So the odds of ending up in an Italian jail were minimized.

A U.S. penitentiary?

Ahead of them, on the other side of the chain link, was their borrowed jet, waiting to hustle the three of them away. The aircraft, with stairs extended, was nearby, in terms of distance, and the phrase “making a run for it” tipped into Rhyme’s mind. Though the wheelchair made that cliché technically impossible, and in any case it was an unlikely solution to the problem of avoiding arrest by the U.S. authorities.

No, there was nothing to do but stop. And Rhyme told Thom to do so.

The aide eased to a halt, the brakes giving a triplet squeak.

After thirty seconds the SUV passenger door opened and Rhyme was surprised to see who climbed out. The diminutive man, face so very pale, sweat stains visible on his shirt under the gray suit, smiled amiably and held up a wait-a-minute finger; he was on his mobile. Rhyme looked to Sachs. She too was frowning. Then she recalled, “Daryl Mulbry. From the consulate.”

“Ah. Right.” The community and public relations liaison.

“The door,” Rhyme said.

Thom hit a button. With another squeak, not unlike that of the brakes, the door beside which Rhyme sat slid open.

“The ramp?” Thom asked.

“No. I’m staying put. He can come to us.”

Mulbry disconnected the call and put his phone away. He walked to the van. Without waiting for an invitation he pulled himself up inside and sat directly in front of Rhyme.

“Hey there,” he said to them all, an amiable voice, the dusting of Southern accent upon both words, the second of which was pulled into two syllables.

Sachs asked, “Busy day for public relations?”

Mulbry smiled. “After that news story that the Composer vanished from the country, journalists have been pelting us with requests. Positively pelting.”

Rhyme said, “You wrote that story. You’re one of Charlotte McKenzie’s associates.”

“Her boss, actually. I’m director of Alternative Intelligence Service.”

Ah, the New York actor. Yes, Rhyme could see him getting great notices for a character part. Probably stealing the show.

Rhyme asked, “Is anybody in your business who they seem to be?”

Mulbry laughed once more and wiped sweat.

“One question?” Rhyme asked.

“Only one?”

“For the moment. Ibrahim.”

Mulbry grimaced. “Ah, yes. Ibrahim. Aka Hassan, our ‘trusted’ asset in Tripoli. Ibrahim’s real name is Abdel Rahman Sakizli. Freelancer. Mercenary. He’ll run ops for ISIS, he’ll run ops for the Lord’s Resistance Army, he’ll run ops for the Mossad. He’s loyal to whoever pays him the most. Sadly, Hill had more money than we did, so Ibrahim chose to cheat on us.” Mulbry clicked his tongue.

“Where is he?”

A frown, but an exaggerated frown. “Good question. He seems to have disappeared.”

Rhyme chided, “And you, the kinder, gentler face of national security.”

“’T’wasn’t us. Last we heard he was in the company of a couple of women who were charming and beautiful and, coincidentally, rumored to be members of the Italian external security agency. Now, Captain Rhyme—”