When exactly the feelings had begun she wasn’t sure, nor had there been anything in particular to precipitate them. They had just started, rising seemingly from nowhere. And they’d astonished her. They were deep and sensual and erotic. Profound physical and emotional hungers she’d never experienced in her life. Feelings she could talk to no one about—certainly not to her family, who were strict and tradition bound in the way of old Italian Catholic familes; certainly not to the other nuns, and most assuredly not to her mother general—yet the feelings were there just the same and made her pulse with an almost unmanageable desire to be unclothed and in a man’s arms, and to be a woman with him in the fullest sense. And, increasingly, not just a woman, but one wild and lusty, like the Italian women she’d seen in the cinema.
There had been times early on when she’d passed the emotions off as nothing more than the extension of an adventurous spirit; one that had always been physical and brave and, on occasion, overly impulsive. One time, visiting Florence as a teenager, and to the horror of her parents, who were with her, she’d run to a car that had just been in a terrible collision with a taxi, pulling the unconscious driver from it seconds before it burst into flame. Another time, when she was older, she’d been on a picnic with nursing nuns from St. Bernardine and had climbed to the top of a hundred foot radio tower to bring down a young boy who had scaled it on a dare, but who, once at the top, had become frozen with fear, unable to do more than cling there and cry.
But finally she’d realized physical courage and sexual desire were not the same. And with that she’d suddenly understood.
This was God’s doing!
He was testing her inner strength, and her vows of chastity and obedience. And each day He seemed to test her a little more. And the more He did, the more difficult it became to overcome. But somehow she always did, her subconscious suddenly making her aware of what was happening, enabling her to abruptly bring herself back from the edge. The same as she had now. And, in doing so, giving her the courage and conviction to know she had the fortitude to withstand His purposeful temptations.
As if to prove it, she let her mind go to Marco standing guard outside the door. His strapping body. His bright eyes. His smile. If he was married he hadn’t said, but he wore no wedding ring, and she wondered if he spent his off hours bedding women at will. He was certainly handsome enough to do so if he wanted. But, if he did, he would do so with other women, not her. To her he was simply a man doing his job.
Seeing him in that light, she knew it was safe to think about him any way she wished. He said he had been trained as a nursing aide, as supposedly the others had been. But if he was only that, why did he carry a pistol? That question alone made her think of the others—the stocky Luca, who came on at eleven at night on the shift following Marco’s, and Pietro, who began at seven in the morning when Luca left. She wondered if they were armed as well. If they were, why? In this peaceful seacoast town, what threat could there possibly be?
20
Rome. 6:45 P.M.
ROSCANI WALKED AROUND THE CAR. OUTSIDE, beyond the police barricades, faces stared at him, wondering who he was, if he was anyone of importance.
A second body had been found in the bushes just off the sidewalk twenty feet behind the Alfa. Shot twice. Once in the heart, once above the left eye. An elderly man with no identification.
Roscani had left it to Castelletti and Scala, the other ispettori capi from homicide. His principal interest was the Alfa Romeo. Its windshield cracked, its front end was smashed into the truck it had hit full on, just missing the gas tank behind the driver’s door.
Pio’s body had still been there when he arrived. He’d studied it without touching, had it photographed and videotaped, and then it was taken away, the same as had been done with the body in the bushes.
There should have been a third body, but there wasn’t. The American, Harry Addison, had been riding with Pio, coming back into the city from the farmhouse location where they had recovered the Spanish-made Llama pistol. But Harry Addison was gone. So was the pistol, the ignition keys still in the trunk lock, as if someone had known exactly where the gun was and where to find it.
Inside the Alfa, what appeared to be the murder weapon, Pio’s own 9mm Beretta, lay on the backseat on the driver’s side, as if it had been casually tossed there. Bloodstains were on the passenger side, on top of the seat by the door, just below the headrest. Shoe prints were in the carpet beneath it—not terribly distinct, but there just the same. Fingerprints were everywhere.
Tech crews were dusting, taking samples, marking them, putting them in evidence bags. Police photographers were on the scene as well. Two of them. One taking photographs with a Leica, the other making a video record with a modified Sony Hi-8.
And then there was the truck—a large Mercedes delivery vehicle reported stolen earlier that afternoon, its driver long gone.
Ispettore Capo Otello Roscani got behind the wheel of his dark blue Fiat and drove slowly around the barricades and past the faces watching him. The glare of police work lights illuminated the scene like a movie set, filling in the darkness for the faces and providing additional light for media cameras, which were there in frenzy.
“Ispettore Capo!”
“Ispettore Capo!”
Voices shouted. Men and women. Who did this? Does it have to do with the murder of Cardinal Parma? Who was killed? Who was suspected? And why?
Roscani saw it all, heard it all. But it didn’t matter. His mind was focused on Pio and what had happened in the moments immediately preceding his death. Gianni Pio was not a man to make mistakes, but late this afternoon he had, somehow letting himself be compromised.
At this point—without an autopsy, without lab reports—questions were all Roscani had. Questions and sadness. Gianni Pio was godfather to his children and had been his friend and partner for more than twenty years. And now, as he headed back across Rome toward the Garbatella section, where Pio had lived—going to see Pio’s wife and his children, where Roscani knew his own wife already was, giving what little comfort she could—Otello Roscani tried to keep his personal feelings at a distance. As a policeman he had to, and out of respect for Pio he had to, because they would only get in the way of what had become his primary objective.
The finding of Harry Addison.
21
Still Wednesday, July 8. Same time.
THOMAS KIND STOOD IN THE DARKNESS, WATCHing the man in the chair. Two others were in the room with him, dressed in coveralls, standing somewhere behind him. They were there to help if he needed it, which he would not. And to do the work afterward, which should be simple enough.
Thomas Kind was thirty-nine, five foot ten and very slim, a hundred and forty pounds at most, and in superb condition. His hair was cut short and jet-black, as were his slacks, shoes, and sweater, which made him difficult—if not impossible—to see in the darkness. Besides the paleness of his skin, the only color about him was the deep blue of his eyes.
The man in the chair stirred, but that was all. His hands and feet were bound and his mouth closed, pinched tight by thick tape.
Thomas Kind stepped closer, watched for a moment, then walked completely around the chair.
“Relax, comrade,” he said quietly. Patience and calmness were everything. It was how he lived each day. Even tempered, waiting for the right moment. It was the sort of thing Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind, native Ecuadorean born of an English mother, might put on his resume. Patient. Painstaking. Well educated. Multilingual. Add to that, one-time actor—and also one of the world’s most-hunted terrorists.
“Relax, comrade.” Harry heard the phrase again. A male voice, the same as before. Calm. In accented English. Harry thought he felt someone moving past him, but he couldn’t be sure. The throbbing of his head overrode everything. All he knew was that he was sitting up and that his hands and feet were bound and there was tape across his mouth. And then there was the darkness that was all-pervasive. No shadows, no light spill
from behind a door seam. Only dark.
He blinked. Then blinked again, twisting his head from side to side, trying to find some bit of light. But there was none. Suddenly it came to him that whatever had happened, wherever he was, whatever day this was, he was blind!
“NO! NO! NO!” he screamed, his voice garbled by the tape covering his mouth.
Thomas Kind stepped closer.
“Comrade,” he said with the same unhurried quietness. “How is your brother? I understand he is alive and well.”
Immediately the tape was torn from Harry’s mouth. And he cried out as much in surprise as from the sting of it.
“Where is he?” The voice was closer than it had been.
“I don’t… know… if… he’s alive…” Harry’s mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. He tried to make enough moisture to swallow but couldn’t.
“I asked about your brother… where he is…”
“Could—I—please—have some—wa—ter?”
Kind lifted a small remote control. His thumb found a button and touched it.
Instantly, Harry saw a pinpoint of light in the distance and he started. Did he really see it, or was it an illusion?
“Where is your brother, comrade?” This time the voice came from behind his left ear.
Slowly the light began to move toward him.
“I…”—Harry tried again to swallow—“don’t… know…”
“Do you see the light?”
“Yes.”
The pinpoint came closer.
“Good.”
Kind’s thumb slid to another button.
Harry saw the light alter its track and shift ever so slightly. Moving toward his left eye.
“I want you to tell me where your brother is.” The voice had changed sides and whispered in his right ear. “It’s very important that we find him.”
“I don’t know.”
The light was now moving toward his left eye alone and growing steadily brighter. The throbbing inside his head had been forgotten with the terror of his blindness. But with the light it began again. A slow, steady drumming that grew stronger with the approaching luminescence.
Harry jerked sideways, trying to turn his head, but something hard prevented it. He twisted the opposite way. Same thing. Then he pressed back. But nothing he did could turn him away from the light.
“So far you have not felt pain. But you will.”
“Please—” Harry turned his head as far as he could, squeezing his eyes closed.
“That won’t help.” The timbre of the voice was suddenly different. The first voice had been a man’s, this time it sounded like a woman’s.
“I—have—no—idea if—my broth—er is—even—alive. How could I—know—where he—is?”
The light’s pinpoint narrowed, its beam rising up, moving over Harry’s left eye, searching, until it found the center.
“Don’t, please…”
“Where is your brother?”
“Dead!”
“No, comrade. He’s alive, and you know where he is…”
The light was only inches away now. Becoming brighter. And brighter. Its pinpoint sharpened even more. The pounding inside his head grew. The light came closer, a needle pushing from the outside in, toward the back of his brain.
“STOP!” Harry screamed. “MY GOD! STOP! PLEASE!”
“Where is he?” Male.
“Where is he?” Female.
Thomas Kind shifted from one voice to the other, playing both man and woman.
“Tell us and the light will stop.” Male.
“The light will stop.” Female.
The voices calm, even quiet.
The pounding became thunderous. Louder than anything Harry had ever heard. An enormous booming drum inside his head. The light crept on, toward the center of his brain, a white-hot needle searing toward the sound. Trying to mate with it. Brighter than anything he’d ever seen, or could ever imagine. Brighter than a welding arc. The core of the sun. Pain became everything; it was so terrible he was certain even death would not end it. He would take its horror with him into eternity.
“I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! GOD! GOD! STOP IT! STOP IT! PLEASE!—PLEASE… PLEASE…”
CLICK.
The light went out.
22
Rome. Harry Addison’s room, the Hotel Hassler.Thursday July 9, 6:00 A.M.
NOTHING HAD BEEN TOUCHED. HARRY’S BRIEFcase and working notes were on the table next to the telephone as he’d left them. The same for his clothes in the closet and his toiletries in the bathroom. The only difference was that a bug had been placed in each of the two telephones, the one by the bed, the other in the bathroom, and a tiny surveillance camera had been mounted behind the light sconce facing the door. Just in case he came back. This was part of the plan put in motion by Gruppo Cardinale, the special task force set up by decree of the Italian Ministry of the Interior in response to passionate appeals by legislators, the Vatican, the Carabinieri, and the police in the wake of the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome.
The murder of Cardinal Parma and the bombing of the Assisi bus were no longer separate investigations but were now considered components of the same crime. Under the umbrella of Gruppo Cardinale, special investigators from the carabinieri, Squadra Mobile of the Italian police, and DIGOS, the special unit that investigates criminal acts with suspected political motive, all reported to the head of Gruppo Cardinale, ranking prosecutor Marcello Taglia; and while the highly respected Taglia did indeed coordinate the activities of the various police agencies, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who Gruppo Cardinale’s true “Il responsabile,” the man in charge, was—Ispettore Capo Otello Roscani.
8:30 A.M.
Roscani stared, then turned away. He knew all too well what the circular saw did in an autopsy. Cutting into the skull, taking the cap off so that the brain could be removed. And then the rest of it, taking Pio apart almost piece by piece, looking for anything that would tell them more than they already knew. What that might be Roscani didn’t know, because he already had enough information to establish Pio’s killer beyond what he believed was reasonable doubt.
Pio’s 9mm Beretta had been confirmed as the murder weapon, and several clear prints had been found on it. Most were Pio’s, but two were not—one, just above the left grip, the other on the right side of the trigger guard.
A query to the Los Angeles bureau of the FBI had, in turn, accessed the files of the California Department of Motor Vehicles in Sacramento, requesting a copy of the driver’s license thumbprint of one Harry Addison, 2175 Benedict Canyon Drive, Los Angeles, California. Less than thirty minutes later, a computer-enhanced copy of Addison’s thumbprint had been faxed to Gruppo Cardinale headquarters in Rome. The whorl pattern and measured ridge tracings matched perfectly with those on the print lifted from the left grip of the gun that had killed Gianni Pio.
For the first time in his life Roscani grimaced at the sound of the saw as the morgue doors closed behind him, and he walked down the hallway and up the steps of the Obitorio Comunale. Something he had done a thousand times in his career. He had seen policemen dead. Judges dead. The bodies of murdered women and children. Tragic as they were, he’d been able to distance himself professionally. But not now.
Roscani was a cop, and cops got killed all the time. It was a truth drummed into you day after day at the institute. One you were supposed to accept going in. It was tragic and sad, but it was reality. And when it came, you were supposed to be prepared to deal with it professionally. Pay homage and move on; without anger, outrage, or hatred for the killer. It was part of what you were trained for in the career you chose.
And you thought you were trained—until the day you walked around your partner’s body and saw the blood and shredded flesh and shattered bone. The grotesque work the bullets had done. Then saw it all over again when the medical people began their work in the morgue. That was when you knew you weren’t prepared for it at all. No one cou
ld be, no matter what he was trained for, or taught, or what anyone else said. Loss and rage stormed through you like wildfire, overtaking everything. It was why—whenever cops were killed—every policeman who could, sometimes from across continents, came to the funeral. Why five hundred uniformed men and women on motorcycles were not uncommon, riding in solemn procession in honor of a fallen comrade—one who might have been only a year on the force, a rookie on foot patrol, but who was still a member of the brotherhood.
ANGRILY ROSCANI SHOVED OPEN a side door and stepped into the morning sun. Its warmth should have been a welcome relief from the coldness of the rooms below, but it wasn’t. Taking the long way around the building, he tried to let his emotions fade, but they didn’t. Finally, he turned a corner and walked down a ramp to the street where he’d parked his car. Sadness and loss and anger were crushing him.
Leaving his car, he stepped off the curb, waited for traffic to pass, then crossed the street and started to walk. He needed what he called “assoluta tranquillità,” a kind of splendid silence, that quiet time when he was alone and could think things through properly. Especially now, time alone to try and walk off the emotion, to begin to think things through as an investigator for Gruppo Cardinale, not as the shattered, enraged partner of Gianni Pio.
Time for silence and to think.
To walk and walk and walk.
23
THOMAS KIND PULLED BACK A WINDOW CURTAIN and watched as the men in coveralls emerged from the building and took Harry Addison across the courtyard. He had what he needed from him, or at least as much as he knew he was going to get; now the men in coveralls simply needed to get rid of him.
HARRY COULD SEE only from his right eye. And that was more shadow than image. His left eye had no feeling or sight whatsoever. His other senses told him that he was outside and being walked across a hard surface by, he thought, two men. Somewhere he had the vaguest memory of sitting on a stool or something like it, of taking directions and saying words out loud that were spoken to him through an earphone by the same voice that had spoken to him before. He remembered that only because of the fuss someone else had made about fitting the device in his ear. Most of the argument was in Italian. But part had been fought in English. It was the wrong size. It wouldn’t work. It would show.