The following morning, Lewis and Hathaway were gathered in the high-ceilinged office of the commissario, with Hathaway acting as language and culture translator. He explained the latest of the Sicilian detective's comments.

"Sir, the commissario sincerely and regretfully apologizes, but because Jack is an international criminal, the job of handling him has been handed over to the–er, well, literally, it's the Penitentiary Police—as required by law."

Lewis frowned, failing to comprehend. "'Sincerely and regretfully . . .?' Is there a problem, Sergeant?"

Hathaway huffed impatiently.

Salvo's bright eyes flicked from one Englishman to the other, comprehending if not their exact words, certainly the somewhat strained tone between them. And, being an experienced detective, he was well used to relying more on tone than words to get the true picture.

The sergeant noticed, and lowered both his eyes and his tone. "Sir, it is customary for a local officer like our inspector here to consider any other law enforcement agency as being corrupt and inept. He no doubt is convinced that Jack was in less capable hands as soon as jurisdiction shifted from his own station." He cocked an eyebrow at Lewis to ensure he was on the same page, and then he tilted his head toward the Sicilian, and smiled artificially to deflect the latter's penetrating gaze. This was met by a quick – too quick – answering smile. He understands more than he seems, Hathaway's mind warned him. And then he realized, And he wants us to know that. He gave a little snort in return. The commissario at first looked surprised, but then he grinned broadly, nodding.

"Bravo, James. Lei è molto attento."

Lewis had caught the exchange and understood Hathaway had earned the man's respect. And he realized that this was something to be valued. He smiled openly and honestly at the commissario. "So you've done what you can but you had to hand him off . . . and where can we collect him now?"

Hathaway's sharp intake of breath was enough to tell Lewis he'd made a mistake. The Sicilian jumped to his feet, gesturing vigorously and exclaiming rapidly. Shouting, almost, to Lewis's ears. In a bit of a panic, the inspector turned to his sergeant.

"Hathaway, man, what did I say?!"

Hathaway was fully engaged in trying to placate the overexcited Sicilian. "Scusi, commissario, mi dispiace . . . scusi, ci scusi . . . dottore, mi dispiace, non vogliamo dire . . ." until at last he jumped to his feet, clapped his hands together loudly, and shouted: "Basta!" This made Salvo stop, eyebrows raised, waiting to see what James would say.

Hathaway took a deep breath, knowing what he said next could make a big difference in the outcome. He began by sitting back down, putting the commissario's desk between them. Lewis watched him and listened, though of course the words themselves were lost on him. But he could already grasp the lay of the land from the body language of the two men. He had readily discerned how important body language and gestures were in this culture, and he was now engaged in what was essentially a language course: Italian Gestures for Travelers.

James bent slightly forward and talked in low tones, slowly, making sure not only that he spoke correctly, but that his restraint was part of his message. When he was done, he held up an index finger, Wait, and turned to Lewis.

"Jack is not ours to take, Sir. He's theirs; they captured him. Okay? So if we want him, we have to play nice, and to explain the strengths and importance of our case against him. I've just done that. Now, I hope, the commissario will explain to me why the Italian case against Jack is stronger and more important." He cocked an eyebrow at their Sicilian counterpart. "Qual'è il caso più importante, eh?"

To James's surprise, Salvo took a deep breath and averted his eyes. Then he exhaled, and pointed first at Lewis, then at himself.

"He. Me. Yes. You, no." He shook his head and his hand tracked that side-to-side motion. And he thumbed toward the door. A glint in his eye indicated there was no arguing this point.

Lewis stared in surprise. But he saw a hardness in the commissario's mouth that told him Salvo had his reasons for wanting to keep negotiations as quiet as possible.

Hathaway released a breath, but he could see both inspectors were intent on trying to deal without the aid of a translator. Incredulous, he checked Lewis's expression again, and finding no relief there, he got up and strode briskly from the room.

Lewis studied his counterpart, wondering how they were going to communicate and why he wanted this to be a private conversation. He could tell Salvo was gathering his thoughts carefully. The Sicilian put the chair Hathaway had vacated closer to his, and on his side of the desk. He gestured, from Lewis to the chair.

"Please."

Lewis sat.

First, Salvo leaned forward, nearly into Lewis's personal space, and he spoke very low, in words Lewis did not understand. At the end of his sentence, with his pinched-together thumb and forefinger, he zipped shut his lips. And cocked his left eyebrow, questioningly.

Lewis nodded, and pressed his own raised index finger against his lips: "Hush-hush on this, you're saying?"

Salvo gave a single nod, leaned back comfortably in his own chair, pointed to himself, then he spread his hands out low, open palms facing up. "I . . . have . . . no . . . thing. Niente. Niente su Cornish."

Lewis scowled. "No evidence?"

Salvo nodded, happy he had made himself understood. "Sì, sì, sì! No evidenza." He held up his hands helplessly.

Lewis scowled more deeply. He tapped his own chest, then his temple, then he gave a large shrug, and set his expression as questioningly as he could. "How? You arrest him?" He took Salvo's hand and with his thumb and forefinger, he mimed handcuffing the Sicilian's wrist. "With no evidenza?"

Salvo grinned guiltily and shrugged. "We have . . . how to say . . ." He picked up the phone and pretended to make a call in a secretive manner.

The meaning of his little demonstration was clear. "You got an anonymous tip from a reliable informant, right? But you can't use that as evidence." Salvo followed the words as well as he could, picking up the gist.

"Esatto." He pinched his thumb and forefinger together again but this time briskly drew a straight horizontal line in the air. Got it in one! Lewis thought to himself, translating.

Lewis shook his head, still puzzled. "I'm sorry, I still don't . . ."

The commissario took a deep breath. "La barca . . ." he cupped his hands together and floated them over invisible waves, then dropped them down, sinking the small ship ". . . si ha affondato."

"The boat went down, yes?" Lewis mimicked the sinking action.

A quick nod. "I passaggeri—" a wee person with fingers for legs stood on his cupped palm "—alcuni sono stati affogati, sono andati giù—" the poor little guy went down under the imaginary waves.

"They drowned? All of them?" At Salvo's puzzled squint, Lewis spread his arms wide. "All?"

Salvo shook his head a little, still not certain of the word, but held up a finger in the classic gesture: Wait. And he continued with his explanation.

"Alcuni hanno nuotato." And he worked his arms as though swimming.

"Ah. Some survived. How many swam?" Lewis mimed the swimming action. "Erm . . . , uno, due, tre . . . ?"

Salvo nodded in understanding. He held up two fingers, then one finger, then two fingers. "Duecentododici."

Lewis arched his eyebrows in surprise. "Two hundred twelve? No witnesses among them? Erm, no evidenza?"

"No!" Salvo slapped his palm with the back of his other hand. The topic physically angered him, making Lewis a bit nervous about continuing.

Salvo took hold of Lewis's elbow and pulled him close, muttering quietly and swiftly: "La mafia. Mmm? Non posso parlare di questa." Shaking his head with his index finger against his lips as Lewis had done, his eyes shone with meaning.

"Silence about the mafia, understood." Lewis sought more detail. "Mafia. They . . . what? Made the witnesses disappear? No one to testify?"

The last word caught Salvo's ear. "Ah. Sì, esatto. Non ho uno testimone. Non uno." He paused to check Lewis's comprehension. Satisfied, he continued. "La mafia . . ." he circled a finger in the air ". . . li hanno preso lontano." And with both hands held apart, he moved the invisible group of rounded-up immigrants far off to one side. "Cornish li paga." He rubbed his thumb across his fingertips in a classic gesture of paying money.

Gathered them up and took them away so there wouldn't be any witnesses, with Jack Cornish making the payoff. Lewis exhaled in sympathetic frustration. At least he didn't have to deal with mafia interference as a regular part of his job. But if the Sicilians didn't have a viable case against Jack, that was all the more reason the Oxfordshire detectives should be allowed to bring him back to England. He wasn't sure how to make that point diplomatically. Maybe I should have let Hathaway stay.

He looked directly into Salvo's eyes. "So. No uno witness. No witness, no case, yes?"

The commissario shook his head regretfully. "No testimone, no caso, sì, esatto."

"So . . . Cornish—me?" Said with a gesture that gave a lot to himself.

Salvo set his mouth in a hard line. As he spoke, he first touched Lewis firmly on the chest, then himself. It sounded like, "You ah Cornish, me oh mafia." Then he put on a happier face. "Me oh Cornish, me non oh mafia. La mafia è, erm . . ." he put all his fingertips to nervous, tight lips, as if perhaps biting his nails. "Evidenza sì, evidenza no . . . non sanno—" he shrugged to show someone who didn't know whether there was or wasn't any evidence "—e . . . errore, la mafia. Capisce?"

Lewis did understand. If the Sicilians kept Cornish in their system, the mafia might think they missed a witness and that there was a viable case. It might flush them out, for they might well make mistakes trying to find that last witness. But the ruse would be good only for a short time. They would find out the truth soon enough. And Lewis had his own investigation to protect. He stood up assertively, and the tone he intended to convey by his action was not missed by the other detective. Salvo briefly closed his eyes in a wince, knowing he was about to lose this one.

"But you won't have Cornish anyway with no witness. The mafia will know. Salvo, I need him." Lewis drew close to the man's face, pressed his palms together and drew his hands toward his chest, and then he pressed his right palm over his heart. "So justice can be done."

There was a long stare from the commissario. Then his lids slowly closed, his face pinched slightly in pain, and he released a long exhale. And he gave the smallest of nods. But his eyes flew open, aflame with a sudden thought. "Eh! Ma, James . . . non James!" He again zipped his lips shut with his fingers.

Lewis shifted back in his chair. "But, mafia involvement! I have to tell him there's mafia in this. It's too dangerous not to."

Salvo understood his point. "OK, della mafia, sono d'accordo. Ma, di no evidenza—No."

"Fair enough." James didn't need to know Salvo had no evidence whatsoever. Lewis shook Salvo's hand and was a little disconcerted that the latter unexpectedly grasped Lewis's right elbow with his left hand in what was almost an embrace.

James was sipping a most excellent cappuccino at an open-air coffee bar adjacent to the police station when Lewis found him. He carefully wiped the foam off his upper lip when he saw his guv'nor approach.

"Well, you look relaxed, man. How's the coffee here, by the way? I could use one."

Hathaway jumped up from his chair. "Sir, what happened? Are we getting Jack Cornish?"

Lewis sighed as a sign that James should calm down and accept a slower pace of things. They were on Italian time here.

"Salvo admitted to me that the Italian case against Cornish is not as strong as ours. They have political reasons for keeping him here, mainly due to mafia involvement. Okay? If they look weak, that strengthens the mafia. If they look like they have a decent case, maybe the mafia will blunder about and show their hand. But the commissario understands our position and the importance of our case, and the seriousness of the English charges. So, yes, we're getting Cornish."

Hathaway's face screwed up in puzzlement. "You two communicated all that? You don't speak any Italian; does he speak more English than I thought?"

"Hardly a word. Come help me figure out how this extraditing works."

When they returned to the commissario's office, Salvo handed them their authorization papers, with the line for "Commissario di polizia" filled in with his signature. Hathaway asked in Italian where they should go to collect Jack.

Salvo fixed his gaze a moment, deciding whether to give the long version or the short one. Settling on the latter, he gave an answer that included a quick series of three full-body shrugs: "Mi scusi, ma, non so. . . . Potrebb' ess're . . . a Catania . . . ?" He ended with another shrug, both palms opened upwards, a gesture that clearly indicated helplessness in this situation. When he realized from their consternated expressions that the Englishmen had even less idea than he where to begin, he unexpectedly shouted, "Fazio!"

Lewis looked at Hathaway for an explanation. James furrowed his brow; he had just been starting to think he was getting the hang of this accent, but this word eluded him. He directed his inquiry to the commissario. "Faccio?"

Salvo turned for a second in a total lack of comprehension. "Che?" and then a younger man, black-haired and lean, burst through the door in obvious response to the commissario's command. They jabbered for a moment in rapid Italian, and the subordinate went out again.

Salvo internalized the bewilderment of the two Oxfordshire policemen almost as though it were something that could be tasted or smelled. He gestured toward the now-absent man, then toward himself: "Fazio. Io." Then he waved his hand at James first, then Lewis: "James. Luìs."

"Ah, your sergeant. Your numero due?"

A noncommittal toss of the head, left and right. Yes, maybe you could call him that. Then a presented right forearm and a point to that: My right arm. Eyebrows raised in the question, Got it?

Lewis nodded, smiling. Yes, he understood all that. He turned to Hathaway. "I dunno what all the fuss is about. I think Italian is pretty easy!"

Fazio returned in short order and rattled off information to the commissario. At the end, he looked directly at the Englishmen: "Catania." Salvo made a more formal introduction of Giuseppe Fazio to the two English detectives, and they both shook hands with him, in the English fashion.

Then Salvo scribbled down a name and a number, and flicked his hands to illustrate impatience. He spoke to Hathaway, knowing that words were the most efficient now. "Documenti oggi, Cornish domani . . . forse dopodomani . . . Chissà. Capisce? Andate a Catania, signori, subito. Il signore Cornish dovrebb' ess're lì, ma . . ."

Lewis didn't understand the words. But he understood the expressive face—combined with the gestures—perfectly well. Cornish should be there in Catania, the commissario was telling him, if the penitentiary police haven't managed to cock up another assignment.

Lewis stood suddenly, earning a startled look from his sergeant and an appreciative half-smile of comprehension from the commissario.

"You're saying my suspect might at any moment . . . " Lewis glanced at Hathaway, not knowing if there was an easy translation for his sudden notion that if the slightest thing went wrong, a crafty and opportunistic man like Jack Cornish was likely to escape. He focused on his sergeant. "If it's the way he makes it sound, we'd better get our skates on." Lewis understood well by now that Salvo's gestures did not illustrate or accompany what he was saying, they were as much a part of what he was saying as the words themselves, and they indicated an intensity related to the idea that they needed to go very soon or possibly Jack would not be there.

"Sir, he said today we just do paperwork; tomorrow we collect Cornish." Hathaway wasn't sure what the urgency was.

Robbie huffed at him, exasperated. "If we don't stake our claim on him, who knows where he could end up? We have to go, Sergeant. NOW."

Salvo was already on his feet, understanding the content of the exchange between the Brits, and reinforcing the urgency felt by Lewis. He fastened his eyes on Lewis's: "Il suo indagato, se voglia portarlo - Vai, vai, vai, subito!" He pounded the edge of his right hand into the palm of his left and practically swept them out the door past the startled desk officer, and they dashed off toward Catania, hoping indeed that they were not too late to collect their suspect.