Day Of Confession

66

Como. 7:40 p.m.

The Fiat was stopped just off the Autostrada on the main road leading into Como. Hercules had asked Harry to pull over, and Harry had. And now they sat together for one last time, the soft yellow of the evening sky filling the car with a delicate light and standing in sharp contrast to the harshness of the ongoing stream of bright headlights passing by outside.

'Police or no police, Chiasso is too close not to try… You understand, Mr Harry…'

'I understand, Hercules… I'm sorry I wasn't able to do more…'

'Then good luck, Mr Harry.' Hercules smiled and suddenly put out his hand, and Harry took it.

'You, too…'

And like that, Hercules was out of the car and gone. Harry watched for a moment as he crossed the street in the path of oncoming traffic. At the far curb, he looked back and gri

Ten minutes later Harry parked the Fiat on a side street down from the railroad station and wiped the steering wheel and gearshift clean of his fingerprints with a handkerchief. Getting out carefully, locking the car, he made his way to Via Borsieri and then onto Viale Varese, following the street signs for the lake and for Piazza Cavour. He walked at the same pace as the people around him, trying to blend in, to seem nothing more than a priest out to enjoy the warm summer evening.

Now and again someone would nod or smile as he passed. And he would return the pleasantry, and then turn casually and glance back, make sure one of them hadn't recognized him or told others, or wasn't coming back for a closer look.

Crossing a square, watching the signs, he was suddenly aware of people walking more slowly, the crowd thickening. Ahead he could see people gathered at a news kiosk. As he neared, he saw Da

SACERDOTE FUGGITIVO A BELAGGIO?

Was the fugitive priest in Bellagio?

Quickly he turned away and walked on.

Turning down one street and then another, Harry tried to follow the confusion of signs toward the lakefront and the Piazza Cavour. Dodging a chattering couple walking hand in hand, he turned a corner and stopped. The street directly ahead was blocked off by police barricades. Beyond them were police vehicles, media vans, and satellite trucks. Farther down he could see police headquarters.

'Christ.' Harry waited a half second, then moved on, trying to regain his composure. Ahead was a cross street and he went left on a whim, certain he'd find himself back at the police barricades or the kiosk or even the railroad station. Instead he saw the lake, traffic flowing along the boulevard at its edge. Immediately in front of him was a street sign for the Piazza Cavour.

Another half block and he was on the boulevard. To his right was the Palace Hotel, a huge brownstone with a busy outdoor cafe in front. Festive music played. People ate and drank, white-aproned waiters moving among them. They were normal, everyday people, doing everyday things, yet never knowing how close they sat to a potential climax of the first order had but one of them recognized the bearded priest in the black beret walking past them and sounded the alarm. In seconds the street would be filled with police. It would be like an American action movie. A Gruppo Cardinale showdown with a cop killer, the outlaw brother of the assassin of the cardinal vicar of Rome. Flashing lights. Helicopters. Chiseled extras ru

But none of them did. And then Harry was gone, just someone else walking by. A moment later he turned a corner and entered Piazza Cavour. Directly ahead was the Hotel Barchetta Excelsior.

67

Harry pressed the buzzer for room 525 and waited, beret in hand, soaked with sweat. From his own rattled nerves as much as from the July heat. Still eighty-some degrees at almost sunset.

He started to push the buzzer again when the door suddenly opened and Adria

'He's here now.' Adria

Crossing to a dressing table, Adria

'Tonight, okay… I have it…'

Clicking off the phone, she looked up. Harry was watching her in the mirror.

'That was Eaton…'

'Yes.' Adria

'Where the hell is Da

'Nobody knows…' Her gaze drifted off to the TV – always half watching in case something happened, an ongoing habit, the disease of a field reporter – then back to Harry. 'Roscani and his men went over the villa in Bellagio where he was supposed to be with a toothcomb, just a few hours ago… They found nothing.'

'The police are certain it was Da

'As certain as they can be without having been there. Roscani's still here, in Como. That should say enough in itself…' Adria

'No.'

'I will…'

Crossing to a console, Adria

Harry stared at her. 'What do I do next? How do I get to Bellagio?'

'You're angry with me, aren't you? About what happened in Rome, about bringing Eaton into this.'

'No, you're wrong. I'm grateful. I could never have gotten this far without your help or Eaton's. You both stuck your necks out, for your own reasons, but you did anyway… The sex just made me feel a little cozier about it.'

'I did that because I wanted to. And because you wanted to. And because we both liked it… Don't tell me that's never happened before… It's the way you live your life, or by now you'd be married and have a family.'

'Why don't you just tell me what I'm supposed to do?'

'All right…' Adria

'You're to take the late hydrofoil to Bellagio. Check into the Hotel Du Lac across the street from the boat landing. The reservations have been made – Father Jonathan Roe of Georgetown University. You'll have the phone number of the man who runs Villa Lorenzi. His name is Edward Mooi.'

'I'm supposed to call him?'

'Yes…'

'What makes you think he knows where Da

'Because the police think he does.'

'Then they'll have his phone tapped.'

'And – what are they going to hear?' Adria

'If I were him, I'd think the call was a setup. A police sting.'

'So would I, except that between now and when you phone him, he'll get a fax sent from a religious bookshop in Milan. He won't know what it means at the time – neither will the police if they intercept it because it will look like an advertisement – but Edward Mooi is an educated man, and after you call, he'll go back and find the fax and look at it again, even if he has to dig it out of the trash. When he does, he'll understand.'