Day of Confession (22 page)

56

Xi’an, China. Monday, July 13, 2:30
A.M
.

LI WEN LIT A CIGARETTE AND SAT BACK, moving his body as far away as he could from the sleeping, overweight man crowding the seat beside him. In fifteen minutes the train would reach Xi’an. When it did he’d get off, and the fat man could have both seats for all he cared. Li Wen had made this same trip in May and then again in June, only that time he’d splurged and traveled in luxury on the Marco Polo Express, the green-and-cream train that follows the route of the old Silk Road, 2,000 miles from Beijing to Ürümqui, the capital of Xinjiang Uygur province, the first great east-west link. The train the Chinese hoped would lure the same monied traveler who frequented the fabled Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul.

But tonight Li rode in the hard-seat class of a packed train that was already almost fours hours behind schedule. He hated the packed trains. Hated the loud music, the weather forecasts, and the “no-news” news that was broadcast ceaselessly over the train’s loudspeakers. Beside him the fat man shifted his weight, and his elbow dug into Li’s rib cage. At the same time, the middle-aged woman in the seat in front of him hucked up and spit on the floor, angling it to hit between the shoe of the man standing in the aisle beside her and the young man jammed in next to him.

Pushing at the fat man’s elbow, Li took a heavy drag on his cigarette. In Xi’an he would change trains, he hoped to one less crowded, and then be on his way to Hefei and his room at the Overseas Chinese Hotel and maybe a few hours’ sleep. The same as he had done in May and then again in June. And would again in August. These were the months when the heat grew the algae in the lakes and rivers that provided drinking water for the municipal water supplies throughout his area of Central China. A former assistant professor of research at the Hydrobiological Institute in Wuhan, Li Wen was a midlevel civil worker, a water-quality-control engineer for the central government. His job was to monitor the bacterial content of the water released for public use by water-filtration plants throughout the region. Today his chores would be the same as always. Arrive by five in the morning. Spend the day and perhaps the next inspecting the plant and testing the water, then record his findings and recommendations for forwarding to the central committee; and move on to the next. It was a gray life and tedious, boring, and, for the most part, uneventful. At least it had been until now.

57

Lake Como, Italy.

Sunday, July 12, 8:40
P.M
.

THE SOUND OF THE MOTORS CHANGED FROM a whine to a low drone, and nursing sister Elena Voso could feel the hydrofoil slow as the boat’s hull settled into the water. Ahead, a great stone villa sat on the lake’s edge, and they were moving toward it. In the twilight, she could see a man on the dock looking toward them, a large rope in his hand.

Marco stepped down from the pilot house and went out onto the deck as they neared. Behind her, Luca and Pietro stood up to unhook the safety straps that had held the gurney secure on the trip from shore. The hydrofoil was large, able to seat, she guessed, maybe as many as sixty passengers and was used for public transportation between the towns sitting on the edge of the thirty-mile-long lake. But this trip, they were the only travelers—she, Marco, Luca, and Pietro. And Michael Roark.

They had left the house in Cortona just after noon the day before. Going quickly, leaving almost everything but Michael Roark’s medical supplies behind. A telephone call had come for Luca, and Elena answered. Luca was sleeping, she’d said, but the voice told her to wake him, to tell him that it was urgent, and Luca had taken the call on the upstairs extension.

“Get out,
now
,” she’d heard the voice say as she’d returned to the kitchen to hang up. She’d started to listen, but Luca knew she was there and told her to hang up. And she had.

Immediately Pietro had driven off in his car, only to return three-quarters of an hour later at the wheel of another van. Less than fifty minutes after that they were in it, all of them, leaving behind the vehicle they’d come in.

Driving north, they’d taken the Al Autostrada to Florence and then gone on to Milan to a private apartment in the suburbs where they’d spent the night and most of that day. There Michael Roark had his first real food, rice pudding Marco had bought at a local store. He’d taken it slowly, between sips of water, but he managed, and it had stayed down. But it hadn’t been enough, and so she kept him on the IV.

The newspaper she’d bought, with the photograph of Father Daniel Addison, had been left behind in the rush to depart. Whether Roark had seen her hide it away behind her as he’d so abruptly turned toward her she didn’t know. All she did know was that the comparison had been inconclusive. He might be the American priest, he might not. Her entire effort had been in vain.

THERE WAS AN ABRUPT ROAR as the propellers reversed, then a gentle bump as the hydrofoil touched the dock. Elena saw Marco toss the mooring line to the man onshore and turned from her musing to see Luca and Pietro lift the gurney and carry it forward to the steps. As they did, Michael Roark raised his head and looked at her, more for comfort and the assurance she was coming with them, she thought, than for anything else. As far as he had come, he could talk only in hoarse, guttural sounds and was still extremely weak. She realized she had become his emotional anchor as well as his caregiver. It was a tender dependency, and for all her nursing experience, it touched her in a way she’d never felt before. She wondered what it meant, whether somehow she was changing. It made her think, too, and ask herself, if he were the fugitive priest, would it make any difference?

Moments later they had him up and out, with Marco leading them up the gangway to bring him ashore. And then Elena was ashore as well, listening as the engines of the hydrofoil revved up, then turning to see the boat pull away in the enveloping darkness, its running lights glowing on the stern, the Italian flag above the pilot house flapping in the wind. Then the vessel picked up speed, and its hull rose out of the water so that the boat stood up on stilts like a huge, ungainly bird. And like that it was gone, the black water closing behind it, washing over its wake. As if it had never been.

“Sister Elena,” Marco called, and she turned to follow them up the stone steps toward the lights of the immense villa above.

58

Rome. Same time
.

HARRY STOOD IN EATON’S TINY KITCHEN, staring at the cell phone on the counter. Next to it was a partially eaten loaf of bread and, with it, some cheese he’d picked up at one of the few stores open on Sunday. By now Marsciano would know what had transpired between him and Father Bardoni in the park. And the cardinal would have made a decision what to do when Harry called.

If
he called.

“You have no idea what’s going on, or what you’re getting into.” Father Bardoni’s warning hung chillingly in his mind.

The man in the blue shirt had been one of Farel’s policemen, and he had been watching Father Bardoni, not Harry. Eaton had been certain some dark intrigue was going on at the highest levels of the Holy See. And maybe that was what Father Bardoni had been talking about, cautioning Harry that his intrusion was more than unwelcome—it was very dangerous. Suggesting he was close to drowning them all in his own waves.

Harry looked away from the phone. He didn’t know what to do. By pushing Marsciano further he could make things far worse than they already were. But for whom? Marsciano. Farel’s people. Anyone else involved. Who?

For no reason he picked up the knife he had used to slice the bread and cheese. It was an everyday kitchen knife, its cutting edge a little bit dull like most. As a knife it wasn’t very impressive, but it did the job. Holding it up, he rotated it in his hand, saw the blade glint in the overhead light. Then, with the easiest of motions, he turned and slid it deep into what remained of the bread. The safety and well-being of his brother was all that mattered. All the rest—the Vatican, its power struggles and intrigues—could go to hell.

59

The Hospital of St. John.

Via dell’ Amba Aradam, 9:50
P.M
.

HARRY WAS ALONE IN THE SMALL CHAPEL, sitting in a pew three rows back from the altar, his black beret tucked inside his jacket pocket, his head bowed, seemingly in prayer. He’d been there fifteen minutes when the door opened and a man in a short-sleeved shirt and what looked like tan Levi Dockers came in and sat down nearby.

Harry glanced at his watch and then back toward the door. Marsciano was to have met him there twenty minutes ago. It was only when he decided he would give the cardinal another five minutes and then leave that he looked again at the man who had come in and realized in amazement that it was Marsciano.

For a long while the cardinal remained still. Head bowed, silent. Finally he looked up, made eye contact, and nodded toward a door to the left. Then he stood, crossed himself before the altar, and pushed through the door. At the same moment, a young couple entered, knelt before the altar and crossed themselves, taking seats together in the front row.

Harry counted slowly to twenty, then got up, made the sign of the cross and went out through the same door Marsciano had taken.

On the far side was a narrow hallway, and the cardinal stood alone in it.

“Come with me,” Marsciano said.

Their footsteps echoing on the worn black-and-white tile floor, the cardinal led Harry down the empty corridor and into an older part of the building. Turning down another hallway, Marsciano opened a door, and they entered a small private room which was another sanctuary for prayer. Dimly lit, more intimate than the first, it had a stone floor and several polished wooden benches facing a simple bronze cross on the wall opposite. Above, on the left and right, high windows, now dark against the night sky, touched the ceiling.

“You wished to see me. Here I am, Mr. Addison.” Marsciano closed the door and turned in such a way that the lights of the room cut him at an angle that left his eyes and the top of his head in shadow. Purposeful or not, it underscored his authority, reminding Harry that whatever else he was, or might be, Marsciano was still a major figure within the hierarchy of the Church. Hugely forceful, and larger than life.

Still, Harry could not let himself be intimidated. “My brother is alive, Eminence, and you know where he is.”

Marsciano was silent.

“Who are you protecting him from? The police?… Farel?”

Harry knew Marsciano was watching him, the eyes he couldn’t see searching his own.

“Do you love your brother, Mr. Addison?”

“Yes…”

“Do—you—love—your—brother?” Marsciano said again. This time more deliberate, demanding, unforgiving. “You were estranged. You did not speak for years.”

“He is my
brother
.”

“Many men have brothers.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have been apart all this time. Why is he so important to you now?”

“Because he just is.”

“Then why do you risk his life?”

Fire and anger danced in Harry’s eyes. “Just tell me where he is.”

“Have you thought what you would do if you knew?” Marsciano ignored him, just kept on. “Go to him. Then what? Stay with him where he is? Hide with him forever?—Sooner or later you would realize that you had to face the matter immediately at hand. The police. And when you do that, Mr. Addison, when you come out, you will both be killed. Your brother, because of what he knows. You, because they will think he has told you.”

“Just
what
does he know?”

For a long moment Marsciano said nothing, then he stepped forward out of the shadow, the light touching his face, illuminating his eyes for the first time. What was there was no longer a papal aristocrat but a lone man who was twisted and torn and filled with fear. More fear than Harry thought anyone capable of. And it caught him wholly by surprise.

“They tried to murder him once. They are trying again. A hunter has been sent to track and kill him.” Marsciano’s eyes were riveted on Harry’s.

“Number forty-seven Via di Montoro. Do not think you retreated to your apartment this afternoon unnoticed. Do not think your priest’s costume will continue to hide you. I warn you with everything I have, to stay away! Because, if you do not—”

“Where
is
he? What the hell does he
know?
”

“—because if you do not,
I
will tell them where he is myself. And if I do, neither of us will hear from him again.” Marsciano’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That much is at stake…”

“The Church.” Harry felt the chill, the immensity of it, even as he said it.

The cardinal stared for the briefest moment, then abruptly turned, pulled open the door, and disappeared into the hallway, his footsteps fading to silence.

60

Three hours later. Monday, July 13, 1:20
A.M
.

ROSCANI TOOK THE CALL IN THE NUDE, THE way he always slept in the heat of summer. Glancing at his wife, he put the caller on hold and pulled on a light robe. A moment later he picked up the phone in his study, clicking on the desk light as he did.

A middle-aged man and his wife had been found shot to death in a storage container behind the ambulance company they owned in Pescara. They had been dead almost thirty-six hours when anxious family members had discovered them. Local investigators on the scene at first believed it was a murder-suicide, but after questioning friends and family, decided in all probability it was not. And, on the off chance it might have a connection to the nationwide manhunt, alerted Gruppo Cardinale headquarters in Rome. Hence, the call to him.

Pescara. 4:30
A.M
.

Roscani walked the murder scene, the storage shed behind Servizio Ambulanza Pescara. Ettore Caputo and his wife had six children and had been married thirty-two years. They fought, Pescara police said, all the time, and about anything. Their battles were loud and violent and passionate. But never had anyone seen one touch the other in anger. And—never—had Ettore Caputo owned a gun.

Signora Caputo had been shot first. Point blank. And then her husband had apparently turned the weapon on himself, because his fingerprints were on it. The weapon was a two-shot .44 magnum derringer. Powerful, but tiny. The kind of weapon few people even knew about unless they were firearm aficionados.

Roscani shook his head. Why a derringer? Two shots didn’t give you much room for miss or error. The only positive thing about it was its size, because it was easy to conceal. Stepping back, Roscani nodded to a member of the tech crew, and she moved in with an evidence bag to take the gun away. Then he turned and walked out of the shed and across a parking area to the ambulance company’s front office. In the street beyond he could see people gathered in the gray early-morning light watching from behind police barricades.

Roscani thought back to last evening, and what he and his detectives had learned from their singular tours of the hospitals outside Rome. And that was nothing more definitive than the chance they could be right. That there could have been a twenty-fifth passenger on the bus who was never recorded. Someone who could have walked away in the confusion if he was able or taken off by car or—Roscani glanced at a promotional calendar tacked on the office wall as he stepped into the company’s office—by private ambulance.

Castelletti and Scala were waiting as he came in. They were smoking and immediately put their cigarettes out when they saw Roscani.

“Fingerprints again,” Roscani said, deliberately waving away the smoke that still hung in the air.

“The Spaniard’s prints on the assassination rifle. Harry Addison’s prints on the pistol that killed Pio. Now the clear prints of a man who allegedly never owned a gun, yet committed a murder-suicide. Each time making it seem obvious who the shooter was. Well we know that wasn’t the case with the cardinal vicar. So what about the others? What if we have a
third
person doing the killing, then making sure the prints they wanted on the weapon got there? The
same
third person each time. The same ‘he/she,’ maybe even ‘they,’ killed the cardinal vicar. Killed Pio. Did the job here at the ambulance office.”

“The priest?” Castelletti said.

“Or our
third
person, someone else entirely.” Absently Roscani took out a piece of gum, unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. “What if the priest was in bad shape and was brought by ambulance from one of the hospitals outside Rome to Pescara…”

“And this third person found out and came here looking for him,” Scala said quietly.

Roscani stared at Scala, then folded the chewing gum wrapper carefully and put it in his pocket. “Why not?”

“You follow that thinking and maybe Harry Addison didn’t kill Pio…”

Roscani walked off, slowly chewing his gum. He looked at the floor, then at the ceiling. Through the window he could see the red ball of the sun beginning to come up over the Adriatic. Then he turned back.

“Maybe he didn’t.”

“Ispettore Capo—”

The detectives looked up as an investigator from the Pescara police came in, his face already streaked with sweat from the early heat.

“We may have something else. The chief medical officer has just examined the body of a woman who died in an apartment house fire last night—“

Roscani knew before he was told. “The fire didn’t kill her.”

“No, sir. She was murdered.”