Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

'Buon giorno, padre,' he said as he did.

'Buon giorno,' Harry said after him, then stepped into the lavatory and closed the door. Locking it with a flimsy slide-bolt, he turned to the mirror.

What he saw startled him. His face was gaunt, his skin pallid, his beard filled in more than he'd realized. When he'd left L.A., he'd been in good shape. A hundred and ninety pounds, over six feet two inches. He was certain he'd lost considerable weight. How much, he didn't know, but, under the black of the priest's clothing he looked exceptionally slim. The weight loss, with the beard, had changed his appearance considerably.

Washing his face and hands as best he could, considering the bandages, he wet his hair and slicked it back with his palms. Behind him he heard a sound and saw the doorknob rattle.

'Momento,' he said instinctively, suddenly wondering if that was the correct word or not.

From outside, an impatient knock on the door was followed by an angry rattle of the doorknob. Unlocking the door, he opened it. An irate woman stared at him. That he was a priest had no effect at all. Obviously, her business was urgent. Nodding politely, he pushed past her, walked the length of the cafe and out into the street.

Two people had seen him face-to-face; neither had said a word. Yet he had been seen at a place with a name, and later – hours or moments – they might see his photo and remember. And remembering, call the police. What he needed to do was distance himself from the cafe as quickly as possible.

Roscani ran along the track, Scala and Castelletti right behind him. Work lights flooded the tunnel. Uniformed police in flak jackets and carrying submachine guns were everywhere. So were Metro officials and the driver of the train that had nearly hit the fugitive.

'There were two of them. The American and a small man with crutches. Maybe a midget.'

Roscani had taken the call as he was leaving the railroad terminal on his way back to the Questura. It had come late, nearly an hour after the men had been sighted. Rush hour, the driver complained. Fearing he'd hit the men, he'd stopped the train and come back but had seen nothing. He'd reported it and gone on. It wasn't until he was taking a break and saw Harry's picture on the cover of Il Messagero that he made the connection with the man in the tunnel.

'You're certain it was him,' Roscani pressed.

'He was only for the smallest moment in the train's headlight. But yes, as sure as I can be. He had a bandage of some kind on his head.'

'Where could they have gone?' Roscani turned to a tall, mustached Metro official.

'Anywhere. In this section there are many original tunnels, for one reason or another no longer in use.'

Roscani hesitated. The stations at either end of this part of the tunnel had been shut down, passengers taken out and shifted to buses under the close eye of a phalanx of police. But it was only a matter of time before the entire Metro would begin to suffer from the closing.

'There are maps of these tunnels?'

'Yes.'

'Get them.' He looked to Scala. 'Go to Mr Addison's hotel room. Find something he has worn recently, something not laundered. Bring it back here as quickly as you can.'

Scala looked back. He understood. 'You want dogs.'

'Yes.'

Harry moved quickly along the sidewalk, already sweating with the July heat. Leaving the area of the cafe was one thing. His picture stared out from newspapers on every kiosk he passed. It was not only frightening, it was bizarre, as if he had been transported to another planet where everyone on it was looking for him. Suddenly he stopped, thunderstruck at the sound of his own voice. He was passing an electronics store. In the window was a bank of televisions. Large screen to small. And he was on every one of them, wearing dark glasses and sitting on a stool, dressed in the sport coat he had left behind with Hercules. His voice was coming from a small speaker just above the front door.

'Danny, I'm asking you to come in… To give yourself up… They know everything… Please, for me… Come in… please… Please…'

Now the picture cut to an interior of a television station. A male broadcaster sat at a news desk speaking in Italian. He heard his name and Danny's. Then there was a video clip of the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome. Police were everywhere, ambulances, a glimpse of Farel, a brief shot of the Holy Father's Mercedes as it sped him from the scene.

Suddenly Harry was aware of other people standing on the sidewalk watching the televisions. Turning his head, he moved away. Dazed. Where had the video come from? Vaguely he remembered the business with the earphone, someone talking into it. Vaguely remembered repeating what was said, then thinking something was wrong and trying to do something about it. Then being hit and everything going black again. Now he realized what it was. He had been tortured to reveal Danny's whereabouts, and when they realized he didn't know, they'd forced him into making the video, then taken him away to kill him.

Stepping off a curb, he waited for a car to pass, then crossed the street. The photos in the newspapers had been bad enough, but now his face was on every television screen in the country. Maybe even worldwide. Thank God for the dark glasses. They had to have helped some in disguising him. At least a little.

Directly ahead was an arched portal in an ancient wall. It reminded him of a similar wall near the Vatican that Farel's driver had taken him through on the way to meet the Vatican policeman. He wondered if this was the same wall, if he was close to the Vatican itself. He didn't know Rome, he'd simply popped out of a subway station somewhere in the middle of it and started walking. It was no good; he could be going in circles for all he knew.

Abruptly he walked into the deep shade of the portal. For an instant the shade and cool were a relief from the bright sun and July heat. Then he reached the far side and stepped back into the sunlight again. As he did, and for the second time in minutes, he stopped dead.

Little more than a half block in front of him was a swarm of police vehicles. Mounted police on horseback kept a gathering crowd at bay. To one side were several ambulances and parked media cars, including two satellite trucks.

People were suddenly rushing past him toward what was happening, and he stepped back, trying to get some idea of where he was. It didn't help. All he saw was a massive intersection of converging streets. Via La Spezia. Via Sannio. Via Magna Grecia. And Via Appia Nuova, where he stood.

'What's goin' on, Father?' The accent was young and New York.

Harry started. A teenager wearing a T-shirt with the words end of the dead over a likeness of Jerry Garcia had come up next to him, his round-faced girlfriend beside him. Both were staring at the mass of activity down the block.

'I don't know, I'm sorry,' he replied. Then he turned and started back the way he had come. He knew very well what was going on. The police were looking for him.

Heart pounding, he picked up his pace as more people hurried past him. Across the street to his left was a large expanse of green and beyond it a large and apparently very old church.

Quickly he crossed the street and started across the piazza toward it. As he did, two police cars flew past, bumper to bumper, in a wail of sirens. He kept on.

Ahead was the church. Huge, ancient, beckoning. A refuge from the turmoil behind him. Numbers of people – tourists, it looked like – were on the steps. Some were turned, looking in the direction he was coming from, drawn by what was going on. Still others were more intent on the church itself. This was a city, what did he expect? People were everywhere. He had to take the chance, for a short while at least, that he could lose himself among them and not be recognized.