Scanning, scanning the crowds.
Impossible...
Rossi came on the line. "The fire's out and the car is being moved aside. Michelangelo's men will be ten or fifteen minutes."
Just in time for the detonation.
Rossi now said, "Ah, I've heard from some undercover officers. They were investigating a smuggling case on the dock, coincidentally. They are nearby and moving in. They're aware of you and Ercole. They should be there now. They have Fatima's picture."
Sachs told Ercole about the undercover officers--and just at that moment one young man in a leather jacket and tight jeans caught their eye. He moved aside his jacket and displayed a badge. He was with a woman in her thirties. She, too, nodded. They, the two castle guards and Sachs and Ercole met near the entrance to a seafood restaurant. They agreed to split up and go in three different directions.
It was 1:40.
She and the lanky Forestry officer were moving quickly west, toward the side of the castle that jutted farthest into Naples Bay. The tourists here were listening to a street musician, playing guitar and singing what sounded like an Italian ballad from the last century. She saw couples embracing, teenagers flirting and joking, a young blonde pushing a baby carriage, families strolling, men walking side by side, their wives arm in arm behind, children in giddy orbit, boys with soccer balls unable to resist showing off their crafty footwork.
No one who looked like Fatima, even in Western clothing.
And as for the bomb?
It could be anywhere. In one of the trash receptacles, under a table in one of the restaurants or bars, behind a kiosk, near the raised stage for the fashion show.
Perhaps in the potted plant she was walking past just now.
C4 explosive, known officially as RDX, Research Department Explosive, travels outward at nineteen thousand miles per hour, nearly sixty times the speed of sound. The vapors and blast wave annihilate anything in their path. Skin, viscera and bone simply disappear into a crimson mist.
She sent Ercole to the left, toward the stage were the fashion show was about to start. Reporters were taking random shots of some of the more beautiful woman--and a beautiful man or two. In a soft voice, as if not wishing to startle her, Rossi spoke into her earbud, "Detective Sachs, Michelangelo and the other officers are almost there. We have to evacuate now. It's thirteen fifty."
Ten minutes to two.
Ten minutes till the bomb.
"I do not want to, Detective. I know there will be a panic. But there is no choice. I'll send the officers in--"
"Wait," she said. A thought: The woman with the baby carriage...it was out of place. There was a park nearby, at the western end of the Via Partenope. The pretty place, nicely landscaped, had pathways and gelato stands and gardens and benches. Ideal for a mother with a carriage. But the Castel dell'Ovo, with the crowds and warren of docks? No.
And she'd had a backpack over her shoulder. Where better to hide a bomb?
Blond, though? Well, if you were going shopping for a baby carriage for a prop, why not buy a wig too?
Turning abruptly back to where she'd seen the woman: "Give me just a minute more," she whispered into the headset. "I have a lead."
"Detective, there's no time!"
Rhyme's voice said, firmly, "No. Let her run with it."
"But--"
Spiro said, "Si, Massimo. Let her."
Sirens were sounding now, growing closer. Heads were turning toward the mainland. Smiles cooling to frowns of curiosity...and then concern.
Sachs continued south, in the direction she'd last seen the woman and the baby carriage. Hurrying over the stone paths, hundreds, perhaps a thousand years old. Her head swiveled, eyes squinted.
Her hand? Inches from the grip of the Beretta.
1:55.
Where are you, Fatima? Where?