by my royal harem, and I demand—DEMAND—fealty from you lazy, good-for-nothing, pasta-sucking ingrates.

  There is a purpose, acolytes. A great one: mayhem.

  The Scarlet Beast has charged us with creating mayhem. We possess a God-given duty to deliver and it is a mighty relief to old Bill K this faceless bastard has volunteered you already. Though I cannot help but wonder, dear friend, whether you didn’t understand that all along. NTK, huh?

  I read the cast list. A few men I know. A few are new but I guess we’re gonna love ’em all the same. Plus I’m bringing a couple of ladies of my own too, since we live in emancipated days and they can do things with radios and computers and stuff that beats the living shit out of me. Though I cannot help but wonder, dear friend, whether you didn’t know that all along. NTK, huh?

  Practicalities.

  1. The Scarlet Beast is a generous Beast, though I guess you know that already! Those figures you sent me are enough to keep us going for six months in the desert if some spine-deficient pen-pusher in the Pentagon starts to get cold feet and wonders whether we shouldn’t just pick up the phone, call Saddam and say: please, pretty please, mister, just pack up your tanks and your soldiers and walk all the way home to Baghdad.

  2. We got immunity. Hell, we got more immunity than a Klansman in Alabama. We can do what we like, when we like, and no one’s ever going to care. (Am I telling you something you don’t know here or what, boy?)

  3. We got deep cover. We’re the Babylon Sisters, buddy. And no one knows our name. This is a cash-only, love-’em-and-leave-’em operation entirely in the hands of a bunch of ghosts. So don’t expect no medals. Knowing what little I do of our anonymous master don’t expect no thanks either. Duty is its own reward.

  4. This Scarlet Beast guy may not have told you yet but you got extra work to do. I looked at your record, brother. Hell, Danboy! You ain’t fired a weapon in anger since Nicaragua! What happened to old Steely? I am the military guy here, so listen to me when I say this. When we hit the sand there we start running. This thing happens on army time. Two hours’ sleep a day if we’re lucky and more work, more action, in between than you’ve ever seen in your little life. We’re pre-empting stuff here, laying down the groundwork for what comes after. And th
at means the shit happens constantly, sometimes when old Bill here won’t expect it to. I don’t have room for passengers. So tell me this: are you going soft now you got that lovely little rugrat running round your feet? If that’s the case let me illuminate you a little. FORGET THE LITTLE CRITTER TILL THIS IS DONE. Kids are great, Dan. When I came visiting and bounced that little darling up and down on my knee last spring I thought you were the luckiest SOB on the planet. But you know something? You’re not. You just got a whole load of new responsibilities to add to the old ones.

  5. We got to toughen you up, we got to work on those desert skills. You need to learn what goes inside a military Humvee in the magical nineties (and these ladies the Marines sent me are putting toys on board those two iron beauties you just won’t believe, toys that can shoot and burn and kill, then talk you straight out to safety even if it’s pitch dark and spitting fire out there). Plus I got two Black Hawks waiting in Saudi ready to sling those babies under their guts and deliver us out into no-man’s-land. This is serious shit, Steely. We’re all coming home afterwards. That I promise you. Also: I’ll kill any damn man who gets in the way. Anyone who don’t understand the meaning of the word “mission” had better look it up in the dictionary ’cos there’s no time for bookwork on the road.

  6. We got friends. You know how many Iraqis it takes to change a president? Just a couple, provided you got the dough. We’ve been buying buddies on the ground there for years, making the down payments, preparing the way. They’re waiting on us to show up and close the deal. That check’s just burning a hole in someone’s back pocket right now.

  7. We got a home. A nice home too, picked it myself. No tent for us, boy. No running hot water and mints on the pillow at bedtime either. But this place has got class. I’m a history man, Steely, got campaigns going back to Mesopotamia locked in these brain cells. Never forget that. This place is like you, it’s got breeding. Also, it’s real nice and peaceful, a little oasis in the desert where the Republican Guard got no reason to visit at all. Here’s a word to think about, Steely. Ziggurat.

  Your old friend Billy K. bids farewell now. Eat this paper after reading. Wipe your ass with it if you like. Or even—no, I mean this, this is the best of all!!!—file the damn thing somewhere among all those big metal cabinets you people in the Via Veneto love so much. Put away a little piece of my ramblings for history. It doesn’t matter a damn.

  I am William F. Kaspar which means, as you understand well, I don’t exist.

  And you know the good news, Steely? For the next few months, neither do you.

  We are the Babylon Sisters. Shake it.

  “I AM CALM,” Peroni protested, storming towards Falcone and the American, his face a dangerous shade of red.

  The big man stopped and Costa felt the full force of his frank and intelligent stare.

  “Nic,” Peroni raged, “Falcone has half the Questura here. He doesn’t need me. That runaway kid does. I know what I’m doing. Trust me. Leo will love this one.”

  “Oh great,” Costa replied ruefully. He knew it was no damn good arguing anyway. In this mood Peroni was unstoppable.

  They marched over to the big black car where Falcone and Leapman stood smoking, watching the SOCOs and Teresa Lupo’s team at work, not exchanging a word.

  “Sir,” Peroni said briskly.

  The inspector cast him a puzzled glance. “Officer?” Leapman looked him up and down.

  “I came to hear the theory,” Peroni demanded.

  “The theory?” Falcone repeated.

  “Yeah. There’s some lunatic out there with a scalpel. This dead woman’s been cut with one, too. Seems obvious to me what’s going on, but I gather our friend here’s got a theory. I was wondering what it was.”

  Falcone nodded at the American. “Agent Leapman seems to think it’s coincidence. And we’re not absolutely sure about the scalpel, Peroni. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  Peroni pulled a face at Falcone. The two men exchanged a brief knowing look that made Costa think something interesting was in the cards. Then Peroni gave his partner that “Can you believe this?” expression and glowered at the FBI agent. “Coincidence? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Leapman blinked slowly, as if to show he was dealing with very stupid people. “No, it’s not coincidence. It’s just sloppy police work. You guys have been so goddamn lax with your news management, half of Rome knows what this guy does to get his kicks. It’s in all the papers. Everyone in Rome is sitting around the breakfast table out there reading every last detail and guess what? Someone’s starting to think maybe he’d like to get in on the act too. This is just copycat stuff, that’s all. Maybe some guy was going to kill the woman anyway and thought he’d mess around with a scalpel just so’s we’d think it was our man all along. Who knows? Not you, that’s for sure.”

  Costa couldn’t believe his ears. “Copycat? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Read the stuff I send you,” Leapman barked. “Think about it. This guy’s a perfectionist. He kills these people in a specific way. He lays them out in a specific place, cuts pieces into their backs like he’s a surgeon or something. He doesn’t slash them around, then chop ’em into pieces and stuff them into suitcases. This is just run-of-the-mill stuff. It’s out of his class. Beneath him. Besides …”

  Leapman stopped himself, as if he were about to go too far.

  “Besides what, Agent Leapman?” the inspector asked.

  “Besides … nothing. This is not our man. I’ve been working on this longer than you. I’ve got a feel for this guy.”

  Falcone was quiet for a moment, thinking, watching the path team work at the car. “I didn’t think that was the way you people worked. Feelings.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Leapman grumbled. “Come up with the smart stuff. Get it off your chest.”

  “Perhaps something went wrong,” Costa suggested. “Maybe he’s losing his self-control. Maybe this wasn’t someone he intended to kill.”

  Leapman screwed up his face in disbelief. “Don’t you people understand a criminal profile when you see it? Don’t you have a word for ‘modus operandi’ in Italian?”

  Falcone’s eyebrows rose in amusement.

  “I’ll check,” he said dryly. “Where’s the girl, Peroni? I thought she was in your care.”

  The big man grimaced. “I don’t know. I thought I’d got her trust. I didn’t realize we needed to keep her under lock and key. I’ll happily go looking if you want.”

  “What’s the point?” Leapman snarled. “Immigrant brat like that. She can run rings round you guys. Not that it seems hard. I mean … letting a material witness go—”

  The expression on Peroni’s face cut him short. Nic Costa had to hand it to his partner sometimes. The big cop surely knew how to scare the daylights out of people.

  Peroni prodded Leapman in the chest and muttered, “I wasn’t aware I was talking to you. Sir.”

  Leapman bridled and eyed Falcone. “You got a discipline problem here too, Leo?”

  Peroni breathed deeply, gave the American a stony stare, then turned and walked inside the empty McDonald’s. The three of them watched as he marched to the deserted counter, jabbed a finger at something on the rack, then returned with a burger, which he unwrapped steadily on the way, tossing the paper into the street with the casual nonchalance that drove Nic Costa crazy.

  Peroni rejoined them, with the burger now steaming in his hand.

  Costa knew what was coming next.

  “Whoa!” the FBI man yelled as loud as he could manage, so loud even Teresa Lupo turned to listen from the wrecked Renault. “Do you people own some weird work practices or what? I mean, you’ve got a dead woman here carved up in suitcases. You got uniforms wandering round throwing up like punks at a prom. And the best this guy can do is go feed his ugly face. I mean what the fu—”

  Peroni stepped forward, seized Leapman by the collar of his winter coat, then crammed the burger full into the American’s gaping mouth, pushing damn
hard so that the bun, the mayo, the vegetables and the grey, greasy meat splattered all over his face, down to his bright white cotton shirt and expensive black wool coat.

  Leapman reeled back, spluttering, hands waving, food falling down his front, eyes fixed on Peroni, scared of what the big man would do next.

  “Ah, ah,” Peroni warned, waggling a finger in his face. “The next burger goes up your ass and that won’t be pretty.”

  “Morons!” Leapman yelled, beside himself with fury. “Utter fucking morons! They’ll hear about this, Falcone. I’m warning you!”

  “About what?” Falcone wondered placidly.

  “About him!” Leapman screamed, stabbing a finger at Peroni.

  Falcone folded his arms over his camel-hair coat. “Oh, him.”

  He exchanged a single, sly glance with Peroni.

  “Officer,” Falcone said in a flat monotone, “that was quite unacceptable behaviour. Do you have an explanation for it?”

  Peroni pulled Teresa’s report out of his pocket. “Yeah. This.”

  Leapman stared at the sheet of paper, puzzled, suddenly a little worried. “What the hell’s that? I don’t read Italian too well.”

  “Forensic report,” Costa answered. “When we looked at the cord he used to kill the woman in the Pantheon we found it wasn’t a cord at all. It was a piece of material, cut into those shapes he likes, then rolled up tight like rope.”

  Leapman blinked. He couldn’t decide whether to be defensive or furious.

  “You were supposed to hand over everything you had to us,” he snapped. “I gave you that goddamn order.”