by Gregg Loomis
And a strange location, too. One of the city's more upscale neighborhoods and right across the street from the Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta. Could the shooting be related to the fact the order was having some sort of meeting? Like any good policeman, the inspector was suspicious of coincidences.
But it would be absurd to see a connection between some church order and organized crime, particularly the Mafia, which the church had denounced for centuries. He dismissed the idea but it stubbornly refused to vanish.
There was something else tiptoeing around the perimeter of his mind, like a man wary of stepping onto a floor of rotted wood. What... ?
"No one inside heard the shots, Inspector."
Hanaratti had not noticed that Manicci was standing beside him. "It seems those old walls deafen a lot of sound," the junior inspector said.
It would take walls a lot thicker to prevent the sound of so much gunfire, Hanaratti thought sourly. The precinct had gotten telephone calls from as far as nearly a kilometer away. The priestly members of the order should set a better example than trying to evade cooperating with an investigation, no matter how important their meeting.
The priests.
The thought stirred something, an idea a little less reticent to step forward.
"From the license plate, we have learned the car was rented," Manicci continued.
We? Hanaratti thought. The inspector was a master of claiming credit due others, equally adept at passing along blame like a soup bowl too hot to hold. The perfect bureaucrat but not someone Hanaratti would have chosen for this particularly brazen crime. But he didn't get to choose with whom he worked. Manicci was married to the daughter of the chief inspector's wife's first cousin.
In Italy, nepotism was a matter of family pride.
"We have already located the Hertz office and the manager will meet one of my men there to ascertain the name of the person renting it."
Opportunity knocked.
"One of your men? It is too important to entrust to an underling. Go yourself."
Hanaratti tried not to smile as he savored the disappointment on Manicci's face at being banished from the crime scene where he might seize the accolades for someone's discovery of an important bit of evidence. It was only as he was watching Manicci reluctantly climb into the blue and white Fiat that the idea he had been toying with solidified.
Priests.
A religious order.
It had been only a few weeks since that Greek Orthodox priest had been fished out of the Tiber after Hanaratti had investigated some sort of gun battle at his apartment near the Vatican.
Connection?
Tenuous at best, but priests were not the type one would ordinarily connect with violent acts, certainly not as perpetrators and usually not as victims.
Coincidences.
"Inspector?"
One of the uniforms was at his elbow.
"We have just received a report that the car, the Alfa there, was stolen from near the Pantheon."
Hanaratti felt his gut clinch as he saw the most obvious clue in this shooting begin to fade. "Stolen?"
"Yes, sir. It was rented to an American who is staying at a hotel near there."
"When?"
The officer looked confused. "
"'When'?"
The deputy chief inspector swallowed the urge to scream at the man. "When was it stolen?"
The policeman shrugged. "The American doesn't know. He went into a restaurant and when he came out, the car was gone."
Perfect.
At least Hanaratti would have the pleasure of assigning Manicci to a mundane car theft. After all, it was connected to a shooting, and interviewing the American would keep the junior inspector out of the main investigation for at least half of tomorrow.
Even misfortune had its bright side.
VI.
Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta
Aventine Hill
The Next Morning
It had taken most of the morning for Lang and Jacob to find a truck from the electrician they had seen entering the piazza yesterday. A few euro liberally spread among the two-man crew and Lang and Jacob were dressed in the same coveralls as the two legitimate workers. A little more money and the van was in front of the wooden gates, honking for admission.
The one electrician who spoke English was explaining in Italian that they were here to check on yesterday's job and, no, there would be no additional costs involved for the service. Once inside, Lang and Jacob, toolboxes in hand, split up to explore the multiwindowed gray stone building.
Their hopes the uniforms would give them the invisibility of anonymity proved to be correct. Cooks, serving personnel as well as a few workmen filled the hallways with good-natured confusion. The five-year meeting of the council had the air of a country fair. No one gave the two electricians a second look.
The larger offices were deserted, leaving only what Lang guessed was salaried administrative staff. Members and officials would be attending the meeting of the grand council in the church next door.
Jacob peered around the corner of the largest office either he or Lang had found. "Boss's digs, I'd bet."
Standing in the hall, Lang nervously looked both ways. "So?"
"So, we take a look."
Jacob was inside while Lang stood sentry in the hall.
Jacob picked up the phone on the desk, pushing all four buttons on its base one by one. Nodding as though confirming an undivulged theory, he followed the line to the wall plug, where he inserted an instrument resembling a thermometer.
"Got it."
"Got what?" Lang asked.
"The private line."
"But why...?"
"Later, lad. Let's go. Right after ..."
Jacob produced a package about the size of a bar of soap and stuck it to the bottom of the desktop with a wad of putty. "We're done."
Outside, Lang learned his friend's reconnaissance revealed the upper floors were residential. From the clothing Jacob had noted in the closets, almost all rooms were occupied by priests, the hospitaliers and chaplains of the Rome priory, no doubt.
The two collected the real electricians and left.
On the way back to the hotel, Jacob produced what looked like some sort of schedule or program printed in Italian, English, German and some language Lang did not recognize. "Tonight is the time," he said. "The visiting members of the council have a special dinner at the Vatican."
Lang looked at him. "So?"
"So, the professionals, the full-time people, should still be at the priory. Reduce the chance of collateral damage."
A euphemism for civilian casualties.
Lang thought of the terror on Manfred's face as bullets tore through the thin wooden walls of a farmhouse in Georgia, of his son's frightened face in Atlanta.
"Vatti, I was so scared!"
For just an instant, Lang couldn't have cared less about collateral damage.
VII.
Piazza delta Rotonda
Sole al Pantheon
Fifteen Minutes Later
Lang and Jacob entered their hotel and stopped just inside the doorway. The man sitting in one of the two ornately carved, silver-painted chairs in the microscopic lobby reeked of police.
The man rose, exhibiting a police badge. "Which one of you is Mr. Langford Reilly?" he asked in English.
Lang studied the badge before answering. "I am."
The policeman favored him with a humorless smile. "I am Inspector Antonio Manicci and am here to inquire about the car you reported stolen."
He didn't offer a hand.
An inspector chasing down stolen cars? In Italy where few European insurance companies would write car theft coverage because the crime was endemic to the country? The fact the vehicle had been recovered looking like it had been used by Bonnie and Clyde was the likely explanation.
Lang became uncomfortably aware both of the weight of the Browning in the small of his back and the severe penalties meted out for possession o
f firearms in Italy.
The inspector looked around, searching for a place to talk. The two carved chairs were it.
The desk clerk said something in Italian and Manicci gave that same dead smile. "Grazie. He tells me we may use the bar."
Like most rooms here, the bar was not level with the lobby but two or three steps down to the left. A single table with four chairs sat in front of a wooden bar whose shelves were largely bare. The dim light created atmosphere, but
anyone looking for a nightcap other than grappa or brandy would be deeply disappointed.
Seated, Manicci put a small tape recorder on the table. "Where was the car when stolen?"
Lang pointed as though the walls were not there. "Right along this edge of the piazza."
The Italian frowned. "Parking is forbidden there."
"No doubt the thief was merely enforcing the law."
"How did you know the car had been stolen and not, dragged ..."
"Towed?"
"Towed. How do you know the car was not towed rather than stolen?"
Lang looked at him blankly. "When is the last time you saw a car towed in this city for parking in a no-parking space?"
The inspector made a noise that had equal chances of being a laugh, cough or clearing his throat. He leaned forward, studying Lang's face. "It was found on the Aventine shot full of holes. Do you have an idea who would do this?"
Lang hoped he was successful in demonstrating surprise. "Perhaps someone frustrated when he couldn't get the car started?"
"You make the joke, Mr. Reilly. My investigation is serious."
Lang leaned back, hoping the shadows helped obscure his face. "I apologize. I have no idea who would shoot that car."
Uncertain of the sincerity of the admission of fault, the inspector continued. "You are in Rome on business?"
"I come almost every year to enjoy the museums, the churches, the architecture. One cannot live long enough to see it all."
"And how much longer will you remain?"
"Several more days at least. But I doubt I'll rent a car."
"And you have no guess as to who would shoot the car?"
"None. Perhaps the thief had enemies." "Why did you rent the car, Mr. Reilly? Is not Rome's bus and metro good enough?"
"I had hoped to drive out to Hadrian's villa. I understand it is both interesting and beautiful."
Lang was certain the man was more interested in studying his face than asking fruitless questions.
He stood. "Inspector, I know nothing of what happened on the Aventine. I do know I have a lunch date with a business associate. I'd prefer not to keep him waiting."
Manicci stood also, stuffing the recorder in his pocket, an admission the interview was unproductive. "Very well then. I may wish to contact you again."
"I'll be right here."
Jacob and Lang watched the policeman's departure through the hotel's glass door.
"From what I heard from the lobby, the copper didn't learn a thing," Jacob observed.
Lang was still looking out into the piazza. "After the first few minutes, it wasn't information he was after."
"Oh?"
"Remember, I told you about the gunfire in the priest's apartment building, the one where I gave last rites in the priest's cassock before disappearing?"
"So?"
"That cop, Manicci, was one of the investigating officers."
"You're sure he saw you there?"
"Your people took the same course in face recognition we did, hours of looking at different photos, different views of the same person. Yep, that's him. He kept trying to get a better look at my face. Sooner or later, he'll place me."
Jacob stuck his pipe in his mouth. "Bloody hell! I'd say it's jolly well time to bid farewell to this place before he comes back. As our Froggie friends would say, tout de suite."
VIII.
Piazza Venezia
Minutes Later
Inspector Antonio Manicci was oblivious to the huge Monument Victor Emmanuel that filled the unmarked Fiat's windshield. Referred to by irreverent Romans as the Typewriter or the Wedding Cake because of its tiered structure and mass of white Brescian marble, it was completed in 1911 in honor of Victor Emmanuel II of Savoy, the first king of a unified Italy. Also commemorated were architectural bad taste, self-importance and insensitivity to the ocher tones of surrounding buildings.
Instead of the universal loathing of the thing, Manicci's mind was occupied with the man he had just interrogated. He had seen Reilly before. He was sure. Remembering faces went with his job.
But where?
He swung left, south, onto the Via del Teatro di Marcello. Michelangelo's steep staircase, the Cordonata, stretched up to his Piazza del Campidogli at the top of the Capitoline Hill. Tour buses blocked the first of the northbound lanes and Roman motorists, ever impatient, were honking their disapproval.
Where would he have met the American?
The wooded flanks of the hill were on his left now but he didn't notice. Instead, his eyes fixed on three priests walking along the sidewalk.
Priests!
That Greek priest whose apartment had been the scene of some sort of gun battle, a Wild West shoot-out like something in the American Western films.
Another priest, one who had murmured last rites over the dead man on the stairs and then disappeared.
The realization was as violent as an electrical shock, so disconcerting he had to jam on the Fiat's brakes at the last moment to avoid running over a young woman on a Vespa. A young woman whose small dog had been riding at her feet. The animal turned to snarl his anger at the inspector, an expression that closely matched that on his mistress's face.
That priest had been the American, Langford Reilly. He was certain of it.
He fought the temptation to attempt a U-turn, aware such a move would likely be fatal even with his siren and lights hidden in the grille turned on. Instead, he pulled his cell phone from its holder on his belt and scrolled down before punching in a number. He ignored the chorus of horns behind him.
He identified himself, then, "I want you to check the immigration records for the last three months for Langford Reilly, an American. He should have entered the country recently, but more important, I want the date he entered before. Entry and exit."
He listened for a moment of protest.
"I don't care if the office is closed until 1600; the computer records aren't!"
He pushed the disconnect button among a cavalcade of more excuses.
If he were right, if Lang Reilly had been in the country when the shooting took place—and the Greek priest subsequently found dead—the American would have a lot more questions to answer.
IX.
Via Campania
An Hour Later
The safe house Jacob had managed to scrounge from his former colleagues on short notice was no more than a third-floor suite of three rooms, a bath and a tiny kitchen. Were it not for the tedious sameness shared by safe houses, Lang could have sworn this was the apartment he had shared with Jacob and Gurt for a few days during the Pegasus affair. Through a pair of grime-streaked windows, he could see just over the top of the ancient city wall, where a strip of green denoted the park of the Villa Borghese, the only thing remotely cheerful in sight.
Two chairs and a sofa that Goodwill would have rejected were placed against walls bare of any decoration other than cracks in the plaster. A wooden table, its surface scarred by cigarette burns, stood forlornly between the main room and a two-burner stove, sink and small refrigerator that seemed to be gasping its last breaths.
Lang was thankful they would be there only a few hours. Jacob seemed to be taking contentment from his pipe, which he had smoked continually since their arrival.
The place was not only dismal, now it stunk.
Jacob looked at his watch. "Suppose the inspector has made the connection by now?"
Lang tossed down a two-month-old copy of Der Spiegel ." I wouldn't have wanted to hang around the ho
tel and find out."
Jacob gently puffed a smoke ring. It shimmered across the floor before dissolving against a table leg. "Too bad we can't be at the airport. If he's noodled out who you are, the place will be rife with coppers. Bright idea, that: making reservations on the next flight back to Atlanta."
"Should keep him busy while we attend to unfinished business. Tell me again, what time will the visiting members of the council be at the Vatican?"
"1900. I'd say give it an hour to make sure it's dark."
X.
Piazza della Rotonda
Sole al Pantheon
At the Same Time
The two policeman stood at the desk shifting their weight from foot to foot.
Deputy Chief Police Inspector Hanaratti leaned over to put his face as close to the clerk's as possible. "Checked out? The man said he would be here a few more days!"
He looked at Manicci, who attested to the truth of the statement with a nod.
Unruffled, the desk clerk thumbed his guest ledger. "He was scheduled to stay." He shrugged, his expression saying the coming and going of guests was hardly his affair. "Then he and his friend asked for their passports and checked out unexpectedly."
"Did he say where they were going?" Hanaratti asked.
"One of them told the cabdriver to take them to the airport."
"They have not arrived there, yet," Manicci said. "I have a number of men waiting for them." He smiled the smile of a man way ahead in the game. "I ran Reilly's name through reservations lists. He has a return flight to Atlanta, Georgia, via New York this evening."
Skeptical, Hanaratti checked his watch. "They have had time to get to Flumicino." He turned back to the clerk. "Do you know this driver?"
"Of course, Inspector. The hotel would not enlist someone it did not know to serve our guests."
Or who would not pay a fee for the referral.
"Call this cabdriver. I wish to speak to him," Hanaratti ordered.
A few minutes later, he put down the phone. "The driver says the two changed their minds and instructed him to drop them off at Stazione Termini."
"They could be on a train headed almost anywhere," observed Manicci, always a spokesman for the obvious.
Hanaratti thought for a moment. "Call headquarters. Find out every train that has departed in the last hour and a half. Have the local polizia board each at the next stop."
