Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

The Vatican. The Tower of San Giovanni. Same time.

'You asked to see me, Eminence.' Palestrina stood in the doorway of Marsciano's cell, his massive body filling most of it.

'Yes.'

Marsciano stepped back, and Palestrina came into the room. As he did, one of his black suits stepped behind him, to close the door and stand beside it, guardlike. He was Anton Pilger, the young man with the perpetual smirk and eager face, who, only days earlier, had been Marsciano's driver.

'I wanted to speak in private,' Marsciano said.

'As you wish.' Palestrina lifted a huge hand, and Pilger suddenly snapped to attention, then turned on his heel and left, a move not of a policeman, but of a soldier.

For a long moment Marsciano stared at Palestrina, as if trying to see behind his eyes, then slowly his hand moved out from his body and he pointed a finger toward the silent television nearby. The pictures on it, a horrible replay of those in Hefei – a convoy of trucks jammed with People's Liberation Army troops. Hordes of people crowding the streets on either side of them as they passed. The camera cutting to a field reporter dressed much like the troops, his voice not heard because of the muted television, but obviously attempting to describe what was happening.

'Wuxi is the second lake.' Marsciano's face was ashen. 'I want it to be the last. I want you to stop the next.'

Palestrina smiled easily. 'The Holy Father has been asking for you, Eminence. He wanted to visit. I told him you were very weak, and that it was best that for the time being you rested.'

'No more deaths, Umberto,' Marsciano whispered. 'You already have me. Stop the horror in China. Stop it and I will give you what you have wanted from the beginning…'

'-Father Daniel?' Palestrina smiled again, this time benevolently. 'You told me he was dead, Nicola…'

'He is not. If I ask him, he will come here. Call off the last lake and you can do with us as you wish… The secret of your 'Chinese Protocol' passing with us.'

'Very noble, Eminence. But, unfortunately, too late on both counts…' Palestrina turned to glance for a moment at the television, then he looked back.

'The Chinese have capitulated and have already asked for the contracts… Even so' – Palestrina smiled distantly – 'in war there is no pulling back; the campaign must be concluded according to plan…' Palestrina hesitated long enough for Marsciano to know any further argument would be in vain, and then he continued. 'As for Father Daniel. No need to summon him, he is on his way to see you. May even be in Rome as we speak.'

'Impossible!' Marsciano shouted. 'How could he even know I was here?'

Again Palestrina smiled. 'Father Bardoni told him.'

'No! Never!' Marsciano was flushed with anger and outrage. 'He would never give up Father Daniel.'

'But he did, Eminence… Ultimately he became convinced that I was right and that you and the cardinal vicar were wrong. That the future of the Church is worth more than the life of one single man, no matter who he is – Eminence…' Palestrina's smile faded. 'Have no doubt, Father Daniel will come.'

Marsciano had never hated in his life. But he hated now, and with more fervor than he'd ever experienced.

'I do not believe you.'

'Believe what you wish…'

Slowly Palestrina slipped his hand into the pocket of his priest's jacket and took out a dark velvet drawstring purse. 'Father Bardoni sends his ring to you as proof…'

Setting the purse on the writing table next to Marsciano, Palestrina fixed his eyes on the cardinal, then turned and walked to the door.

Marsciano did not see Palestrina leave. Did not hear the door open or close. His eyes were frozen on the dark velvet pouch in front of him. Slowly, his hand trembling, he picked it up and opened it.

Outside, a gardener looked up sharply at the sound of a hideous scream.

10:42 a.m.

Roscani walked alone down Via Innocenzo III. It was hot, and getting hotter as the sun moved higher overhead. In front of him was Stazione San Pietro. He'd stepped from the car a half block back, leaving Scala and Castelletti to go on to the station. They were to come in separately from either side, one arriving before Roscani, the other just afterward. They would be looking for Harry Addison, but doing nothing to apprehend him unless he ran. The idea was to give Roscani room to operate comfortably one on one with the fugitive, to keep the thing as easy and relaxed as it could be; but at the same time to position themselves in such a way that if he did bolt, one or the other would be in his path. There were no other police, no backups. It was what Roscani had promised.

Harry Addison had been good. His call had come into the Questura switchboard at ten-twenty. He'd said simply:

'My name is Harry Addison. Roscani is looking for me.'

Then he'd given his cell-phone number and hung up. No time to trace. Nothing at all.

Five minutes later Roscani called him from where he had been since his plane had touched down in Rome and he and Scala and Castelletti had rushed there – the crime scene in Father Bardoni's apartment.

Roscani: This is Roscani.

Harry Addison: We should talk. Roscani: Where are you?

Harry Addison: The train station at St Peter's. Roscani: Stay there. I'll meet you. Harry Addison: Roscani, come alone. You won't know me, I look different. If I see any police, I'll leave. Roscani: Where in the station? Harry Addison: I'll find you.

Roscani crossed the street, closing in on the station. He remembered how he'd first planned to come upon Harry Addison. Alone, with a gun. To kill him for murdering Gianni Pio. But things had turned wildly, and with a complexity he could never have imagined.

If Harry Addison was here, in the station as promised, he was still outside Vatican territory. So, Roscani hoped, was Father Daniel. Perhaps he had a chance yet, before the whole thing crumbled into the hands of Taglia and the politicians.

Harry saw Roscani come in and cross the lobby, then walk out to stand near the tracks. Stazione San Pietro was small, a depot serving a small circuitous route through Rome. There were few people. Looking around, he saw a man in a sport coat and tie who might be a plainclothes cop. But he had noticed the man a few moments earlier, before Roscani had come in, and that made it hard to tell.

Leaving the station by another door, he walked around to the side, and came down the platform from another angle, slowly, without energy. A priest waiting for his train; a priest who had purposely left his false identification tucked under the bottom of the refrigerator in the kitchen of the apartment on Via Nicolo V.

Through an open door, he saw another man come into the station. His shirt was open at the throat, but he wore a sport coat like the first man.

Now Roscani saw him, watched him approach.

Harry stopped, a dozen feet away. 'You were supposed to come alone.'

'I did.'

'No, there are two men with you.' Harry was guessing, but he thought he was guessing correctly. One man was still in the station, the other had come out onto the platform and was looking directly at them.

'Keep your hands where I can see them.' Roscani's eyes were frozen on Harry's.

'I'm not armed.'

'Do as I say.'

Harry moved his hands out from his waist. It felt awkward and uncomfortable.

'Where is your brother?' Roscani's voice was flat. No emotion at all.

'He's not here.'

'Where is he?'

'He's – someplace else… In a wheelchair. His legs are broken.'

'Other than that, he's all right?'

'Mostly.'

'The nurse is still with him? Sister Elena Voso?'

'Yes…'

Harry felt a thud of emotion as Roscani said Elena's name. He'd been right when he'd said they would identify her from what she'd left behind in the grotto. And now he knew they were treating her as a willing accomplice. He didn't want her to be this involved, but she was anyway, and there was nothing he could do about it.