The Geneva Deception by James Twining Page B

walked through, the square seemed eerily peaceful to her - the gentle chime of the fountain echoing off the massed walls, the hushed conversations of the officers and the muted fizz of their radios generating a faint hum that sounded like electricity on a power line on a wet day.
    There was also a sense of dignified order here, perhaps even respect. For rather than being casually abandoned on the cobbles as appeared to have happened last night, the assembled police and other emergency service vehicles had been neatly parked next to each other along one side of the square.
    As she walked it started to spit with rain, the sky huddling beneath a thick blanket of grey clouds, as if it didn’t want to be woken. The Pantheon loomed ahead of her, the classical elegance of the three rows of monolithic granite columns which supported its front portico compromised by the hulking, barrel-shaped building behind it. Squat and solid, it appeared to sit in a small crater of its own invention, the streets encircling it as if it had fallen, meteor-like, from the sky, and buried itself between the neighbouring buildings.
    Allegra walked up to the portico, stooping under the police tape that had been strung between the columns, and made her way inside the rotunda, her shoes squeaking on the ancient marble. Almost immediately she paused, her eyes drawn to the pale beam formed by the searchlight of the helicopterhovering overhead as it was funnelled through the circular opening at the apex of the coffered dome. A slanting column of light had formed between the ceiling and the altar, sparks of rain fluttering around it like fireflies trapped in a glass jar. It was a beautiful and unexpected sight.
    ‘Are you coming in, or just going to stand there like a retard?’ Salvatore crossed through the beam of light, sounding even more put upon than he had yesterday.
    ‘“Hello” would be nice.’
    ‘You’re late.’
    ‘Believe me, it takes years of practice to be this unreliable.’
    ‘Gallo’s not happy.’
    ‘He doesn’t exactly strike me as the happy type.’
    He eyed her unblinkingly, looking both appalled and yet also slightly envious of her brazen tone. He gave a resigned shrug.
    ‘Suit yourself.’
    There were about fifteen, maybe even twenty people inside, some in uniform interrogating the security guards who’d been covering the night shift, others in hooded white evidence suits taking photographs or examining the floor around the altar, which itself was obscured by some makeshift screens. Gallo, in a suit this time, was waiting for her next to Raphael’s tomb, his hands folded behind his back like a teacher readying himself to hand out a punishment. As Salvatore had warnedher, he was in a dark mood, and she found herself wondering if the angry atmosphere she’d noticed on the other side of the barricades was in some strange way linked to his own emotional barometer.
    ‘Nice of you to show up.’
    ‘Nice of you to ask me.’
    Gallo paused, lips pursed, as if he couldn’t quite decide if he found her insolent or amusing.
    ‘Where did you say you were from?’ he asked, taking his glasses off and polishing them on his tie.
    ‘I didn’t. But it’s Naples,’ she stuttered, his question taking her by surprise.
    ‘An only child?’ It was a simple question, but she could tell from his tone that it was loaded with meaning - difficult, spoilt, selfish, stubborn. Pick your stereotype.
    ‘That’s none of your business.’
    He paused again, then gave an apologetic nod.
    ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ Salvatore made a strangled noise next to her. She wondered if this was the first time he’d ever heard Gallo apologise.
    ‘You say what you think, don’t you?’
    ‘Pretty much.’
    ‘The difference between you and me is that you can get away with it because you’re a woman,’ Gallo sniffed. ‘When I do it, I get called a rude bastard.’
    ‘I wouldn’t say you were rude, sir.’ The wordswere out of her mouth before she