Day of Confession (46 page)

140

“ROSCANI AND CASTELLETTI,” ADRIANNA SAID said as the blue Alfa Romeo pulled in and stopped behind the Fiat.

Now the Fiat’s door opened, and they saw Scala get out and go to the Alfa. The men chatted for a few moments, then Scala went back to the Fiat and drove off.

“This is a timing thing,” Eaton said. “Harry Addison goes out two hours ago and doesn’t come back. Now Roscani shows up. He’s gotta be waiting for Father Daniel to make the next move and make certain nothing happens when he does—“

There was a shrill chirp as Eaton’s beeper suddenly went off. Immediately he picked a two-way radio off the seat beside him and clicked it on.

“Yes—”

Adrianna saw his jaw tighten as he listened.

“—When?”

Eaton’s jaw strained more, and she could see him grind his teeth.

“Not a word from our office, we know nothing about it.—Right.” Abruptly he clicked off and stared into space.

“Li Wen confessed to poisoning the lakes. A few minutes later he was shot and killed by an assailant who was then killed by the security force. Convenient?—Whose stamp does that echo?”

Adrianna felt the chill. “Thomas Kind…”

Eaton turned back toward the apartment building. “I don’t know what the fuck Roscani’s thinking, but if he lets them go into the Vatican after Marsciano, there’s every chance somebody’s going to get killed, especially if Thomas Kind is in there waiting.”

“James,” Adrianna warned suddenly. An abrupt movement down the street had caught her eye.

Roscani was getting out of his car, looking around, a cell phone to his ear. Castelletti was getting out, too, walking along the sidewalk, an automatic held down alongside his leg. He was looking up at the buildings on either side of the street as if he were Secret Service.

Now Roscani was talking into the phone, nodding, then looking up and motioning to Castelletti. Immediately they both got back into the Alfa.

At the same moment the front door to number 22 Via Nicolò V opened, and a bearded man in a wheelchair and wearing a Hawaiian shirt was pushed into the morning sunshine by a young woman in jeans and sunglasses. The man had a camera case in his lap, the woman carried another over her shoulder.

“It’s fucking
him
,” Adrianna breathed. “The woman has to be Elena Voso.”

There was an abrupt squeal of tires as Roscani swung the Alfa from where it was parked. Cutting directly across the street, he swerved sharply, then pulled abreast of the wheelchair couple, slowing and staying with them as they moved along the sidewalk toward the Vatican as if they were tourists out for an early stroll.

“Christ, he’s going to baby-sit them right into St. Peter’s.”

Eaton was turning the ignition key, starting the engine, his fingers already tugging at the gearshift. Slowly he eased the green Ford out and down Via Nicole V. He was angry and frustrated and helpless; the most he could do without creating an international incident was keep the Alfa in sight.

THEY WERE TURNING NOW, moving from Largo di Porta Cavalleggeri onto Piazza del Sant’ Uffizio, a stone’s throw from the southern colonnade and the entrance to St. Peter’s Square. Instinctively, Roscani glanced in the mirror. A green Ford was twenty or thirty yards behind them. It was moving slowly, at the same speed they were. Two people were in the front seat. At his glance, the person in the passenger seat suddenly looked down. Then he saw Elena turn the wheelchair left, heading directly for the colonnade. Again, Roscani looked in the mirror. The Ford was right there, swinging left behind him. Then abruptly it turned right and sped off and out of sight.

141

EATON RACED ON FOR TWO SHORT BLOCKS, then turned a quick left and then left again onto Via della Conciliazione. Accelerating past a tour bus, he cut sharply into the right lane and brought the Ford to an abrupt stop in a taxi zone directly across from St. Peter’s.

In an instant he and Adrianna were out of the car, ignoring the angry shouts of a cab driver for leaving the Ford in the taxi zone, and dodging traffic as they ran toward the crowded square. Reaching it, they pressed desperately through the mass of tourists, looking for a woman pushing a wheelchair. Suddenly a loud claxton horn signaled a warning. They looked up to see a small shuttle bus bearing down on them, leaving the square. Lettering on the shuttle’s front read
Musei Vaticani
—Vatican Museums. Beneath it was the familiar blue logo with the white wheelchair that was the international symbol for the handicapped. Quickly they stepped out of the way, letting it pass. As it did, Adrianna caught the briefest glimpse of Father Daniel seated at a window near the front. Then the shuttle turned onto the street and crossed the piazza where they had left the car.

FIFTY YARDS AWAY, Harry traversed the square in a crowd heading for the basilica, Scala’s pistol in his waistband, the black beret pulled almost rakishly over his forehead, and the papers Eaton had provided in his pocket identifying him as Father Jonathan Roe of Georgetown University, just in case. Unseen beneath the priest’s clothing, he wore chinos and a work shirt. Clothes Father Bardoni had left in the apartment on Via Nicolò V.

Reaching a flight of steps, he climbed them with the crowd and then stopped. In front of him several hundred more people were massed, waiting for the doors to the basilica to open. It was now eight-fifty-five. The doors would be opened at nine. Two hours exactly before the work engine came. Head down, praying someone wouldn’t suddenly look over and recognize him, Harry took a deep breath and waited.

142

HERCULES CROUCHED IN THE BATTLEMENTS of the ancient fortified wall abutting the Tower of San Giovanni. He was at the rampart’s far end, right at the tower itself and maybe twenty feet beneath its tiled, circular roof.

It had taken nearly three hours to work his way up the far side of the wall, handhold to handhold, using the morning shadows to hide him. But then he’d made the top and scrambled to where he was now, cramped and thirsty, but precisely where he was supposed to be and when he was supposed to be.

Below, he could see two of Farel’s black-suited men hidden in bushes near the tower entrance. Two more waited behind the cover of a high hedge across the narrow roadway. The main door, directly beneath him, appeared unprotected. How many more black-suited men were inside the tower he had no way of knowing. One, two, twenty, none? What was clear was what Danny had predicted: the black suits would stay back and out of sight, spiders hoping their prey would unwittingly lurch into their web.

Danny!
Hercules grinned. He liked that, calling a priest by his first name, the way Mr. Harry had. It made him feel like part of the family, one in which he somehow wished he belonged. And for now, for today at least, he decided he did belong. It was that important. The stalwart dwarf who’d been abandoned by his family shortly after his birth and who had made his own way ever since, taking life as it came, all the while refusing to be its victim, suddenly found himself longing to belong. It surprised him because the pain and want were much more acute than he could have imagined. It told him one thing: he was much more human than he supposed, no matter what he looked like. Harry and Danny had included him because they needed him for what he could do, and that, in itself, gave him purpose and dignity for the first time in his life. They had entrusted him with their lives, and Elena’s life, and that of a cardinal of the Church. Whatever happened, at whatever cost to himself, he would not let them down.

Squinting against the glare of the sun, he looked down the narrow road toward the railroad station, the way they would go later. Almost directly across, beyond the bushes where the second group of black suits were secreted, he could see the landing pad for the papal heliport. In the other direction, to his right and beyond the trees, was another tower building, Vatican Radio. He looked at his watch.

9:07
A.M
.

Danny and Elena came in through the main entrance to the Vatican museums with the three other wheelchair couples who had been on the shuttle bus with them: a retirement-age American couple—the man in an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap who kept staring at Danny and his New York Yankees cap, as if he either recognized him or had had enough of museums and touring and simply wanted to talk baseball; his wife, plump and smiling pleasantly, pushing him in the wheelchair; a father and his son, probably twelve, wearing leg braces, seemingly French; a middle-aged woman caring for an elderly white-haired woman, apparently her mother, and apparently English, though it was hard to tell because the older woman was so abrupt with the younger.

One by one they went through the line to buy museum tickets and then were instructed to wait for the elevator that would take them all to the second floor.

“Stop over there. Closer to the door,” the white-haired English woman snapped at her daughter. “Why you insisted on wearing that dress when you know I don’t like it is beyond me.”

Elena adjusted the camera bag over her shoulder, glancing at Danny’s as she did. They were nondescript black nylon camera bags any tourist might carry, but inside them, instead of cameras and film, were cigarettes and matchbooks; the olive oil and rum-soaked rags rolled up and packed in the plastic Ziploc bags; and the four Moretti beer bottles—two in each case—plugged and wicked, with the same incendiary fluid.

There was a dinging sound, a light came on, and the elevator door opened. They waited while a few people got out, and then entered, squeezing in together, with the white-haired woman pushing ahead.

“We will be first, if you don’t mind.”

And she was, and in the order of things, this made Elena and Danny last, forcing them to press in against the others, with the doors closing against their backs. Had they been first, or even second or third, and turned around like the others, Danny might have seen Eaton, with Adrianna. Seen him turn from the ticket window and glimpse them inside the elevator just as the doors closed.

143

HARRY WALKED SLOWLY INSIDE THE BASILica, moving just behind a cascade of Canadian tourists, stopping, as they did, to look at Michelangelo’s
Pietà
, his impassioned statue of the Madonna with the dead Christ. Then he eased away from the Canadians to the center of the nave, casually studying the interior of the towering dome, finally bringing his gaze down to the papal altar and Bernini’s
Baldacchino
, the grand canopy over it.

Then, following Danny’s directions, he moved off alone.

Crossing to the right, passing the wooden confessionals, looking easily at the sculptures of the saints Michele Arcangelo and Petronilla, he reached the monument of Pope Clement XIII. Just past it, he found a protrusion of wall. Turning measuredly around it, he saw a decorative drapery that looked as though it hung from a solid wall.

Glancing back and seeing no one, he pushed quickly through it to a narrow hallway and walked to the door at the end of it. Opening it, he walked down a short stairway to another door at the bottom and went out, finding himself instantly out of doors and squinting in the bright sunshine of the Vatican gardens.

9:25
A.M
.

9:32
A.M
.

Elena pushed open the emergency exit door, carefully holding it with her foot, while she put a piece of clear plastic tape over the latch to make certain it wouldn’t lock behind her.

Satisfied, she stepped out into the daylight and let the door close behind her. Then she walked off, glancing up at the second floor of the building she had just come out of, where she had been moments before when she’d left Danny alone in a hallway outside a men’s rest room near the entrance to the Sistine Chapel—the same hallway to which she would return a few minutes later.

Adjusting the camera bag over her shoulder, she walked quickly across a small courtyard and out into a convergence of tended walkways, lawns, and ornamental hedges that was one of the many entrances to the Vatican gardens. Ahead, on her right, was the split stairway rising to the Fountain of the Sacrament.

She moved toward it quickly but carefully, looking around every so often as if unsure where she was going, knowing that if she was stopped she would say simply that she had taken a wrong door from the museums and was lost.

Climbing the stairs to the right, she entered the area of the fountain proper and turned right again to see a number of large planters near the base of a conifer. Again, she looked around, puzzled, as if she were indeed lost. Then, seeing no one, she took a black nylon waist pack from her camera case and tucked it carefully behind the planters at the base of the tree. Standing, she looked around once more, and went back the way she had come, passing through the courtyard, then pulling open the door and peeling the tape from the latch. Reentering the building, she let the door close behind her, and then took the stairs to the second floor.

144

9:40
A.M
.

DANNY OPENED THE DOOR TO THE MEN’S room stall cautiously and peered out. Two men stood at urinals, another was picking his teeth in the mirror. Opening the stall door wider, he wheeled himself to the men’s room door and tried to push it open. It didn’t work. Someone was on the other side trying to come in. Danny looked back. The other men were still there. Neither was watching him.

“Hey!” A voice came from the far side of the door.

Danny moved back, not knowing what to expect, his hand going to the camera bag to fling it if he had to.

The door swung open and another man in a wheelchair came through from the other side—the American from the shuttle bus, wearing the L.A. Dodgers cap. The man stopped dead in the doorway, the two of them chair to chair facing each other.

“You really a Yankees fan?” The man was looking at his baseball cap, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You are, you’re crazy.”

Danny looked past him into the hallway. People moved back and forth in a steady stream. Where was Elena? They were on a tight clock. Harry would already be outside crossing the Vatican gardens looking for the waist pack.

“I just like baseball. I collect a lot of caps.” Danny moved his wheelchair back. “You come in. I’ll go out.”

“What teams you like?” The man didn’t budge. “Come on, talk the game. Tell me the teams. Which league, American or National?”

Suddenly Elena appeared in the hallway behind the Dodgers fan.

Danny looked at the man and shrugged. “Since we’re in the Vatican I guess I ought to pick the Padres as my favorite…. I’m sorry, I have to go.”

The man grinned broadly. “Why, sure, pal, go ahead.” Abruptly he pushed into the men’s room and Danny went out.

Elena took the wheelchair and they started off. Then suddenly Danny put his hand on the wheels, slowing the chair.

“Stop,” he said.

Eaton and Adrianna Hall were crossing at the far end of the hallway in a crowd, alert, moving quickly, looking for someone.

Danny looked over his shoulder at Elena. “Turn around, go the other way.”