One man’s lullaby is another man’s scream.

A Flying Squad car pulled up and an officer climbed out, collecting two suitcases and a backpack from the trunk: McKenzie’s and Stefan’s belongings—from her place and from the farmhouse near the fertilizer operation, Rhyme supposed.

“My computer?” Stefan asked.

The officer said, in fair English, “It was with the items stolen from the file room. It is gone.”

Rhyme was watching McKenzie’s eyes. No reaction whatsoever at this reference to the theft of the evidence against them.

Stefan grimaced. “My files, the sounds I’ve collected here. All gone?”

McKenzie touched his arm. “Everything’s backed up, Stefan. Remember.”

“Not Lilly. In the cemetery. Tap, tap, tap…”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

The officer said, “Arrivederci.” His tone was not unfriendly. He returned to his car and sped off.

Stefan focused on those around him now and walked up to Rhyme. “I was thinking about you, sir. Last night.”

“Yes?”

He smiled, genuine curiosity on his face. “With your disability, your condition, do you think you hear things better? Sort of like compensation, I mean.”

Rhyme said, “I’ve thought about that. I’m not aware of any experiments but, anecdotally, yes, I think I do. When someone walks into my town house I know them instantly from the sound, if I’ve heard them before. And, if not, I can tell height from the length of time between steps.”

“The interval, yes. Very important. And sole of shoe and weight too.”

“That might be beyond me,” Rhyme said.

“You could learn.” Stefan offered a shy smile, stepped into the SUV and moved over to the far seat.

McKenzie began to climb in too, then turned to Rhyme. “We’re doing good things. We’re saving lives. And we’re doing that in a humane way.”

To Rhyme, this was as pointless a comment as could be.

He said nothing in reply. The SUV door closed and the vehicle eased away: Charlotte McKenzie to return to her world of theatrical espionage, Stefan to his new hospital, where—Rhyme hoped—he would find harmony in the music of the spheres.

Rhyme turned to Thom and Sachs. “Ah, look, across the street. It’s our coffee shop. And what does that mean? It’s time for a grappa.”

Chapter 71

At six that evening Lincoln Rhyme was in their suite at the Grand Hotel di Napoli.

His phone hummed. He debated and took the call.

Dante Spiro. He suggested they meet in an hour to discuss their gladiatorial contest, the extradition motion.

Rhyme agreed and the prosecutor gave them an address.

Thom fetched the van, plugged in the GPS and soon they were cruising through the countryside outside Naples—a route that took them, coincidentally, past the airport and the sprawling Capodichino refugee camp. At this time of night, twilight, the place exuded the ambience of a vast, medieval village, as it might have existed when Naples was its own kingdom in the fourteenth century (Ercole Benelli, Forestry officer and tour guide, had explained this, with bright eyes of an amateur historian). Perhaps the only differences were that now the flickers of light came not from smoky, sputtering fires but the many handheld screens, small and smaller, as the refugees texted or talked to friends, to family, to their overburdened lawyers, to the world. Or perhaps they were simply watching Tunisian or Libyan…or Italian soccer.