Day of Confession (21 page)

51

Cortona, Italy. Sunday, July 12, 5:10
A.M
.

11:10
A.M
. in Beijing

“THANK YOU, MY FRIEND,” THOMAS KIND SAID in English. Then, clicking off the cellular, he put it on the seat beside him. Chen Yin’s call had been within the allocated time window, and the news was as he had expected. Li Wen had the documents and was on his way home. There had been no face-to-face contact. Chen Yin was good. Dependable. And he had found Li Wen, not an easy thing to do—uncover the perfect all-too-accommodating pawn who had all the skills and reasons to do as asked, yet who, if circumstance required, could be disavowed or simply liquidated at any time.

Chen Yin had been paid beforehand, as a deposit in good faith, and once Li Wen had done his job, he would be paid the remainder of what he was owed. Then both would vanish: Li Wen because his usefulness would be over and they dared leave no trace back to them; Chen Yin, because it would be wise for him to leave the country for a time and because his money was out of China anyway, deposited in the Union Square branch of a Wells Fargo bank in downtown San Francisco.

SOMEWHERE A ROOSTER CROWED, the sound bringing Thomas Kind immediately back to the task at hand. Ahead, in the predawn light, he could just see the house. It sat back from the road and behind a stone wall, a layer of mist hanging over the ploughed fields across from it.

He could have gone in just after he’d arrived, at a little past midnight. He would have cut the power, and the night-vision goggles would have given him the advantage. But still the killing would have had to be done in the dark. And against three men in a house he did not know.

So he’d waited, parking the rented Mercedes on an out-of-the-way cul-de-sac a mile away. There he’d field-stripped and checked his weapons in the darkness—twin 9mm Walther MPKs,
mascinen pistole kurz
, machine pistols with thirty-round magazines—then rested, his mind flashing back to the unfortunate happening in Pescara when Ettore Caputo, owner of Servizio Ambulanza Pescara, and his wife had refused to talk to him about the Iveco ambulance that left Hospital St. Cecilia Thursday night for a destination unknown.

Stubbornness was an unfortunate trait in all of them. The husband and wife would not talk, and Thomas Kind was determined to have answers and would not leave without them. His questions were simple: who were the people in the ambulance? and where had they gone?

It had only been when Kind pressed a two-shot .44 magnum derringer against Signora Caputo’s forehead that Ettore suddenly had had the urge to talk. Who the patient or passengers were he had no idea. The driver was a man named Luca Fanari, a former
carabiniere
and licensed ambulance driver who worked for him from time to time. Luca had rented the ambulance from him earlier that week and for an unspecified period of time. Where he had gone with it, he did not know.

Thomas Kind pressed the derringer a little more firmly against Signora Caputo’s head and asked again.

“Call Fanari’s wife, for God’s sake!” the signora shouted.

Ninety seconds later Caputo hung up the phone. Luca Fanari’s wife had given him a telephone number and an address where to reach her husband, warning him that neither was to be given out under any circumstance whatsoever.

Luca Fanari, Caputo said, had driven his patient north. To a private home. Just outside the town of Cortona.

STREAKS OF DAYLIGHT crossed the sky as Thomas Kind slipped over the wall and approached the house from behind. He wore tight gloves, steel-colored jeans, a dark sweater, and black running shoes. One of the Walther MPKs was in his hand, the other hung from a strap over his shoulder. Both were mounted with silencers. He looked like a commando; which, at this moment, he was.

In front of him he could see the beige Iveco ambulance parked near the side door. Five minutes later he had searched the entire house. It was empty.

52

Rome. 7:00
A.M
.

HARRY HAD SEEN THE VIDEO CLIP ON AN English-language channel an hour earlier—a Hollywood trade paper photograph of Byron Willis, exterior shots of their Beverly Hills office building and of Byron’s home in Bel Air. His friend, boss, and mentor had been shot to death as he arrived at his home Thursday night. Because of his association with Harry and the events concurrent in Italy, the police had withheld the news pending further inquiry. The FBI was now involved, and investigators from Gruppo Cardinale were expected to arrive in Los Angeles later in the day.

Stunned, horrified, Harry had taken the chance and called Adrianna’s office, leaving word to have her call Elmer Vasko immediately. And she had, from Athens an hour later. She’d just returned from the island of Cyprus, where she’d covered a major confrontation between Greek and Turkish politicians and had only just learned of the Willis piece herself and tried to find out more before she called him.

“Did it have to do with me, with what the fuck is going on here in Italy?” Harry was angry and bitter and fighting to hold back tears.

“Nobody knows yet. But—“

“But
what
, for Chrissake?”

“From what I understand, it looked like a professional hit.”

“… God, why?” he whispered. “He didn’t know anything.”

Pulling himself back, fighting off the dark swirl of emotion, Harry asked her what the status was in the hunt for his brother. Her response was that the police had no leads, that nothing had changed. It was why she hadn’t called.

Harry’s world was collapsing around him in violence. He’d wanted to call Barbara Willis, Byron’s widow. To talk to her, to somehow touch her, try to comfort her and share her terrible pain. He’d wanted to call Willis’s senior partners Bill Rosenfeld and Penn Barry to find out what the hell happened. But he couldn’t. Not by phone or fax or even E-mail without fear it would be traced to where he was. But he couldn’t sit still either; if Danny was alive, it was only a matter of time before they got to him just as they got to Byron Willis. Instantly his thoughts shifted to Cardinal Marsciano and the stance he had taken at the funeral home, telling him to bury the charred remains as if they were his brother’s, then warning him forcefully afterward not to press further. Clearly the cardinal knew a great deal more than he was telling. If anyone knew where Danny was now, it would be he.

“Adrianna,” he said forcefully, “I want Cardinal Marsciano’s home phone number. Not the main number, the private one that hopefully only he answers.”

“I don’t know if I can get it.”

“Try.”

53

Still Sunday, July 12
.

VIA CARISSIMI WAS A STREET OF STYLISH APARTments and town houses bordered on one end by the sprawling gardens of the Villa Borghese, and the elegant, tree-lined Via Pinciana, on the other.

Harry had been watching the ivy-covered, four-story building at number 46 off and on since nine-thirty. Twice he’d dialed Cardinal Marsciano’s private number. Twice an answering machine had started to pick up. Twice he’d clicked off the cellular. Either Marsciano wasn’t there or he was screening his calls. Harry wanted neither. He couldn’t leave a message or give Marsciano the opportunity to leave him hanging while someone put a trace on his call. The best thing was to be patient, at least for a time. Try later and hope the cardinal himself answered.

At noon he dialed again with the same result. Frustrated, he went for a walk in the Villa Borghese. At one o’clock he took a seat on a park bench on the edge of the Villa grounds where he could see the cardinal’s residence clearly.

Finally, at two-fifteen, a dark gray Mercedes pulled up in front and stopped. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door. A moment later Marsciano appeared, followed by Father Bardoni. Together the clergymen walked up the steps and went into Marsciano’s building. Immediately the driver got behind the wheel and drove off.

Glancing at his watch, Harry took the cellular from his pocket, waited for a young couple to pass by, then hit
REDIAL
and waited.

“
Pronto
,”—Hello—the cardinal’s voice came back strongly.

“My name is Father Roe, Cardinal Marsciano. I’m from Georgetown University in—“

“How did you get this number?”

“I’d like to speak to you about a medical problem…”

“What?”

“A third breast. It’s called a supernumerary nipple.”

There was a sudden pause—and then another voice came on.

“This is Father Bardoni. I work for the cardinal. What can I do for you?”

“Monsignor Grayson at Georgetown School of Law was kind enough to give me the cardinal’s number before I left. He said that if I should need help, His Eminence would be more than willing to give it.”

HARRY WAITED ON THE BENCH until he saw Father Bardoni come down the steps and start down the block toward him. Getting up, he walked slowly toward a large fountain and the crowd clustered around it, people vainly attempting to escape the oppressive heat and humidity of this July Sunday afternoon. Harry was simply one among them, a priest, young and bearded, doing the same.

Looking back, he watched the young, tall priest with the dark, curly hair cross into the park. He walked casually, as if he were out for a stroll. Yet Harry could see him looking in his direction, trying to find him in the crowd around the fountain. It was the manner of a man not wanting to draw attention to himself or what he was doing, of someone on the spot and uncomfortable. Still, he was coming, and that was enough to tell Harry he’d been right. Danny was alive. And Marsciano knew where he was.

54

HARRY STOOD WATCHING, HALF HIDDEN BY the children splashing in the fountain in front of him, letting Father Bardoni find him in the crowd. Finally he did.

“You look different…” Father Bardoni came up to stand next to him, his eyes not on Harry but on the children shrieking and splashing in the fountain. Harry was indeed thinner, the beard helped, and so did the priest’s clothing and the black beret angled over his forehead.

“I want to meet with His Eminence.”

Both men talked quietly, watching the children, smiling when appropriate, enjoying their antics.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Why?”

“It just is…. His schedule is full…”

Harry turned to look at him. “Bullshit.”

Father Bardoni let his eyes wander past Harry. “On the hill behind you, Mr. Addison, are several
carabinieri
on horse patrol. A little closer and to your right are two more on motorcycles.” His eyes came back to Harry. “You are one of the two most wanted men in Italy…. By simply moving toward the police and waving my arms…. Do you understand?”

“My brother is alive, Father. And His Eminence knows where he is. Now, either he can take me to him himself, or we can call the police over here and let them convince him to do the same thing…”

Father Bardoni studied Harry carefully, then his gaze caught a man in a blue shirt on the far side of the fountain watching them.

“Perhaps we should go for a walk…”

HARRY SAW THE MAN as they left, moving out of the crowd, following them at a distance as they crossed an open grassy area and started down a paved walkway through the park.

“Who is he?” Harry pressed. “The man in the blue shirt.”

Father Bardoni took his glasses off, rubbed them on his sleeve, then put them back on. Without them, he seemed stronger and more physical, and the thought crossed Harry’s mind that he didn’t need them at all, that they were there for effect in an attempt to soften his appearance. That maybe he was more like a bodyguard than a personal secretary. Or, if not that, a man much more involved with what was going on than he seemed to be.

“Mr. Addison—” Father Bardoni glanced over his shoulder. The man in the blue shirt was still following them. Abruptly he stopped. Deliberately letting the man catch up. “He works for Farel,” he said quietly.

The man was up to them, nodding as he passed. “
Buon giorno
.”

“
Buon giorno
, “Father Bardoni said in return.

Father Bardoni watched him go, then looked to Harry. “You have no idea what’s going on, or what you are getting into.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Father Bardoni glanced after the man in the blue shirt. He was still walking up the path, moving away. Once again he took off his glasses and turned back to Harry.

“I will speak with the cardinal, Mr. Addison,” Father Bardoni acquiesced for the moment. “I will tell him you wish to meet with him.”

“It’s more than a wish, Father.”

Father Bardoni hesitated, as if he were judging Harry’s determination, then slid the glasses back on. “Where are you staying?” he asked. “How can we get in touch with you?”

“I’m not sure, Father. It’s best I get in touch with you.”

At the end of the pathway, the man in the blue shirt stopped and glanced back. When he did, he saw the two priests shake hands and then Father Bardoni turn and walk off, going back the way he had come. The other priest, the one in the black beret, watched him go, then, taking another path, walked away.

55

CASTELLETTI TOOK A CIGARETTE FROM A pack on the table in front of him and started to light it. Then he saw Roscani staring at him.

“You want me to go outside?”

“No.”

Abruptly Roscani took a bite out of a carrot stick. “Finish what you were saying,” he said, then, glancing at Scala, turned to stare at the bulletin board on the wall next to the window.

They were in Roscani’s office, their jackets off, sleeves rolled up, talking over the din of the air conditioner. The detectives bringing Roscani current on their separate investigations.

Castelletti had traced the numbers on the Harry Addison videocassette and found it had been bought at a store on Via Frattina, which was little more than a five-minute walk from the Hotel Hassler and the American’s room.

Scala, looking for the source of the bandage seen on Addison’s forehead in the video, had canvassed every street within a half-mile circumference of the site where Pio had been slain. In that area were twenty-seven physicians and three clinics. None had treated anyone matching Harry Addison’s description the afternoon or evening of the murder. Furthermore, Roscani’s request to have the video’s image computer enhanced to get a more detailed look at the wallpaper behind Addison had proved a failure. There was simply not enough detail to find a clear pattern for a manufacturing source.

Crunching on his carrot, trying to ignore the sweet nicotine smell of Castelletti’s cigarette, Roscani listened to it all. They had done their work and found nothing they could use; it was part of the game. Of far more interest was the bulletin board and the 3 × 5 cards listing the names of twenty-three of the twenty-four victims of the bombing of the Assisi bus. Beside them were photographs, some recent, some old, collected from family archives, mostly of the mutilated dead.

Roscani, like Scala and Castelletti, had looked at the photos a hundred times. Saw them while falling asleep, while shaving, while driving. If Father Daniel was alive, whom had he replaced? Which one of the twenty-three others?

Of the eight who had survived and the sixteen dead, all but one—the remains originally thought to be Father Daniel Addison—had been positively identified; even those five burned beyond recognition had had their identities confirmed through dental and medical records.

The one missing, victim number 24—with no card or name or photograph—was the charred body in the box, the one originally thought to be that of Father Daniel Addison. So far he was without identity. Tests had shown no scars or other visible means of identification. A dental chart had been made from what little was left of the mouth, but as yet there was nothing with which to compare it. And files of missing persons had turned up nothing. And yet someone obviously
was
missing. A Caucasian male, probably in his late thirties or early forties. Five foot nine to six feet and weighing somewhere between—

Suddenly Roscani turned to look at his detectives.

“What if there were twenty-
five
people on the bus, not twenty-four? In the mass of confusion afterward, who could know exactly how many there were? The living and dead are taken to two different hospitals. Extra doctors and nurses are called in. Ambulances are banging around like rush-hour traffic. There are people terribly burned, some without arms or legs. We’ve got gurneys piling up in hallways. People are running. Yelling. Trying to keep some kind of order and the victims alive at the same time. Add that to whatever else was going on in those emergency rooms at the time. Who the hell sits there keeping track? There isn’t enough help to begin with.

“And what did it take afterward? Almost a full day of talking to rescuers, looking at hospital records, talking to bus company people trying to tally up tickets sold. Another day after that working through the identities of the people we had. And in the end, everyone—us included—simply accepted the total count as twenty-four.

“It’s not impossible at all to think one person could have been overlooked in that chaos. Someone who was never even formally admitted. Somebody who, if he was ambulatory enough, might have simply wandered off, walked away in the middle of everything. Or, maybe even had help getting the hell out of there.

“Damn it!” Roscani slammed his hand down on his desk. All the while they had been looking at what they had, not at what they didn’t have. What they had to do now was go back to the hospitals. Check every record of every admittance that day. Talk to anyone who had been on duty. Find out what had happened to that one victim. Where he might have gone by himself or been taken.

FORTY MINUTES LATER Roscani was on the Autostrada, driving north toward Fiano Romano and the hospital there, a juggler with too many balls in the air, a jigsaw man confounded by the sheer number of pieces. His mind swam and tried to push them away. For a while to think of nothing at all, let his subconscious work. Use the soft hum of the tires over the road as background to his splendid silence, his
assoluta tranquillità
.

Reaching up, he lowered the visor against the glare of the setting sun. God, he wanted a cigarette, and there was a pack still in the glove box. He started to reach for it, then caught himself and instead opened a brown bag on the seat next to him and took out not one of the carrot sticks his wife had cut for him but a large
biscotto
, one of a half dozen he had bought himself. He was about to bite into it when everything came full circle.

He had said nothing to the others about his idea that the Spanish Llama pistol found at the site of the bus explosion might not have belonged to Father Daniel but to someone on the bus who was there to kill him—Why? because there were no facts to back it up, and without some kind of evidence, thinking in that direction was a waste of time and energy. But, fuse that concept with the idea of a twenty-fifth man, and you had your uncounted passenger, perhaps one who bought a ticket at the last minute as he got on, a ticket the driver had not had time to tally before the bus blew up. If that were so, and it was he who was in the box, it would certainly explain why no one had come forward to identify him.

Still, he argued, it was conjecture. On the other hand, it was a feeling that kept coming back, more now than ever. It was a hunch, something all his years of experience told him—there
had
been a twenty-fifth passenger, and he had been onboard to kill Father Daniel. And if he was the assassin—Roscani stared at the horizon—then who blew up the bus? And why?