Day of Confession

  “You think he made the tape against his will?”

  “Don’t ask me to draw conclusions from the air, Otello. It’s far too difficult.” Valentina smiled and put a hand on his. “It’s not my job, anyway. It’s yours.”

  44

  HARRY WATCHED HER COME. WATCHED HER cross the Piazza Navona toward the fountain, sipping something from a plastic Coca-Cola cup, light blue skirt and white blouse, hair turned up in a bun, dark glasses, her walk unhurried. She could have been a secretary or tourist, perhaps wondering whether or not to meet a lover as promised; anything but a journalist about to rendezvous with the most wanted man in Italy. If she had brought the police, he didn’t see them.

  Now he saw her circle the fountain, half looking, half not. Then, glancing at her watch, she settled on a stone bench twenty feet from a man painting a watercolor of the piazza. Harry waited, still uncertain. Finally he stood up, glancing at the painter as he did. Walking toward her in a wide arc, he came up from behind to sit casually a few feet to her left, facing in the opposite direction. To his surprise she did nothing more than glance his way, then looked off again. Either she was being very careful or his beard and costume worked better than he thought. As bad as things were, the idea she might not know who he was tickled him, and he tilted his head ever so slightly in her direction.

  “Would the lady consider screwing a priest?”

  She started and looked, and for the briefest instant he thought she was going to slap him. But instead she stared right at him and admonished him out loud.

  “If a priest wants to talk dirty to a lady, he ought to do it where people can’t see or hear him.”

  PIANO, OR FLAT, NUMBER 12, as it read on the worn key tag, was on the top floor of a five-story apartment building at 47 Via di Montoro, a ten-minute walk toward the Tiber from the Piazza Navona. It belonged to a friend who was out of town and would understand, Adrianna said. Then she stood abruptly and walked off, leaving the Coca-Cola cup behind. The key was inside it.

  Harry had entered the lobby and taken the small elevator to the top, finding number 12 at the end of the hall.

  Once inside, he locked the door behind him and looked around. The flat was small but comfortable, with a bedroom, living room, small kitchen, and bath. Men’s clothing hung in the closet—several sport coats, slacks, and two suits. A half dozen shirts, several sweaters, socks, and underwear were in a chest of drawers opposite the bed. In the living room was a telephone and small TV. A computer with separate printer sat on a desk in a cubbyhole near the window.

  Moving to the window, Harry stood at the edge and looked down at the street. Nothing any different than when he came in. Passing cars, motor scooters, the occasional pedestrian.

  Taking off his jacket, he set it on a chair and went into the kitchen. In a cupboard next to the sink he found a glass and started to fill it. Then he had to set it down. The room spun, and it was all he could do to get his breath. Emotion and exhaustion had caught up with him. That he was even alive was a miracle. That somehow he was off the street was a gift from the gods.

  Finally he calmed enough to splash some water on his face and begin to breathe normally. How long had it been since he’d left Hercules and come here? Three hours, four? He didn’t know. All sense of time was gone. He looked at his watch. It was Friday, July 10. Ten after five in the afternoon. Ten after eight in the morning Los Angeles time. Another breath and his eyes went to the telephone.

  No. Can’t. Don’t even consider it. By now the FBI would have every line to his home and office tapped. If he tried to call, they’d know where he was in a millisecond. The fact was that even if he reached someone without being caught, what could they do? In truth, what could anyone do, even Adrianna? He was caught in a horrendous dream that was no dream at all. Just stark, brutal reality.

  And except for that few square feet of apartment where he was, there was absolutely nowhere he could go where he didn’t risk being caught and turned over to the police. Even here, how long was he safe? He couldn’t stay where he was forever.

  Suddenly there was a sound in the other room. A key had been put into the lock. Heart pounding, he pressed back against the kitchen wall. Then came the sound of the door opening.

  “Mr. Addison?” a male voice said sharply.

  Harry could see the jacket he’d left on the chair in the front room. Whoever had come in would see it, too. Quickly he glanced around. The kitchen was little more than a closet. The only way out, the way he had come in.

  “Mr. Addison?” the voice rang out again.

  Dammit! Adrianna had set him up for the police. And he’d walked right into it. At his elbow was a butcher block with carving knives. No good. They’d kill him in a second if he came out with a knife in his hand.

  “Mr. Addison—are you here?” Whoever it was spoke English and without an accent.

  What to do? He had no answer because there was none. Better to just walk out facing them and hope that Adrianna or someone from the media was with them so they wouldn’t kill him on the spot.

  “I’m here!” he said, loudly. “I’m coming out. I’m not armed. Don’t shoot!” Taking a deep breath, Harry raised his hands and stepped into the room.

  WHAT HE SAW WAS NOT the police but a sandy-haired man alone, the door closed behind him.

  “My name is James Eaton, Mr. Addison. I’m a friend of Adrianna Hall. She knew you needed a place to stay and—“

  “Jesus God…”

  Eaton was probably in his late forties or early fifties. Medium height and build. Dressed in a gray suit with striped shirt and gray tie. The most striking thing about him, other than that he was alone, was his plainness. He looked like the kind of guy who’d made it as far as he could in a bank, who still takes his family to Disneyland, and cuts his lawn on Saturdays.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “This is your apartment…” Incredulous, Harry lowered his hands.

  “Sort of…”

  “What do you mean sort of?”

  “It’s not in my name, and my wife doesn’t know about it.”

  That was a surprise. “You and Adrianna.”

  “Not anymore…”

  Eaton hesitated, looking at Harry, then he crossed the room and opened a cabinet above the television. “Would you like a drink?”

  Harry glanced at the front door. Who was this guy? FBI? Checking him out, making sure he was unarmed and alone?

  “If I’d told the police where you were, I wouldn’t be standing here offering you a drink…. Vodka or scotch?”

  “Where’s Adrianna?”

  Eaton took out a bottle of vodka and poured them each two fingers.

  “I work in the U.S. Embassy. First secretary to the counselor for Political Affairs…. No ice, sorry.” He handed Harry a glass and then walked over and sat down on the couch. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Mr. Addison. Adrianna thought it might be helpful if we talked.”

  Harry fingered his glass. He was overwrought. Beat up. His nerves all over the place. But he had to pull himself back. Be aware enough of what was happening to protect himself. Eaton might be who he said he was and there trying to help him. Or he might not. He could be doing a diplomatic thing. Making sure no feathers got ruffled between the U.S. and Italy when they handed him over to the police.

  “I didn’t kill the policeman.”

  “You didn’t…”

  “No.”

  “What about the videotape?”

  “I was tortured, then coerced into making it by the people who I assume did kill him…. They took me away afterward…. Then they shot me and left me for dead…” Harry lifted his bandaged hand. “Except I didn’t die.”

  Eaton sat back. “Who were these people?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw them.”

  “Did they speak English?”

  “Some…. Mostly Italian.”

  “They killed a policeman and, in essence, kidnapped and tortured you.”

  “Yes.”
/>
  Eaton took a pull at his drink. “Why? What did they want?”

  “They wanted to know about my brother.”

  “The priest.”

  Harry nodded.

  “What did they want to know about him?”

  “Where he was…”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “I said I didn’t know. Or if he was even alive.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  Harry lifted his glass and took half the vodka in one swallow. Then he finished it and set the glass on the table in front of Eaton.

  “Mr. Eaton, I am innocent. I believe my brother is innocent…. And I am scared to death of the Italian police. What can the embassy do to help? There has to be something.”

  Eaton looked at Harry for a long moment, as if he were thinking. Finally he stood and picked up Harry’s glass. Crossing to the cabinet, he poured them each a second drink.

  “By rights, Mr. Addison, I should have informed the consul general the moment Adrianna called. But then he would have been obliged to notify the Italian authorities. I would have betrayed a trust, and you would have been in the jail, or worse…. And that wouldn’t have done either of us much good.”

  Harry looked at him, puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  “We are in the information business, Mr. Addison, not law enforcement…. The job of the counselor for Political Affairs is to know the political climate of the country to which he or she is assigned. In our case that applies not only to Italy but the Vatican…. The killing of the cardinal vicar of Rome and the sabotage of the Assisi bus, which I know the police believe are somehow interconnected, involve both.

  “As private secretary to Cardinal Marsciano, your brother was in a privileged position within the Church. If he did assassinate the cardinal vicar, it’s more than probable he wasn’t acting alone. If so, there’s every reason to believe that the murder was not an isolated incident but part of a larger intrigue taking place at the highest levels of the Holy See….” Eaton came back and handed Harry his glass. “That’s where our interest is, Mr. Addison, inside the Vatican.”

  “What if my brother didn’t do it? What if he wasn’t involved at all?”

  “I have to believe what the police do, that the Assisi bus was bombed for one reason, to kill your brother. Whoever did it thought he was dead, but now they doubt it and are very fearful of what he knows and what he can tell. And they will do anything to find him and shut him up.”

  “What he knows. What he can tell…” Suddenly Harry understood. “You want to find him, too.”

  “That’s right,” Eaton said quietly.

  “No, I mean you. Not the embassy. Not even your boss. You, yourself. That’s why you’re here.”

  “I’m fifty-one years old and still a secretary, Mr. Addison. I have been passed over for promotion more times than you would want to know…. I don’t want to retire as a secretary. Therefore I need to do something that will make it impossible for them not to raise my standing. Uncovering something going on deep inside the Vatican would do that very well.”

  “And you want me to help you—” Harry was incredulous.

  “Not just me, Mr. Addison. Yourself. What your brother knows—he’s the only one who can get you off the hook. You know that as well as I do.”

  Harry said nothing, just stared.

  “If he is alive and in fear of his life. How would he know the video is fake? All he knows is that you want him to come in—and when he gets desperate enough, he’s going to have to trust someone. Who better than you?”

  “Maybe…. But it doesn’t matter. Because he doesn’t know where I am. And I don’t know where he is. Neither does anybody else.”

  “Don’t you think the police are meticulously backtracking through the people who were onboard the bus—both the living and the dead—to see what happened? Find out where he made the switch or where someone made it for him?”

  “What good does that do me?”

  “Adrianna…”

  “Adrianna?”

  “She is the ultimate professional. She knew about you the first day you came to Rome.”

  Harry’s gaze drifted off. It was why she’d picked him up at the hotel. He’d even accused her of it and tried to walk away. But she’d turned him inside out and back again. The whole time she was setting him up for the story. Not so much then, but for where it might lead. Yes, she was the ultimate professional, the same as he was. And he should have been aware of it all along, because it was the place where they both lived their lives. There, and almost nowhere else.

  “Why do you think she called me as soon as she got off the phone with you? She knew what she wanted and what I needed and what I could do for you. She knew that if she played it right, it would work to all our advantages.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry ran a hand through his hair and walked away. Then he turned back.

  “You’ve thought it all out. Except for one thing. Even if we did find out where he is, he can’t come to me, and I can’t go to him.”

  Eaton took a sip of his drink. “You could as someone else…. New name. Passport. Driver’s license. If you were careful, you could go anywhere you wanted…”

  “You can do that…”

  “Yes.”

  Harry stared at him. Angry, manipulated, amazed.

  “If I were you, Mr. Addison, I would be jubilant. After everything, you actually have two people who want to help you. And can.”

  Harry continued to stare. “Eaton, you are one goddamned son of a bitch.”

  “No, Mr. Addison. I’m a goddamned civil servant.”

  45

  11:00 P.M.

  HARRY LAY IN BED IN EATON’S APARTMENT trying to sleep, the door locked, a chair propped under the knob, just in case. Trying to tell himself that it was all right. And that Eaton had been right. Up until now he had been alone in an impossible situation. Suddenly he had a place to stay and two people willing to help him.

  Eaton had gone out, saying he would get Harry something to eat, suggesting that in the meantime Harry shower and wash his healing wounds as best he could. But not shave. For the moment the new beard was protecting him, making him someone else.

  But he wanted Harry to think who he wanted to become. Something he might know if questioned, a law school professor or perhaps a journalist who wrote about the entertainment industry on holiday in Italy, or an aspiring screenwriter or novelist doing research on ancient Rome.

  “I’ll remain what I was, a priest,” Harry had said when Eaton came back with pizza and a bottle of red wine and some bread and coffee for the morning.

  “An American priest is who they are looking for.”

  “There are priests everywhere. And I would assume more than one is American.”

  Eaton had hesitated, then simply nodded and gone into the bedroom and brought out two of his shirts and a sweater. Then, pulling a 35mm camera from a drawer, he’d loaded it with film and positioned Harry against a blank wall. He took eighteen photographs. Six with Harry wearing one shirt, six with the other, six with the sweater.

  After that he’d left, telling Harry to go nowhere. That either he or Adrianna would be back by noon the next day.

  Why?

  Why had he chosen to remain a priest? Had he thought it out? Yes. As a priest, he could become a civilian at will by a simple change of clothes. And, as he had suggested, how unusual would it be to find any number who were American? Hercules had said, Hide in plain sight. Right next to them. He had, and it had worked. Any number of times. Once right under the nose of the carabinieri.

  On the other hand Eaton had been right, the police were looking for Danny. And Danny was an American priest. A priest who spoke English with an American dialect would be a natural suspect. People would look at him and wonder if, despite the beard, the face wasn’t familiar. And don’t forget the reward. A hundred million lire. Some sixty thousand U.S. dollars. Who wouldn’t risk a little embarrassment by tak
ing a chance and calling the police, even if it turned out to be the wrong person?

  Moreover, what did he know about the priesthood? What if another clergyman engaged him in talk? What if someone asked him for help? Still, the decision had been made, the photos taken, with Eaton certain to give him a background along with his papers.

  A priest.

  Outside, Harry heard the sounds of Rome at night. Via di Montoro was a side street and a great deal quieter than the din outside his hotel at the top of the Spanish Steps. But still the noise was there. Traffic. The incessant putt of motor scooters. People walking by outside.

  Little by little it all became background, drifting into a distant symphony of nothingness. The shower, the clean bed, the whole of the ordeal carried Harry toward sleep, gently forcing him to accept his true exhaustion. Perhaps that was why he had chosen to stay a priest. Simply because it was easy. And because it had worked. And not at all for another reason… that he wished in some curious way to understand who Danny really was. To do as Hercules had offhandedly suggested. To, for a while at least, become his brother.

  Closing his eyes, he began to drift off. As he did, he saw the Christmas card once more: the decorated tree behind the posed faces smiling from under Santa Claus hats—his mother and father, himself, Madeline, and Danny.

  “MERRY CHRISTMAS from the Addisons”

  Then the vision faded, and in the dark he heard Pio’s voice. It whispered again the thing he had said in the car on the way back to Rome—“You know what I would be thinking if I were you…. Is my brother still alive? And if he is, where is he?”

  MARSCIANO WAS ALONE in his library, his desktop computer dark. The books, which filled every open space floor to ceiling, seemed, in his mood, little more than decorations. The only illumination was from a halogen lamp sitting near the back of his wooden desk. On top of it, and in the lamp’s glow, was the envelope that had been delivered to him in Geneva in the package marked URGENTE. The same envelope he had brought back with him on the train. Inside it was the audio-cassette he had heard that once but never played again. Why he wanted to hear it now, he didn’t know. But he was drawn to it nonetheless.