Ercole recalled seeing the prosecutor on RAI television not long ago, smoothly fielding questions about his plans for a career in politics.

“He wrote down something just now, as he was leaving!”

She was uncomfortable. “Perhaps it was just a coincidence.” Her beautiful blue eyes scanned his face. “In any event, be careful, Officer.”

“I will. Thank you. You are very kind and I—”

“Ercole!” a voice shouted from up the hall.

Gasping, he turned to see Inspector Massimo Rossi storming from the situation room. It was odd, and unnerving, to see the otherwise placid man so agitated.

Had the Postal Police reported that the Composer uploaded a video?

Had someone found the body of the Libyan?

“Excuse me.” He turned from Daniela.

“Ercole,” she said.

He paused and looked back.

She pointed at the floor. He had dropped the paper towels.

“Oh.” He bent and retrieved them then ran up the hall to Rossi.

The inspector said, “It seems the information you requested from America about the kidnapping has arrived.”

Ercole was confused; the expression on Rossi’s face was even more troubled than a moment ago. “And isn’t that good for us, sir?”

“It most certainly is not. Come with me.”

Chapter 14

Lincoln Rhyme looked around the well-worn lobby of Naples police headquarters.

Though he’d never been here, the building was infinitely familiar; law enforcement doesn’t need translation.

People came and went, officers in several, no, many, different styles of uniforms—most of which were spiffier and more regal than the U.S. equivalent. Some plainclothes officers, wearing badges on hips or lanyards. And civilians too. Victims, witnesses, attorneys.

Busy. Like Naples outside, Naples inside was hectic.

He studied the architecture once more.

Thom said to Rhyme and Sachs, “Prewar.”

It occurred to Rhyme that in Italy the phrase would, in most people’s minds, refer to the Second World War. Unlike America for the past eighty years, Italy had not regularly dotted the globe with tanks and infantry and drones.

Thom followed his boss’s eyes and said, “Fascist era. You know that Italy was the birthplace of fascism? World War One. Then Mussolini took up the standard.”

Rhyme had not known that. But, then, by his own admission, he knew very little that was not related to criminalistics. If a fact didn’t help him solve a case, it was a nonfact. He did, however, know the origin of the word. He shared this now. “The word ‘fascist’ comes from ‘fasces.’ The ceremonial bundle of sticks carried by bodyguards to signify power in Roman officials.”

“As in speak softly, and carry a big one?” Sachs asked.

Clever. But Lincoln Rhyme was not in the mood for clever. He was in the mood to get on with the unusual, and infuriating, case against the Composer.

Ah, at last.

Two men, focusing on the Americans, appeared in the hallway, one in his fifties, rumpled and solidly built, sporting a mustache. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and tie. With him was a tall younger man, around thirty, in a gray uniform with insignia on the breast and shoulder. They shared a glance and moved quickly toward the trio.