asked, “What?”
“Danny,” the creature repeated, with a triumphant joy, as if this were some rare privilege. “Danny.”
He lifted his reddened arms to the ceiling.
“Danny, Danny, Danny …”
The picture on the wall behind him caught Peroni’s eye again and he stared at the long, careful letters beside it.
He doubted this strange, crazed individual dancing into the sunlight could read or write at all.
Least of all in a strange, dusty room in the Via Rasella in a country that was surely foreign to him.
Peroni blinked, half remembering something about the name of this street.
The address had a reputation, a curse, one that went back to another bloody scene, another massacre, more than half a century earlier.
Perhaps that was why, unconsciously, he’d ordered Mirko Oliva to keep away from the window.
The old cop glanced outside.
He could see a single dark shape in a room in the house opposite. A man stood there, his face in shadow. There was something black and deadly in his arms, aimed in their direction.
9
THE PALACE GARDENS SEEMED TO STRETCH FOREVER, A sprawling formal park of geometric paths running through vast lawns, ornate flower beds, and cool, dark groves of lush trees. It was hard to imagine the city beyond the high perimeter walls. Even the traffic noise seemed muted on this high green plateau above Rome’s bustling heart.
“What do you think our friends are saying back there?” Sordi asked as they strolled away from the building behind.
“I’ve no idea, sir.”
“Please, Nic. You were one week old when I first saw you. There was a time—you were very young, I’ll admit—when you called me Uncle Dario. You won’t recall …”
But something did come back, and it made Costa smile.
“I remember a very tall, very friendly and generous man who always brought me presents. He enjoyed …” it was impossible not to say this, “… making faces.”
Sordi laughed and stretched his long features into a comical expression, the kind an adult would use to amuse a child.
“When you look like this, you might as well use it. Your father didn’t call me the Bloodhound for nothing. Don’t worry. I’ve had to put up with a lot worse in my time.”
He sat down on a stone bench beneath a wicker canopy covered in roses, beckoning Costa to join him. A classical statue of an athlete, fastening his sandals against a rock, stood next to this shady spot.
Sordi gazed at the figure’s handsome young features. “This is my friend Hermes. A copy, of course. The original was found at Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli. He’s the protector of travelers, an important fellow. Look …” He drew Costa’s attention to the sandals. Two perfect tiny wings projected from the sides of both. “That’s how we know he’s a god. He’s a good listener, Hermes.”
A pair of
corazzieri
in blue uniforms watched them from the palace steps. Sordi pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. His fingers were stained by decades of tobacco. The two that held the cigarette were the color of old leather.
“Faithful, loyal servants of the state, every one of them,” the president observed, glancing at the officers. “I don’t imagine anyone can hear us. Inside those walls …” His long features fell into a frown, his voice to a growl. “Every damned word in that place gets picked up by someone. I assume we may talk freely here. I have to.” His gray eyes stared at Costa. “As you may have gathered, Ugo Campagnolo is not pleased that I have intervened in this way. Were it practical, he would be in the courts right now trying to fight me to the last.”
“Why doesn’t he?”
“He’s an actor at heart, and actors always have a good sense of timing. It would take days to mount a challenge, and by then the summit would be over, his guests long gone, his moment on the world stage ruined by petulance. Campagnolo would risk everything if he went public with his displeasure, and he knows it. The man’s no fool.
“Danny,” the creature repeated, with a triumphant joy, as if this were some rare privilege. “Danny.”
He lifted his reddened arms to the ceiling.
“Danny, Danny, Danny …”
The picture on the wall behind him caught Peroni’s eye again and he stared at the long, careful letters beside it.
He doubted this strange, crazed individual dancing into the sunlight could read or write at all.
Least of all in a strange, dusty room in the Via Rasella in a country that was surely foreign to him.
Peroni blinked, half remembering something about the name of this street.
The address had a reputation, a curse, one that went back to another bloody scene, another massacre, more than half a century earlier.
Perhaps that was why, unconsciously, he’d ordered Mirko Oliva to keep away from the window.
The old cop glanced outside.
He could see a single dark shape in a room in the house opposite. A man stood there, his face in shadow. There was something black and deadly in his arms, aimed in their direction.
9
THE PALACE GARDENS SEEMED TO STRETCH FOREVER, A sprawling formal park of geometric paths running through vast lawns, ornate flower beds, and cool, dark groves of lush trees. It was hard to imagine the city beyond the high perimeter walls. Even the traffic noise seemed muted on this high green plateau above Rome’s bustling heart.
“What do you think our friends are saying back there?” Sordi asked as they strolled away from the building behind.
“I’ve no idea, sir.”
“Please, Nic. You were one week old when I first saw you. There was a time—you were very young, I’ll admit—when you called me Uncle Dario. You won’t recall …”
But something did come back, and it made Costa smile.
“I remember a very tall, very friendly and generous man who always brought me presents. He enjoyed …” it was impossible not to say this, “… making faces.”
Sordi laughed and stretched his long features into a comical expression, the kind an adult would use to amuse a child.
“When you look like this, you might as well use it. Your father didn’t call me the Bloodhound for nothing. Don’t worry. I’ve had to put up with a lot worse in my time.”
He sat down on a stone bench beneath a wicker canopy covered in roses, beckoning Costa to join him. A classical statue of an athlete, fastening his sandals against a rock, stood next to this shady spot.
Sordi gazed at the figure’s handsome young features. “This is my friend Hermes. A copy, of course. The original was found at Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli. He’s the protector of travelers, an important fellow. Look …” He drew Costa’s attention to the sandals. Two perfect tiny wings projected from the sides of both. “That’s how we know he’s a god. He’s a good listener, Hermes.”
A pair of
corazzieri
in blue uniforms watched them from the palace steps. Sordi pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. His fingers were stained by decades of tobacco. The two that held the cigarette were the color of old leather.
“Faithful, loyal servants of the state, every one of them,” the president observed, glancing at the officers. “I don’t imagine anyone can hear us. Inside those walls …” His long features fell into a frown, his voice to a growl. “Every damned word in that place gets picked up by someone. I assume we may talk freely here. I have to.” His gray eyes stared at Costa. “As you may have gathered, Ugo Campagnolo is not pleased that I have intervened in this way. Were it practical, he would be in the courts right now trying to fight me to the last.”
“Why doesn’t he?”
“He’s an actor at heart, and actors always have a good sense of timing. It would take days to mount a challenge, and by then the summit would be over, his guests long gone, his moment on the world stage ruined by petulance. Campagnolo would risk everything if he went public with his displeasure, and he knows it. The man’s no fool.
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