Day Of Confession

Bellagio. The Church of Santa Chiara. 10:15 p.m.

Harry sat with Da

Across the street, several teenagers walked by, joking and laughing, one strumming a guitar. A few moments earlier an elderly man had passed the same way, humming to himself and walking two small dogs. Now the sound of the teenagers faded, and quiet took over, heightening the isolation and raising the level of anxiety and the fear they would be caught.

Turning slightly, Harry looked at Da

Looking away, Harry glanced back up the hill toward the church, hoping to see Elena coming toward them. But there was nothing but the empty street and cars parked along either side of it. Suddenly a wave of emotion passed over him. It was deep and from far inside. It was the realization of why he was there. It was something still owed, a deliverance, the working out of a karma.

He was carrying out a promise made to Da

It was more than a promise, it was an extension of the covenant they had made years ago after the deaths of their sister and father and the too-soon, too-wrong remarriage of their mother, to help each other get out of that life and that family and that town, and to never come back to any of it. It was a pledge. A given. Guaranteed, brother to brother.

But for so many reasons it had never happened. And though it had never been talked about – or that circumstances had changed and Da

10:25

Another glance up the hill.

The street still dark and empty. The same as the sidewalks on either side. No Elena.

Suddenly the muted ringing of a telephone cut the silence. Harry started, looked around, wondering where it was coming from. Then he realized it was his cell phone stuffed inside the glove box, where he put it when he had gone into the grotto with Elena to find Da

Abruptly the ringing stopped. Then started again. Reaching over, opening the glove-box door, Harry took the phone out and clicked it on.

'Yes,' he said carefully, knowing there was only one person who knew how to reach him.

'Harry-'

'Adria

'Harry, where are you?'

Her voice had an inflection, a probing. Not of concern or warmth or friendship. It was business. She was back to the original deal, the one she had arranged for Eaton and herself – they got to talk to Da

'Harry?'

'I'm still here.'

'Is your brother with you?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me where you are.'

10:30

Quick glance up the street.

Still no Elena.

'Where are you, Adria

'Here in Bellagio. At the Du Lac. The same hotel you're still checked into.'

'Is Eaton with you?'

'No. He's on his way here from Rome.'

Suddenly headlights turned the corner at the top of the hill and started down. Police on motorcycles. Two of them. Cruising slowly, the streetlights glinting off their helmets, they were looking at the parked cars, the sidewalks. Looking for him and Da

'Harry, are you there?'

Harry heard Da

'Tell me where you are. I'll come to you.'

Da

'Dammit, Harry. Talk to me. Tell me where-'

CLICK.

Harry snapped off the phone and slid his body over Da

Adria

'Christ,' Harry breathed.

The ring was loud. Shrill. It sounded as if it were being blasted through a speaker. Desperately he fumbled under him, trying to find the phone in the dark. But it was caught between the folds of his shirt and Da

An eternity passed before the ringing stopped. And then there was silence. Harry wanted to look up, see if the police had passed. But he didn't dare. He could hear the thump of his heart. The thud of his pulse.

Suddenly there was a sharp knock on the window. A chill shot through him. His senses froze. The knock came again. Louder.

Finally. Terrified. Resigned. Harry raised his head.

Elena was looking in at him. A priest was with her, and they had a wheelchair.

101

An attractive woman in a blue blazer and large straw hat sat alone at a table near the front window of the bar of the Hotel Florence. From there she could see the waterfront and the landing where the hydrofoil would come in. She could also see the Gruppo Cardinale police near the ticket booth and on the landing itself, watching the people who waited for the boat.

Her back turned slightly to the crowd of the room, she took a cell phone from her purse and dialed a number in Milan, where the call was received by a special switching box and forwarded to another number and switching box in the coastal city of Civitavecchia, and from there to an unlisted number in Rome.

'Si,' a male voice answered.

'This is S,' Thomas Kind said.

'Un momento.'

Silence. Then-

'Yes.' Another male voice had come on. It was distorted electronically so that it could not be recognized. The rest of the conversation was held in French.

S: The target is alive. Possibly wounded… And, it is unfortunate to report, escaped.

Male voice: I know.

S: What do you want me to do? – I will resign if you like.

Male voice: No. I value your resolve and proficiency…

The police know you are there and are looking for you, but they have no idea who you are.

S: So I presumed.

Male voice: Can you leave the area?

S: With luck.

Male voice: Then I want you to come here.

S: I can still pursue the target from where I am. Even with the police.

Male voice: Yes, but why, when the moth has waked from its sleep and can be brought to the flame?

Palestrina pressed a button on a small box beside his telephone, then handed the receiver to Farel, who took it and hung it up. For a long moment the Vatican secretariat of state sat looking out across his sparsely lit marbled office at the paintings, sculptures, shelves of ancient books, at the centuries of history surrounding him in his residence on the floor beneath that of the papal apartments in the Palace of Sixtus V, the apartments where the Holy Father now slept, mind and body exhausted from the regimen of the day, trusting in his advisers to steer the course of the Holy See.