The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"And we're going to the hotel," the aide said firmly.

"I need--"

"You need rest."

"There are a dozen unanswered questions."

"I'll unplug the controller and push you to the van."

The chair weighed close to a hundred pounds. But Rhyme knew Thom was fully capable of doing just what he'd threatened.

A grimace. "Fine, fine, fine." He turned the chair and headed out into the hallway, leaving it to Sachs to say good night for both of them.

Chapter 23

Close to 11 p.m.

Stefan was driving outside Naples, edgy. Anxious. He wanted to start the next composition. He needed to start the next composition.

Wiping sweat, wiping. Stuffing the tissues into his pocket. So very careful to avoid that DNA crap.

He was aware of noises, of course, always. But tonight they didn't calm him or dull the anxiety: the car's hum, the shush of rubber on asphalt, the two dozen tones from one dozen insects, an owl, no two. An airplane overhead, imposing its imperial growl over everything else.

Evenings are best for listening: The cool damp air lifts sounds from ground and trees, sounds you'd never otherwise hear, and carries them to you like the Wise Men's gifts.

Stefan was careful to drive the speed limit--he had no license, and the vehicle was stolen. But there were no daughters, or sons, of Greek gods close on his trail. A Police of State car passed him. A Carabinieri car passed him. Neither driver paid him, or anyone else on the crowded road, any mind.

The meds humming through his system, and his muse, Euterpe, hovering in his heart, helped, but still he remained unsteady. Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin.

As for his most recent participant in the composer's art, Ali Maziq, he thought nothing at all. The skinny little creature no longer existed to Stefan. He'd played his part in Stefan's journey to Harmony--and a fine contribution he had been.

He hummed a bit of "The Waltz of the Flowers."

Gasp, two, three, gasp, two, three...

The car rose to the crest of a hill and he pulled onto the weedy shoulder and stopped. He gazed over the fields of Capodichino. This district, now a suburb of Naples, had been the site of a heroic battle: the Neapolitans against the Nazi occupiers on the third day of the famed--and successful--uprising known as the Four Days of Naples in 1943.

These fields were home to Naples airport and a number of businesses, small factories and warehouses. Modest residences too.

And here you would find something else, something that insistently drew the gaze of any passerby: the Capodichino Reception Center, one of the largest refugee camps in Italy. It was many acres in size and filled with orderly rows of blue plasticized tents, Ministero dell'Interno emblazoned in stark white letters on the roofs.

The camp was surrounded by an eight-foot fence topped with barbed wire, though it was flimsy and little-patrolled, Stefan noted. Even now, so late, the place was bustling. Many, many people milled about, or sat or squatted. He had heard that all the camps in Italy were vastly overcrowded, security inadequate.

All of which was great for Stefan, of course. A chaotic hunting ground is a good hunting ground.

Having verified that there were few guards, in vehicles or on foot, patrolling the roads surrounding the camp, he now pulled back onto the road and maneuvered his old Mercedes forward. He parked not far away from the main entrance, climbed out. He walked closer, mixing with a cluster of lethargic reporters, probably backgrounding human interest pieces. Protesters too. Most placards he didn't understand but several were in English.

Go Back Home!

Scanning the camp: It was even more crowded than when he'd first been here, just recently. But otherwise, little had changed: Men in taqiyah or kufi skullcaps. Nearly all the women were in hijabs or wearing other head coverings. A few of the arrivals had suitcases but most carried cloth or plastic bags, filled with their only remaining possessions in the world. Some clutched the thick quilted blankets they would have been given by the Italian navy, after their human smugglers' boats had been interdicted--or after they'd been fished from the Mediterranean. A few still held orange life vests, also given out by the military and NGOs and, occasionally, the smugglers themselves (at least those worried that drowned customers were bad for business).

Many of the refugees were families. The second-most populous group seemed to be single men. There were hundreds upon hundreds of children. Some playing, cheerful. Most sullen, bewildered.

And exhausted.

The soldiers and police officers were plentiful and, given the many different uniforms, must have come from a number of branches of government. They seemed weary and stern but appeared to treat the refugees well. None of them paid the least attention to Stefan, just like the other day.

Chaos.