Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

Up front, Lestingi or Lestini, in the trademark black suit of Farel's soldiers, slowed for a toll plaza, took a ticket, and accelerated out onto the Autostrada. Immediately the city fell away. Ahead were only vineyards and farms and open land.

As the Opel pushed north, with only the hum of its tires and the whine of its engine for sound, as they passed signs for the towns of Feronia, Fiano, and Civitella San Paolo, Harry thought about Pio and wished it had been he who had called him and not Farel. Pio and Roscani were tough policemen, but at least there was something human about them. Farel – with his presence and bulk and raspy voice and the way his glassy stare cut through you – seemed more like some kind of beast, ruthless and without conscience.

Maybe it was because he had to be. Maybe it was because, as he said, he was accountable for the safety of a nation – and of a pope. And maybe, over time, that kind of strain and responsibility unknowingly turned you into something that, at heart, you were not.

Twenty minutes later Farel's driver swung off the Autostrada, paid the toll, and they moved off once more, turning onto a country highway, passing a gas station and a large building housing farm equipment. Then there was nothing but the road and cornfields on either side of it. They drove on, a mile, then two, then three. The bus had blown up on the Autostrada, and they were rapidly moving away from it.

'Where are we going?' Harry asked suddenly.

The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror and shook his head. ' Non capisco inglese.'

In the last minutes they had passed no other traffic. Harry looked over his shoulder, then out through the windshield. The corn was lush, higher than the car. Dirt farm roads cut off left and right, but they kept on. Five miles now. Harry's uneasiness grew. Then he felt the car begin to slow. He watched the speedometer drop, 80 kilometers, 60, 40, 20. Abruptly the driver swung right, turning off the highway and starting down a long, rutted lane. Instinctively, Harry glanced at the door locks to see if they were down, if the driver controlled them electronically from up front.

There were none.

Only holes in the leatherette trim where they'd been. Then he realized this was a police car, and the rear seats of police cars never had door locks, were always locked, could be opened only from the outside.

'Where are we going?' Harry said it louder this time. He could feel the thump of his heart against his chest, the stick of sweat on his palms.

'Non capisco inglese.'

Again the driver glanced at him in the mirror. Then Harry saw his foot press down on the accelerator. The car picked up speed, bucking and jolting over the uneven road. Corn rows flew past. Behind them was a curtain of dust. Harry put out a hand to keep his balance. Sweat trickled down from under his arms. For the first time in his life he felt real fear.

Without warning the road turned, and they rounded a bend. Ahead was a clearing and a modern two-story house. A gray Alfa Romeo was parked in dry grass alongside a tiny three-wheel farm vehicle. The Opel slowed and then slopped. The driver got out and walked around the car, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. Then he pulled the door open and motioned for Harry to get out.

'Fuck,' Harry swore under his breath. He got out slowly, watching the man's hands, trying to decide what to do if he moved them. Then he saw the door to the house open. Two men came out. Farel was one and – Harry felt a huge surge of relief cut through him – Pio was the other. A man and two young boys followed. Harry looked off and at the same time let out a deep sigh. Behind the house, on the far side of a row of trees, traffic flowed on the Autostrada. They had done nothing but make a large circle off the highway and come up on the house from behind.

'The ispettore capo will tell you.' Farel's eyes held on Harry, but only for a moment. Then he turned, and he and Pio walked to the rear of the Alfa Romeo. It was only as Pio opened the trunk that Harry realized both men wore surgical gloves and that Pio carried something in a clear plastic bag.

Putting whatever it was in the trunk, Pio pulled off the gloves and found a notebook. Filling out some kind of form, he signed it and handed it to Farel, who scrawled his own signature on it, pulled off the top copy, and, folding it, slid it into his jacket pocket.

With a nod to the man who had followed them from the farmhouse, Farel glanced once more at Harry, then got into the Opel. There was a roar of engine and spinning of wheels in the gravel and then Farel and the man who had driven Harry out from Rome were gone, with only swirling dust to suggest they'd been there at all.

'Grazie,' Pio said to the man standing with the two boys.

'Prego,' the man said, then gathered the youngsters and took them back into the house.

Pio looked to Harry. 'The boys are his sons. They found it.'

'Found what?'

'The gun.'

Pio took Harry to the back of the car and showed him what he'd put in the trunk. It was what remained of a pistol, sealed inside a clear evidence bag. Through the plastic, Harry could see a small automatic with a silencer attached to the barrel. Its blue metal was scorched, its polymer grips all but melted.

'It's still loaded, Mr Addison.' Pio looked at him. 'It was probably thrown clear when the bus overturned; otherwise the ammunition would have gone off and the weapon would have been destroyed.'

'Are you concluding that it belonged to my brother?'

'I'm not concluding anything, Mr Addison. Except, most pilgrims to Assisi do not carry automatic pistols mounted with silencers… For your information, the make is a Llama 15. Small-frame autopistol.' Pio slammed the trunk shut. 'It was made in Spain.'

They rode without speaking. Past the high cornstalks. Down the dirt road. The Alfa banging over its ruts. The dust kicking up behind them. At the country highway, Pio turned left, toward the entrance to the Autostrada.

'Where's your partner?' Harry tried to break the quiet.

'At his son's confirmation. He took the day off

'I called you…'

'I know – why?'

'About what happened at the funeral home…'

Pio made no reply, just kept driving, as if he were waiting for Harry to finish.

'You don't know?' Harry was genuinely surprised. He was certain Farel had learned of it and would, at the very least, have informed Pio.

'Know what?'

'I was at the funeral home. I viewed my brother's remains. The body is not his.'

Pio's head came around. 'Are you certain?'

'Yes.'

'The funeral home made a mistake…' Pio half shrugged. 'Unfortunately it happens. It is especially understandable under the circum-'

Harry cut him off. 'The remains are the same as those Cardinal Marsciano identified at the morgue.'

'How do you know?'

'He was there, he told me.'

'Marsciano came to the funeral home?'

'Yes.'

Pio seemed genuinely surprised, his reaction honest and instantaneous. It was enough for Harry to tell him the rest. In thirty seconds he explained about Danny's mole and the reasons why he would never have had it removed. About his private meeting with Marsciano in Gasparri's office, and the cardinal's insistence that the body was his brother's and that he accept the fact and get out of the country with it while he could.

Pio stopped at the tollbooth, picked up a ticket, and swung them onto the Autostrada toward Rome.

'You're certain the mistake is not yours…'

'No, it's not.' Harry was adamant.

'You know his personal belongings were found where the remains were recovered…'

'I have them here.' Harry touched his jacket. The envelope Gasparri had given him was still in his pocket. 'His passport, watch, his glasses, the Vatican ID – they may have been his. The body isn't.'