Chapter 51

Sachs saw Massimo Rossi, standing before what seemed to be an old factory, long abandoned, boarded up. The word “Produzione” was legible, appearing below another word—a person’s name or a product or a service—that was not.

The inspector saw them and called, “Qui. This way.”

She and Ercole were on foot. They had to be on foot, for the address they sought was in what Rossi had described as Quartieri Spagnoli, a congested, chaotic warren of narrow streets and alleyways in Naples. “Named for the Spanish garrison that was stationed nearby in the sixteenth century,” Ercole told her. “If you see a boy running here, unlike the Vomero, he very likely is alerting his father or brother to the presence of police. Camorra are here. Tanti Camorra.”

Above her, laundry on white lines fluttered in the soft breeze, and scores of residents watched the flashing lights and the manhunt under way by dozens of uniformed officers. The spectators’ vantage points were balconies and open windows—which were probably where they spent much of their time; there were no yards, front or back, or even door stoops to sit on and rock babies or talk about politics and the day’s adventures at work, in the evening with a beer or wine.

Sachs was startled as a large basket descended to the ground just ahead of her. A boy ran to it and dropped in a plastic grocery bag. The basket ascended; three stories above his father or older brother began to haul the heavy load upward.

Life in the Spanish Quarters seemed to be largely overhead.

They entered the factory now. The air was dank, nose-pinching with mold. The bases of some type of equipment were still bolted into the floor, though what had been mounted to them was impossible to tell. The place was not large and was now made smaller by the many police officers inside. Little sunlight reached in; bright lamps had been set up and, while the rooms were naturally spooky, something about the stark white illumination made them seem even more troubling, like a bright light shining into an open wound. She saw Daniela and Giacomo and nodded. They greeted her in return.

Rossi pointed to the back of the facility and she and Ercole continued to the doorway he indicated. “Down there. The Composer has outdone himself this time,” he muttered.

The inspector was already wearing booties and now Sachs and Ercole paused to slip them on too. Blue latex gloves, as well. They entered a small room and descended to the basement of the factory.

The area did not cover the entire footprint of the building but only the back half. The sting of mold and mildew was greater here. Decay too. Overhead were beams, and the floor was pocked stone, giving the place a medieval appearance.

A torture chamber.

Which was exactly what it had been. Khaled Jabril had been stationed—in a chair again, as with Ali Maziq—against a damp wall, the backdrop for the Composer’s latest video.