“You are Lincoln Rhyme,” said the older. His English was heavily accented but clear.

“And this is Detective Amelia Sachs. And Thom Reston.”

As planned, she proffered her gold badge. Not as imposing as fasces, it was nonetheless some indicia of authority.

Even in the short period he’d been in Italy—about three hours—Rhyme had noted a great deal of hugging and cheek kissing. Man-woman, woman-woman, man-man. Now, not even a hand was offered—at least not by the older cop, the one in charge, of course. He merely nodded, his face stiff with wariness. The younger stepped forward, palm out, but, seeing his superior’s reticence, eased back quickly.

“I am Inspector Massimo Rossi. The Police of State. You are coming from New York here, all the way?”

“Yes.”

The young man’s eyes radiated awe, as if he were seeing a living unicorn. “I am Ercole Benelli.”

Curious name, pronounced AIR-colay.

He continued, “I am honored to meet such an esteemed figure as you. And to meet you in person, Signorina Sachs.” His English was better and less accented than Rossi’s. Generational, probably. Rhyme suspected YouTube and American TV occupied more of the younger officer’s time.

Rossi said, “Let us go upstairs.” He added, as if he needed to, “For the moment.”

They rose in silence to the third floor—it would be the fourth in America; Rhyme had read in the guidebook on the way here that in Europe the ground floor was counted as zero, not one.

Out of the elevator, as they made their way down a well-lit corridor, Ercole asked, “You flew on a commercial flight?”

“No. I had access to a private jet.”

“A private jet? From America!” Ercole whistled.

Thom chuckled. “It’s not ours. A lawyer Lincoln helped in a case recently lent it to us. The crew is flying clients of his to depositions around Europe for the next ten days. We were going to use it for other plans but then this arose.”

Greenland, Rhyme thought. Or some other suitable honeymoon site. He didn’t, however, share this with the police officer.

At the reference to the duration of their visit—ten days, as opposed to one, or a portion of one—Rossi cocked his head and didn’t seem pleased. Rhyme had known from the moment he and Sachs had looked at each other, following Ercole’s email about the Composer’s presence in Italy, and decided to come here, they would not be welcome. So he was pleased that Thom had fired off the ten-day line; nothing wrong with getting the Italians used to the idea that they were not to be scooted away too fast.

Sachs said to Ercole, “You speak English well.”

“Thank you. I have studied from the time I was a ragazzo, a boy. You speak Italian?”

“No.”

“But you do! That is Italian for ‘no.’”

No one smiled and he fell silent, blushing.

Rhyme looked around him, noting again how familiar the place seemed, little different from the Big Building—One Police Plaza, in New York. Harried detectives and uniforms, some joking, some scowling, some bored. Directives from on high posted on bulletin boards and taped directly to the walls. Computers, a year or so past state-of-the-art. Phones ringing—more mobiles in use than landlines.