In other words, there was no way up or down or to the sides, making no reason for the platform at all. Except as a place to stand and breathe the air of Rome and marvel at the green of the Vatican gardens below. After that there was nothing. The rest of this distant corner of the Vaticano was surrounded by a high, fortified wall built in the ninth century to keep barbarians out and at other times, as now, serving to keep people in.
Slowly, Marsciano slid his hands from the rail and went back inside to the confines of his room and the television screen that was the center of it. On it he saw what the world saw: Hefei, China—a live helicopter shot of Chao Lake and then, in a cavalcade of horror, an aerial view of a series of huge circus-like tents, one after the other, erected in city parks, alongside factories, on open land outside the city proper; and the offscreen correspondent explaining what they were—makeshift morgues for the dead.
Abruptly, Marsciano turned off the sound. He would watch but he could listen no longer; the running commentary had become unbearable. It was a scorecard on which his personal crimes—done, he reminded himself over and over, as if in some desperate attempt to save his sanity, because Palestrina had held him hostage to his love of God and the Church—were tallied, one after the other in minute-by-minute detail.
Yes, he was guilty. So were Matadi and Capizzi. They had all let Palestrina loose to commit this outrage. What was worse, if anything could be worse than what he was seeing now, was that he knew Pierre Weggen was well into his work on Yan Yeh. And the Chinese banker, sensitive and caring as Marsciano personally knew he was, would be truly horrified by what appeared to be an act of nature gone amuck in human hands, and would pressure his superiors in the Communist Party, with all he had, to listen to Weggen’s proposal to immediately rebuild China’s entire water-delivery and -filtration infrastructure. But even if they agreed to meet with Weggen, the politics would take time. Time. When there was none. When Palestrina was already moving his saboteurs to the second lake.
108
Lugano, Switzerland.Still Wednesday, July 15. Noon.
ELENA HAD NOT REALLY LOOKED AT HARRY since she’d helped him dress Danny and get him into the van. He wondered if she’d been embarrassed by coming to him the way she had and telling what she did and now didn’t know what to do about it. What surprised him was the extent to which the whole thing had affected him, and continued to affect him. Elena was a bright, beautiful, ballsy, and caring woman who had suddenly found herself and wanted the freedom to express it. And from the way she’d presented herself—coming barefoot into his room in the dark and talking in the intimate way she had—in his mind there was no doubt she’d wanted him to be the one to help her do it. The trouble was, as he’d told himself then, this was not the time, and he had to stop thinking about it—other things were far too pressing. So now—as they wound down out of the hills from the north and turned along Lake Lugano to drive into Lugano itself, Viale Castagnola, across the Cassarate River, and up Via Serafino Balestra to the small, storied, private home at Via Monte Ceneri, 87—he deliberately turned his attention to what had to be done next.
It was a given that they couldn’t keep traveling as hunted criminals from one place to another, trusting that somehow someone would help them. Danny needed a place safe enough and secure enough to rest and recover to the point where he could talk to Harry in a thoughtful, coherent manner about the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome. Moreover, and as important, they needed to acquire powerful legal representation. And those two things, Harry knew, had to be his only priorities.
“WE HERE?” Danny asked weakly as Father Renato set the hand brake and turned off the engine.
“Yes, Father Daniel.” Father Renato half smiled. “Thankfully.”
Getting out, Elena saw Harry glance at her briefly as he opened the van’s sliding door and then he turned away as Father Natalini brought the wheelchair from the back. Father Daniel had said almost nothing during the trip, just stared out the window at the passing countryside. Elena was certain he was still exhausted from the events of the past forty-eight hours. He needed to eat and then to sleep for as long as he could.
Elena stepped back, watching as Harry and Father Natalini hefted Danny into the wheelchair then carried him up the steps into the second-floor living room of the house on Via Monte Ceneri. What had happened the night before made her feel more awkward than embarrassed. In the exhilarated, emotional rush she’d had when she’d gone to Harry, she’d revealed more about herself and her feelings than she’d intended, or at least more than was appropriate when she was yet to give up her vows. But she’d done it nonetheless, and there was no taking it back. The question was how to act now. It was why she had been unable to look at him directly all day, or to say more than the few words that were necessary. She just didn’t know how.
Suddenly the door at the top of the stairs opened, and their hostess appeared.
“Come in quickly,” Veronique Vaccaro said and stepped back to make way for them.
Once they were inside, she immediately closed the door and looked at everyone in turn, as if sizing them up. Diminutive, temperamental, and middle-aged, Veronique was an artist and sculptor who dressed in earth colors and whose quickly spoken sentences came in a bewildering mix of French, English, and Italian. Abruptly she looked to Father Renato.
“Merci. Now you must go. Capisce?”
No offer to rest, use the washroom, even a glass of water. No, he and Father Natalini had to go.
“A vehicle from a Bellagio church parked in front of a private house in Lugano? Might as well call the police and tell them where you are.”
Father Renato smiled and nodded. Veronique was right. And as he and Father Natalini turned to leave, Danny surprised everyone by suddenly perking up and moving his wheelchair forward to take their hands.
“Grazie. Grazie mille,” he said with genuine gratitude, understanding what the two men had risked to bring them there.
And then the priests were gone, and Veronique, saying she was preparing something for them to eat, left, passing one of half a dozen large abstract sculptures that sat like characters in the small, sunny room, and disappeared through a doorway on the far side of it.
“Father Daniel should rest,” Elena said almost the moment she had gone. “Let me ask Veronique where.”
Harry watched her cross the room and push through the same door Veronique had used. He stared at the closed door for a moment longer, then turned to Danny—the two bearded and in black, with the black zucchettos on their heads, looking the way they were supposed to, like rabbis.
Until now Harry had held back, trying to give his brother as much time as he needed to heal, both physically and mentally. But Danny’s sudden responsiveness in thanking the priests made Harry begin to suspect that Danny was stronger and more cognizant than he was letting on. And now alone with him, he felt a rush of anger. He didn’t need Danny keeping him in the dark and at bay for reasons of his own. He’d been through enough for him already. Whatever the truth was, the time had come to get it out.
“You called me, Danny. You left word on my answering machine.
… Do you remember?” Abruptly Harry took off his zucchetto and stuck it in his pocket.
“Yes…”
“You were scared to death of something. It was a hell of a way to say hello after so many years—especially on an answering machine…. What were you afraid of?”
Slowly Danny’s eyes traveled over Harry’s face. “I want you to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Get out of here right now.”
“Get out of here?”
“Yes.”
“Just me. By myself?”
“If you don’t, Harry,… they’ll kill you…”
Harry stared at his brother. “Who is ‘they’?”
“Just go. Please.”
Abruptly Harry looked off, his gaze going around the room. Then his eyes came back to Danny. “Maybe I should fill you in on what you either don’t
remember or don’t know…. We’re both wanted for murder, Danny. You for—“
“—killing the cardinal vicar of Rome, and you for shooting a Rome detective,” Danny finished for him. “I saw a newspaper I wasn’t supposed to see…”
Harry hesitated, trying to find the way to put it. Finally he just said it. “Did you kill the cardinal, Danny?”
“Did you kill the cop?”
“No.”
“Same answer.” Danny’s reply was direct and unwavering.
“The police have a lot of evidence, Danny…. Farel took me to your apart—“
“Farel?” Danny cut him off sharply. “That’s where your evidence came from…”
“What do you mean?”
For a long moment Danny said nothing, then glanced off. It was a retreat, a look that meant he’d said too much already and it was as far as he was going to go.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Harry looked off at Veronique’s collection of sculptures. Finally he turned back.
“You were in a bus explosion, Danny. Everybody thought you were dead…. How’d you get out?”
Danny shook his head. “Don’t know…”
“Not only got out,” Harry pressed him. “You managed to stuff your Vatican ID, your passport, and your glasses in somebody else’s jacket…”
Danny said nothing.
“The bus was going to Assisi. Do you remember that?”
“I… go there often.” Danny’s eyes flashed anger.
“Do you?”
“Yes!—Harry, just get out of here. Now. While you still can.”
“Danny—we haven’t talked in years. Don’t make me go yet.” Picking up the chair again, Harry turned it around beside Danny and sat down on it backward.
“Who were you afraid of when you called me?”
“I…”
“Farel?”
“—I don’t know…”
“You do know, Danny,” Harry said quietly. “That’s why they tried to kill you on the bus. And why the blond man followed you to Bellagio and then into the grotto.”
Danny glanced off, then looked at the floor.
“Somebody got you out of the hospital and to Pescara. Got Elena’s mother general involved…. She got Elena into it—and now Elena’s life is as much on the line as ours…”
“Then take her with you.” Still, Danny stared at the floor.
“Who helped you, Danny?”
Danny didn’t react.
Harry pushed harder. “Cardinal Marsciano?”
Suddenly Danny’s head came up, his eyes fierce.
“How do you know about Cardinal Marsciano?”
“I saw him, Danny. More than once. He warned me to stay away. Not to look for you. Before that, he tried to convince me you were dead.” Harry paused, then pushed again. “It’s Marsciano, isn’t it? He’s orchestrated everything…”
Danny stared at his brother. “I don’t recollect any of it, Harry. Calling you. Why I was going to Assisi. Who helped me. None of it. Blank. Zip. Nothing. No memory at all. Is that clear?”
Harry hesitated but didn’t waver. “What’s going on inside the Vatican?”
“Harry,”—Danny’s voice dropped off—“get the hell out of here before you get killed.”
109
ROSCANI IGNORED THE MUFFLED WHINE OF the helicopter’s jet engine as the machine banked sharply over the gray sprawl of Milan and headed southeast, toward Siena; his whole focus on the just-received INTERPOL fax in his lap. Most of which he already knew.
THOMAS JOSE ALVAREZ-RIOS KIND
INTERPOL PROFILE: One of the world’s most notorious terrorists. Celebrated murderer of French antiterrorist police. Violent criminal. Fugitive. Request to apprehend and detain. Extremely dangerous.
OFFENSES: Murder, kidnapping, bombing, taking of hostages, aircraft hijacking.
NATIONALITY: Ecuador.
Roscani skipped down.
TRAITS: Master of disguise. Multilingual, esp. Italian, French, Spanish, Arabic, Farsi, English, American English. Highly individualistic. Works alone. Nonetheless, has extensive terrorist connections worldwide.
OTHER: Self-styled revolutionary.
LAST RESIDENCE: Khartoum, Sudan.
FINAL COMMENTS: Excessive sociopath. Killer for hire. Available to highest bidder.
Those were the official profile notes. Hand scrawled on the bottom was a more personal message:
“Subject is not known to have traveled outside Sudan.
Per your request French Intelligence is investigating.
Will notify immediately on confirmation.”
“I can tell you right now,” Roscani said to himself as he folded the slim dossier and put it on the seat beside him, “he’s not in Sudan, he’s in Italy.”
Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a large piece of biscotti wrapped in plastic and secured by a rubber band. Opening it, he bit into it with the same absent abruptness he would have used to light a cigarette, his thoughts going to the Milan city morgue, where he’d been a half hour earlier.
The body of one Aldo Cianetti, age twenty-six, a fashion designer, had been found in the storage closet of a women’s washroom at a service-station stop on the A9 Autostrada halfway between Como and Milan. His throat had been cut and the wound stuffed with paper towelettes. Four hours later Cianetti’s new, dark green BMW was found parked near the Palace Hotel in Milan.
“Thomas Kind,” Roscani had said to no one in particular. Investigators might prove him wrong, but he doubted the killer was anyone but his ice picker/razor man. Somehow he had avoided the Gruppo Cardinale dragnet and made it from Bellagio to Milan, along the line hitching a ride with the young Cianetti and then killing him. And where had he gone from Milan? Or was he still there, hiding?
But the larger question was why he had come back into Italy and the heat of an all-out police hunt when as easily he could have crossed into the relative safety of Switzerland and moved on from there. Why? What was so important in Italy that he risk everything?
Lugano, Switzerland. 2:00 P.M.
Harry pulled back a chair, and Elena sat down. “Thank you,” she said, still without looking at him. The table setting was for two, with fresh melon and prosciutto and a small carafe of red wine. Veronique had ushered them out onto the covered bougainvillaea-framed terrace after they had fed Danny and put him to bed in a room on the floor above where they were now. Demanding they sit down and eat, she had gone quickly back inside, leaving them alone for the first time since the night before, when Elena had been in Harry’s room.
“What happened between you and your brother?” Elena asked as Harry sat down opposite her. “You had words. I could tell the way you both reacted when I came back into the room.”
“It was nothing. Brothers being brothers, that’s all…. We hadn’t talked in a long time…”
“If I were in your position, I would have talked about the police. And I would have talked about the killing of the cardinal vicar of—“
“You’re not in my position, though, are you?” Harry cut her off sharply. What had gone on between his brother and him was something he didn’t care to share with her. Not right now, anyway.
Elena looked at him briefly, then, demurring, picked up her knife and fork and began to eat. As she did, a slight breeze picked up her hair, and she had to reach up with one hand to settle it.
“—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that…. There are just things that…”
“You should eat something, Mr. Addison….” Elena kept her eyes on the plate in front of her. Cutting a small slice of melon, she did the same with a piece of prosciutto, then very slowly set the utensils down and looked up and quietly changed the subject.
“I want to… apologize for—last night…”
“It’s all right,” Harry said gently. “You only said what you felt.”
Elena’s eyes held his. “Still, I am sorry…”
“Look—” Harry started to say something, then pushed back
from the table and crossed the terrace to look out over a sweep of orange-and-white-tile rooftops that fell to the city and Lake Lugano below.
“Whatever you need or feel, or”— he looked back her—“whatever I might feel in return, we can’t get into. I’ve told myself”—his voice became gentler—“and now I’m telling you. It’s why I snapped at you a moment ago. We’re in trouble, a lot of it, and we have to get out. Veronique may be an extraordinary woman, but we’re not safe here. By now Roscani will know we’ve slipped him. Lugano is too close to the Italian border. It won’t be long until the Swiss police are everywhere. If Danny could walk it might be different, but—” Suddenly Harry stopped.
“What is it?”
“I…” Harry’s gaze drifted off. “This is Wednesday. Monday, a friend of mine got out of a car in Como and left on foot to walk here, to Lugano. It wasn’t far, but it wasn’t easy either, because the police were looking for him, too, and he was a cripple and on crutches.” Now he looked back. “But he went anyway. Smiled and went, because he believed he could do it and because he wanted to be free…. His name is Hercules. He’s a dwarf…. I hope to God he made it.”
Elena smiled gently. “I hope he did, too…”
Harry looked at her for a long moment, then abruptly turned to look out over the city once again. Purposely, he kept his back to her, all but overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. For some reason, the combination of everything that had happened—finding Danny alive, being with Elena, and the vision of Hercules bravely swinging off in the Como twilight sent an enormous yearning for life—to live it fully and to old age—sweeping over him.
He had never realized until that moment how extraordinary human beings could be, or, just by being with her, how truly beautiful Elena was. To him, she was purer, more magnetic, and more real than anyone he could ever remember. Maybe the first real person he had known, or allowed himself to know, since childhood. And if he wasn’t careful, all of his protestations would be wasted, because he would fall hopelessly in love with her. And if he did, it could kill them all.