Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

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.

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.'

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.

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, 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.