Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

Harry picked up the small suitcase Adrianna had given him when he'd left the hotel in Como and walked with the handful of other late-night passengers off the hydrofoil and up the landing toward the street. Ahead was the lighted Navigazione Lago di Como ticket booth, unmanned at this hour and overhung by the dense summer foliage of the lakeside trees around it. Past it, he could see the lighted street and across it the Hotel Du Lac. Another minute, two at the most, and he would be there.

The trip from Como – with stops at the small towns of Argegno, Lezzeno, Lenno, and Tremezzo – had been nerve-wracking. At each stop Harry had fully expected armed police to come onboard, checking the identity of travelers. But none had. And finally, after the stop in Tremezzo, with Bellagio next, Harry started to relax like the rest of the passengers. For the first time in as long as he could remember, there was no sense of danger. No sense of being hunted. Nothing but the sound of the motors and the rush of water under the hull.

It was the same now as he walked up the landing behind the others, the way he might as a tourist, another passenger walking off a boat and into a lazy summer's night. He was tired, he realized, emotionally and physically. He wanted to lie down and turn off the world and sleep for a week. But this was hardly the place. He was in Bellagio. The heart of the Gruppo Cardinale search. And it wasn't only Danny they were looking for. He needed to be more guarded and alert than ever.

'Mi scusi, Padre.'

Two uniformed policemen suddenly stepped out of the darkness. They were young and had Uzis slung over their shoulders.

The first policeman stepped smartly in front of him. Harry stopped, and the other passengers pushed around him, leaving him alone with the police.

'Come si chiama?' – What is your name? – he asked.

Harry looked from one to the other. This was it. He either crossed the line and played the role Eaton had set for him, or he didn't.

'Come si chiama?'

He was still thin, more gaunt than the Harry Addison in the video. Still wore the beard in the passport photo. Maybe it was enough.

'I'm sorry,' he said, smiling. 'I don't speak Italian.'

'Americano?'

'Yes.' He smiled again.

'Step over here, please.' The second policeman said in English. Harry followed them across the walkway and into the light of the boat-ticket booth.

'You have a passport?'

'Yes, of course.'

Harry reached into his jacket, felt his fingers touch Eaton's passport. He hesitated.

'Passaporto.' The first policeman said, brusquely.

Slowly Harry took the passport out. Handed it to the policeman who spoke English. Then watched as one and then the other studied it. Across the street, almost within touching distance, was the hotel, the sidewalk cafe in front of it busy with nightlife.

'Sacco.'

The first officer nodded at his bag, and Harry gave it to him without hesitation. At the same time, he saw a police car pull up in front of the hotel and stop, the man at the wheel looking in their direction.

'Father Jonathan Roe.' The second policeman closed Harry's passport and held it.

'Yes.'

'How long have you been in Italy?'

Harry hesitated. If he said he'd been in Rome or Milan or Florence or anywhere else in Italy, they would ask where he had stayed. Any place he named, if he could even think of one, could be easily checked.

'I came in by train from Switzerland this afternoon.'

Both policemen watched him carefully, but said nothing. He prayed they wouldn't demand a ticket stub or ask where he had been in Switzerland.

Finally, the second spoke. 'Why have you come to Bellagio?'

'I'm a tourist. I've wanted to come here for years… Finally' – he smiled – 'got the chance.'

'Where are you staying?'

'The Hotel Du Lac'

'It's late. Do you have a reservation?'

'One was made for me. I certainly hope so…'

The policemen continued to watch him, as if they weren't certain. Behind them he could see the driver of the police car watching, too. The moment was excruciating, yet there was nothing for him to do but stand there and wait for them to make the next move.

Suddenly the second policeman handed him his passport.

'Sorry to have bothered you, Father.'

The first gave him his bag and then both stepped back, motioning for him to go on.

'Thank you,' Harry said. Then, sliding the passport into his jacket, he shouldered the bag and walked past them and up to the street. Waiting for a motor scooter to pass, he crossed to the hotel, knowing all too well the men in the police car were still watching him.

At the front desk, as the night clerk approached to register him, he took the chance and looked back. As he did, the police car pulled away.

A handsome man with clear blue eyes sat at a back table along the sidewalk cafe of the Hotel Du Lac. He was in his late thirties and wore loose-fitting jeans and a light denim shirt. He had been there for most of the evening, relaxing, occasionally taking a sip from his beer, and watching the people pass by in front of him.

A waiter in a white shirt and black trousers stopped and gestured at his nearly empty glass.

'Ja, 'Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind said, and the waiter nodded and left.

Thomas Kind no longer looked as he had. His jet-black hair had been dyed strikingly blond as had his eyebrows. He seemed Scandinavian or an aging but still very fit California surfer. His passport, however, was Dutch. Frederick Voor, a computer software salesman who lived at 95 Bloemstraat, Amsterdam, was how he had registered at the Hotel Florence earlier that day.

Despite the Gruppo Cardinale's announcement some three hours earlier that the fugitive American priest, Father Daniel Addison, was no longer being sought in Bellagio and that his reported sighting there had been deemed erroneous, the roads in and out of town were still being closely watched. It meant the police hadn't given up entirely. Nor had Thomas Kind. He sat where he did out of experience, observing the people who came and went from the hydrofoils as they landed. It was a basic concept that went back to his days as a young revolutionary and assassin in South America. Know who you were looking for. Choose a place he would most probably have to pass through. Then, taking with you the arts of observation and patience, go there and wait. And tonight, like so many times before, it had worked.

Of all the people who had passed by in the hours he had been there, the most interesting, by far, was the bearded priest in the black beret who had arrived on the late hydrofoil.

The nearly bald, middle-aged night porter opened the door to room 327, turned on a bedside lamp, then set Harry's bag on a luggage rack next to it and handed Harry the key.

'Thank you.' Harry reached in his pocket for a tip.

'No, Padre, grazie.' The man smiled, then abruptly turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him as he did. Locking it – a habit now – Harry took a deep breath and glanced around the room. It was small and faced the lake. The furnishings were well used but hardly shabby. A double bed, chair, chest of drawers, writing table, a phone, and a television.

Pulling off his jacket, he went into the bathroom. Turning on the water, he let it run cold, then wet his hand and ran it over the back of his neck. Finally he raised his head and saw his face in the mirror. The eyes were not the same as those that had peered so intently into another mirror in what seemed a lifetime ago, watching as he made love to Adrianna; they were different, frightened, alone, yet somehow stronger and more determined.

Abruptly, he turned from the mirror and walked back into the room, glancing at his watch as he did.