citizens to whom it belongs. As Palombo says, there is no alternative. We must be swift, efficient and … careful.” The president shook his head. “I want no more deaths. Perhaps that is already wishful thinking. If so, let poor Batisti be the last.”
The three police officers on the other side of the table sat mute for a moment.
“You brought us here to tell us we’re crowd control and a brick wall against which the public may vent its fury?” Falcone asked.
“We summoned you so that you might be fully informed,” Palombo responded without emotion.
“A young woman was murdered on the streets of Rome last night,” Costa pointed out. “That’s a crime.
Our
crime.”
“It’s a crime indeed,” Palombo agreed. “And it will be investigated. By the Carabinieri. No arguments, please.” He waved his hand around the room. “If the Blue Demon should succeed in penetrating this place, can you imagine what damage they might do?”
“Palombo speaks the truth,” Dario Sordi said emphatically. “These leaders are our guests. Their security is our first responsibility. In this room …” His eyes fell to the paintings on the walls: portraits of foreigners, ambassadors, from the Far East and Arabia, Africa and beyond,all in the dress of the seventeenth century, looking down on proceedings as if amused and interested observers still. “… will sit the men who rule the world. If we fail them, we fail those they represent. And ourselves.”
The president gazed at the four of them. “I do not expect you to like what you’ve heard. These are difficult and dangerous times. Every one of us knows our details are on Batisti’s computer. My address is well known. Our colleagues, our friends from other nations …” Sordi shrugged and there was a trace of a smile on his exaggerated face. “For me, it’s odd to be under a death sentence again. The last was more than sixty years ago and came from the Germans, a race with whom I now dine, with all good grace and gratitude, as fellow European citizens I respect and admire.” His finger stabbed the table. “We can defeat this madness if we work together.”
It was a short, self-deprecating speech, and the rare mention of Sordi’s distant past was enough to silence them all.
“Good,” he announced. “Then I will leave you to your work. Nic?”
“Sir …?”
“I was abroad for your father’s funeral. I’ve never felt happy about that. Let me make some small amends now. Will you join me outside in the garden for a moment?”
Their eyes were on him, those of his colleagues, and of Palombo and the gray intelligence man from America. None expected this. None quite understood, any more than Costa himself.
8
“GET AWAY FROM THE WINDOW, MIRKO,” PERONI ORDERED again, keeping his weapon trained on the strange creature that had emerged from the shadows. “Rosa?”
“Backup’s coming,” she said. Peroni stole a glance to his right. She had her gun on the semi-naked young man who was staring at them in silence from across the room, knife in one hand, incense in the other.
They could see something on his chest, a red, dappled stain. Blood, overlaying the blue dye there. Lots of it, and not his own.
“Put down the knife,” Peroni ordered.
The boy’s head moved from side to side as if he were trying to comprehend.
Mirko Oliva had sidled next to the older officer, his weapon up too.
“Put down the knife!” the young officer barked.
Nothing. Just the head, turning from side to side, and a look in the eye, one that said …
not quite right
.
“Who are you?” Peroni asked.
“I don’t think he understands what you’re saying,” Rosa said. “Listen!”
The young man was mumbling to himself, a constant, low drone of words. None of them recognizable.
“What language is that?”
“Drop the knife!” Oliva screamed, in English this time.
A baffled look, fearful. The blade twitched in his shaking hand.
“If he can’t understand us, Mirko,”
The three police officers on the other side of the table sat mute for a moment.
“You brought us here to tell us we’re crowd control and a brick wall against which the public may vent its fury?” Falcone asked.
“We summoned you so that you might be fully informed,” Palombo responded without emotion.
“A young woman was murdered on the streets of Rome last night,” Costa pointed out. “That’s a crime.
Our
crime.”
“It’s a crime indeed,” Palombo agreed. “And it will be investigated. By the Carabinieri. No arguments, please.” He waved his hand around the room. “If the Blue Demon should succeed in penetrating this place, can you imagine what damage they might do?”
“Palombo speaks the truth,” Dario Sordi said emphatically. “These leaders are our guests. Their security is our first responsibility. In this room …” His eyes fell to the paintings on the walls: portraits of foreigners, ambassadors, from the Far East and Arabia, Africa and beyond,all in the dress of the seventeenth century, looking down on proceedings as if amused and interested observers still. “… will sit the men who rule the world. If we fail them, we fail those they represent. And ourselves.”
The president gazed at the four of them. “I do not expect you to like what you’ve heard. These are difficult and dangerous times. Every one of us knows our details are on Batisti’s computer. My address is well known. Our colleagues, our friends from other nations …” Sordi shrugged and there was a trace of a smile on his exaggerated face. “For me, it’s odd to be under a death sentence again. The last was more than sixty years ago and came from the Germans, a race with whom I now dine, with all good grace and gratitude, as fellow European citizens I respect and admire.” His finger stabbed the table. “We can defeat this madness if we work together.”
It was a short, self-deprecating speech, and the rare mention of Sordi’s distant past was enough to silence them all.
“Good,” he announced. “Then I will leave you to your work. Nic?”
“Sir …?”
“I was abroad for your father’s funeral. I’ve never felt happy about that. Let me make some small amends now. Will you join me outside in the garden for a moment?”
Their eyes were on him, those of his colleagues, and of Palombo and the gray intelligence man from America. None expected this. None quite understood, any more than Costa himself.
8
“GET AWAY FROM THE WINDOW, MIRKO,” PERONI ORDERED again, keeping his weapon trained on the strange creature that had emerged from the shadows. “Rosa?”
“Backup’s coming,” she said. Peroni stole a glance to his right. She had her gun on the semi-naked young man who was staring at them in silence from across the room, knife in one hand, incense in the other.
They could see something on his chest, a red, dappled stain. Blood, overlaying the blue dye there. Lots of it, and not his own.
“Put down the knife,” Peroni ordered.
The boy’s head moved from side to side as if he were trying to comprehend.
Mirko Oliva had sidled next to the older officer, his weapon up too.
“Put down the knife!” the young officer barked.
Nothing. Just the head, turning from side to side, and a look in the eye, one that said …
not quite right
.
“Who are you?” Peroni asked.
“I don’t think he understands what you’re saying,” Rosa said. “Listen!”
The young man was mumbling to himself, a constant, low drone of words. None of them recognizable.
“What language is that?”
“Drop the knife!” Oliva screamed, in English this time.
A baffled look, fearful. The blade twitched in his shaking hand.
“If he can’t understand us, Mirko,”
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