Dante's Numbers by David Hewson Page B

this, and, since Italian citizens are under threat, participate in the operation in California as well.”
    “Nice work if you can get it,” Costa muttered. Quattrocchi had never mentioned that the unfortunate Peter Jamieson had been carrying a gun loaded with blanks. He wondered how that awkward fact could possibly fit in with such strangely histrionic theories.
    Feeling stiff and hungry, he got out of the car. Two more state police vehicles were set close to the far side of Falcone's Lancia like a wagon train surrounded by a sea of dark blue Indians. He ambled over to the discussion Falcone was conducting. Maggie Flavier looked pale and pink-eyed as if she'd been crying. When she saw him, she turned to the Carabiniere and ordered him to fetch coffee and cometti. The man slunk off with a mutinous grunt.
    “Be kind. He's only doing his job,” Costa suggested.
    “If I want protection, I choose who does it,” she retorted. “And I choose…” Her slender finger ranged over the four of them, before adding Catherine Bianchi, too. “…you.”
    “Oh no,” the American policewoman responded, half amused. “I'm just the captain of a little San Francisco precinct, and one that won't be there much longer either. If the Palace of Fine Arts didn't happen to be around the corner, I wouldn't be here at all. All the important stuff gets assigned to the people downtown at Bryant Street. Frankly, they're welcome to it. Guarding celebrities is out of my league.”
    “There are protocols here, Miss Flavier,” Falcone added. “You must do as the maresciallo says. He seems very sure of himself.”
    “People don't murder for poetry,” Costa reminded him. “You said it yourself.”
    “Allan Prime's death is none of my business. Our business. That…” Falcone's bright eyes shone with some inner knowledge. “…has been made very clear to me indeed by people with whom I am not minded to argue. Besides, Quattrocchi has created for himself a very certain picture of what is happening, one that seems to fit well with his own theatrical ambitions. Far be it from us to disturb his reveries.”
    “Leo…” Teresa interrupted. “We have some interesting material from that place in the Via Giulia. Get us a little time. Perhaps we could get something useful.”
    The inspector shook his head. “You must hand it over. It's theirs now. All of it. Everything pertaining to Allan Prime and that American actor they shot dead in the park. Besides, whoever is responsible is surely gone from Rome already. That circus trick they performed with Prime…It could have been run from anywhere. America even. If Quattrocchi is correct and this is connected with the film—and I do believe this to be true—their attentions will surely follow that, too, across the Atlantic, far from Rome.”
    Costa waited. He recognised that glint in Falcone's eye.
    “All we have,” the inspector went on, “is a missing death mask. A priceless historical object. And several other similar exhibits that will shortly be crated up and air-freighted to America.” He scratched his chin. “Is it possible they might also be at risk? If so, would it be fair to add to the Carabinieri's burden by asking they take responsibility for that role, too …?”
    Peroni laughed.
    “I'm not sure it's a possibility I can ignore,” Falcone went on, then pointed a commanding finger at Costa.
    “Your English is good.” He peered at Peroni. “What about yours?”
    “Mine? Mine?” the big man replied, aghast. “I spent six months on assignment with the Metropolitan Police in London, eating nothing but pies and fried potato. In some place called…” He thought about this. “The Elephant and Castle.”
    “A bar?” Teresa asked.
    “No,” he replied, outraged. “A place.”
    “How long ago?” Falcone demanded.
    Peroni shrugged. “Fifteen, twenty years… They were first-class police officers. And also good…” He searched for the word. “…blokes.”
    “Your English,