David Hewson by The Sacred Cut Page A

doesn't like hearing the word
"no," Leo. You're either very brave or very foolish."
    TWO
PEOPLE WERE WALKING into the building now, picking their way through the tape
maze like professionals. A man and a woman who were complete strangers. He was
about forty-five, thickset, with cropped grey hair, like that of a US marine,
and a head that looked too small for his body. The woman was much younger,
perhaps twenty-five, striking in a bright scarlet coat. They were walking into
a crime scene as if they owned the place and Leo Falcone already possessed a
gloomy, interior conviction about who they were.
    Moretti
eyed the couple too, watched Costa and Peroni walk briskly over to intercept
them, then shuffled his coat around him, getting ready to go back to the warmth
of his office. He laughed. "Tell your monkeys to be polite, Leo.
We're all watching. Maybe Filippo Viale too. Brave or foolish? When this
is over, I suspect we'll all know which."
    Costa
saw them first, brushing past the uniforms on the door with a flash of an ID
card and a cocky self-assurance that irked him immediately.
    "Hey,
Gianni," he murmured, "you know these people?"
    Peroni
looked washed out. Teresa had told them to use her place in Tritone when they
got a break. There was no way Costa would make it home to the farm on the
Appian Way. As for Peroni... Costa could only wonder when the big man had
last slept in the small, functional rented apartment he'd found out in
the suburbs on the other side of the river, beyond the Vatican. Peroni already
had a set of keys to Teresa's place. Maybe he lived there most of the
time anyway.
    "No,"
Peroni answered, perking up suddenly. He moved quickly to block the
couple's path, holding out his big arms wide, stretching from tape to
tape.
    The
man with the crew cut glowered up at him, half a head shorter but just as big
in the body.
    "You
don't mind if I ask," Peroni said. "This isn't exactly
a public performance we're giving here."
    "FBI,"
the American murmured in a low, grunty voice and kept on walking.
    "Whoa!"
Peroni yelled, and caught the man firmly by the arm, not minding the filthy
look he was getting in return.
    "Officer,"
the female agent said, "this woman is an American citizen."
    "Yeah,"
Peroni replied, "I know. But let's go through some niceties first. My
name is Gianni Peroni. This is my partner, Nic Costa. We are policemen. This
nice-looking gentleman walking towards us is Inspector Falcone. He's the
boss around here. When he says you get to go further, you go further. Until
then--"
    Falcone
arrived, looked the two FBI agents up and down and said, "Over here we
like people to call ahead and make appointments."
    The
man withdrew an ID card from his pocket. The woman in the scarlet coat did the
same. Costa leaned forward and stared at the photos, checking them, making sure
the two Americans understood the point. There were rules here. There were
procedures to be followed. She didn't look much like the photo on the ID
card. According to the date it was two years old. She'd seemed much
younger then.
    "The
IDs are fine," he told them politely. "We have to check.
You'd be amazed what the press will do over here just to get a
picture."
    "Of
course," the woman answered. She was trying to look like a business
executive: expensive, well-cut clothes, blonde hair tied back a little
scrappily in a bun that seemed to want to work itself free and let her locks
hang more freely around an attractive, almost girlishly innocent face. Something
didn't match up and, just for a moment, he couldn't stop staring at
her. She had razor-sharp, light blue eyes that were cutting into him now.
    "I'm
Agent Emily Deacon," she said in perfect Italian. "This--"
    She
pointed at her colleague without once looking at him and Costa realized, on the
instant, she didn't like the man by her side.
    "--is
Agent Joel Leapman. We're here for a reason. If you let us through to see
what you've got, we just might be able to help."
    Peroni
tapped Leapman on the