Lang looked at him. "So?"
"So, the professionals, the full-time people, should still be at the priory. Reduce the chance of collateral damage."
A euphemism for civilian casualties.
Lang thought of the terror on Manfred's face as bullets tore through the thin wooden walls of a farmhouse in Georgia, of his son's frightened face in Atlanta.
"Vatti, I was so scared!"
For just an instant, Lang couldn't have cared less about collateral damage.
VII.
Piazza delta Rotonda
Sole al Pantheon
Fifteen Minutes Later
Lang and Jacob entered their hotel and stopped just inside the doorway. The man sitting in one of the two ornately carved, silver-painted chairs in the microscopic lobby reeked of police.
The man rose, exhibiting a police badge. "Which one of you is Mr. Langford Reilly?" he asked in English.
Lang studied the badge before answering. "I am."
The policeman favored him with a humorless smile. "I am Inspector Antonio Manicci and am here to inquire about the car you reported stolen."
He didn't offer a hand.
An inspector chasing down stolen cars? In Italy where few European insurance companies would write car theft coverage because the crime was endemic to the country? The fact the vehicle had been recovered looking like it had been used by Bonnie and Clyde was the likely explanation.
Lang became uncomfortably aware both of the weight of the Browning in the small of his back and the severe penalties meted out for possession of firearms in Italy.
The inspector looked around, searching for a place to talk. The two carved chairs were it.
The desk clerk said something in Italian and Manicci gave that same dead smile. "Grazie. He tells me we may use the bar."
Like most rooms here, the bar was not level with the lobby but two or three steps down to the left. A single table with four chairs sat in front of a wooden bar whose shelves were largely bare. The dim light created atmosphere, but
anyone looking for a nightcap other than grappa or brandy would be deeply disappointed.
Seated, Manicci put a small tape recorder on the table. "Where was the car when stolen?"
Lang pointed as though the walls were not there. "Right along this edge of the piazza."
The Italian frowned. "Parking is forbidden there."
"No doubt the thief was merely enforcing the law."
"How did you know the car had been stolen and not, dragged…"
"Towed?"
"Towed. How do you know the car was not towed rather than stolen?"
Lang looked at him blankly. "When is the last time you saw a car towed in this city for parking in a no-parking space?"
The inspector made a noise that had equal chances of being a laugh, cough or clearing his throat. He leaned forward, studying Lang's face. "It was found on the Aventine shot full of holes. Do you have an idea who would do this?"
Lang hoped he was successful in demonstrating surprise. "Perhaps someone frustrated when he couldn't get the car started?"
"You make the joke, Mr. Reilly. My investigation is serious."
Lang leaned back, hoping the shadows helped obscure his face. "I apologize. I have no idea who would shoot that car."
Uncertain of the sincerity of the admission of fault, the inspector continued. "You are in Rome on business?"
"I come almost every year to enjoy the museums, the churches, the architecture. One cannot live long enough to see it all."
"And how much longer will you remain?"
"Several more days at least. But I doubt I'll rent a car."
"And you have no guess as to who would shoot the car?"
"None. Perhaps the thief had enemies." "Why did you rent the car, Mr. Reilly? Is not Rome's bus and metro good enough?"
"I had hoped to drive out to Hadrian's villa. I understand it is both interesting and beautiful."
Lang was certain the man was more interested in studying his face than asking fruitless questions.
He stood. "Inspector, I know nothing of what happened on the Aventine. I do know I have a lunch date with a business associate. I'd prefer not to keep him waiting."
Manicci stood also, stuffing the recorder in his pocket, an admission the interview was unproductive. "Very well then. I may wish to contact you again."
"I'll be right here."
Jacob and Lang watched the policeman's departure through the hotel's glass door.
"From what I heard from the lobby, the copper didn't learn a thing," Jacob observed.
Lang was still looking out into the piazza. "After the first few minutes, it wasn't information he was after."
"Oh?"
"Remember, I told you about the gunfire in the priest's apartment building, the one where I gave last rites in the priest's cassock before disappearing?"
"So?"
"That cop, Manicci, was one of the investigating officers."
"You're sure he saw you there?"
"Your people took the same course in face recognition we did, hours of looking at different photos, different views of the same person. Yep, that's him. He kept trying to get a better look at my face. Sooner or later, he'll place me."
Jacob stuck his pipe in his mouth. "Bloody hell! I'd say it's jolly well time to bid farewell to this place before he comes back. As our Froggie friends would say, tout de suite."
VIII.
Piazza Venezia
Minutes Later
Inspector Antonio Manicci was oblivious to the huge Monument Victor Emmanuel that filled the unmarked Fiat's windshield. Referred to by irreverent Romans as the Typewriter or the Wedding Cake because of its tiered structure and mass of white Brescian marble, it was completed in 1911 in honor of Victor Emmanuel II of Savoy, the first king of a unified Italy. Also commemorated were architectural bad taste, self-importance and insensitivity to the ocher tones of surrounding buildings.
Instead of the universal loathing of the thing, Manicci's mind was occupied with the man he had just interrogated. He had seen Reilly before. He was sure. Remembering faces went with his job.
But where?
He swung left, south, onto the Via del Teatro di Marcello. Michelangelo's steep staircase, the Cordonata, stretched up to his Piazza del Campidogli at the top of the Capitoline Hill. Tour buses blocked the first of the northbound lanes and Roman motorists, ever impatient, were honking their disapproval.
Where would he have met the American?
The wooded flanks of the hill were on his left now but he didn't notice. Instead, his eyes fixed on three priests walking along the sidewalk.
Priests!
That Greek priest whose apartment had been the scene of some sort of gun battle, a Wild West shoot-out like something in the American Western films.
Another priest, one who had murmured last rites over the dead man on the stairs and then disappeared.
The realization was as violent as an electrical shock, so disconcerting he had to jam on the Fiat's brakes at the last moment to avoid running over a young woman on a Vespa. A young woman whose small dog had been riding at her feet. The animal turned to snarl his anger at the inspector, an expression that closely matched that on his mistress's face.
That priest had been the American, Langford Reilly. He was certain of it.
He fought the temptation to attempt a U-turn, aware such a move would likely be fatal even with his siren and lights hidden in the grille turned on. Instead, he pulled his cell phone from its holder on his belt and scrolled down before punching in a number. He ignored the chorus of horns behind him.
He identified himself, then, "I want you to check the immigration records for the last three months for Langford Reilly, an American. He should have entered the country recently, but more important, I want the date he entered before. Entry and exit."
He listened for a moment of protest.
"I don't care if the office is closed until 1600; the computer records aren't!"