Day of Confession Part 22

"So am I."

"But I cannot put on the clothes of a priest and pa.s.s for someone else. Nor does a dwarf travel by bus or train unnoticed."

"But he could by private car."

Hercules smiled conspiratorially. "None had been available until now..."

Harry glared at him. "Hercules, this is not exactly a pleasure tour. I'm not on vacation."

"No, you are trying to get to your brother. And so are the police. On the other hand, Chia.s.so is hardly much farther than Como. I get out, you turn around and go back. Nothing to it."

"What if I said no?"

Hercules rose up indignantly. "Then you would be a man whose word cannot be trusted. When I gave you those clothes, I asked you to help me. You said, "I will do the best I can. I promise you.'"

"I meant with the law and in Rome."

"Under the circ.u.mstances I think it would be more sensible for me to take the help now, Mr. Harry. An extra twenty minutes out of your life."

"Twenty minutes..."

"Then we are even."

"All right, then we're even."

Very shortly afterward they pa.s.sed the Como exit, and very soon after that their agreement suddenly became moot. Ahead of them the traffic to Chia.s.so slowed, narrowing into one lane. Then it stopped. And Harry and Hercules stared into an endless succession of brake lights. Then, in the distance, they saw them. Flak-jacketed, Uzi-carrying policemen walking slowly toward them in the traffic, looking into each vehicle they pa.s.sed.

"Turn around, Mr. Harry. Quick!"

Harry backed up a few feet, then slammed the Fiat into drive and, with a sharp squeal of tires, swung it in a sharp U-turn, accelerating back the way they had come.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" Harry glanced in the mirror.

Hercules said nothing, instead punching on the car's radio. A scan of stations found a newscaster rattling in Italian. The border at Chia.s.so was a ma.s.sive police checkpoint, Hercules translated. Every vehicle was being turned inside out in the hunt for the fugitive priest, Father Daniel Addison, who had somehow eluded the police at Bellagio and was thought to be attempting a border crossing into Switzerland.

"Eluded them?" Harry turned to look at Hercules. "Does that mean somebody actually saw him?"

"They didn't say, Mr. Harry..."

66.

Como. 7:40 P.M 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 pa.s.sing by outside.

"Police or no police, Chia.s.so 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 grinned, then swung away on his crutches into the growing twilight. Walking, if that was the word, to Switzerland.

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 pa.s.sed. 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 Danny's face staring from the late editions. Each paper carried nearly the same headline: SACERDOTE FUGGITIVO A BELLAGIO?.

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-ap.r.o.ned 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 a.s.sa.s.sin of the cardinal vicar of Rome. Flashing lights. Helicopters. Chiseled extras running everywhere with machine guns and flak jackets. A Lee Harvey Oswald ride at an amus.e.m.e.nt park. Watch the bad guy get it from all sides. Buy your tickets, be there when it happens.

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 abruptly opened and Adrianna stood there, hair wet from the shower, a white hotel bathrobe around her, a cell phone to her ear. Harry went in quickly, closing the door behind him and locking it.

"He's here now." Adrianna was at the window pulling the curtains, talking into the phone as she did. The television next to the window was on, tuned to the news channel, the sound off. Somebody was doing a standup in front of the White House. As quickly the scene shifted to the British Parliament.

Crossing to a dressing table, Adrianna bent in front of the mirror to scribble something on a notepad.

"Tonight, okay.... I have it...."

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

"That was Eaton... ," he said.

"Yes." Adrianna turned to face him "Where the h.e.l.l is Danny?"

"n.o.body 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 toothbrush just a few hours ago.... They found nothing."

"The police are certain it was Danny, not somebody else."

"As certain as they can be without having been on the hydrofoil themselves. Roscani's back here, in Como, coordinating Gruppo Cardinale forces. They're not leaving. That should say enough in itself...." Adrianna tucked a sprig of still-wet hair behind an ear. "You look like you're going to melt. You can take your jacket off, you know. You want a drink?"

"No."

"I will..."

Crossing to a console, Adrianna opened it and took out a small bottle of cognac. Pouring most of it into a gla.s.s, she turned back.

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."

"Yes and no. But 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 s.e.x just made me feel a little cozier about it. So why don't we just forget it and you tell me what I'm supposed to do..."

"All right...." Adrianna watched him for a moment, then, gla.s.s in hand, leaned back against the dressing table.

"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 to call him?"

"Yes..."

"What makes you think he knows where Danny is?"

"Because the police think he does."

"Then they'll have his phone tapped."

"And-what are they going to hear?" Adrianna took a tug at her drink. "An American priest offering to help simply because he's seen the news coverage and would like to do anything he can..."

"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 advertis.e.m.e.nt-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."

"What fax?"

Setting down her gla.s.s, Adrianna fished a sheet of paper from a battered leather traveling bag on the bed and handed it to him. Then, putting a hand on her hip, she leaned back against the dressing table. With the movement, her robe came open. Not a lot, but enough for Harry to see part of one breast and a hint of the dark where her legs came together.

"Read it..."

Harry hesitated, then glanced at the paper.

!Read!"GENESIS 4:9" A new book by A new book byFather Jonathan Roe That was all. Neatly typed. Nothing else.

"You remember your Bible, Harry.... Genesis 4:9-"

"Am I my brother's keeper?" Harry dropped the paper on the bed.

"He's an educated man. He'll understand."

"Then what?"

"We wait.... I'll be in Bellagio, Harry. Maybe even before you are." Adrianna's voice became soft, seductive. Her eyes found Harry's and held there. "And I'll know how to reach you.... The phone in your pocket, you know." She paused. "The way we-did it in Rome..."

For a long moment Harry said nothing, just stood looking at her. Finally, he let his eyes fall the length of her body.

"Your robe is open..."

"I know..."

HE TOOK HER FROM BEHIND, the way she liked, the way he had in her apartment in Rome. The difference this time was that the lights were on and they were in the bathroom standing up. With Adrianna bent slightly at the waist, her hands on the edge of the marble sink, both of them facing the mirror, watching.

He could see her pleasure as he came into her. Saw it intensify all the more with each deliberate stroke. He could see himself behind her. His jaw set. Firm. Becoming more so as the force and rapidity of his thrusting increased. In a way it was indecent, seeing his own face. It was almost as if he were doing it to himself. Except he wasn't.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes-"

With her sound, his own being faded and he saw only her as she threw back her head, her eyes closed, gripping him with her secret muscles, magnifying each stroke for both of them.

"More," she whispered. "More. Harder. Yes. Break me, Harry. Break me..."

He felt his pulse go up and the heat of her body grow against his. Both of them glistening with sweat. It was like before. In her bed in Rome. Spots danced in front of his eyes. His heart pounded. The sound of her breathing was like a roar overlapping the slap of their flesh as it came together. Again and again. And again. Then suddenly she cried out and he saw her head dip between her shoulders. At the same time he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. It felt like a cannon. One that kept on firing, round after round, all on its own, with no control at all. And then his knees buckled and he had to catch himself on the edge of the sink to keep from falling. And he knew there was nothing left.

For either of them.

68.

Hefei, China. City of Hefei, Anhui Province, Water Filtration Plant "A." Tuesday, July 14, 4:30 A.M A.M.

LI WEN ENTERED AS HE ALWAYS DID, THROUGH the front door, heavy leather briefcase in one hand, identification badge clipped to the lapel of his jacket, nodding to the half-asleep Chinese Army security officer sitting at a table just beyond. Then, opening another door, he turned down a hallway and walked by the main control room, where a lone female engineer kept one eye loosely on a back wall of gauges and meters that measured, among other things, pressure, turbidity, flow rates, and chemical levels, and the other on a magazine she was reading.

"Good morning," Li Wen said with authority. Instantly the magazine disappeared.

"Everything is in order?"

"Yes, sir."