The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"Just as well. I only know a few Arabic phrases--like the one I answered Dante with. And then: 'Can I see some ID?' and 'Drop the weapon, hands in the air.'"

"Let us hope we don't need the last one of those."

They drove for ten minutes in silence. The landscape grew from densely urban to a mix of factories and warehouses and residences, then finally to farmland and small villages dusty and dull in the hazy autumn sun. Ercole piloted the car with great care. Sachs was making every effort to avoid even the appearance of impatience. The Megane hovered just under the limit of ninety kph, about sixty mph. They were regularly being passed by cars--and even trucks--going much faster. One driver--in a Mini Cooper--seemed to be going twice their speed.

They passed a sprawling farm, which, for some reason, took Ercole's attention.

"Ah, look there. I will have to come back to that place."

She glanced to the left, where he was gesturing--with both hands. She'd noted that this seemed to be an Italian habit. However fast the ride, however congested the roads, drivers seemed unable to grip the wheel with both hands--sometimes not even with one--when having a conversation.

Sachs studied the farm. Pigs, she noted, were the most populous animals in the spread he was indicating, a rambling two acres of low buildings and a lot of mud. A powerful, disgusting smell swept into the car.

She noted Ercole was genuinely troubled.

"Part of my job is to monitor the condition of farm animals. And from a rapid glance it appears to me that those swine are kept in poor quarters."

To Sachs, they were pigs in mud.

"The farmer will have to improve their situation. Proper drainage and sewage. Healthy for the people, of course, and better for the animals. They have souls too. I firmly believe this."

They drove through the town of D'Abruzzo--Ercole explained that this was not to be confused with Abruzzo, a region of Italy east of Rome. She wasn't sure why he thought she'd make the mistake but thanked him anyway. They then continued into the rolling farmland and fallow ground where the Postal Police had reported that Ali Maziq's phone had been used.

Sachs had a map, on which was a large circled area, encompassing six small towns or clusters of stores, cafes, restaurants and bars where Maziq and his colleague might have met. She held it up for him. He nodded and pointed out one. "We're closest to there. In twenty minutes."

They drove along the two-lane road. Ercole spoke about any topics that came to mind: His pigeons, which he kept for no reason other than that he liked the cooing sound they made and the thrill of racing them. (Ah, the bumper sticker now made sense.) His modest apartment in a pleasant part of Naples, his family--two siblings, older brother and younger, both of whom were married--and his nephews, in particular. He talked reverently about his mother and father; they'd both passed away.

"Allora, may I ask? You and Capitano Rhyme, you will be married soon?"

"Yes."

"That is nice. When, do you think?"

"It was going to be within the next couple of weeks. Until the Composer. That delayed things."

Sachs told Ercole that Rhyme had been talking about Greenland for their honeymoon.

"That is true? Odd. I have seen pictures of the place. It is somewhat barren. I would recommend Italy. We have Cinque Terre, Positano--not so very far from here. Florence. Piemonte, Lago di Como. Courmayeur is where I would be married. It is where Monte Bianco is located, near the border, north. Ah, so beautiful."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

She had observed the admiring looks he'd shot toward Daniela Canton, and she wondered if they'd known each other before the Composer case. She seemed smart, if a bit serious; she certainly was gorgeous.

"No, no, not at the moment. It is one regret. That my mother did not see me married."

"You're young."

He shrugged. "I have other interests at the moment."

Ercole then launched into a discussion of his career and his desire to get into the Police of State or, even better, the Carabinieri. She asked the difference, and it seemed the latter was a military police organization, though it had jurisdiction over civil crimes, as well. Then there was the Financial Police, which covered crimes involving immigration as well as financial irregularities. This didn't appeal to him. He wanted to be a street cop, an investigator.

"Like you," he said, blushing and smiling.

It was clear that he saw the Composer case as an entry into that world.

He asked her too about policing in New York City, and she told him about her career--from fashion model to NYPD. And about her father, a beat patrol officer all his life.

"Ah, like father like daughter!" Ercole's eyes shone.