by David Hewson
“What’s it matter? What’s in a name?”
“It matters because you’re supposed to be FBI,” Falcone pointed out.
“Sue me,” Leapman grunted. “The point is this. Ten days into the war we find Bill Kaspar running like hell in some little town outside Baghdad. Our guys do just as they’re told. Lock him up and wait for a special team to come and take out the trash. And you know what he does?”
What men like that always did, Peroni thought.
“I can imagine,” he said.
“No.” Leapman shook his head vigorously. “You can’t. The men who picked him up were low-level grunts. They understood he was supposed to be a bad guy. They told him so. I know Bill Kaspar. He could’ve taken them out one by one if he’d wanted. What he did instead was go crazy. I mean angry crazy. Outraged. Some stupid sergeant knocked him around a little and told him he was a traitor. Kaspar went ballistic. He demanded to see the platoon commander, the guy above him, the regional commander, Dubya himself. Why? Because we’d got it all wrong. He hadn’t been sitting there in some Iraqi palace trading secrets for dough. The poor bastard had been in jail all along, probably getting tortured daily after a breakfast of dust and shit, not saying a word because that’s what Bill Kaspar is like.”
Leapman took a big deep breath before going on. “We got fooled and Kaspar knew it long before we did. He listens to this dumb sergeant for a couple of minutes, thinks it through, and then he’s out of there. Doesn’t even kill one of the grunts on the way, either, though a couple of them won’t walk too well for a while. And all we know is some lowly soldiers got a report from an American prisoner that doesn’t add up to much, then let the guy we wanted so badly escape out into the mess that was going on all over the place. We didn’t stand a chance of catching up with Kaspar after that. And for one good reason. He didn’t want to be caught.”
“He had no money,” Peroni objected. “No one to help him.”
“He’s Bill Kaspar!” Leapman yelled. “I keep telling you. Kaspar wrote the book on every last trick and scam you can pull in circumstances like that. You could parachute him onto Mars, come back six months later and he wouldn’t just be alive, he’d be sitting in a nice house with lobster on the table, fresh champagne on ice in a bucket and some goddamn hippie CD from the seventies on the stereo. Kaspar survives. He’s the best there is at it.”
“When did you know?” Falcone asked.
Leapman grimaced. “It took a while. We didn’t even realize Kaspar had made it to the US. We thought he’d hide out in Syria or somewhere. These people in Deacon’s team … most of them were civilians by this time. We didn’t put two and two together until those deaths in Virginia. By then there were just too many coincidences. All the same we still couldn’t work out what he was up to. As far as we were concerned, Bill Kaspar was a renegade, a wanted criminal. We couldn’t figure out what possible reason he’d have for risking his neck by coming home and killing these people. Then …”
He mulled over how far to go. “Then we realized that the only evidence we had against Kaspar came from Deacon’s man who’d gone on that covert mission a few years earlier. Nothing else corroborated the story. Certainly not the other three guys who never made it out of there. So we started taking a few peeks at the bank accounts of some of the others, the ones who did get out. They’d done their best to keep it hidden at first. I guess after time you get lazy. There’s a whole lot we don’t know. Was this arranged before Deacon and Kaspar went into Iraq? Did one or two of the team plan it and just face the rest with the choice when they all got there? Live and be a rich traitor or die and be an unsung hero? It’s all guesswork now. Operations like these don’t keep records for good reasons and everyone involved except Bill Kaspar is dead. But we were starting to firm up our suspicions by the time he made it to Dan Deacon in Beijing. After that, we were certain. Deacon had half a million dollars stashed away in a bank account in the Philippines. The moron never even spent a penny of it. Can you believe it?”
“The woman who died in the Pantheon?” Falcone asked.
“What about her?” Leapman asked.
“She knew. She must have known. You brought her here.”
“Yeah,” he snarled. “So we screwed up. I had five men watching her. How Kaspar got past them sure beats me.”
Falcone wasn’t letting go. “And she came here because …?”
“Because, Inspector, I didn’t give her any choice. She was a criminal. I could have snapped my fingers and she’d be gone for good anyway. She knew nothing. She got shot by accident after Deacon and Kaspar went in and scarcely knew what happened. So I gave her a chance to make up. Had it worked, she could have walked free.”
“Generous,” Peroni observed. “Why didn’t you just try talking to him direct?”
Leapman reached over the table and scattered Costa’s papers.
“We’ve been trying! What do you think all these messages are about? If I could just get him on the phone … I’d apologize. Then I’d tell him it’s time to end this crap and throw himself on our mercy. Except now …”
They waited. It had to come from him.
“Now he’s killed again,” Leapman muttered. “Which shouldn’t have happened. He’d killed everyone who’d gone into Iraq with him and betrayed him. The only one still standing is him. There’s no reason he should take out someone who had nothing to do with this. But Bill Kaspar always had a pretty old-fashioned view about patriotism. He came out of some Iraqi prison thinking he’d be home and free with everyone telling him he was a hero. Instead, he walked into all this crap. Us treating him as if he was a turncoat. If he feels his country’s abandoned him—written him off as a traitor—I suppose he thinks anything goes these days.”
“I suppose he’s right,” Peroni grumbled.
“Finally,” Leapman said, with a long, pained sigh, “we agree on something.”
COSTA MET TERESA where they’d arranged by phone, close to Largo Argentina, and briefed her on what he’d discovered. Then the two of them walked the short distance to the cafe where Emily had said she’d be waiting for them. He didn’t recognize her at first. She was standing at the counter of an empty Tazza d’Oro, close by the Pantheon, anonymous inside a too-big khaki winter parka with the hood still up. He nodded at her, got a couple of coffees, and the three of them retreated to a table.
Emily Deacon looked a little frightened, but a little excited too. Costa reached forward and gently pulled the hood down to her neckline, revealing her face. She managed the ghost of a smile and shook her long blonde hair automatically. It seemed lank and dirty.
Emily glanced at Teresa. “I thought perhaps it would be you and Gianni.”
“Gianni’s tied up,” Teresa said instantly. “I’m the best you’ve got.”
“No.” There was a flash of a smile. “I didn’t mean that. Sorry. You’ve got something out?”
Costa nodded at Teresa. “We think so. But put us in the picture first, Emily. What the hell happened last night? How did you find Kaspar?”
“I didn’t. He found me. You fell asleep.” She felt awkward with Teresa there, Costa guessed. “I went outside … I’m sorry. It’s the last thing I wanted, believe me. But maybe …” She bit her lip. “This could be the one chance we get. It’s important you understand the situation. Look.”
She flipped down the collar of the jacket and pointed to a tiny black plastic square. “It’s a mike. Kaspar’s listening somewhere. He can hear every word I say. He’ll be able to do that all the time until this is over, so please don’t get any smart ideas. And if the mike goes dead, so do I. Kaspar knows what he’s doing. You’ve both got to understand that. We can’t mess with him.”
Instinctively, Costa scanned the bar.
Emily put her hand to his chin and pulled his attention back to her. “He could be anywhere. Don’t even think about it. There’s a deal on the table, Nic. Let’s focus on that. We mustn’t screw it up.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
<
br /> “Good.”
Teresa was staring at a mark on the other woman’s neck. “Are you hurt, Emily?” she asked.
“I must have faIlen,” she replied. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”
Then Costa gently pulled down the first few inches of the zipper on the front of the parka.
“No, Nic,” Emily ordered. She pulled his hand away, then jerked the zip back up. “Not here. Not now. That’s not what matters. Don’t think about that part. We don’t even get that far.”
Teresa said quietly, “That’s what we all want, Emily. But can we stop him?”
“Yes!”
“You’re sure?” Teresa reiterated.
“I’m sure!” she snapped. Then, more quietly, “And I’m not in a position to argue. OK?”
Costa found it hard to work out whether she was saying what she did for Kaspar’s benefit or because she really believed it.
“He killed your father, Emily,” Teresa pointed out. “He killed all those other people. How can we trust him?”
Emily Deacon frowned. “I know that. But he talked to me last night. We went over a lot of things. He had his reasons. He feels he had some justification. That there was no other way. I don’t agree with that for one moment. I don’t imagine he’d expect me to. But …”
Nic took out a pen from his jacket pocket, slipped it onto the table next to a napkin.
“He just wants to know justice—his definition of justice—has been done,” she finished, looking at the pen without moving to pick it up. Then she scribbled two words on the paper.
You know?
Costa nodded and wrote a name next to the question.
She closed her eyes. She looked a little faint. Then she picked up the napkin, stared at the writing there, fixed him with those sharp, incisive blue eyes and mouthed, “Sure?”
Costa cupped his hand over the mike, leaned close into her left ear, smelled the trace of shampoo on her hair, a familiar scent, one from his own home, and murmured, “I’m sure he lived in an American-owned house in the Piazza Mattei in 1990. And that he was the only one there. Is that enough?”
Her cheek pressed into his, her lips briefly kissed his neck.
“Oh yes,” Emily whispered into his ear.
She took his hand off the mike, brushed her lips against his fingers and smiled broadly, just for a moment.
“If Kaspar wants justice,” Nic said, “all he’s got to do is walk into any Questura. That’s why we’re there.”
“He will. I promise.”
She scribbled out an address and a time, then gave it to Teresa.
“That’s where he wants the evidence delivered and when. No one but you two know that. He might want to test you. I’d be surprised if he didn’t. And”—she paused, making sure they understood this last point—“make it good evidence. Please.”
Nic Costa wanted a magic wand at that moment. Something that could just spirit them out of there, take away all the trappings of death and violence, put them back into a world that was whole and warm and human.
“What if something goes wrong?” he asked. “If there’s a delay … how do we get in touch with him?”
“No!” Her eyes were pleading with him. “He won’t buy that, Nic. He’s too smart. You do things his way. Or …”
Kaspar would be utterly inflexible, Costa understood this. He was offering to surrender. The terms would surely be his.
“I’ll call Falcone when I can get through,” he promised her. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“And me?” Teresa asked.
Emily reached into her jacket, took out a plastic security swipe card, then scribbled an incomprehensible jumble of letters and numbers and an e-mail address on the napkin. “If you can talk your way into Leapman’s office, this will get you on the system. After that … You and Nic need to try and find some way to work this out together. I can’t …”
Maybe it was some kind of delayed shock. She rocked back onto her chair. Her face was white. She was on the verge of breaking. Costa could see it and he didn’t have the words to help.
Teresa Lupo intervened. She bent forward and put her arms around Emily’s slight shoulders. “Emily,” she whispered, “keep going. We can do this.”
Then Teresa was gone, not looking back, not wanting to see what Costa knew would be a difficult moment of intimacy.
The American’s hands felt his again, just the briefest touch. She was cold now, she was sweating.
“Make it work, Nic,” Emily Deacon told him softly. “This isn’t just for me.”
She leaned forward, kissed his cheek, her lips cold. Then she shuffled the hood around her head, disappeared into its bulk and, eyes firmly on the floor, walked away, out into the bright, biting morning, out towards the hulking presence of the ancient building around the corner.
PERONI LISTENED WITH a growing sense of unease as Falcone forced them to focus on the message Kaspar had given him the previous night: proof.
Leapman was adamant, in a confident way that worried Peroni no end. “It was Dan Deacon. This was Deacon’s show all along. Kaspar’d know that if he had half a mind left.”
That wasn’t the point, Peroni thought, and surely they knew it. “Can you prove it?” he asked. “I looked into that man’s face last night and he’s going to take some convincing. I told you. He spoke with Deacon. I don’t think—”
“Deacon! Deacon!” Leapman yelled. “The bastard was a traitor! How the hell can anyone rely on a word Dan Deacon ever said?”
“The man was trying to save his life at the time. I don’t think people are very adept at lying in those situations.”
Leapman glowered at the SISDE man. “Tell him.”
Viale made that slight, amused gesture he used to put people down.
“We lie anytime we damn well feel like. Welcome to our world. Best accept it.”
“What we accept,” Falcone said curtly, “is that Kaspar is making a direct threat, one he is doubtless determined to carry out, in this city. We’re under a duty to understand and respond to that. It’s important we know what we can offer him to get him to back down. Can you prove it was Deacon?”
“No,” Leapman replied. “If you want a straight answer.”
Peroni felt like grabbing the guy by the throat again. He seemed so detached from the problem. He looked as if he were turning down an expense account. “Why not? These things must cost millions of dollars. You’ve got to have accounts, records, something.”
The American actually laughed. Gianni Peroni found he had to make a conscious effort to stay in his seat.
“What planet are you people living on?” Leapman asked. “That’s the last thing any of us would want. These operations are specifically designed so that if they go wrong, the shit stays on the ground and doesn’t seep anywhere near the rest of us. That’s the only way they can succeed. Kaspar knows that as well as anyone. He invented half the rules. Asking for an audit trail now shows how deranged the guy is. He might as well ask us to go public and hang ourselves.”
“You’ve got—” Peroni persisted.
“No!” Leapman snapped. “Listen. These were the rules Kaspar played by. He can’t buck them now. Deniability’s everything. No papers. No bank transactions. Nothing. Just a bunch of money going missing in some accounts in Washington, in ways no one’s ever going to notice.”
Commissario Moretti finally found his voice. “You heard what they said, Viale. I’ll go along with this so far, but I don’t want trouble here on the streets of Rome. That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It’s a tough world out there,” Viale said softly, staring at the table.
“We’ll cope.”
“Dammit!” Moretti screeched. “We do cope. We’re the police. We’re here for a reason.”
“You’re here because you’re convenient,” Viale reminded him nastily.
“I’ve never met a cop who rolled over as easily as you did. Jesus. Leo here wouldn’t have fallen for a trick like that
. He’d have checked. He did check. You …”
The grey man didn’t even attempt to disguise his contempt for the man in the uniform. “You’re just a stuffed-up buffoon with a pen and a few shiny buttons on your jacket. You’re useful to me, Bruno, but don’t overestimate your value. And don’t get in the habit of talking back.”
The commissario went silent, shaking his head. Shock, Peroni thought. And maybe even a little well-deserved shame.
“He’s going to contact us somehow,” Falcone insisted. “He’s going to want something.”
Viale reached over, took Moretti’s pen and notepad and made a couple of indecipherable scribbles. “Then we’ll give him it. I’m not having another innocent death here. I can put some documents together. Keep him occupied until we find him.”
Peroni wanted to scream. “Don’t you understand? This guy’s no fool. You can’t just slip him some phoney letters and hope he’ll swallow it. He’s wise to tricks like that.”
Leapman nodded. “He’s right. If you give him fake stuff it’ll only make him madder. Then what?”
Viale looked immensely pleased with himself. “Who said it was going to be fake, Joel?”
“What?” the American snarled.
“You heard.”
The SISDE man got up from the desk and walked over to the far side of the office where there was a set of heavy-duty, old-fashioned filing cabinets secured by combination locks. He flicked through some numbers on the nearest, slid open a drawer and retrieved a blue file.
Leapman uttered a low, bitter curse.
“Oh, please!” Viale was loving this. “This was your show. We were just housekeeping. And”—he waved the file at the American—“housekeepers keep records. I was just rereading them last night, Joel. To refresh my memory. We have a habit around here. We note down conversations afterwards. We like to make sure we remember what we can. You may have had lots of reasons to cut off everything at the source. We had just as many to keep a few reminders of what really happened. Just in case someone started pointing fingers in our direction later. We’re your allies. We’re not your lackeys. Or your fall guys. You didn’t really think we’d be willing to go down with the ship, if it came to that, did you?”
