Day of Confession (29 page)

82

IT WASN’T A BOAT SO MUCH AS AN ALUMINUM skiff, flat bottomed, twelve feet long and five feet wide, and designed to be towed behind a boat to haul supplies or to take away garbage. Salvatore had found it near a smaller landing, around a turn in the canal, a hundred or more yards down from the first, propped up against a wall just outside a heavy door that led to Eros Barbu’s legendary wine cellar. With it were two oars, and Harry and Salvatore carried it to the water and put it in, securing it to the landing with a rope.

Then Harry stepped in and tested it.

It floated, didn’t leak, and held his weight. Bending, he set the oarlocks into place and slid the oars into them. “Okay, let’s get him in.”

Salvatore pushed the gurney forward, then he and Harry hefted it into the skiff, setting it sideways across the stern. Next, he handed Harry a bag holding a minimum of medical supplies. Then Harry helped Elena in and looked expectantly to Salvatore, but the Italian and his wife stepped back.

The skiff was too small for all of them, he said, Elena translating. There were markings on the walls high above the waterlines that would guide them out of the tunnels. Follow those and they would be all right.

“What about you?” Harry looked at Salvatore with concern.

Salvatore and Marta would ride the cage back up. Again Elena translated. They would meet them with the farm truck at a cove farther south on the lake. Glancing at Elena, he explained how to find it. Finally he looked back to Harry.

“
Arrivederci
,” he said, almost apologetically, as if he were abandoning them. Then he quickly took Marta’s hand, and the two disappeared back into the cave.

83

THE NOTCHES WERE CUT INTO THE CAVERN walls above the waterline, as Salvatore had said. Elena stood in the bow playing the beam of a flashlight on them as Harry rowed the skiff slowly down the channel.

Harry worked from the center, his back to Elena, his concentration on the oars, trying to keep them silent as they lifted from the water and then dropped back in.

“Listen—” Elena clicked off the flashlight.

Harry stopped, oars raised, the boat drifting. But he heard nothing other than the soft lapping of water against the rock walls as the skiff slid past.

“What was it?” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I…. There—“

This time he heard it. A distant rumbling, the sound reverberating off the walls. Then it stopped.

“What is it?”

“Outboard motors. Run for a few seconds, then shut off.”

“Who?”

“Whoever Edward Mooi warned us about. They’re here, in the canals… trying to find us…”

Hefei, China. City of Hefei Water Filtration Plant “A.”

Still Tuesday, July 14. 6:30
P.M
.

Li Wen stood back, calmly watching the people hover around the wall of gauges and meters measuring the pressure, turbidity, flow rates, and chemical levels. Why they were still standing there, he had no idea. The gauges and meters were still. The plant had been shut down completely. Nothing moved.

Zhu Yubing, governor of Anhui Province, merely stared, as did Mou Qiyan, deputy director of Anhui Province Water Conservancy and Power Department. The angry words, the accusations, had been made as the official word was given—Chao Lake had not been poisoned deliberately, by accident, by terrorists, or by anyone else; nor was pollution, caused by untreated water discharged from local farms and factories, the cause of the catastrophe; sun-fed algae, with its production of biological toxins, was. Both men had complained for years that this was a time bomb that had to be defused, a dangerous problem that had to be solved. But it never was. And now they stood in shock at this incredible horror. Putrid and deadly water pouring from the city taps like a plague before it had been shut off. The sheer numbers were beyond belief.

Chao Lake, water supply to nearly a million. In the last ten hours: Twenty-seven thousand, five hundred and eight confirmed dead. Another fifty-five thousand seriously ill. Thousands who ingested the water in common everyday circumstances still unaccounted for. The toll in sickness and death was mounting by the minute. And little could be done, even by the Chinese Army disaster teams, except take away the dead. And wait and count. The same as Li Wen watched them do now.

Lake Como, Italy. Same time
.

The only sound was the lap of water against the rock. That and Danny’s regular breathing. Elena stood frozen in the bow, while Harry let the skiff drift with the current, holding it just off the rock with his hands so it wouldn’t scrape. Trying to keep it silent.

The dark was infinite. Impenetrable. Harry knew Elena’s thoughts, her anxiety, was the same as his. Finally his whisper broke the silence. “Put your hand over the front of the flashlight. Let as little of the beam out as possible. Keep it high on the wall. If you hear
anything
, shut it off.”

Harry waited and then the dark was cut by a narrow wand of light that searched the granite wall above them. For a long moment it inched over the ancient stone, looking for the directional markers but finding nothing.

“Mr. Addison—” Elena’s whisper was abrupt, and Harry heard the fear in her voice.

“Keep the light moving.”

Immediately, he pushed the skiff back from the wall, then eased the oars into the water and pulled gently. The craft moved forward against a barely perceptible current.

Elena could feel the perspiration on the palms of her hands as she watched the sliver of light play fruitlessly over the rock.

Harry watched it, too, trying not to think they had drifted too far in the darkness and were moving deeper into the labyrinth. Suddenly Elena’s light passed over notches cut in the stone, and he heard her stifle a cry.

“Okay, we’re still okay,” he whispered.

Twenty feet passed, then thirty. Then more notches.

“Turn the light down the channel.”

Elena did. The rocky cavern went straight for as far as they could see.

“Put it out.”

Immediately Elena snapped the flashlight off, then turned forward and peered into the dark in front of them, praying to see a dot of light that would mean the end of the canal and the way out to the lake. But she saw only blackness. Felt only the same cool damp of the air. Heard the light sound of the oars as Harry moved them forward.

Absently, she crossed herself. This was more of God’s testing. But this time it wasn’t about men or lust but about her own courage, her ability to persist under the most unbearable of situations while at the same time remaining strong and true to the patient in her charge.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” she said under her breath. “I will fear no—”

“
Sister Elena
—“Salvatore’s voice suddenly echoed out of nowhere.

Elena started. Harry froze where he was, oars out of the water, the skiff drifting forward.

“Salvatore,” Elena whispered.

“Sister Elena—” Salvatore’s voice came again. “It’s all right,” he called in Italian. “I have the boat. Whoever was here is gone.”

The white of Elena’s eyes flashed in the dark as she turned toward Harry, translating what Salvatore had said.

“Sister Elena, where are you?”

Instantly Harry pulled in the oars, then grabbed at the passing wall of rock, slowing the skiff by hand. Stopping it. Then they heard the distant whine and rumble of motors. The boat and whoever was in it was coming up the channel toward them.

84

THOMAS KIND HELD THE EDGE OF THE RAZOR against Salvatore’s throat as the motorboat moved slowly forward, the sound of the outboards echoing off the cavern walls. Behind them, Marta lay on the deck between the cockpit and the motors, blood still oozing from a tiny hole between her eyes.

Salvatore turned slightly to look at Thomas Kind. The right side of the blond man’s face was raked with blood and torn skin where Marta had clawed him when he’d caught them, just as they’d reached the elevator cage. The fight had been short and quick. But she had done damage, and for that alone Salvatore Belsito was extraordinarily proud.

Yet Salvatore was not like his wife. Did not have her bravery or rage. It had been difficult enough for him to do what he had in lying to the police when they had twice invaded Villa Lorenzi. Difficult enough just to come to the grotto to care for the fugitive priest while the nun went in search of his brother. Salvatore Belsito was Villa Lorenzi’s chief gardener, a gentle man who loved his wife and only cared about making things grow. Eros Barbu had given them both a home and jobs for as long as they cared to have them. For that he owed him a great deal. But not his life.

“Once more,” Thomas Kind urged.

Salvatore hesitated, then again called out Elena’s name.

THE STAB OF SALVATORE’S CALL resounded off the granite walls like a sound effect in a suspense movie. It was much louder, and much closer than before. Abruptly it was overridden by the throaty rumble of the outboards as the motorboat picked up speed.

“Go right!” Elena said behind Harry, the slim beam of her light following the marks on the stone walls as they reached an abrupt angle where the tunnel veered sharply right, nearly turning back on itself.

Harry pulled hard on the right oar, cutting the corner tightly. As he did, the left oar caught on the cavern wall and was nearly jerked out of his hand. Cursing under his breath, he recovered, felt the left oar touch water, and they were around.

Putting his back to it, he dug in with everything he had. The skin was raw on his hands, and the sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He wished he could stop even for a moment to tear off the clerical collar. Throw it away so he could breathe.

“
Sister Elena!!!!!!!
”

Salvatore’s cry came again in a rolling echo that followed them down the channel like a pursuing wave.

Suddenly a blinding light illuminated the entire waterway where they had just been like day. Harry could see the shadow of wall they had just come around and guessed they had ten seconds at most before the motorboat came around it too and entered the channel where they were.

Looking around wildly, he saw a canal in front of them that ran straight for almost twenty yards before cutting smartly to the left. There was little or no chance they would make it before the motorboat was around the corner and on top of them. Nor, despite some rugged outcropping of rock that fed into the channel, was there a place to hide.

“Mr. Addison! Look there!” Elena whispered. She was suddenly leaning forward, pointing off.

Ahead, to their left and a dozen yards away, Harry saw what she was pointing at. A dark shadow that might be the entrance to a cave or inlet. Three or four feet high at best, and not much wider. Just big enough—maybe—for the skiff to get through.

Behind them, the growl of the outboards suddenly rose. Harry looked back. The light was getting brighter. Whoever was at the controls was picking up the speed. Throwing his full body weight behind the oars, Harry drove toward the cave.

“We’re going in!” Harry said over his shoulder at Elena. “Climb past me. Make sure his head doesn’t hit.”

Harry stopped rowing for the briefest second, feeling the brush of Elena’s habit as she scrambled over him. Then he dug in again. As he did, the right oar twisted in his hands and came out of the water. The skiff swung sharply left. There was a metallic scrape as it hit the wall, then glanced off and back into the channel. Recovering, he pulled back toward the cave opening.

At the same time, he saw Elena look up to see the sleek prow of the motorboat slide past the outcrop of rock and turn into the channel where they were. Instantly, the powerful beam of the searchlight came around, sweeping mercilessly toward them as the boat turned fully into the waterway.

Harry glanced over his shoulder. They were right at the cave.

“Get down!” he said.

Crouching over, Harry jerked the oars inboard and the prow of the skiff slid into the opening, ceiling and sides clearing by only inches. Then he saw Elena duck, her hand on Danny’s head. The stern slid through and they were inside.

Instantly, Harry was on his back. Grabbing the rock ceiling above them, pulling the skiff forward, hand over hand. Deeper into the cave. A heartbeat later the harsh beam of the searchlight swept past.

Abruptly the outboards throttled down. A half second later he saw the motorboat glide by. A blond man with a stark profile stood in silhouette to the far wall, one hand on the wheel, the other up tight under the throat of Salvatore Belsito. Then they were gone, the light trailing off with them, the boat’s wake washing into the cave.

Immediately Harry put his hands out to the walls on either side to keep the skiff from banging off them. His heart pounding, he raised himself up and listened. One second. Then two. Then he heard the outboards stop. A moment later the wash subsided and everything was silent.

85

THOMAS KIND LET THE BOAT SWING IN A slow arc, bringing it around, letting it come to a stop facing the way they had come, his eyes searching the cavern in front of him—the glistening walls with their jagged outcroppings, the deep green-black water reflecting the illumination from the searchlight in a thousand different directions.

“Sit down…” Slowly he eased the razor from Salvatore’s throat and nodded toward the bench along the gunwale behind him. The look in his captor’s eyes was all the warning the Italian needed, and he did what he was told. Then he crossed his arms and tilted his head toward the irregular ceiling of the cave, letting his gaze fix there, fix anywhere but at the body of his wife at his feet, the body he had put there after Kind had made him carry it from where he had killed her, at the entrance to the elevator.

Thomas Kind glanced back at Salvatore, then reached into his jacket. From it he took a slender, black nylon pouch. Opening it, he took out a small electronic headset. Putting it on, adjusting the earpieces, he clipped a tiny microphone to his jacket collar and plugged the lead wire into a packet at his waist. There was the faintest click, and a tiny red glow rose from the monitor light beneath his fingers. His thumb ran over the volume control, and the sound came up immediately. Everything was amplified. The echo of the tunnel, the crisp lap of water against its walls. Listening intently, he swung the microphone slowly and deliberately across the canal. Wall left to wall right.

He heard nothing.

He panned back. Wall right to wall left.

Still nothing.

Leaning forward, he turned off the searchlight, and the cavern went dark. Then he waited. Twenty seconds. Thirty. A minute.

Again, he swung the microphone. Left to right. And then back. And then back again.

“…wait…

He froze at the sound of Harry Addison’s voice, a whisper. He waited for more.

Nothing.

Ever so slowly, he swung back.

“…without an IV… ,” nursing sister Elena Voso said, her voice low and hushed like the American’s.

They were there. Somewhere in the dark ahead of him.

Villa Lorenzi. Same time
.

Roscani squinted in the bright sunlight of Edward Mooi’s bedroom. The tech crew was still working the bathroom. Traces of blood had been found in the sink, the vague outline of a bare foot on the floor.

No one had seen the poet since he had returned to his apartment following Roscani’s early-morning search. None of the staff, none of the dozen
carabinieri
on posted guard. No one. Mooi, like Eros Barbu’s motorboat, had simply vanished.

Through the window, Roscani could see two of the police boats on the lake. Castelletti was in one, coordinating the search on the water. Scala, a former army commando, had gone ashore with ten mountain-trained
carabinieri
, and they were walking the shoreline, south from the villa. It was assumed Mooi had not gone north, because that would have led him directly into Bellagio, where he was well known and where there were large numbers of uniformed police. So Scala had chosen the southern course, where coves and dense overgrowth provided cover where a boat could be hidden from view from both the lake and the air.

Turning from the window, Roscani left the room and went out into the hallway just as an aide arrived. Saluting, he handed Roscani a thick envelope, then turned and left. Opening it, Roscani quickly scanned its contents. The cover sheet bore the heading INTERNATIONAL CRIMINAL POLICE ORGANIZATION, with the familiar INTERPOL crest directly beneath, while the word
URGENTISSIMO
had been hand stamped on every page.

The pages were the INTERPOL reply to his request for information on the suspected whereabouts of known terrorists and, separately, the personality profiles of killers still at large and thought to be in Europe.

Pages still in hand, Roscani looked back into the room. Seeing Edward Mooi’s bathrobe where it had been tossed on the bed, seeing the tech people still at work through the open door to the bathroom, he suddenly had the sense they were already too late. His ice picker had already been there.