Ring of Fire by Pierdomenico Baccalario Page A

it’d just be a big waste of time.”
    “Like you’ve got anything better to do?”
    “Well, I could go visit a museum …,” he jokes.
    Beatrice and Little Linch walk along the right bank of the Tiber. After their meeting with Jacob Mahler at the Sant’Eustachio Café, they’re both in a lousy mood. Little Linch is frowning. Beatrice is brooding.
    “Here. This is right about where I lost him,” the man says. “That’s when all the lights went out and he started running. It was only for a second … but then I couldn’t see him anymore. I figured he’d gone back to cross over the Tiber, so I headed that way to look for him.”
    “You didn’t go down to the island?” Beatrice asks him, staring out at Ponte Cestio, a bridge leading to Tiber Island.
    “No,” Little Linch admits.
    Beatrice tries to reconstruct the scene in her mind. If the man had started running south, he might have reached Ponte Cestio, and from there he could’ve crossed the square and gone over Ponte Quattro Capi to get to the other side of the river.
    “Let’s take a look around the island,” she proposes.
    The two walk along the riverbank, making their way along the parapet. A few pigeons coo, perched among the cold stone bricks.
    “What we’re doing is totally pointless,” Little Linch reminds her, leaning against the parapet. Despite the chilly December air, he’s panting and sweating, which makes him look particularly revolting. “What could we possibly find? That briefcase could beanywhere. If he threw it in the river, it’s gone. So then what do we do? Slap on diving masks and flippers and swim out to dig through the mud for it? Bah! That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
    Beatrice doesn’t reply. She just keeps walking. Then she asks, point-blank, “What do you know about Mahler, exactly?”
    Little Linch splashes through the slush in his boots. “I know he’s a snake. A mean one. A devil. They say he’s the best there is.”
    “The best there is at killing …,” mumbles Beatrice, not very convinced.
    “Joe claims this is the job that could change our lives forever. That we should consider it an honor to work for him.”
    “For him
who
, exactly?”
    Little Linch drags his feet through the snow without answering.
    “Mahler was sent here to Italy for this job by someone else, you know.”
    “The hermit,” Beatrice says in a low voice.
    “Heremit,” Little Linch corrects her. “It’s not a nickname. That’s his name.”
    “Heremit? What kind of a name is that? Is he British?”
    “Half-Chinese, half-Dutch, from what I’ve heard. But his full name is even worse: Heremit Devil.”
    “Heremit Devil?” Beatrice forces a smile. “Quite a reassuring name. Where does he live?”
    “In Shanghai, in an incredible skyscraper …” Little Linch spits on the ground. “They say he’s so crazy he’s never even left it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean he’s never left it. He runs his whole life from inside of it. Like a giant glass-and-concrete kingdom. I think he’s one of those freaks who are scared of catching something, of touching people, of poisoned air. … How should I know? He’s bonkers. A total nutcase.”
    “But still, an intelligent hit man like Jacob Mahler—”
    “Shhh!” Little Linch hushes her, gesturing for her to lower her voice. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t go around saying stuff like that out loud! Somebody could hear you!”
    “But still, the legendary Jacob Mahler,” Beatrice says, correcting herself, “the snake, the devil, the very best there is … he works for a madman like Heremit Devil. So basically we’re working for two insane men who want to find a briefcase, even if it means making us comb through the Tiber inch by inch. What’s wrong with this picture?”
    The two quickly cross over Tiber Island, looking around distractedly in search of any clue that might tell them if their man passed by there. And since they naturally find nothing, they