Chapter 2

I was still sitting in the passenger seat of the cab. The driver next to me was happily drumming away on the steering wheel in time with the music. Although his performance didn't lack a certain vaudevillian quality I bit back a disapproving clicking of the tongue and swallowed the comment that was on the verge of jumping out of my mouth. Instead I kept studying the driver sideways. He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, his black hair neatly cropped and his face well-shaven except for the inevitable 5 o'clock shadow on his smooth young skin. A hint of after shave (probably applied in the morning) couldn't quite cover up the fragrance of this day's work. However, what really struck me about him was his behavior. The way he kept moving his fingers, the shifting of his eyes, the general air of unrest he seemed to exude. It was reminiscent of a drug-addict but there was something else to it, too… I decided to trust my instinct on this which meant that what I had before me was a poorly treated hyperactive who would also be likely to show signs of addictive behavior. I wondered whether he used to soothe his nerves with drugs or whether he had developed some other pathological behavior instead. Three packs of cigarettes in the middle rack and one in his shirt pocket gave proof of at least one kind of addiction – not to mention that he was virtually devouring one of these carcinogenic bastards after another and licking his lips nervously in between – probably to get rid of the nasty taste. Why anyone would ruin his taste buds beyond repair like that was a mystery to me, not to mention that I started to get a little annoyed about the smell.

"I have to say, this city is just lovely! You must count yourself very lucky to live here," I began to make conversation with him in Italian.

"Oh, so you are a visitor. Is this your first time in Florence?" the driver said without responding to the second part of my remark.

"No, it's not. Actually, many years have passed since my first visit."

"But now you're back."

"Yes, I am."

"Have you come here for business or leisure?"

"A bit of both, I would say."

"Ah, I see, and have you already visited some interesting places? The Duomo maybe?"

"No need for that. I already know the Duomo from my last stay. Do you happen to have seen it from the Belvedere once? It's a view that you will never forget!"

"Yes, I've heard it's quite impressive," he said – rather unimpressed.

Blatant ignorance in the face of greatness! The nerve of him! Torn between annoyance and boredom I decided that this was the moment to spice up the conversation a little.

I advised the driver to stop a good distance away from the house where Chilton's car had stopped a moment ago. A handful of men was bustling about the place. I guessed they were the security staff Chilton had asked for to be safe from me. I wondered if Chilton was aware of the power I already had over him – without even being present. And now the time had finally come to extend this power to a physical level.

I gave the taxi driver his money and recommended, on a final note: "Signore, in the long run you should consider seeing a doctor. Substance addictions as a result of parental neglect are very common and nothing to be ashamed of. Think of your dead mother. She wouldn't have wanted you to end as the victim of that gruesome, soul-scarring memory that bears you down like a Sisyphean rock."

He gave me a look of both anger and fear from haunted eyes, his anger clearly outweighing the fear. He drove off without so much as a goodbye, his face a remarkable shade of red. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: in medicine something called the Starling equation was sometimes used to calculate the capillary permeability in the human body and explain the subsequent reddening of the skin. I had to remember to ask Clarice whether she was related to Ernest Starling the next time I talked to her.

As I walked down the road and the pas de deux from Swan Lake started to play in my head I became aware of the smile that was gracing my lips again. I wasn't sure if it was there because I imagined Clarice's suspicious face the moment I would ask her about Ernest Starling or because of the fun I had had with the taxi driver during our wild ride. I decided on the latter. I could still feel a rush of excitement wash over me when I remembered tickling every bit of information about his pains and personal abysses out of the driver. His confession gave me power over him to an extent he would probably never even grasp. It was just glorious! People were so manipulable!

Approaching my goal I looked up the creamy yellow façade of the vast, neoclassical building into which Dr. Chilton had disappeared a minute ago. What a beautiful structure! I would have bet my left hand that that ignorant Chilton didn't even realize how lucky he was to be able to stay in a building like this. I slowed down so that I would arrive at the wrought-iron gate, which separated the house with its strip of lawn in the yard from the sidewalk, at the same time as a group of men in suits who I assumed to be some sort of policemen or federal agents – they were talking in English instead of Italian.

"Buona sera," I said and courteously waited for them to enter the premises first. They nodded appreciatively. When I slipped inside right behind them I took off my sunglasses and hat to merge with their group – at least visually. They were talking and laughing and didn't take notice of me trailing behind. In the lobby, which was equipped with a beige limestone floor – very elegant in my eyes – there were several uniformed policemen who were as shockingly blind to me as their colleagues. Together with the group of the men in suits I crossed the room and turned the other way in one of the corridors. I went looking for the restroom and soon enough found it. As I entered the empty room I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the basin and stopped for a moment to study my face. My new features looked calm, just as the old ones would have done, every muscle devoid of tension; still I couldn't help but notice a certain maniacal gleam in my eyes, which were the only original parts in the new composition of my face.

I saw my nostrils flare slightly but despite my extraordinary sense of smell I couldn't possibly take up Chilton's scent in here – of course not. The anticipation of facing my old enemy (and also Clarice Starling's) had to have made me dizzy. My lips opened in a sneer. A red gap of derision, a consuming black hole. The hole vanished and my expressionless face came into view again. I adjusted the wig on my head and then moved on to the next step in my plan: I hid in one of the cubicles and waited.

Twenty-five minutes later I was on my way to Chilton's room with the ID of the first American policeman who had been unfortunate enough to enter the men's room. He had also told me where in the building Chilton was residing but only after I had forcefully insisted that he would. On the way to Chilton I walked along corridors with high ceilings and windows. Any other time I would have appreciated the décor but not then. I had more important things to do. Night had almost completely fallen and the rooms were lit by electric chandeliers and lights. Not exactly my cup of tea but certainly more efficient than lighting hundreds of real candles every evening to achieve an authentic flair.

Finally I arrived at a heavy wooden door. A guard was sitting on a bench next to it. He stood up when he saw me approach and looked questioningly at me and the hat in my hand that I had taken off inside the building – as the rules of courtesy dictate. I noticed that the guard was about four inches taller than me and would probably wipe the floor with me in a fair fight.

"Good evening, sir," I said to the man whose name – according to his tag – was Jack Henderson. "I would like to speak to Dr. Chilton. I'm Sergeant Finch. I'm with the Baltimore police."

I flipped Sergeant Finch's ID and held it up long enough for him to recognize the logo but too short to take a good look at the dates or the photo. Otherwise he might have recognized a recently deceased colleague of his.

Henderson eyed me closely and said: "You're with us, here in Florence? I didn't see you among the Baltimore officers on the journey over here."

"That's correct, you wouldn't have met me then. I have only just arrived. I have news for Dr. Chilton concerning one of his former patients. You might have heard of him. His name is Hannibal Lecter."

Henderson's eyebrows shot up.

"Heard of him!" he echoed. "You're pulling my leg here, aren't you? Lecter's the reason why not only the FBI but also the Baltimore police had to accompany Dr. Chilton here and why he even has his private study guarded!"

"I'm sorry, the long flight must have worn me out... Of course you know him. But your reaction clearly implies that you haven't caught Lecter yet. You are still maintaining security measures at all times, I presume?"

"Yeah, we sure are, in the lobby and on Dr. Chilton himself. You just never know when that bastard killer will show his face again." He shook his head as if trying to get rid of the mental image of that particular scenario.

"Yes, those psychopaths are unpredictable," I agreed. "But in fact I am certain that I have all the information with me it takes to close Dr. Chilton's file on Lecter once and for all."

"If that is so it should make you something like a national hero back in the US," Henderson said and reached for the ornate door handle to Chilton's room. "By the way, I have a colleague in Baltimore, who is here with us in Florence right now, and who is also called Finch. Brian Finch. You're not by any chance related?"

"No, we're not. But I do actually know him. Nice guy. Has got a bit of a nervous bladder, if you ask me."

Henderson laughed and knocked on the door.

"I have never noticed that."

From inside a voice muffled by the heavy wood answered. Henderson opened the door and entered. I put my ivory-colored hat on and followed him, head bowed so that the hat would hide my face. I gently closed the door behind me using my elbow and reached into my jacket pocket.

"Dr. Chilton, Mr. Finch from Baltimore would like to talk to you. He's got important information on Hannibal Lecter."

I couldn't see Chilton because Henderson's large back shielded him from view – as much as it shielded me from Chilton. I heard him approaching me, saying excitedly and a bit annoyed, "Really? On Lecter? But why on earth haven't I been informed earlier?"

The next moment I had already knocked down Henderson with the grip of Sergeant Finch's gun and was pointing the pistol at Chilton who stood rooted to the spot only a few feet away from me.

"Good evening, Dr. Chilton," I said and smiled as I took off my hat. "Please allow me to introduce myself…"