David Hewson - A Season for the Dead

He didn’t say a word. She understood his silence.

“Because Marco would never have asked, would never have allowed such things to happen? You’re right. The trouble is, most of us aren’t trying to be perfect like you and your father, Nic. We accept that we’re flawed. We do our best to cope with that.”

He touched her face, gingerly. “What’s done is done. All I care about now is what’s ahead.”

“I have to see him,” she insisted. “Stay away, Nic. You don’t have to do this for me.”

“If I stay away he’s dead. This isn’t just about you. I’ve lost a partner. I don’t forget things like that.”

She looked down the alley. The rain was falling steadily now. The crowds were dispersing into doorways. “Leave me alone with him. Just for one minute. After that…”

“I can’t. It’s not safe.”

“What is?” she asked. “Nic, this church is where he met my mother. Our mother.” She waited to see his response. “It means something you can’t begin to appreciate. Something that doesn’t concern you.”

He turned away from her, scowling.

“Are you jealous of him?” she asked. “That we’re close, in spite of everything?”

The words hit home. “Maybe. Baffled too. I don’t know how he could do this to you.”

“He was at his wit’s end. He needed my help. He was dying behind those walls. You didn’t see him.”

“This was about help?” he retorted bitterly. “He keeps his existence secret from you for years. He reveals it only when he needs you. Is that an act of love?”

“No, desperation. Sometimes love grows out of despair. He wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I was alone. I’ve been alone all my life. I told you, Nic. We’re not perfect people. We never will be. I didn’t have a family around me like you. I knew when he told me, about my mother, about the choice they were forced to make… I knew I’d do anything for him. Anything.”

“And you still will?”

“Do you think it was easy for me? Sleeping with these people? Knowing I was being watched… used.”

“Then why do it?” He couldn’t keep the note of disapproval out of his voice.

“I’ll never make you understand. We’re too different. My father’s a frightened, vulnerable man. He’s wronged people. He’s wronged me. In a way I can’t explain that made it all simpler. I could either abandon him, or I could… I could do what he wanted and hope one day he’d be free. I did what I did for both of us. To set him free. To restore to my own life something that had been taken from me. Given the same choices again I’d make the same decision. What’s one night with a stranger if it brings your own father back from the dead?”

“You’re right there,” he admitted. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t do this to me. You’re as frightened of a world on your own as I am. That’s the one thing we do have in common.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t even want to think about it.

“I want him safe,” she insisted. “And Gino too, whatever he’s done. He doesn’t deserve this.” She looked down the street. “You think the church is where they…” She couldn’t go on.

He scanned the street, looking for someone, anyone, he knew. There were only tourists, skulking in doorways. Perhaps they were there already. “Falcone agreed he could go to the church. It’s insane. In the circumstances. Falcone wouldn’t go along with the idea without a reason.”

“What can you do?”

“Something, maybe.” It wouldn’t be easy. He was on his own. He’d no idea whether the calls he’d placed would work. Or whether they’d been intercepted. “I don’t know, Sara. If it’s Falcone, some enemies he’s made among his own people, some crooks from outside too…”

She was silent. It was impossible for him to guess what she was thinking.

“I’ve talked to some people I can trust,” he replied, struggling to understand the situation himself. “My father’s spoken to some of his contacts. I can’t guarantee this will work. I know I can’t just walk away. Luca’s dead because of what they did. If they get away with killing your father, they get away with everything.”

“You don’t have to be there.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

It happened so suddenly. She reached forward, took his face in her hands and kissed him. He tasted her mouth. Memories flooded back. For a moment he was drowning in them.

“I wanted to tell you,” she whispered. “I despised myself for not having the courage. Don’t hate me for this. Please…”

When she looked at him like this he knew there was no point in protesting, knew he was lost.

“When we get there, when it’s safe, I want a minute with him, Nic. Alone. That’s all. You have to give me that. You have to trust me.”

His fingers gripped her soft, fine hair. “I could never hate you.”

“He’s my father. He’s all I have.”

She kissed him again, hard. He wanted to hold her like this forever, locked tight against each other, perfect, safe, until all the world went quiet.

“You have me,” he said.

The taste of her filled his head. He was lost in her anguished beauty.

Fifty-Seven

The church was in a medieval lane that ran from the Corso Rinascimento, by the side of the Piazza Navona, into the square of the Pantheon. Years ago, city authorities had raised the pavement at each end and turned it into a dark, narrow corridor for scurrying pedestrians who walked in the shadow of the high Renaissance buildings on both sides.

The unmarked police car crossed the Tiber into the dawdling traffic of Vittorio Emanuele, the two men in the front seats arguing about where to park. Michael Denney sat in the rear and closed his eyes, listening, thinking. Then he turned and looked around him. It was impossible to judge but somewhere in the snarl of traffic winding its way out of the Vatican there had to be others. For a moment he thought he glimpsed a Fiat saloon with the brown face and silver beard of Falcone in the rear. Then it flashed past, slipping away over the river in front of them.

He listened to the plainclothesmen getting nowhere nearer a conclusion, then said, “Just park in Rinascimento. It’s closest. I won’t be long. You’re police. I guess you won’t get a ticket.”

The two sets of sunglasses looked at each other. One of them, the man in the passenger seat, turned and asked, “You’re sure you want to go to this place at all? We can take you straight to the airport if you want.”

The driver swore under his breath, hissing at his colleague. The bass roar of approaching thunder rattled down the river and shook the roof of the overchilled car.

“I’m sure,” Denney answered. “This is my church. No one knows it better. And it’s arranged, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to get you boys into trouble.”

They were silent after that. As they passed the Oratorio dei Filippini, the sky abruptly darkened and thick, black rain began to fall, slowly at first, as if uncertain of its intent, then in heavy, driving columns that rebounded from the pavement. The city looked like the bowl of some fantastic fountain designed by a drunken Bernini. The driver flipped on his headlights. It was now as gloomy as night. He screwed up his eyes and looked for the turning. Denney patted him on the back, guiding, giving advice. The black Mercedes pulled in at the end of the lane. Denney looked along into the black cavern which led to the church, seeing nothing but people racing for shelter from the deluge.

He tugged his jacket around him, took hold of the suitcase below their line of sight and said, “Ten minutes. Are you coming?”

“We’ll see you to the door,” the driver answered. “They said to let you have some privacy inside. Only one way in, one way out of that place. So I guess we trust you. Let’s face it.” The black glasses peered at him. “Where are you going to go?”