The launch slowed as it reached the Rio di Ca Gazoni, then rumbled slowly into the dock in front of the Questura, the Polizia Statale headquarters.
Dionetti led them past the armed guards stationed outside the seventeenth-century palazzo.
“Once the home of a proud family,” Dionetti said over his shoulder. “Repossessed for back taxes. When the government took it over, it became a fancy police station.” He shook his head.
Howell followed him down a wide corridor into a room that looked like it had once been a formal drawing room. Beyond the windows was a garden, lying fallow.
Dionetti went around his desk and tapped on the computer keyboard. A printer whirred to life.
“The Rocca brothers-Tommaso and Luigi,” he said, handing Howell the printouts.
Howell contemplated the photographs of two very tough-looking men in their late twenties. “Sicilians?”
“Exactly. Mercenaries. We have long suspected that they were responsible for the shooting of a federal prosecutor in Palermo and a judge in Rome.”
“How expensive were they?”
“Very. Why do you ask?”
“Because only someone with both money and connections would have hired men like them. These are professionals. They do not need to advertise.”
“But why kill a Ukrainian peasant— if in fact he was that?”
“I don’t know,” Howell replied truthfully. “But I need to find out. Do you have any idea where they were based?”
“Palermo. Their birthplace.”
Howell nodded. “What about the explosives?”
Dionetti returned to the computer.
“Yes… the preliminary report from the forensics laboratory indicates that it was C-twelve, about half a kilo’s worth.”
Howell looked at him sharply. “C-twelve? You’re sure?”
Dionetti shrugged. “You may recall that our laboratory has very high standards, Pietro. I would accept their conclusion at face value.”
“So would I,” Howell replied thoughtfully.
But how had the killer of the two Sicilians gotten hold of the U.S. Army’s latest explosives?
__________
Marco Dionetti’s home was a sixteenth-century, four-story limestone palazzo that fronted the Grand Canal a stone’s throw away from the Accademia. In the grand dining room, dominated by a fireplace sculpted by Moretta, the stern faces of Dionetti’s ancestors gazed down from portraits painted by Renaissance masters.
Peter Howell finished his last bite of seppioline and sat back as an elderly servant removed his plate.
“My compliments to Maria. The cuttlefish was excellent— just as I remembered it.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her,” Dionetti replied as a tray of bussolai was presented. He picked up one of the cinnamon-flavored biscuits and nibbled thoughtfully.
“Pietro, I understand your need for discretion. But I too have masters I must answer to. Is there nothing you can tell me about the Ukrainian?”
“My job was simply to cover the contact,” Howell replied. “There was no indication that there would be bloodshed.”
Dionetti steepled his fingers. “I suppose I could make a case that the Rocca brothers had a contract and carried it out on the wrong individual, that the man seen fleeing from the piazza was the intended victim.”
“That may not explain why the Roccas were blown up,” Howell pointed out.
Dionetti dismissed the possibility with a wave of his fingers. “The brothers had many enemies. Who’s to say whether one of them finally managed to settle a score?”
Howell finished his coffee. “If you can put that spin on it, Pietro, I would. Now, I don’t want to seem the ungracious guest but I must make that flight to Palermo.”
“My launch is at your disposal,” Dionetti said, accompanying Howell down the center hall. “I will contact you if there are any further developments. Promise me that when your business is finished you will stop by on your way home. We will go to La Fenice.”
Howell smiled. “I would enjoy that very much. Thank you for all your help, Marco.”
Dionetti watched the Englishman step over the gunwale and raised his hand as the launch slipped into the Grand Canal. Only when he was absolutely certain that Howell couldn’t see him did his friendly expression dissolve.
“You should have told me more, old friend,” he said softly. “Maybe I could have kept you alive.”
___________________
CHAPTER
SIX
___________________
Eight thousand miles to the west, on the Hawaiian island of Oahu, Pearl Harbor lay placid under the hot, tropical sun. Overlooking the harbor were the navy’s administrative buildings and the command-and-control headquarters. This morning, the Nimitz Building was off-limits to everyone except authorized personnel. Armed Shore Patrol units were stationed both inside and out, in the long, cool corridors and in front of the closed doors to the briefing room.
The briefing room was the size of a gymnasium and could easily accommodate three hundred people. Today there were only thirty, all seated in the first few rows before the podium. The need for heavy security was reflected in the medals and ribbons that decorated the uniforms of those in attendance. Representing every branch of the armed services, they were the senior officers of the Pacific theater, responsible for perceiving and eliminating any threat from the shores of San Diego to the Strait of Taiwan in Southeast Asia. Each was a battle-tested combat veteran who had seen more than his share of conflict. None had any patience with politicians or theorists, which is to say they did not suffer fools gladly. They relied on their own expertise and instincts and respected only those who had proven themselves in the field. That was why all eyes were riveted on the figure at the podium, General Frank Richardson, veteran of Vietnam and the Gulf War, and a dozen other sorties that the American people had all but forgotten about. But not these men. To them, Richardson, as the army representative on the joint chiefs of staff, was a true warrior. When he had something to say, everyone listened.
Richardson gripped the lectern with both hands. A tall, well-fleshed man, he was as solid now as he had been during his gridiron days at West Point. With his iron-gray hair cut en brosse, cold, green eyes, and firm jaw, he was a public relation’s man’s dream pitchman. Except that Richardson detested virtually everyone who hadn’t bled for his country.
“Gentlemen, let’s summarize,” Richardson said, gazing over his audience. “It’s not the Russians who worry me. Most time it’s hard to know who’s running that damned country— the politicians or the mafiya. You can’t tell the players without a scorecard.”
Richardson paused to savor the laughter brought on by his little joke.
“But while Mother Russia is in the toilet,” he continued, “the same can’t be said about the Chinese. Past administrations were so eager to get into bed with them that they never saw through to Beijing’s true intentions. We sold them our most advanced computer and satellite technology without realizing that they had already infiltrated our major nuclear development and production facilities. Los Alamos was a one-stop Wal-Mart for those guys.
“I keep telling this administration— as I did the previous one— that China cannot be contained by nuclear force alone.”
Richardson shifted his gaze to the back of the room. A sandy-haired man in his early forties, dressed in civilian attire, was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The general caught the civilian’s almost imperceptible nod and changed gears on the fly.
“But neither can the Chinese hope to challenge us by playing the nuclear card. The nut is that they have an option: chemical-biological warfare. Slide a bug into one of our major population centers and into our command-and-control systems and presto!— instant chaos. With complete plausible deniability on their part.
“Therefore, it is imperative, gentlemen, that in your patrols, your oversight and intelligence sorties, you gather as much information as possible on China’s bioweapons program. The battles of the next war will not be won or lost in the field or on the seas— at least at first. They will be waged in the laboratories, where the enemy is measured in the trillions of battalions and can be mounted on the head of a pin. Only when we know where those battalions are created, nourished, sustained, and deployed from can you dispatch your resources to eliminate them.”
Richardson paused. “I thank you for your time and attention, gentlemen.”
The man in the back did not participate in the outpouring of applause. He did not stir when others in the audience surrounded the general, congratulating him, peppering him with questions. Anthony Price, deputy director of the National Security Agency, always reserved his comments for the private moment.
As the officers dispersed, Richardson made his way to Price, who was thinking just how much the general resembled a preening rooster.
“God, I love these guys! You can smell the stink of war on them.”
“What I smell is that you almost blew it, Frank,” Price replied dryly. “If I hadn’t caught your attention, you would have laid it out for them chapter and verse.”
Richardson shot him a withering look. “Give me some credit, will you?” He pushed open the door. “Come on. We’re running late.”