Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

Harry studied her carefully, watched her breathe. Even in the dim light he could see the sparkle and determination in her eyes. 'That's a very personal thing…'

Elena said nothing. Harry smiled. 'Maybe what I don't understand is why you're telling me.'

'Because I don't know what might happen tomorrow, and I want to have told someone who would understand… and because I wanted to tell you, Harry.' Elena looked at him for a long moment, her eyes intent on his.

'Good night and God bless,' she whispered finally and turned and left.

Harry watched her cross the room in the dark, had just a glimpse of her as she opened the door and went out. She'd come to share something deeply personal with him, why exactly, he still wasn't sure. All he did know was that he'd never met anyone quite like her, but he also knew that if he was being drawn to her, this was not the time. The last thing they needed now was that kind of distraction. It was far too disruptive and, therefore, much too dangerous.

A stylish, handsome woman wearing a large straw hat stood in line with the other passengers, waiting as the hydrofoil approached the boat landing from the dark of the lake.

At the top stairs above, four Gruppo Cardinale police in flak jackets and carrying Uzis stood watch. Four more patrolled the landing itself, studying faces of waiting passengers, searching for the fugitives. A spot check of papers confirmed that almost all of them were foreign tourists. Great Britain. Germany. Brazil. Australia. The United States.

'Grazie,' a young policeman said, as he handed Julia Louise Phelps's passport back to her, then touched the brim of his hat and smiled. This was no blond killer with a scratched face, nor an Italian nun, nor a fugitive priest or his brother. This was a tall, attractive woman, an American as he had guessed, with a large straw hat and distinctive smile. It was why he had approached her and asked for her papers in the first place, not because she was a suspect, but because he was flirting. And she had let him.

And then, as the hydrofoil docked and the passengers onboard disembarked, she put her passport back into her purse, smiled once again at the policeman, and, in the company of the other passengers, went onboard. A moment later the gangplank was pulled back, the engines revved, and the hydrofoil moved away.

The policemen on the landing and those at the top of the stairs watched it pick up speed, then saw the hull lift up out of the water as it moved out into the darkness of the lake, crossing to Tremezzo and Lenno, and then Lezzeno and Argegno, and finally back to Como. The hydrofoil Freccia delle Betulle was the last boat for the night. And, to a man, the police relaxed as they watched it go. Knowing they had done their job well. Confident that on their watch, not one of the fugitives had slipped past them.

Rome. The Vatican. Wednesday, July 15, 12:20 a.m.

Farel opened the door to Palestrina's private office, and the young, bespectacled Father Bardoni entered, poised, unmoved by the hour or by being called there. Showing no emotion at all. Simply answering the summons of a superior.

Palestrina was behind his desk and motioned Father Bardoni toward a chair in front of him.

'I have called you here to tell you personally that Cardinal Marsciano has been taken ill,' he said as the priest sat down,

'Ill?' Father Bardoni sat forward.

'He collapsed here, in my office, early this evening after attending a meeting at the Chinese Embassy. The doctors believe it to be a simple case of exhaustion. But they are not certain. As a result he is being kept under observation.'

'Where is he?'

'Here, on the Vatican grounds,' Palestrina said. 'The guest apartments in the Tower of San Giovanni.'

'Why is he not in a hospital?' From the corner of his eye, Father Bardoni saw Farel step forward to stand near him.

'Because I chose to keep him here. Because of what I believe to be the reason for his "exhaustion"…'

'Which is?'

'The ongoing dilemma of Father Daniel.' Palestrina watched the priest carefully. So far he was showing no outward display of emotion, even now, at the mention of Father Daniel.

'I don't understand.'

'Cardinal Marsciano has sworn he was dead. And perhaps he still does not believe, as the police do, that he is not. Moreover, new evidence suggests that Father Daniel not only lives but is well enough to continually avoid the authorities. All of which means that he is probably able to communicate in one way or another-'

Palestrina paused, looking at the priest directly, making certain there would be no confusion interpreting what he said next.

'How joyous it would make Cardinal Marsciano to see Father Daniel alive. But since he is under the care of physicians and unable to travel, it follows that Father Daniel should come, or be brought, if it is necessary, to visit him here, at the apartments of San Giovanni.'

It was here that Father Bardoni faltered, casting a quick, furtive glance at Farel – a sudden, instinctive reaction, to see if Farel fully sided with Palestrina and backed Marsciano's imprisonment. And from his cold, impassive stare, there was no doubt whatsoever that he did. Recovering, he looked back to Palestrina, incensed.

'You are suggesting that I know where he is? And could get that message to him? That I could somehow engineer his coming to the Vatican?'

'A box is opened,' Palestrina said easily. 'A moth flies out… Where does it go? Many people ask that same question and hunt for it. But it is never found because, at the last minute, it moves, and then moves again, and then again. Most difficult when it is either ill or injured. That is, unless it has help… from someone sympathetic, a famous writer perhaps, or someone in the clergy… and is attended to by a gentle hand schooled in such things. A nurse perhaps, or a nun, or one and the same… a nursing sister from Siena – Elena Voso.'

Father Bardoni didn't react. Simply stared, vacantly, as if he had no idea what the secretariat of state was talking about. It was a deliberate orchestration to cover his earlier lapse, but it was too late, and he knew it.

Palestrina leaned forward. 'Father Daniel is to come in silence. To speak with no one… Should he be caught along the way, his answer – to the police, to the media, even to Taglia or Roscani – is that he simply does not remember what happened…'

Father Bardoni started to protest, but Palestrina held up a hand to silence him, and then he finished, his voice just loud enough to be heard.

'Understand – that for every day Father Daniel does not come, Cardinal Marsciano's mental outlook will worsen… His health declining with his spirit, until there comes a point where' – he shrugged – 'it no longer matters.'

'Eminence.' Father Bardoni was suddenly curt. 'You are speaking to the wrong man. I have no more idea where Father Daniel is or how to reach him than you.'

Palestrina stared for a moment, then made the sign of the cross. 'Che Dio ti protegga,' he said. May God protect you.

Immediately Farel crossed to the door and opened it. Father Bardoni hesitated, then stood and walked past Farel and out into the darkness.

Palestrina watched the door as it closed. The wrong man? No, Father Bardoni was not. He was Marsciano's courier and had been all along. The one responsible for getting Father Daniel out of the hands of medical personnel and to Pescara after the bus explosion and guiding his movements ever since. Yes, they had suspected – followed him, had his phone line tapped, even suspected he was the man who had hired the hydrofoil in Milan. But they had been unable to prove anything. Except he had erred in glancing at Farel, and this had been enough. Palestrina knew Marsciano commanded strong loyalty. And if Marsciano had trusted enough in Father Daniel to confess to him, he would have trusted in Father Bardoni to help save the American's life. And Father Bardoni would have responded.