Day of Confession Part 23

Li Wen stared at her a moment longer, letting her know he was not pleased with the magazine business. Then, with a definitive nod, he turned, pushed through a door and went down a long flight of steps to the filter area on the floor below, a long, concrete reinforced room where the final stages of filtration took place before the water was pumped into the clear well for outflow into the city's water mains. The area was below ground level and felt immediately cool compared to the heat and humidity of the outdoors and even of the upper level.

The plant had been shut down for nearly six months for upgrading three years earlier but still had no air-conditioning. That, it was said, would be left for the new plant, the one to be built after the turn of the century. It was the same with most water-treatment and -filtration plants throughout China. They were old, and most in disrepair. Some, like this one, had been upgraded when the great water wheel in Beijing finally turned and the central committee provided funds. Small funds with big promises for the future.

What was true was that in some places the future had already arrived; and new ventures with western construction and engineering firms, such as the Sino-French hundred-and-seventy-million-dollar drinking-water plant in the city of Guangzhou, or the ma.s.sive thirty-six-billion-dollar Three Gorges dam project along the Yangtze River, were well under way. But in the main, water-delivery and water-filtration plants across China were old, some bordering on the ancient, with hollowed-out trees serving as conduit pipes, hobbling along at best.

And at certain times of the year-as now, in the middle of summer when the long hot days provided ideal growing conditions for sun-fed algae and its accompanying biological toxins-the filtration plants became nearly ineffectual, providing little more than putrid lake or river water to the taps of Chinese homes.

It was, of course, why Li Wen was here-to oversee the quality of water flowing from Chao Lake, Hefei's primary water source to the city of a million. It was a job he had been doing day in and day out for nearly eighteen years. Eighteen years of never realizing money could be made from it. Real money, enough to flee the country and at the same time wreak havoc against a government he despised; a government that in 1957 had branded his father a "counterrevolutionary" when he protested against the corruption and abuses of power inside the Communist Party and had imprisoned him in a labor camp, where he died three years later, when Li Wen was five. Li grew up revering his father's memory while dutifully caring for a mother who never recovered from her husband's death or the public scorn surrounding his imprisonment. Li Wen had become a hydrobiological engineer only because he had an apt.i.tude for science and simply followed the path of least resistance. Outwardly he seemed soft and faceless, a man without pa.s.sion or emotion. Inwardly, he burned with rage against the state, secretly belonging to a group of Taiwanese sympathizers dedicated to the overthrow of the Beijing regime, and to the return of Nationalist rule to the mainland.

Unmarried and always traveling, he counted as his closest friend Tong Qing, an uninhibited, twenty-five-year-old computer programmer-artist he had met two years earlier in an underground meeting in Nanjing. It was she who had introduced him to the persuasive flower merchant Chen Yin, whom he had liked immediately. Through Chen Yin's familial connections in the central government, he had been able to travel widely, a hydrobiologist visiting various water treatment plants in Europe and North America to see how other governments did things. And through Chen Yin he had met Thomas Kind, who had taken him to the villa outside Rome where he had briefly met the man on whose mission he now worked-a giant of a man who dressed as a priest and whose name he was never told, but a man of power and position who had a unique design for the future of the People's Republic.

That meeting alone set Li Wen's entire future in motion, making the past year more exhilarating than any he'd ever known. At last and finally, he would avenge his father's death and he would be paid handsomely to do it. And afterward, through Chen Yin, he would be spirited out of the country and into Canada, with a new ident.i.ty and a new life. There to sit and watch gleefully as the years turned and the government that had robbed him of his childhood, the government he so profoundly abhorred, slowly crumbled at the hands of the ardent revolutionary from Rome.

SETTING HIS HEAVY BRIEFCASE on a wooden bench, Li Wen looked back across the room toward the door through which he had come in. Certain he was alone, he approached one of the four two-foot-square cutouts where he could look directly into the treated water being pumped into the city's water mains. The water ran fast, but instead of being clear as it was in the winter months, it was cloudy and putrid smelling, the result of the summer heat and the buildup of sun-fed algae in Lake Chao. This was the thing the government had done nothing about, and the thing he was counting on.

Turning, he went quickly back to his briefcase. Opening it, he slipped on a pair of thin surgical gloves and then opened its large, insulated, inner compartment. A half dozen frozen gray-white "s...o...b..a.l.l.s" sat in what looked like a Styrofoam egg crate, their coats just beginning to melt, glistening in the overhead light.

Glancing again at the door, Li Wen picked the egg crate from the case and carried it to the cutouts above the flowing water. Picking up the first "s...o...b..ll," he reached over the side and dropped it in, feeling a triumphant flutter of his heart as he did. Then quickly he did the same with the rest, dropping them in one by one, and watching them whirl away to vanish in the swift flow of murky water.

As quickly, he turned back, put the egg crate and gloves in his briefcase and closed it. Then crossing to the cutouts once more, he lifted a vial from a metal case on the wall and took a sample of the water, then quietly went about the business of testing for what he was certain was its government-acceptable "purity."

69.

Bellagio, Lake Como, Italy.

Monday, July 13, 10:40 P.M P.M.

HARRY PICKED UP THE SMALL SUITCASE Adrianna had given him when he'd left the hotel in Como and walked with the handful of other late-night pa.s.sengers off the hydrofoil and up the landing toward the street. Ahead was the Navigazione Lago di Como ticket booth, unmanned at this hour and overhung by the dense summer foliage of the lakeside trees around it. Past it, he could see the lighted street and across it the Hotel Du Lac. Another minute, two at the most, and he would be there.

The trip from Como-with stops at the small towns of Argegno, Lezzeno, Lenno, and Tremezzo-had been nerve-wracking. At each stop Harry had fully expected armed police to come onboard, checking the ident.i.ty of travelers. But none had. And finally, after the stop in Tremezzo, with Bellagio next, Harry started to relax like the rest of the pa.s.sengers. For the first time in as long as he could remember, there was no sense of danger. No sense of being hunted. Nothing but the sound of the motors and the rush of water under the hull.

It was the same now as he walked up the landing behind the others, the way he might as a tourist, another pa.s.senger walking off a boat and into a lazy summer's night. He was tired, he realized, emotionally and physically. He wanted to lie down and turn off the world and sleep for a week. But this was hardly the place. He was in Bellagio. The heart of the Gruppo Cardinale search. And it wasn't only Danny they were looking for. He needed to be more guarded and alert than ever.

"Mi scusi, Padre."

Two uniformed policemen suddenly stepped out of the darkness. They were young and had Uzis slung over their shoulders.

The first policeman stepped smartly in front of him. Harry stopped, and the other pa.s.sengers pushed around him, leaving him alone with the police.

"Come si chiama?"-What is your name?-he asked.

Harry looked from one to the other. This was it. He either crossed the line and played the role Eaton had set for him, or he didn't.

"Come si chiama?"

He was still thin, more gaunt than the Harry Addison in the video. Still wore the beard in the pa.s.sport photo. Maybe it was enough.

"I'm sorry," he said, smiling. "I don't speak Italian."

"Americano?"

"Yes." He smiled again.

"Step over here, please." The second policeman said in English. Harry followed them across the walkway and into the light of the boat-ticket booth.

"You have a pa.s.sport?"

"Yes, of course."

Harry reached into his jacket, felt his fingers touch Eaton's pa.s.sport. He hesitated.

"Pa.s.saporto." The first policeman said, brusquely.

Slowly Harry took the pa.s.sport out. Handed it to the policeman who spoke English. Then watched as one and then the other studied it. Across the street, almost within touching distance, was the hotel, the sidewalk cafe in front of it busy with nightlife.

"Sacco."

The first officer nodded at his bag, and Harry gave it to him without hesitation. At the same time, he saw a police car pull up in front of the hotel and stop, the man at the wheel looking in their direction.

"Father Jonathan Roe." The second policeman closed Harry's pa.s.sport and held it.

"Yes."

"How long have you been in Italy?"

Harry hesitated. If he said he'd been in Rome or Milan or Florence or anywhere else in Italy, they would ask where he had stayed. Any place he named, if he could even think of one, could be easily checked.

"I came in by train from Switzerland this afternoon."

Both policemen watched him carefully, but said nothing. He prayed they wouldn't demand a ticket stub or ask where he had been in Switzerland.

Finally, the second spoke. "Why have you come to Bellagio?"

"I'm a tourist. I've wanted to come here for years.... Finally"-he smiled-"got the chance."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Hotel Du Lac."

"It's late. Do you have a reservation?"

"One was made for me. I certainly hope so..."

The policemen continued to watch him, as if they weren't certain. Behind them he could see the driver of the police car watching, too. The moment was excruciating, yet there was nothing for him to do but stand there and wait for them to make the next move.

Suddenly the second policeman handed him his pa.s.sport.

"Sorry to have bothered you, Father."

The first gave him his bag and then both stepped back, motioning for him to go on.

"Thank you," Harry said. Then, sliding the pa.s.sport into his jacket, he shouldered the bag and walked past them and up to the street. Waiting for a motor scooter to pa.s.s, he crossed to the hotel, knowing all too well the men in the police car were still watching him.

At the front desk, as the night clerk approached to register him, he took the chance and looked back. As he did, the police car pulled away.

70.

A HANDSOME MAN WITH CLEAR BLUE EYES sat at a back table along the sidewalk cafe of the Hotel Du Lac. He was in his late thirties and wore loose-fitting jeans and a light denim s.h.i.+rt. He had been there for most of the evening, relaxing, occasionally taking a sip from his beer, and watching the people pa.s.s by in front of him.

A waiter in a white s.h.i.+rt and black trousers stopped and gestured at his nearly empty gla.s.s.

"Ja, "Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind said, and the waiter nodded and left.

Thomas Kind no longer looked as he had. His jet-black hair had been dyed strikingly blond as had his eyebrows. He seemed Scandinavian or an aging but still very fit California surfer. His pa.s.sport, however, was Dutch. Frederick Voor, a computer software salesman who lived at 95 Bloemstraat, Amsterdam, was how he had registered at the Hotel Florence earlier that day.

Despite the Gruppo Cardinale's announcement some three hours earlier that the fugitive American priest, Father Daniel Addison, was no longer being sought in Bellagio and that his reported sighting there had been deemed erroneous, the roads in and out of town were still being closely watched. It meant the police hadn't given up entirely. Nor had Thomas Kind. He sat where he did out of experience, observing the people who came and went from the hydrofoils as they landed. It was a basic concept that went back to his days as a young revolutionary and a.s.sa.s.sin in South America. Know who you were looking for. Choose a place he would most probably have to pa.s.s through. Then, taking with you the arts of observation and patience, go there and wait. And tonight, like so many times before, it had worked.

Of all the people who had pa.s.sed by in the hours he had been there, the most interesting, by far, was the bearded priest in the black beret who had arrived on the late hydrofoil.

THE NEARLY BALD, middle-aged night porter opened the door to room 327, turned on a bedside lamp, then set Harry's bag on a luggage rack next to it and handed Harry the key.

"Thank you." Harry reached in his pocket for a tip.

"No, Padre, grazie." The man smiled, then abruptly turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him as he did. Locking it-a habit now-Harry took a deep breath and glanced around the room. It was small and faced the lake. The furnis.h.i.+ngs were well used but hardly shabby. A double bed, chair, chest of drawers, writing table, a phone, and a television.

Pulling off his jacket, he went into the bathroom. Turning on the water, he let it run cold, then wet his hand and ran it over the back of his neck. Finally he raised his head and saw his face in the mirror. The eyes were not the same as those that had peered so intently into another mirror in what seemed a lifetime ago, watching as he made love to Adrianna; they were different, frightened, alone, yet somehow stronger and more determined.

Abruptly, he turned from the mirror and walked back into the room, glancing at his watch as he did.

11:10.

Crossing to the bed, he opened the small suitcase Adrianna had given him. In it was something the police had overlooked in their hasty search of the bag. A page torn from a notepad of the Hotel Barchetta Excelsior in Como, with the telephone number of Edward Mooi.

Picking up the bedside phone, he hesitated, then dialed. He heard it ring. Once, twice. On the third, someone picked up.

"p.r.o.nto," a male voice answered.

"Edward Mooi, please-I'm sorry to be calling so late."

There was a silence, then: "This is Edward Mooi."

"My name is Father Jonathan Roe from Georgetown University. I'm an American. I just arrived in Bellagio."

"I don't understand..." The voice was guarded.

"It's about the hunt for Father Daniel Addison.... I've been watching television-"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"As an American priest, I thought I might be able to help where others couldn't."

"I'm sorry, Father. I don't know anything. It's all been a mistake. If you'll excuse me..."

"I'm at the Hotel Du Lac. Room three-two-seven."

"Goodnight, Father."

CLICK.

Slowly Harry clicked off his own phone.

Harry heard the thinnest crackle of static just before Edward Mooi hung up. It confirmed what he had feared. The police had been listening.

71.

Bellagio. Tuesday, July 14, 4:15 A.M A.M.

NURSING SISTER ELENA VOSO STOOD IN THE grotto's main tunnel listening to the lap of water against the granite walls, hoping Luca and the others would come back.

Above her, the ceiling rose at least twenty feet, maybe more. And the wide corridor beneath it stretched another hundred to the ca.n.a.l and boat landing at the far end. Rudimentary benches, now fractured and worn by the years, had been hacked out of the natural stone walls and ran the full length of it on either side. Two hundred people could sit there easily. She wondered if that had been the purpose for cutting the benches in the first place, as a site for numbers of people to hide. If so, who had done it, and when? The Romans? Or peoples before them or after? Whatever its origin, the cave or really series of caves, as one chamber opened onto another, was now wholly modern-with electricity, air vents, plumbing, telephones, a small kitchen and large central living room, off of which ran at least three private suites, decorated luxuriously and complete with opulent baths, ma.s.sage rooms, and sleeping quarters. Somewhere there, too, though she hadn't seen it, was what was supposedly one of the most extensive wine cellars in all of Europe.

They had been brought there Sunday night by the soft-spoken, erudite Edward Mooi, moments after their arrival at Villa Lorenzi. Alone and at the wheel of a sleek, shallow-bottomed motorboat, Mooi had taken them south in darkness. Hugging the lake's sh.o.r.eline for a good ten minutes, he had finally turned in through a narrow cut in what seemed the solid wall of a sheer cliff, then navigated through a tangle of rocks and overhanging foliage into the mouth of the cave itself.

Once inside, he had turned on the boat's powerful searchlight and taken them through a maze of waterways until they reached the landing, a thirty-foot platform cut out of the stone at the far end of the tunnel where she stood. Then their supplies had been unloaded and she and Michael Roark brought to the suite where he was now, two large rooms-one, a bedroom where she slept, the other a small living-entertaining area where Michael Roark was settled-the s.p.a.ces divided by an ornate bathroom cut from the cavern walls and inlaid with marble and accented with gold fixtures.

The cave, or grotto grotto, Mooi had told them, was on property belonging to Villa Lorenzi and had been discovered years earlier by its celebrated owner, Eros Barbu. His first venture had been to turn it into an immense wine cellar, and then he'd added the apartments, the construction done by workers imported from a villa he owned in southern Mexico and afterward returned there. It was a way of keeping the cave's existence secret, especially from the locals. At age sixty-four, Eros Barbu was not only a highly successful and distinguished author but was equally celebrated as a man whose legend mirrored his name; his subterranean grotto becoming an intimate and most discreet destination for erotic dalliance with some of the world's most beautiful and prominent women.

But whatever the grotto's history, for Elena it now held only fear and aloneness. She could still see Luca Fanari's eyes bulging in horror and rage as he took the call. His wife was dead, tortured, her body left to burn to cinders in a fire that ravaged the apartment where they had lived all of their married life. Moments after hanging up, Luca was gone, returning to Pescara for her funeral and to be with their three children. Marco and Pietro had gone with him.

"G.o.d bless you," she had told them as they left for Bellagio and the first hydrofoil to Como, taking the only transportation they had-a small, outboard-powered dinghy.