There were none.
Only holes in the leatherette trim where they’d been. Then he realized this was a police car, and the rear seats of police cars never had door locks. They were always locked and could be opened only from the outside.
“Where are we going?” Harry said it louder this time. He could feel the thump of his heart against his chest. His palms were sticky with sweat.
“Non capisco inglese.”
Again the driver glanced at him in the mirror. Then Harry saw his foot press down on the accelerator. The car picked up speed, bucking and jolting over the uneven road. Corn rows flew past. Behind them was a curtain of dust. Harry put out a hand to keep his balance. Sweat trickled down from under his arms. For the first time in his life he felt real fear.
Without warning the road turned, and they rounded a bend. Ahead was a clearing and a modern two-story house. A gray Alfa Romeo was parked on dry grass alongside a tiny three-wheel farm vehicle. The Opel slowed and then stopped. The driver got out and walked around the car, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. Then he pulled the door open and motioned for Harry to get out.
“Fuck,” Harry swore under his breath. He got out slowly, watching the man’s hands, trying to decide what to do if he moved them. Then he saw the door to the house open. Two men came out. Farel was one and—Harry felt a huge surge of relief cut through him—Pio was the other. A man and two young boys followed. Harry looked off and at the same time let out a deep sigh. Behind the house, on the far side of a row of trees, traffic flowed on the Autostrada. They had done nothing but make a large circle off the highway and come up on the house from behind.
17
“THE ISPETTORE CAPO WILL TELL YOU.” FAREL’S eyes held on Harry, but only for a moment. Then he turned, and he and Pio walked to the rear of the Alfa Romeo. It was only as Pio opened the trunk that Harry realized both men wore surgical gloves and that Pio carried something in a clear plastic bag.
Putting whatever it was in the trunk, Pio pulled off the gloves and found a notebook. Filling out some kind of form, he signed it and handed it to Farel, who scrawled his own signature on it, pulled off the top copy, and, folding it, slid it into his jacket pocket.
With a nod to the man who had followed them from the farmhouse, Farel glanced once more at Harry, then got into the Opel. There was roar of engine and spinning of wheels in the gravel and then Farel and the man who had driven Harry out from Rome were gone, with only swirling dust to suggest they’d been there at all.
“Grazie,” Pio said to the man standing with the two boys. “Prego,” the man said, then gathered the youngsters and took them back into the house.
Pio looked to Harry. “The boys are his sons. They found it.”
“Found what?”
T“The gun.”
Pio took Harry to the back of the car and showed him what he’d put in the trunk. It was what remained of a pistol, sealed inside a clear evidence bag. Through the plastic, Harry could see a small automatic with a silencer attached to the barrel. Its blue metal was scorched, its polymer grips all but melted.
“It’s still loaded, Mr. Addison.” Pio looked at him. “It was probably thrown clear when the bus overturned; otherwise the ammunition would have gone off and the weapon would have been destroyed.”
“Are you concluding that it belonged to my brother?”
“I‖m not concluding anything, Mr. Addison. Except, most pilgrims to Assisi do not carry automatic pistols mounted with silencers…. For your information, the make is a Llama XV. Small-frame auto-pistol.” Pio slammed the trunk shut. “It was made in Spain.”
THEY RODE WITHOUT SPEAKING. Past the high cornstalks. Down the dirt road. The Alfa banging over its ruts. The dust kicking up behind them. At the country highway, Pio turned left, toward the entrance to the Autostrada.
“Where’s your partner?” Harry tried to break the quiet.
“At his son’s confirmation. He took the day off.”
“I called you…”
“I know—why?”
“About what happened at the funeral home…”
Pio made no reply, just kept driving, as if he were waiting for Harry to finish.
“You don’t know?” Harry was genuinely surprised. He was certain Farel had learned of it and would, at the very least, have informed Pio.
“Know what?”
“I was at the funeral home. I viewed my brother’s remains. The body is not his.”
Pio’s head came around. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“The funeral home made a mistake….” Pio half shrugged. “Unfortunately it happens. It is especially understandable under the circum—“
Harry cut him off. “The remains are the same as those Cardinal Marsciano identified at the morgue.”
“How do you know?”
“He was there, he told me.”
“Marsciano came to the funeral home?”
“Yes.”
Pio seemed genuinely surprised, his reaction honest and instantaneous. It was enough for Harry to tell him the rest. In thirty seconds he explained about Danny’s mole and the reasons why he would never have had it removed. About his private meeting with Marsciano in Gasparri’s office, and the cardinal’s insistence that the body was his brother’s and that he accept the fact and get out of the country with it while he could.
Pio stopped at the tollbooth, picked up a ticket, and swung them onto the Autostrada toward Rome.
“You’re certain the mistake is not yours…”
“No, it’s not.” Harry was adamant.
“You know his personal belongings were found where the remains were recovered…”
“I have them here.” Harry touched his jacket. The envelope Gasparri had given him was still in his pocket. “His passport, watch, his glasses, the Vatican ID—they may have been his. The body isn’t.”
“And you think Cardinal Marsciano knows that…”
“Yes.”
“You are aware he is one of the most powerful and prominent men in the Vatican.”
“So was Cardinal Parma.”
Pio studied Harry, then glanced in the rearview mirror. A dark green Renault was a half mile back, holding speed with them, and had been for some time.
Pio looked back to the road ahead, accelerating past a truck hauling lumber, then pulled into the lane in front of it.
“You know what I would be thinking if I were you.” Pio kept his eyes on the road.
“Is my brother still alive? And if he is, where is he?”
Harry looked at Pio, then turned away. That Danny might still be alive was a thought that came the moment he realized the corpse was not his. But he hadn’t let himself think about it. Couldn’t let himself think about it. Danny had been on the bus. Those who survived were accounted for. So, for Danny to still be alive wasn’t possible. Any more than it was possible for Madeline to have remained alive all that time under the ice. Yet Harry had stayed there watching, an eleven-year-old shivering in his wet and freezing clothes, refusing to go home and change, while the fire department divers worked. Yes, Madeline was down there in the icy, black water, freezing cold and wet as he, but she was still alive, he knew it. But she wasn’t. And neither was Danny. To think so was not only unrealistic but far too painful to even consider.
“Anyone would have thought about it, Mr. Addison. When there is a change of facts, hope is natural. What if he were still alive? I would like to know that too…. So, one way or another, why don’t we attempt to find out?” Pio smiled, not unselfishly, and glanced in the mirror once more.
They had reached the bottom of a long hill with the lumber truck now almost a mile behind. Then Pio saw a car come into the passing lane beside it, accelerate, and then cut back into the travel lane in front of it.
The green Renault.
18
IT WAS AFTER FOUR WHEN THEY CAME OFF the Autostrada, moving with traffic down Via Salaria toward the center of the city. Pio had been alert the whole time,
watching the green Renault in the mirror. He’d been expecting it to follow them off at the toll exit and was prepared to radio for assistance if it had. But it hadn’t and instead stayed on the Autostrada.
Still, its presence, the way it had remained with them for so long made him nervous, and he kept an eye on the road behind them as he unveiled his thoughts to Harry.
The idea, he told him, would be to use the gun found at the bus site as a reason to keep Harry in Rome for further questioning and to once again visit the victims of the Assisi bus. Querying the survivors to determine if any had seen a man with a gun onboard; a question that would not have come up earlier because there had been no reason to suspect a gunman and because most still suffered from some degree of shock. There was a chance, of course, the gun had been used against a passenger, but because of the silencer, the others would not have heard it. It would have been a bold move, one made by a professional. But done right, in all probability it would have worked. The victim, appearing to be doing nothing more than sleeping, would not have been found until the bus had reached the terminal and everyone else had gotten off and dispersed.
Using that possibility as justification would give them a chance to carefully reexamine everyone. The living and the dead. They would start with the eight survivors and go from there. Some were still hospitalized, others had been sent home. If Father Daniel was not among them—and Pio was certain he would not be—then they would move on to the dead, professing to be looking for gunshot wounds, something that could have easily been overlooked earlier, considering the condition of the corpses and the gun’s small caliber. In that way each set of remains could be carefully examined once more, this time from a different perspective, because they would be looking for one person in particular, Father Daniel. And, if after everything, his body was still not there, then it would be safe to begin to suspect that the accused killer of the cardinal vicar of Rome was still somewhere among the living.
Roscani would know their real purpose, but only he. No one else would be told, not even Farel.
“I must tell you truthfully, Mr. Addison.” Pio stopped for a red light. “We can go just so far before Farel finds out. When he does, he may terminate everything.”
“Why?”
“Because of what Cardinal Marsciano said to you. Because if what has happened has to do with Vatican politics, Farel will end it right there. The case will be closed, and we will have no authority to pursue it. The Vatican is a sovereign state and not part of Italy. Our job is to cooperate with the Holy See and help them any way we can. And if they do not invite us in, we cannot go.”
“Then what?”
The light changed, and Pio moved the Alfa Romeo off, shifting through the H of the manual transmission. “Then nothing. Unless you go to Farel. And Farel, I can assure you, will not help you.”
Harry saw Pio glance in the mirror again. He had done it several times while they were on the Autostrada, and he’d thought nothing of it. A driver being cautious. But now they were on city streets, and this was the third time in the last few minutes.
“Something wrong?”
“I don’t know…”
A small white Peugeot was two cars behind them. Pio had been watching it ever since they’d turned onto Via Salaria. Now he turned left onto Via Chiana and then right onto Corso Trieste. The Peugeot moved out in traffic, staying with them.
Ahead was a cross street bordering a small park, and Pio took it fast, downshifting suddenly and making a sharp right without a signal. The Alfa leaned heavily, its tires screeching. Immediately Pio slowed, his eyes on the mirror. The Peugeot came into view but did not turn, just continued on.
“Sorry.” Pio accelerated again. They were in a quiet neighborhood separated by the park. Old buildings interspersed with new. Big trees, lush bushes, and everywhere oleander in bloom. Pio turned a corner and again glanced at the mirror.
The Peugeot.
It had just cut in from a side street and was accelerating toward them. Instinctively Pio slid a 9mm Beretta from a clip under the dash and put it on the seat beside him. At the same time he reached for the car’s radio.
“What’s going on?” Fear stabbed at Harry.
“Don’t know.” Pio glanced in the mirror. The Peugeot was right behind them. The windshield was heavily tinted. It was impossible to see the driver. Downshifting quickly, he stepped hard on the accelerator.
“Ispettore Capo Pio—,” he said into the radio.
“Look out!” Harry yelled too late.
A truck abruptly pulled out of a side street blocking the road. A tremendous squeal of tires was followed by a deadening crash as the Alfa hit the truck full on. The force pitched Pio forward, his head slamming off the steering wheel. Harry flew forward, then was jolted back by his safety belt.
Instantly the door beside him was pulled open. He saw a face for the briefest moment, then something hit him hard and everything went black.
Pio looked up to see his own gun in the gloved hand of a stranger. He tried to move, but his seat belt held him in. Then he saw his gun buck in the stranger’s hand and thought he heard a thundering explosion. But he was wrong. There was nothing but silence.
19
Hospital St. Cecilia. Pescara, Italy.Still Wednesday, July 8. 6:20 P.M.
NURSING SISTER ELENA VOSO PASSED THE man at the door and went into the room. Her patient was as she’d left him, on his side, sleeping. Sleeping was what she called it, even though from time to time he opened his eyes and was able to blink in response when she squeezed a finger or toe and asked if he could feel it. Then his eyes would close and he would be as he was now.
It was approaching six-thirty, and he needed to be turned again. The man at the door would help with that, as whoever was on duty did every two hours to prevent the destruction of muscle tissue, which could lead not only to bedsores but kidney failure. Coming in at her call, he would take the shoulders while she took the feet, easing her charge carefully from his back and onto his side, being especially careful of the IV and of his broken legs, set in blue fiberglass casts, and the bandages covering his burns.
Michael Roark, age 34. Irish citizen. Home, Dublin. Unmarried. No children. No family. Religion, Roman Catholic. Injured in an automobile accident near this Adriatic seacoast town, Monday, July 6. Three days after the terrible explosion of the Assisi bus.
Elena Voso was a member of the Congregation of Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart. At twenty-seven, she had been a nursing sister for five years, working in the long-term-care ward at the Hospital of St. Bernardine in the Tuscan city of Siena. She had come to this small Catholic hospital on a hill overlooking the Adriatic only yesterday, assigned to this patient as part of a new kind of program for the Order. It was a way to expose younger nursing sisters to situations away from their home convents, preparing them for future emergencies where they might be called upon to go almost anywhere on short notice. And, though no one had said so, she also believed she had been sent because she spoke English and could communicate with the patient as he progressed, if he progressed.
“My name is Elena Voso. I am a nursing nun. Your name is Michael Roark. You are in a hospital in Italy. You were in an automobile accident.”
It was a string of words she had said over and over, trying to comfort him, hoping he could hear and understand. It wasn’t much, but it was something she knew she would like someone to say to her if she were ever in a similar situation. Especially since he had no relatives and therefore no familiar face he might recognize.
The man outside the door was named Marco. He worked from three in the afternoon to eleven at night. A year or two older than Elena, he was dark and strong and handsome. He said he was a fisherman and worked at the hospital when the fishing was slow. She knew he had been a carabiniere, a member of the national police, because he had told her so. She had seen him talking with other carabinieri earlier in the day, when she’d walked along the lungomare, the road along the seashore, during a short respite from her du
ties. She had seen the bulge under his hospital jacket and knew he had a pistol there.
The turning of Michael Roark done, Elena checked the fluid in the IV, then smiled at Marco and thanked him. Afterward she went into the next room, which was where she could sleep or read or write letters, and where she would be immediately available at any moment.
Her room, like Roark’s, was a hospital room with its own toilet and shower, small closet, and bed. She was grateful especially for the toilet and shower, where, unlike in the communal bathrooms of the convent, she could be totally alone. Her being, her body, her thoughts private, except to God.
Now, as she closed the door and sat down on the bed, intending to write a letter home, she glanced at the red glow of the audio monitor on the bedside table next to her. The sound of her patient’s steady breathing was clearly audible, the monitor’s electronics so advanced that it seemed almost as if he were there beside her.
Lying back against the pillow, she closed her eyes and listened to his breathing. It was strong and healthy, even vital, and she began to imagine that he was there, alongside her, alert and well, as muscular and handsome as she knew he must have been before his injuries. The longer she listened, the more sensual his breathing seemed to become. In time she began to feel the press of his body against hers. Felt herself breathing with him, as if the rise and fall of their chests were the same. Her breathing became deeper, overriding his. She felt her own hand touch her breast, and she reached out, wanting to touch him and to keep touching him, exploring him in a way far more provocative and passionate than any way she had when she cared for his wounds.
“Stop it!” she whispered to herself.
Abruptly she got up from the bed and deliberately went into the bathroom to wash her face and hands. God was testing her again, as He had been more and more frequently over the past two years.