Day of Confession

  Harry studied him carefully. “That’s not the only reason, is it?”

  Hercules moved back on his crutches and for the first time Harry saw sadness in him. “The man I killed was wealthy and drunk. He tried to smash my head with a brick because of what I look like. I had to do something and did.

  “You are a handsome, intelligent man. If you use what you have, you have a chance…. I have none. I am an ugly dwarf and murderer, condemned to a life beneath the streets…. If you win your game, Mr. Harry, maybe you will remember me and come back. Use your money and what you know to help me…. If I am still alive, any Gypsy will know how to find me.”

  A feeling of warmth and true affection crept over Harry, making him feel as if he stood in the presence of an extraordinary human being. And he cocked his head, smiling at the sheer curiosity of it. A week ago he’d been in New York on business, one of the youngest, most successful entertainment lawyers in Hollywood. His life had seemed charmed. He was on top of the world, with only higher to go. Seven days later, in a turn of circumstance beyond imagination, he stood bandaged and dirty in a cramped air shaft above the Rome Metro—wanted for the murder of an Italian policeman.

  It was a nightmare that defied belief but all too real just the same. And in the middle of it, a man brutalized by life, who had little or no hope of ever being free again—a crippled dwarf who had rescued him and helped nurse him back to health—hung on his crutches inches away in a deep chiaroscuro of light, asking for his help. One day in the future, if he could remember.

  By his simple request, Hercules had effected a grace Harry barely knew existed. Saying gently that he truly believed one person, if he wished, could use what he had learned in life to do something of value for another. It was pure and honest and had been asked with no expectation that it would ever be carried out.

  “I will do the best I can,” Harry said. “I promise you.”

  37

  A cafeteria in Stazione Termini,Rome’s main railroad terminal. 9:30 A.M.

  ROSCANI WATCHED HIM WALK OUT TOWARD the trains and disappear into the crowd. He would finish his coffee and take his time leaving, making certain no one had the impression they knew each other or had left together.

  Enrico Cirelli had been just another face ordering coffee. He’d taken it from the counter and come to the table where Roscani was having his own coffee and reading the morning paper. No more than a dozen words had been exchanged between them, but they were all Roscani needed.

  An electrician, Cirelli had been north on a job and had come back only yesterday. But for Roscani it was worth the wait. As a ranking member of the Democratic Party of the Left, the new name for the Italian Communist Party, Cirelli knew as well as he knew his children whatever was happening inside Rome’s far left. And the far left, he told Roscani straight out, had had nothing to do with the murder of Cardinal Parma, the bombing of the Assisi bus, or the killing of Ispettore Capo Gianni Pio. If there were outside factions at work, a splinter group, he didn’t know. But if they existed, he would find out.

  “Grazie,” Roscani had said, and Cirelli had simply stood and walked out. There was no need for the party leader to acknowledge the appreciation. Roscani would reciprocate later. When it was needed.

  Finally Roscani stood and walked out himself. By now the Harry Addison video would have played on every channel of Italian television. His picture and that of his brother would have been seen in ninety percent of the country.

  Roscani had purposely stayed away from the Questura and out of the limelight. It was a decision that had been made when he’d called Taglia at home at three in the morning to inform him Italian television had gotten hold of the video, and also a photo of Father Daniel, complete with pertinent details of the Gruppo Cardinale investigation of him. In response, Taglia had assigned Roscani to discover who had leaked the material. It was an inquiry to be rigorously pursued. One necessary to preserving the integrity of Gruppo Cardinale, not to mention Italian jurisprudence. Yet it was a pursuit both agreed would be difficult at best and might lead nowhere. Since both knew the material had been leaked by Roscani.

  Now, as he crossed the terminal and out toward the street, pushing quickly through the tremendous flow of humanity that moved through it, Roscani saw uniformed police watching all of it. And knew there were more watching in other public places—airports, train stations, bus and ship terminals—from Rome to Sicily, and north to the borders at France, Switzerland, and Austria. Knew, too, that because of the media, the general populace would be on the lookout for them as well.

  As he pushed through the glass doors and out into the bright sunshine, walking across toward his car, the immense scope of the Gruppo Cardinale manhunt began to sink in. He felt his eyes begin to narrow and realized he was watching faces, too. That was when he knew the feelings and emotions he thought he had put aside and buried under the guise of distance and professionalism hadn’t been left behind at all. He could feel their heat coming up through him.

  Whether Father Daniel was alive or dead was a guess—conjecture one way or the other. But Harry Addison was somewhere out there. It was only a matter of time before he would be recognized. When that happened he would be pinpointed and watched. People in harm’s way would be quietly evacuated. And then, when the time was right, probably after dark, one man would go in after him alone. He would wear a flak jacket and be armed, both with a gun and memories of a fallen comrade.

  That man would be Roscani himself.

  38

  Friday, July 10, 9:50 A.M.

  HARRY ADDISON STEPPED OUT OF THE METRO and into bright July sunshine at Manzoni Station. He wore Hercules’ costume and looked, he assumed, like a priest who’d had a bad night. A stubble beard, one bandage on the hairline at his left temple, another on his left hand, which kept together his thumb, index, and middle fingers.

  The thing that jolted him to hard reality was his picture, side by side with Danny’s, on the covers of Il Messagero and La Repubblica, Italian-language newspapers that lined either side of a news and magazine kiosk near the station. Turning, he walked off in the other direction.

  The first thing was to clean up to keep from drawing attention to himself. Ahead of him two streets came together with a small café on the corner. He went in, hoping to find a rest room where he could wash his face and hands and wet back his hair so that he was at least presentable.

  A dozen people were inside, and not one looked up as he entered. The lone barman was at the coffee machine and had his back to the room. Harry walked past, assuming the rest room, if there was one, was at the rear. He was right, but someone was inside and he had to wait. Stepping back, he leaned against the wall near a window, trying to determine what to do next. As he did, he saw two priests pass by outside. One was bare headed, but the other wore a black beret that was pulled jauntily forward and to the side like some twenties Parisian artist. Maybe it was the style, maybe not, but if one priest could do it, why not two?

  Abruptly the lavatory door opened and a man came out. He stared briefly at Harry as if in recognition, then passed by and went back into the café.

  “Buon giorno, padre, “he said as he did.

  “Buon giorno, “Harry said after him, then stepped into the lavatory and closed the door. Locking it with a flimsy slide-bolt, he turned to the mirror.

  What he saw startled him. His face was gaunt, his skin pallid, his beard filled in more than he’d realized. When he’d left L.A., he’d been in good shape. A hundred and ninety pounds, over six feet two inches. He was certain he’d lost considerable weight. How much, he didn’t know, but under the black of the priest’s clothing he looked exceptionally slim. The weight loss, with the beard, had changed his appearance considerably.

  Washing his face and hands as best he could, considering the bandages, he wet his hair and slicked it back with his palms. Behind him he heard a sound and saw the doorknob rattle.

  “Momento,” he said instinctively, suddenly wondering if that was the correct word
or not.

  From outside, an impatient knock on the door was followed by an angry rattle of the doorknob. Unlocking the door, he opened it. An irate woman stared at him. That he was a priest had no effect at all. Obviously, her business was urgent. Nodding politely, he pushed past her, walked the length of the café and out into the street.

  Two people had seen him face-to-face; neither had said a word. Yet he had been seen at a place with a name, and later—hours or moments—they might see his photo and remember. And remembering, call the police. What he needed to do was distance himself from the café as quickly as possible.

  39

  ROSCANI RAN ALONG THE TRACK, SCALA AND Castelletti right behind him. Work lights flooded the tunnel. Uniformed police in flak jackets and carrying submachine guns were everywhere. So were Metro officials and the driver of the train that had nearly hit the fugitive.

  “There were two of them. The American and a small man with crutches. Maybe a midget.”

  Roscani had taken the call as he was leaving the railroad terminal on his way back to the Questura. It had come late, nearly an hour after the men had been sighted. Rush hour, the driver complained. Fearing he’d hit the men, he’d stopped the train and come back but had seen nothing. He’d reported it and gone on. It wasn’t until he was taking a break and saw Harry’s picture on the cover of II Messagero that he made the connection with the man in the tunnel.

  “You’re certain it was him,” Roscani pressed.

  “He was only for the smallest moment in the train’s headlight. But yes, as sure as I can be. He had a bandage of some kind on his head.”

  “Where could they have gone?” Roscani turned to a tall, mustached Metro official.

  “Anywhere. In this section there are many original tunnels, for one reason or another no longer in use.”

  Roscani hesitated. The stations at either end of this part of the tunnel had been shut down, passengers taken out and shifted to buses under the close eye of a phalanx of police. But it was only a matter of time before the entire Metro would begin to suffer from the closing.

  “There are maps of these tunnels?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get them.” He looked to Scala. “Go to Mr. Addison’s hotel room. Find something he has worn recently, something not laundered. Bring it back here as quickly as you can.”

  Scala looked back. He understood. “You want dogs.”

  “Yes.”

  HARRY MOVED QUICKLY along the sidewalk, already sweating with the July heat. Leaving the area of the café was one thing. His picture stared out from newspapers on every kiosk he passed. It was not only frightening, it was bizarre, as if he had been transported to another planet where everyone on it was looking for him. Suddenly he stopped, thunderstruck at the sound of his own voice. He was passing an electronics store. In the window was a bank of televisions. Large screen to small. And he was on every one of them, wearing dark glasses and sitting on a stool, dressed in the sport coat he had left behind with Hercules. His voice was coming from a small speaker just above the front door.

  “Danny, I’m asking you to come in…. To give yourself up…. They know everything…. Please, for me…. Come in… please…. Please…”

  Now the picture cut to an interior of a television station. A male broadcaster sat at a news desk speaking in Italian. He heard his name and Danny’s. Then there was a video clip of the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome. Police were everywhere, ambulances, a glimpse of Farel, a brief shot of the Holy Father’s car as it sped him from the scene.

  Suddenly Harry was aware of other people standing on the sidewalk watching the televisions. Turning his head, he moved away. Dazed. Where had the video come from? Vaguely he remembered the business with the earphone, someone talking into it. Vaguely remembered repeating what was said, then thinking something was wrong and trying to do something about it. Then being hit and everything going black again. Now he realized what it was. He had been tortured to reveal Danny’s whereabouts, and when they realized he didn’t know, they’d forced him into making the video, then taken him away to kill him.

  Stepping off a curb, he waited for a car to pass, then crossed the street. The photos in the newspapers had been bad enough, but now his face was on every television screen in the country. Maybe even worldwide. Thank God for the dark glasses. They had to have helped some in disguising him. At least a little.

  Directly ahead was an arched portal in an ancient wall. It reminded him of a similar wall near the Vatican that Farel’s driver had taken him through on the way to meet the Vatican policeman. He wondered if this was the same wall, if he was close to the Vatican itself. He didn’t know Rome, he’d simply popped out of a subway station somewhere in the middle of it and started walking. It was no good; he could be going in circles for all he knew.

  Abruptly he walked into the deep shade of the portal. For an instant the shade and cool were a relief from the bright sun and July heat. Then he reached the far side and stepped back into the sunlight again. As he did, and for the second time in minutes, he stopped dead.

  Little more than a half block in front of him was a swarm of police vehicles near the entrance to a metro station. Mounted police on horseback kept a gathering crowd at bay. To one side were several ambulances and parked media cars, including two satellite trucks.

  People were suddenly rushing past him toward what was happening, and he stepped back, trying to get some idea of where he was. It didn’t help. All he saw was a massive intersection of converging streets. Via La Spezia. Via Sannio. Via Magna Grecia. And Via Appia Nuova, where he stood.

  “What’s goin’ on, Father?” The accent was young and New York.

  Harry started. A teenager wearing a T-shirt with the words END OF THE DEAD over a likeness of Jerry Garcia had come up next to him, his round-faced girlfriend beside him. Both were staring at the mass of activity down the block.

  “I don’t know, I’m sorry,” he replied. Then he turned and started back the way he had come. He knew very well what was going on. The police were looking for him.

  Heart pounding, he picked up his pace as more people hurried past him. Across the street to his left was a large expanse of green and beyond it a large and apparently very old church.

  Quickly he crossed the street and started across the piazza toward it. As he did, two police cars flew past, bumper to bumper, in a wail of sirens. He kept on.

  Ahead was the church. Huge, ancient, beckoning. A refuge from the turmoil behind him. Numbers of people—tourists, it looked like—were on the steps. Some were turned, looking in the direction he was coming from, drawn by what was going on. Still others were more intent on the church itself. This was a city, what did he expect? People were everywhere. He had to take the chance, for a short while at least, that he could lose himself among them and not be recognized.

  Crossing the cobblestones he went up the steps and into the crowd. People barely noticed as he pushed between them to enter through an enormous set of open bronze doors.

  Inside, despite the people, it was all but silent. And Harry stopped with others coming in to look, a tourist priest taken in by the spectacle. The central nave in front of him was a good fifty feet wide and probably five or six times that in length. Above him, the ornately carved and gilded ceiling rose ninety feet or more over the equally ornate polished marble floor. High windows just below ceiling level allowed an inpouring of dramatic, downward rays of light. Along the walls, ornate statuettes and frescoes surrounded twelve enormous statues of the Apostles. Harry’s refuge, it seemed, was not only a church but also a grand cathedral.

  To his left a group of Australian tourists worked their way along the wall toward the massive altar at the far end. Quietly, he joined them, walking slowly, observing the artwork, continuing to play the out-of-towner, like any other. So far he had seen only one person look at him, and that was an elderly woman who seemed to be looking more at the bandage on his forehead than at him.

  For the moment he was all right. Fea
rful, confused, exhausted, he let himself drift, feeling the breath of the cathedral’s centuries, wondering who had passed through, and under what circumstances.

  Pulling himself back he saw they had reached the altar, and several of the Australians broke from the group to cross themselves and kneel on benches in front of it, bowing their heads in prayer.

  Harry did the same. As he did, emotion swept him. Tears came to his eyes, and he had to fight to hold back a sob. Never had he felt as lost or frightened or alone as he did now. He had no idea where to go or what to do next.

  Still kneeling, he turned and looked over his shoulder. The Australian group was filing out, but other people were coming in. With them came two security guards. Watching the crowds. Making their presence known. They wore white shirts with epaulets, and dark pants. It was hard to tell from the distance, but it looked as if they carried two-way radios on their belts.

  Harry turned back. Stay where you are, he told himself. They won’t approach unless you give them reason. Take your time. Think it through. Where to go next. What to do.

  Think.

  40

  Noon.

  THE DOGS SNIFFED AND STRAINED AGAINST their harnesses, leading their handlers forward—with Roscani, Scala, and Castelletti scrambling after them—through a series of dirty, dimly lit tunnels to finally stop at the end of an air shaft above Manzoni Station.

  Castelletti, the smallest of the three detectives, pulled off his jacket and crawled into the air shaft. At the far end he found the cover loosened. Sliding it off, he stuck his head out and looked down onto a public walkway that led out of the station itself.