The box lay on Leapman’s desk now. Rightfully most of the contents belonged to him. But not the nightdress from the apartment. She had just brought that along as a last resort, for effect. And that was evidence of her own, something she could need for a crime that remained in the jurisdiction of the state police.
“Wasted on these people,” she sniffed. “All of it.”
They’ll know, too, she thought. When the dust settled, Leapman would be able to look at that odd box on his desk, retrace her steps, work out how this was done.
“What the hell?” Teresa Lupo murmured, then picked up the evidence packet with the blackened, stained silk shift, dropped it in her bag, went out and called a cab for the centro storico.
“LOOK AROUND YOU, gentlemen. Enjoy the view.”
Costa had placed the phone on the empty chair next to Emily. Now they crowded close to it, listening to Bill Kaspar’s voice crackling out of the speaker, clear and determined.
“Can you imagine being in a hellhole like that, watching your buddies going down one by one, clinging to a piece of webbing as if it could keep out the fire? All because some asshole you thought you could trust wants a cut of the action?”
“We get the point,” Leapman grumbled.
There was a pause. “OK. I hear you. The man from the Agency. Or wherever. Right?”
Viale made a gesture to Leapman: Pursue this.
“Listen, Kaspar,” Leapman continued. “It doesn’t matter who I am. All I want to do is make sure you understand something. We know what happened. Washington’s got no doubts. Not anymore.”
“You think you know-” the tinny voice interrupted.
“You got screwed! Live with it! You’re not the first. So you and your people went down there. That’s tough. In war you get casualties.”
Kaspar waited before answering. It was a scary moment. “We were ”casualties“?”
“You and lots of others. Except they let it go. I don’t know. I don’t get…”
Leapman was struggling. Viale sat down and stared at him, disappointed.
“You don’t get the symmetry,” Kaspar said calmly. “Understandable. I guess you needed to be there.”
Leapman fought to get a grip on himself, glanced at Emily, then said, “Look. Dan Deacon fooled us all. You, me, Washington, everyone. We never even began to guess until a good way through all this. I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear?”
The voice on the phone-hidden somewhere they could only guess at-sighed. “Ignorance-such a rotten excuse. Being smart’s not about when or where you’re born, you know. It’s about who you are. That’s history, man. The guy who built that place you’re in-he was called Hadrian, a little history for you there. He could fight battles. Run empires. Think about life. He could sit right where you are now and imagine a whole cosmos in his head.”
Leapman blinked hard, looked at Viale and made the “crazy” sign with his right index finger.
“I slept above his mausoleum last night,” Kaspar continued. “I thought I’d dream about him. I didn’t. It was just the same damn shit I always hear. Which doesn’t make sense, since they’re all supposed to be dead now. You follow?”
“So we’re going through all this because of your dreams, Kaspar?” Leapman asked. “Are you listening to yourself? That’s how crazy people sound. That’s what-”
The voice from the tinny speaker cranked up several decibels. “Crazy! CRAZY! This seem crazy to you?”
There was a sudden, unexpected noise behind them. Something coming out of Emily Deacon’s jacket and not a phone this time, a pop, like the report of a small gun, and she was screaming again, terrified to move, terrified to stay still. A bright spark, alive and fiery, was worming its way out of the uppermost yellow canister on the vest.
The men were scattering again. Costa took a good look at the jacket, walked over, tried to hold her still, wrapped a handkerchief around his fist and jabbed at the burning object. It came out, stinging his fingers. He threw it to the floor, where it fizzled ominously.
“Don’t play games,” Costa barked at the phone. “She didn’t deserve that.”
“You don’t know what you deserve!” Kaspar yelled back. “You don’t have a clue.”
Costa wasn’t listening. He was back with Emily, hand to her head, noting the tears in her eyes, the look of terror there.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry.”
Kaspar’s laugh rattled out of the phone. “Good! Are you people learning something here? Improvisation’s everything. A man needs tricks up his sleeve. What you got there was the demo. A little firecracker to keep you on your toes, folks. Still leaves me with seven real ones, though. Plus the set I got here, somewhere you’d never guess, full of lots of people who surely wouldn’t want to die without knowing what Christmas presents they’ve got. Ask your munitions moron to stick his nose round Little Em’s vest. This is real, people. Don’t ever forget that.”
“This is real,” Emily Deacon murmured to no one, head down.
Viale, Leapman and the two Americans were slinking back to the centre of the hall now, looking somewhat ashamed.
Costa scowled at them, picked up the phone, turned off the speaker and held the handset to his ear, ignoring Leapman’s protests. “My name’s Nic Costa. Rome police. Tell me what you want, Kaspar, and I’ll tell you if they can give it to you.”
A pause on the end of the line. A wry, amused laugh, and Costa knew somehow: he was dealing with someone very smart. “Finally. Mr. Costa. Are we talking privately, son?”
The voice in his ear had changed. The person behind it sounded closer. More human. And just a little apprehensive too.
“Yes,” Costa replied and listened, very carefully, as he watched Gianni Peroni restrain the furious Leapman from grabbing the phone.
“I like that. So you think you can convince them to let you out of that place with something?”
“Yes,” Costa said, and tried to sound convincing.
“Good. I’m impressed.”
“Meaning?”
That laugh again. “Meaning we’re halfway there already. ”Cos I got something for you.“
Then the line went dead. Nothing, not a single background noise, a half-heard word from a third party, gave Costa a clue about where Kaspar was really located.
Leapman was shaking with fury. Peroni released him. The American pointed at Falcone and spat, “That was not part of the deal!”
“You were losing it,” Falcone said coldly. “If you’d gone much further she’d be dead, and the rest of us too, probably. Save your thanks for later.”
“You-”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Emily Deacon looked ready to break. She was hugging herself inside the deadly parka, gently rocking backwards and forwards, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“For God’s sake,” she pleaded, “either give him what he wants, or just get the hell out of here so he doesn’t kill the rest of you too.”
To Costa’s amazement, that did, at least, give the FBI man pause for thought.
“What does he want?” Leapman demanded.
“Just what he asked for last night,” Costa explained quietly. “Proof.”
“Great,” Leapman grunted. “And in return?”
Costa phrased this very carefully. “In return, he swears he’ll give himself up. He’ll take off the vests, disarm them both-”
“What?” Viale looked livid. “We’re supposed to take that on trust? I want him in my sight before he gets a damn thing. I’m not waiting on a promise.”
Costa caught Emily’s eye. He wanted her to know there was still hope, still room to make things right. “I guess he’s thinking much the same way. He wants me to take him the evidence you’ve got. He’ll check it out. If it’s real. Then-”