42

IT WAS A LONG, SLOW DRIVE, ONE IN WHICH COSTA drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. Close to the city, he awoke, suddenly alert, to find Falcone driving down some long, winding road, one that finally emerged at the gigantic subterranean parking lot hidden beneath the earth just a short way from St. Peter’s. There was an all-night cafe there. The man behind the counter nodded at Falcone as if they were old acquaintances. Costa wondered how well he really knew this man, even after all these years.

They got coffee and pastries in paper bags, returned to the car, and then he drove them somewhere they all recognized, the summit of the Gianicolo hill nearby, and Garibaldi’s monument, a place every Roman child was taken to at least once. It was a picturesque spot, with wonderful views back to the city. Listening to his father’s tales of the patriots, fighting a desperate battle they would come to lose, Costa, as a child, had found it difficult to equate these bloody stories with the verdant, lovely park to which ordinary Romans retreated of a weekend, seeking a little peace and quiet. He had, he now realized, yet to learn the lesson of adulthood: that evil was a mundane thing, present everywhere, even in places of beauty.

Falcone got out of the car and walked to the balustrade of the viewpoint, popping open his coffee, biting into a cornetto, looking as if he’d done this a million times on perpetual sleepless nights.

The city looked dead, but a ray of light was breaking in the east, rising over the distant Sabine Hills. There was scarcely any traffic on either side of the river. The centro storico seemed devoid of life.

“They might go away, you know, Leo,” Peroni said without much conviction. “Petrakis. Whoever his sidekicks are. They might look at what they’ve done to Ciampino and think, Mission accomplished. They were never the Red Brigades, really. Those bastards lasted years. With the Blue Demon it was over and done with in a week.”

“And isn’t that curious in itself?” the inspector asked.

“It could be it’s over already.”

Falcone eyed the horizon. His face was grim and determined. “And walk away from that? I wish I could believe it. They’re here to destroy what we cherish, Gianni. That’s more important than how many people they kill, how much damage they wreak. They want to make their mark, to have us cower at our own shadows. They haven’t left. Perhaps, after a fashion, they never will. This is the world we inhabit. Best live with it.”

Costa thought of the way Andrea Petrakis had spoken in the bloody dark in Tarquinia, the urgent determined fury in his voice when he took the unexpected call after he shot Mirko. Falcone was right. They were here already, hidden somewhere among the empty streets and piazzas, the echoing subway stations and vacant churches.

Falcone’s phone squawked. The inspector seemed, suddenly, absorbed. He pulled out his notebook with his free hand, walked to the Lancia, and began to make notes on the roof. The others recognized the change in his mood and walked over to join him.

“Grazie,” Falcone said, and ended the call. He looked at Costa.

“That was Di Capua checking something for me.”

The last thing he’d done before they left Tarquinia was to make one more visit to the tomb. Something there had caught his interest. Not that he’d been willing to discuss it with anyone.

“This was on the wall next to the figure of the Blue Demon. Scratched in some bare paint. Someone had tried to rub it out. Palombo, I imagine. He didn’t have time to get rid of it all.”

He held up the page from his notebook. More Roman numerals, this time XII. II. I. CLXXIII.

Costa remembered the cryptic message painted on the wall of the Villa Giulia, behind the bodies of Renzo and Marie Frasca.

“Shakespeare?”

“I assumed that. I asked Di Capua to check. It doesn’t work. Too many numbers.”

“A phone number … a code … Something.”

He was out of ideas. They all were.

“Something,” Falcone agreed. “Let’s go back to San Giovanni, get some sleep, then start again.”