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'My part is easy, Mr Addison… But I have grave doubts about you. It's not just getting a man into a freight car. First you have to get him out of where he is, and in doing that you will have to deal with Farel and his people. And then, somewhere, is Thomas Kind.'
'My brother was a marine,' Harry said quietly. 'He'll walk me through it.'
Roscani knew it was crazy. And knew that Scala and Castelletti felt the same. But unless they went in with him themselves – which was impossible, because if they did and were caught, it would make for a major diplomatic incident – there was nothing they could do but stand back and wish him well. It was a gamble and a bad one. But, ultimately, the only one they had.
'All right, Mr Addison,' he said quietly.
Harry felt the relief but tried not to show it. 'Three more things,' he said. 'First, I want a handgun.'
'Do you know how to use it?'
'Beverly Hills Gun Club. Six months' training in self-protection. One of my clients made me do it.'
'What else?'
'Climbing rope. A long length that can support two men without breaking.'
'That's two. What's the third?'
'You have a man in jail. The police took him by train from Lugano and back to Italy. He's wanted for murder, but a fair trial would prove self-defense. I need his help. I want him out.'
'Who is he?'
'He's a dwarf. His name is Hercules.'
127
'Piano three-A,' Harry said.
'All right.' Roscani nodded and Harry got out of the car. He waited for a moment, watching the policemen drive away, then went inside. He had done what he had done, Roscani knew where they were, and now he had to tell Da
'Adria
'And the police notified.'' Heatedly Da
Harry didn't move, just stood watching his brother, uncertain what to do.
'Please, Harry, let it wait until later…'
Elena put her hand on Harry's arm. She wanted him to go to one of the bedrooms, lie down and rest. He'd been without sleep for more than thirty hours, and she could hear the raw edge in his voice, see the emotional roller coaster of the last weeks in his eyes, and knew he had nothing left. He'd come back telling them about his calls to Adria
'Da
Slowly Da
'What about – for the truth?'
'Not even for that…'
'Maybe you're wrong.'
'I'm not.'
'Then I think, Da
There was a long silence, then, 'Fair,' Da
'Okay…' Harry said and then, exhaustion overtaking him, turned to Elena. 'Where do I sleep?'
128
The Vatican. The Tower of San Giova
Cardinal Marsciano sat in a straight-backed armchair, staring trancelike at the television screen five feet in front of him. Its sound was still turned off. A commercial played now. It was animated. Whatever was being sold did not penetrate.
Across the room was the velvet purse Palestrina had left him. The hideous thing inside it affirmation, as if more were needed, of the secretariat's descent into total madness. Barely able to look at it let alone touch it, Marsciano had tried to get them to take it away, but Anton Pilger had merely stood in the doorway and refused, saying nothing could be brought in or taken out without specific orders, and there were none. With that he had said he was sorry and closed the door, the sound of the bolted lock as it clicked into place, by now, almost ear shattering.
Abruptly a graphic flashed on the television screen in front of Marsciano. It played over a map of China that highlighted both Wuxi and Hefei.
As of 10:20 p.m. Beijing time: WUXI, CHINA – FATALITIES: 1,700 HEFEI, CHINA – FATALITIES: 87,553
Immediately the picture cut to Beijing. A field reporter was standing in Tiananmen Square.
Marsciano picked up the remote:
CLICK.
The sound came up. The reporter was speaking in Italian: A major a
CLICK.
The reporter spoke on in silence. Marsciano put down the remote. Palestrina had won. He had won, yet there was still to be a third city, another mass poisoning. What hell was this?
Seeing what had already happened, knowing what was yet to come, Marsciano closed his eyes and wished Father Daniel had died in the bus explosion, so that he never would have known of the horror caused by Marsciano's loathsome weakness and inaction against Palestrina. Wished he had died then rather than be killed here by Farel's thugs when he came looking for Marsciano – after China had already happened.
Turning from the cold cruelty of the television screen, Marsciano looked across the room. Early-afternoon sunlight radiated through the glass door, beckoning him toward it. Besides sleep and prayer, the door had been his only solace. From it, he could look out over the Vatican gardens and see a pastoral world of peace and beauty.
Going there now, he pulled aside the curtains to stand at the glass, watching the sunlight stream through the trees to make a grand chiaroscuro of the landscape beneath. In a moment he would turn from the doorway to kneel at his bed and beg – as he had so often in the last days and hours – God's forgiveness for the terror he had helped create.
His mind on his prayers, he was about to turn back when suddenly the beauty he looked upon vanished. What he saw in its place shook him to his soul. It was an image he had seen a hundred times before, but never had it filled him with the revulsion it did now.
Two men walked toward him along a gravel pathway. One was huge physically and wore black. The other was older and much smaller and dressed in white. The first was Palestrina. The other, the one in white, was the Holy Father, Giacomo Pecci, Pope Leo XIV.
Palestrina was animated as they walked. Chatting, gesturing with infectious energy. As if the world and everything in it were filled with joy. While the pope, beside him, was, as always, enamored by his charisma and utterly trusting. And because of it, wholly blind to the truth.
As they drew closer, Marsciano felt a chill creep across his shoulders and ease like frozen breath down his spine. For the first time, and with profound horror, he saw who this scugnizzo, this common street urchin from Naples, as Palestrina called himself, really was.