“Ah, look,” Fatima said. Khaled continued a few steps on while Fatima was pausing at a low, flowering plant. The blossoms were like tiny purple stars, set among deep green leaves. She would pick some for Muna. She started to bend down. And froze, gasping.

A large man was pushing suddenly through the brush. He was light-complexioned and wore dark clothing, a dark cap and had sunglasses on. His hands were encased in blue rubber gloves.

The sort that she’d just worn to deliver beautiful little Margherita.

One hand held what seemed to be a hood, made of black cloth.

She began to scream and turn toward her husband.

But the intruder’s fist, coming from nowhere, connected solidly with her jaw and she fell backward, as silent as if God, praise be to Him, had struck her mute.

Within the hour, the Composer task force had assembled in the windowless situation room, just off the forensic lab. In addition to Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were Spiro and Rossi, and Giacomo Schiller, the sandy-haired Flying Squad officer.

“You are injured?” Spiro asked, his eyes dipping to Sachs’s cut.

Sachs replied that she was fine.

Rhyme asked about any more news of the Composer’s getaway after the sniper attack on Sachs and Benelli.

“No,” Rossi said. “But the Scientific Police found his sniper’s nest. Prints of his Converse shoes. They are scanning all the ridges with metal detectors but it is likely he took with him the shell casings.” A shake of his head. “And I am sorry to report that there are no fingerprints on the recovered bullet, nor does it match any in our national criminal firearms database. I assume it would be a weapon he acquired or stole here.”

Rhyme agreed. The Composer wouldn’t dare bring a gun in from the United States. Even if he could do so legally, there would be too many questions at Customs.

Ercole Benelli now arrived, offering, “Scusatemi, scusatemi! I am late.”

Spiro eyed the young man with concern. “Not a worry, Ercole. Untouched?”

“Yes, yes, fine. It is not the first time I have been shot at.”

“Shot at before, Forestry Officer?”

“Yes, a blind farmer believed I was a thief, on his property to steal his prize sow. He missed by a long way.” A shrug.

Spiro said, “Still, a bullet is a bullet.”

“Exactly.”

Sachs: “Any witnesses?”

“No, we searched the whole area. None.” The officer frowned. “It makes little sense. It doesn’t seem to fit his profile. A weapon like that.”

Sachs disagreed. “I think he’s getting desperate. The amobarb drug tells us he has panic attacks and suffers from anxiety. His condition could be getting worse.”

Rhyme asked, “Where would he get the weapon?”

Rossi said, “It would not be so difficult. Handguns and automatic weapons, yes. You would need an underworld connection; the Camorra has access to whole arsenals. But I would think he stole it. There are many hunters in the countryside.”