Whatever his mission was, saving the world from demons or reincarnated Hitlers, it was important enough for him to do anything—even killing police—to make sure he finished it.

Sachs sipped from Rhyme’s coffee. Calm, as always after a run-in like this. It was only boredom and quiet that flustered her. She took a call, listened and hung up.

“That was Ercole. They can’t find the site of the shooter and he’s bypassed or gotten through all the roadblocks they set up. They found one slug. Looks like a Winchester two-seventy round.”

A popular hunting rifle cartridge.

Rhyme explained about Spiro’s catching the unauthorized operation, to try to exculpate Garry Soames. But then softening.

“Did Beatrice blow the whistle?”

“No, she didn’t know it wasn’t officially sanctioned. I think Dante’s just a very, very good investigator. But we kissed and made up. That is, up to a certain point. But from now on, we clear things with him.”

Rhyme then added details about the analysis of evidence from the roof of Natalia Garelli’s flat, where the attack took place, and at Garry’s flat.

“Well. Interesting development.”

“Still waiting for the Rome date-rape drug analysis. And some soil samples Ercole picked up at Garry’s. But let’s get to the Questura. See if our friend was careless enough to load his hunting rifle without those damn latex gloves.”

“Fatima!”

Hearing the friendly voice, Fatima Jabril turned and saw Rania Tasso approaching through the crowded walkways between the tents. The woman, normally severe—as much as Fatima herself—was smiling.

“Director Tasso.”

“Rania, please. Call me Rania.”

“Yes, you said that. I am sorry.” Fatima set down her backpack, filled with medical supplies—it must have weighed ten kilos—and the paper package she held. She straightened and a bone in her back popped.

“I heard about the baby!” Rania said.

“Yes, both are well. The mother and the child.”

Fatima had been the midwife for a delivery just a half hour ago. Births were not uncommon, in this “village” of thousands, but the baby girl had been a milestone—the hundredth infant born in Capodichino this year.

And, surprising everyone, the Tunisian parents had named her Margherita, after the queen consort of the king of Italy in the late nineteenth century.

“It is going well for you?” Rania asked. “In the clinic.”

“Yes. The facilities are not bad.” She nodded at the backpack of medical supplies. “Though I feel like a doctor in a battle zone sometimes. Going here and there, fixing scraped knees, bandaging burns. The people are careless. A man bought some goat—from the vendors.” Fatima glanced outside the fence, where the booths and kiosks were set up. “And he started a fire in his tent!”

“No!”

“They would have asphyxiated if their son hadn’t run up to me and said, ‘Why are Mommy and Daddy sleeping?’”

“Not Bedouins, of course,” Rania said.

“No. Tribal peoples would know how to live in tents. What is safe and what is not. These were from the suburbs of Tobruk. They will be fine, though their clothing will smell thick with smoke forever.”