Alfredo also supplemented his income by importing heroin from Afghanistan; it was a small amount of his overall business, but it did pay for the annual Christmas and Easter parties he threw in the town at the foot of his hilltop. It went without saying that he did not pay much in the way of taxes, though in Italy this was merely a sign of his smart business sense.

Nuri realized that while many Italian magistrates would have loved the headlines that would come from arresting a mafioso, they could not stomach the obituaries that would inevitably follow. But he wasn’t counting on an arrest. He was hoping he could interest the Italian antimafia police in a visit to Alfredo’s estate, at which time he might talk to Alfredo about the Wolves—a conversation he assumed would go nowhere—but also borrow whatever home computers he had in his house. For the intercepts that had yielded the conversations led to other conversations indicating he was making financial transfers via the Internet; one of them was surely going to the Wolves’ account. With the murder so recent, there were likely to be traces of the payoff somewhere in the computer.

With Western countries under pressure from the U.S. and the UN to do something about the Afghan heroin trade, which had thrived despite the apparent demise of the Taliban, Nuri decided to use that as his opening. He focused on the evidence connecting Alfredo to the trade and skipping any mention of the murder in Berlin, which he guessed the Italians weren’t too likely to care about.

A tall, thin man in his mid-thirties met them at the ministry. He introduced himself as Pascal La Rota, the magistrate who specialized in the Naples-area mafia. He had a military air—close-cropped hair, wide chest, and a nose that seemed to have been broken when he was a young man. He offered the two Americans caffè—in Italy, this meant espresso—then began looking at the evidence Nuri had brought along.

In the Italian justice system, a magistrate was closer to an American district attorney than a judge. They had a wide range of investigative powers and could be extremely unpleasant when crossed. Those who worked in the antimafia commission were reputed to be among the toughest in the nation—or the craziest.

La Rota impressed Nuri as neither. His manner was mild, almost studious. He put on a pair of glasses and began reading the information Nuri had brought, while Gregor spooned sugar into her coffee.

MY-PID had collected ships’ manifests and various information on different shipments connected to Alfredo’s empire. It showed that a middle-level heroin dealer in Florence who supplied a British network received yearly deposits into an Austrian bank account from one of Alfredo’s companies. It connected a truck stopped at the French border with a hundred kilos of heroin to another of Alfredo’s firms. And best of all, it included the transcripts of three phone calls between Alfredo and two contacts in Iran referring to shipments of flowers, which circumstantial evidence indicated was a code word for heroin.

The transcripts were clearly the smoking gun, a direct link between the mobster and the drugs. They had been recorded nearly eighteen months before, as part of an NSA program collecting raw intelligence from Iran. But they weren’t of sufficient priority for even a computer transcription, let alone to trigger a human review. MY-PID had found them listed along with three thousand other files that it judged might have a connection to the heroin trade and Italy, and had done the brute translation work itself.

As valuable as they were, they proved a sticking point for La Rota.

“Interesting,” he said, leafing through the papers. His English was good enough that he could read the summary sheet in the original without referring to the translation that had been prepared for him. “But, as far as this is concerned for evidence—I must tell you, Italian laws are very strict about wiretaps.”

“When they want to be,” said Gregor.

Nuri shot her a glare he hoped would laser a hole through the side of her head. He’d told her to say absolutely nothing.

A smile flickered in La Rota’s long, pale face, and the hairs in his thin goatee rustled. But his tone was almost scolding.

“Whatever you and I may think of the law,” he said, focusing on Nuri, “we must observe it.”

“True,” said Nuri. “Which is why the Libyan government filed its own indictments. The conversations were recorded in its jurisdiction.”

He unfolded a letter from the Libyan justice ministry indicating not only interest in the case, but promising that an arrest warrant would be issued by the appropriate authorities by the end of the day.

In Libyan time, “end of the day” meant within the next three months, a fact La Rota was clearly aware of.

“I have dealt with the Libyans before,” he told Nuri. “On several occasions.”

La Rota took off his glasses and began cleaning them.

“Still, this is very persuasive,” he told Nuri. “I believe I will be able to get my superiors to consider action on its basis.”

“I thought you were in charge,” said Nuri.

“Oh I am, of course.”

“Then can’t you authorize a raid?”

The magistrate blanched. “A raid?”

“A visit, I mean,” said Nuri. “An interview. To speak to Mr. Moreno?”

“You don’t understand the situation, I’m afraid. One does not simply speak to Mr. Moreno.”

“Arrest him, then.”

“Perhaps we will be able to do that,” said La Rota. “Once the commission reviews the evidence.”

“How long will this review last?” asked Gregor.

Nuri glared at Gregor again, even though he would have asked the question himself had she not interrupted.

“A while,” said La Rota indulgently.

“That’s how long?”

“It is very difficult to predict.”

“By the end of the day?” said Nuri, as suggestively as he could.

“A day? For something like this?” La Rota laughed.

“Not next week,” said Nuri hopefully.

“Oh no, not next week. Something like this—a case has to be made. The way must be prepared.”

“You’re talking months,” said Gregor.

La Rota held out his hands in a gesture that meant if that.

“Is there any way to speed up the process?” Nuri asked.

“Usually not.”

“What if he murdered someone?” asked Gregor.

“Oh, I’m sure a man like Alfredo Moreno has been responsible for murdering many people,” answered La Rota. “You would be surprised. These men are animals. They murder for pleasure, for business, for many reasons.”

“If it was an important murder, in a prominent case?” said Nuri, grasping at straws.

“In that case, perhaps by July.”

“I told you the Italians were impossible to deal with,” said Gregor as they walked out of the building. “It’s a complete waste of time.”

The FBI agent had said no such thing—just the opposite in fact: she’d expressed optimism that they would be inside Moreno’s compound by nightfall. But Nuri was in no mood to argue.

“We can interview him ourselves,” she continued. “I can get someone from the local office to act as a translator—”

“We’re not interviewing him,” said Nuri sharply.

“You’re just going to drop it?”

“It’s not my call,” said Nuri noncommittally.

He nodded at the Italian policeman at the foot of the steps of the justice building, then walked in the direction of their car. One thing he had to say for the Italians—they didn’t skimp when it came to police stations. The ministry was a veritable palace, with an exterior as grand as anything Nuri had ever seen in the States.

“We can arrest him on an American warrant,” said Gregor. “I can arrange—”

“You and what army?” said Nuri.

Gregor had made quite a lot of progress in less than eight hours—first she was a wet blanket, now she was Wyatt Earp.

Nuri had rented a small Fiat, which put him uncomfortably close to the FBI agent once they got inside the car. She smelled as if she’d had salami for lunch.