“She did, yes. But we didn’t pursue it because it didn’t seem there was any connection between the warehouse and the Composer.”

She turned to Spiro. “Everyone in Italy, citizens, has an ID card, right?”

“Yes. It is the law.”

“With a picture?”

“That’s right.”

“If I give you a name can you get me an image?”

“If the name is not too common, yes. Or you have an address or at least a commune, a town.”

“It’s not that common a name. I’ll need the picture sent to my phone and I’ll forward it to someone.”

“I will arrange it. Who is this person you wish to send it to?”

“Do you know the phrase ‘confidential informant’?”

“Ah, so you have a snitch, do you?” Spiro asked, pulling out his mobile.

Chapter 67

Amelia Sachs sat beside Lincoln Rhyme in the back of the disabled-accessible van, parked on one of the better streets in Naples, the Via di Chiaia, overlooking the beautiful park that had, in part, tipped her to Fatima’s presence. It would be here, not the Castel dell’Ovo, where a single mother would stroll with her child.

Dante Spiro was with them, listening through an earbud to the operation, which was being run by Michelangelo.

Dirty Harriet.

The view out one window was a magnificent panorama of the bay, the Castel dell’Ovo to the right and the deceptively placid Vesuvius to the left.

Like everyone else, however, Sachs was uninterested in the bay; she was concentrating on the considerably more modest sight through the other window: a pleasant, if old, residential abode, stone construction, yellow paint. A pensione—a bed-and-breakfast-style inn. It was gem-like and would have cost plenty per night.

“We’re sure he’s inside?” she asked. Referring to the man who had put together the entire plan. Who had hired Ibrahim and Gianni. Who had tried to kill dozens of innocents, solely to turn public opinion further against the refugees, and defeat the pending legislation that might improve their plight.

All under the perverse banner of nationalism.

Spiro was listening to police transmissions through a wired earpiece. His head was cocked. He said, “Sì, sì.” Then to Sachs and Rhyme: “Yes, he’s in there.” A grim smile. “And the assessment is that he’s unarmed.”

“How do they know that? Do they have eyes on him?” Rhyme asked insistently.

He would be thinking, Sachs knew, that if she was walking into the room where the mastermind of the scheme was—as Spiro would say—holed up, they should damn well know for sure whether he was armed or not.

She was less concerned; she had her Beretta. And a fine piece of work it was, she’d announced. The Italians were good at food, cars, fashion and weapons. None better.

Spiro replied, “Michelangelo reports that their surveillance has determined he will certainly be unarmed. But that will not last for long. We should move now.”

Sachs glanced at Rhyme, who said, “Don’t let anyone shoot anything up if they can avoid it, Sachs. This’s important evidence. This’s the main bad boy.”