Day of Confession Part 37

Harry could feel the sweat on his upper lip. The pound of his heart. Slowly he turned the k.n.o.b. There was a click at the latch and then it opened. He saw the worn white tile of a bathroom floor and then the sink and a corner of the bathtub. Reaching up with his elbow, he pushed the door open the rest of the way.

Father Bardoni sat in the tub. He was naked. His eyes open, staring.

"Father?"

Harry stepped forward. His foot touched something. The priest's black-rimmed gla.s.ses were on the floor. Harry's eyes came back to the tub.

There was no water in it.

"Father?" he said under his breath, as if he hoped for a response of some kind. All he could think of was that the priest had started to take a bath and had had a heart attack or seizure of some kind before he'd had a chance to run the water.

One more step forward.

"OH, G.o.d!"

Harry's heart shot into his mouth, and he backed away quickly, staring wide-eyed in horror. Father Bardoni's left hand had been cut off at the wrist. There was hardly any blood at all. Just a stump where the hand used to be.

120.

Milan. Same time.

ROSCANI SAW THE RUNWAYS OF LINATE AIRPORT below them and at the same moment felt the helicopter begin to descend. Information had come at him in a rush even as he had left Lugano; more was coming in now. Castelletti and Scala, in the seats behind him, were alternately talking over the radio and compiling notes.

Curled in Roscani's hand was the piece he'd been waiting for, a brief but very telling fax from INTERPOL headquarters in Lyon, France. It read: French Intelligence has determined Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind is not in Khartoum, Sudan, as previously believed. Current whereabouts unknown. French Intelligence has determined Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind is not in Khartoum, Sudan, as previously believed. Current whereabouts unknown.

Immediately Roscani had an ARREST AND DETAIN order sent out from Gruppo Cardinale headquarters in Rome to all police agencies throughout Europe. Additionally, Thomas Kind's most recent photograph had been rushed to the worldwide media along with a brief, declaring Kind as a fugitive wanted by Gruppo Cardinale in connection with both the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome and the bombing of the a.s.sisi bus. The part about the bus had come to Roscani the moment he'd suspected Kind. It was his trademark, known to police and intelligence agencies worldwide, which he used time and again when he was in a position of employing trigger men instead of doing the job himself. It was simply "kill the killer"-let the man or woman do the job and then get rid of him or her as expeditiously as possible, leaving no channel back to Kind himself or to those who had hired him.

It was the reason for the Spanish Llama pistol found at the scene of the burned bus. Kind had put a killer onboard to get rid of Father Daniel and then he'd blown up the bus to eliminate the killer and leave no trace back. The trouble was the gunman's timing was off and it hadn't worked. But the gun and the blown bus together pointed right at Thomas Kind.

And now, with information Castelletti and Scala were getting from Milan, the police there were bringing things to a fast closure. Aldo Cianetti, the fas.h.i.+on designer found murdered on the Como-to-Milan section of the Autostrada, had been onboard the last hydrofoil from Bellagio and seen talking with a woman wearing a large straw hat-a woman a young Bellagio policeman recalled as having both an American pa.s.sport and accent-and had left the boat with her when it had docked in Como.

Meanwhile, investigators in Milan had moved out in a grid pattern from the street near the Palace Hotel where Cianetti's dark green BMW had been found. A short distance away was Milano Centrale, Milan's main railroad station. Time of death had been estimated at sometime between two and three in the morning. And police canva.s.sing ticket sellers on duty at the station between two and five A.M A.M. had found an outspoken middle-aged female railroad employee who had sold a ticket to a woman in a large straw hat just before four in the morning. The woman's destination had been Rome.

Woman? It had been no woman, it had been Thomas Kind.

There was a roar and light b.u.mp as the helicopter touched down. And then the doors were opened, and the three policemen were ducking under the rotor blades and running across the tarmac toward the chartered jet that would take them to Rome.

"The SCV 13 diplomatic plates are what we thought," Castelletti shouted as they ran. "One of the low-numbered plates a.s.signed to cars chauffeuring the pope or high-level cardinals. No one plate is designated to any person in particular. SCV 13 is currently a.s.signed to a Mercedes which is away from the Vatican grounds being serviced."

The Church.

The Vatican.

Rome.

The words pierced Roscani's mind. He heard the roar of jet engines and felt himself pushed back into his seat as the aircraft hurtled down the runway. In twenty seconds they were up and airborne, with the sound of the landing gear closing into the fuselage beneath them. What had begun with an investigation into the a.s.sa.s.sination of the cardinal vicar of Rome was returning there, full circle.

Loosening his seat belt, Roscani plucked the last cigarette from its tattered pack, put the empty pack back in his jacket pocket, then stuck the cigarette in his mouth and looked out. Here and there the sun glinted off something on the ground, a lake or a building, as all of Italy seemed to bask under a cloudless sky. It was an ancient land. Beautiful and serene, yet trampled endlessly by scandal and intrigue that operated on every level. Was any land or history free of it? He doubted it. But he was Italian, and the country beneath him his. And he was a policeman, charged with enforcing its laws and seeing justice done.

He saw Gianni Pio, his friend and partner and G.o.dfather to his children, as he was taken from his car, drenched in his own blood, his face shot away. Saw the bullet-riddled body of the cardinal vicar of Rome, and the burned hulk of the a.s.sisi bus. Remembered the butchery done by Thomas Kind in Pescara and Bellagio. And wondered what justice meant.

Yes, the crimes had been committed on Italian soil where he had the power to do something about them. But inside the Vatican walls he had no authority at all. And once his fugitives were behind them, there would be nothing he could do but turn his evidence over to Gruppo Cardinale's prosecutor, Marcello Taglia. Once he did, justice would no longer be his. Instead, it would belong to the politicians. And, in the long run, that would be the end of it. He remembered well Taglia's words about their investigation into the a.s.sa.s.sination of the cardinal vicar, warning of "the delicate nature of the whole thing and the diplomatic implications that could rise between Italy and the Vatican."

In other words, if it so chose, the Vatican could get away with murder.

121.

HARRY'S FIRST IMPULSE HAD BEEN TO GO back to where he'd left the Mercedes, break the window and retrieve the keys, and get Danny and Elena out of the apartment on Via Nicol V.

"He's dead. They mutilated him," he told Danny over the cell phone. "Who the h.e.l.l knows what he told them? They could be on the way there now!" Harry was half walking, half running, trying not to draw attention to himself as he came out of the alley behind Father Bardoni's apartment and turned down the street. Heading back the way he'd come.

"Harry," Danny said quietly. "Just come in. Father Bardoni would have told them nothing."

"How the h.e.l.l do you know?"

"-I just do..."

LESS THAN THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Harry came into the building. Carefully checking the entryway, he looked at the elevator, then took the front stairs, feeling they were safer than the little elevator box where he could be trapped.

Danny and Elena were in the living room when he came in. He could feel the tension and the electricity. For a moment no one said anything. Then Danny motioned toward the window.

"I want you to take a look, Harry."

Harry glanced at Elena, then went to the window.

"Look to the left, follow the wall," Danny said. "Far down is the top of a round brick tower. It's the Tower of San Giovanni, where Cardinal Marsciano is being held. He's in the center room halfway up on the far side. It has a gla.s.s door that goes out to a small terrace. It's the only opening in the wall."

The tower was perhaps a quarter of a mile away, and Harry could see the top of it clearly-a high, circular tower, turreted on top, made of the same ancient brick as the wall inside which it stood.

"We're the only ones left to do it," Danny said quietly.

Harry turned slowly.

"You and me and Sister Elena."

"Do-what?"

"Get Cardinal Marsciano out..." Whatever emotion Danny had shown earlier, when he couldn't reach Father Bardoni, he'd put away. Father Bardoni was dead; they had to move on.

Harry shook his head. "Uh-uh, not Elena..."

"I want to, Harry." Elena was looking directly at him. There was no doubt at all she meant it.

"Of course you do. Why wouldn't you?" Harry looked from Elena to Danny. "She's as crazy as you are."

"There's no one else, Harry... ," Elena said softly.

Abruptly Harry looked to Danny. "Why are you so certain we're safe here... that Father Bardoni didn't tell them?-I saw him, Danny. If it was me, I would have told them anything they wanted to know."

"You have to believe me, Harry..."

"It's not you. It's Father Bardoni. I don't have that much trust."

Danny looked at his brother for a long moment in silence; when he finally spoke it was in a way that tried to make Harry understand there was more to what he was saying than simply the words he was using.

"This apartment building belongs to the owner of one of the largest pharmaceutical manufacturers in Italy. All he had to know was that Cardinal Marsciano requested a private place for a few days and it was done with no questions..."

"What's that got to do with Father Bardoni?"

"Harry, the cardinal is one of the most beloved men in Italy.... Look who helped him, and at what risk to themselves. I..."-Danny hesitated, then went on-"I became a priest because I was as lost and confused after I came out of the marines as I was before I went in.... By the time I came to Rome, I was just as lost.... Then I met the cardinal, and he showed me a life that was inside me that I never knew existed. Over the years he guided me, encouraged me to find my own convictions, spiritual and otherwise.... The Church, Harry, became my family... and the cardinal I loved like a father.... It was the same for Father Bardoni. It's why he would have told them nothing..."

The image of Father Bardoni in the bathtub was too strong: a man being tortured yet saying nothing. Shaken and moved, Harry ran a hand through his hair and had to look away. When he did, his eyes found Elena's. They were tender and loving and told him she understood what Danny had said-and knew he was right.

"Harry-"

The sharpness of Danny's voice brought him around and back to his brother. It was only then he saw the television was on in the background.

"There is something else.... If I didn't believe it before, Father Bardoni's murder confirmed it.... Do you know what is going on in China?"

"A catastrophe, a lot of people dead. I don't know. I haven't exactly had a lot of time to watch the TV. What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"In Bellagio, Harry. When we were waiting in the truck for Sister Elena to come for us. You got a call on a cell phone.... It woke me.... I heard you say two names, Adrianna and Eaton."

"What about it?" Harry still didn't understand.

"Adrianna Hall. James Eaton."

Harry was both surprised and puzzled. "They were the people who helped me get to you. How the h.e.l.l do you know them?"

"It doesn't make any difference. What's important is that you get in touch with them both as fast as you can." Abruptly Danny moved his wheelchair toward his brother. "We have to stop what's going on in China."

"Stop what?" Harry didn't understand.

"They're poisoning the lakes, Harry.... One has already been done.... There are two more to go..."

"What? Who's poisoning the lakes? From what little I know, it was an act of nature."

"It's not," Danny said quickly, then glanced at Elena before looking back to Harry. "It's part of Palestrina's goal... for the Vatican to control China."

Harry felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "That was what the confession was about, wasn't it?..."

"It was a part of the confession..."

Elena crossed herself, "Mother Mary...," she said under her breath.

"A little while ago WNN ran a recap story on Hefei," Danny kept on, pressing strongly. "At two minutes and twenty-odd seconds past eight, there was a clip from the Hefei water-filtration plant-I know the time because I looked at my watch. In that clip was the face of a man who, if he isn't doing the poisoning, knows who is."

"How do you know that?" Harry whispered.

"I saw him last summer at a private retreat outside Rome. He was there with another man, waiting to see Palestrina. Not many Chinese are invited to a Vatican retreat." Danny was as intense as Harry had ever seen him.

"Adrianna Hall can roll the tape back to the second and find that picture. The man is short and standing to the left, and he's got a briefcase in his hand. When she has it, have her get it to Eaton as fast as she can."

"What is Eaton going to do with it? He's a minor emba.s.sy official."

"Harry, he's Rome station chief of the CIA."

"What?" Harry was dumbfounded.

Danny didn't waver. "I've been in Rome a long time, Harry.... Where I work, there are levels of international diplomacy where things are known.... Cardinal Marsciano has guided me into rooms most people would never know existed..."

Both Harry and Elena could see Danny's anguish. Bound by the Seal of Confession, he was jeopardizing his soul by revealing anything he had heard in it. Yet hundreds of thousands of lives were at stake, and he had to do something. And in doing it, he had to trust not in canon law, but in G.o.d.

Danny wheeled his chair back a little, never taking his eyes from Harry. "I want you to go out of the building now. Call Adrianna Hall first, and do it from a pay phone. Then go to another pay phone and call Eaton. Tell him what I told you and that Adrianna is getting him the footage. Tell him to inform Chinese Intelligence-tell him they have to find the man with the briefcase. Underline that speed is everything. Otherwise the people in Beijing are going to have a couple of hundred thousand more dead to answer for..."

Harry hesitated for the briefest moment, then his finger pointed off. "There's a phone right there, Danny. Why not tell Eaton yourself?"

"He can't know where I am or you are..."

"Why?"

"Because I'm still a U.S. citizen, and because a threat to China is a matter of national security. He'll want more from me, and he'll do whatever he has to do to get it.... Even if it means illegally taking all three of us into custody.... If he does"-Danny's voice faded to a hoa.r.s.e and exhausted whisper-"Cardinal Marsciano will die."

Elena saw the look in Harry's eyes. Saw him stare at his brother for a long time before he slowly nodded and said, "Okay." She knew in her heart Harry felt what they were doing was wrong, even ill advised. But she had also seen him accept without a word Danny's special reverence for Cardinal Marsciano, understanding why he would risk everything to save him.

By going along, Harry had not only shown his brother how much he loved him, but in doing so had made-possibly for the first time in their adult lives-their mission the same: slip into the venerable city, free the prince imprisoned in the tower, and then escape alive. It was gallant, medieval, foolhardy, and would have been difficult enough even with Father Bardoni's help. But Father Bardoni was dead, and so his part of the burden rested solely on Harry. And Elena could feel him trying to work it out, to determine where they were now, where they could go from here. Suddenly Harry glanced at her, holding her eyes for a moment, then opened the door and left, still dressed the way he had been most all the time she'd known him, as a priest.

122.

Beijing, China. Zhongnanhai Compound.

Still Thursday, July 16. 3:05 P.M P.M.

YAN YEH SPENT THE DAY IN HORROR. THE FIRST reports had begun coming in from Wuxi just before ten that morning. A dozen serious cases of uncontrolled nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting had been reported to number 4 People's Hospital within a fifteen-minute span. At nearly the same time, similar reports came in from the number 1 and number 2 People's Hospitals. By eleven-thirty the Hospital of Chinese Medicine was coordinating an epidemic. Seven hundred cases reported, two hundred and seventy-one deaths.

Immediately the water supply had been shut down, and emergency service personnel along with police put on alert. The city was on the verge of panic.

By one in the afternoon there were twenty thousand poisoned. And eleven thousand four hundred and fifty of those were dead. Among them were Yan Yeh's mother-in-law and two of her brothers. That much he had been able to find out. Where his wife and son were, or if they were dead or alive, he had no idea. Even the towering influence of Wu Xian, general secretary of the Communist Party, had proven ineffectual in trying to find out. But what had happened was enough. Pierre Weggen had been summoned to the Zhongnanhai Compound.

Now, just after three, with still no news of his family, a solemn, deeply shaken Yan Yeh sat down with his Swiss friend at a table with Wu Xian and ten other grim-faced ranking members of the Politburo. The conversation was brief and to the point. It had been agreed to let the Swiss investment banker bring together the consortium of companies he had earlier proposed to immediately begin a leviathan ten-year plan to thoroughly and completely rebuild China's entire system of water and power delivery. Haste and efficiency were everything. China and the world must know Beijing was still in control and doing everything possible to protect the future health and well-being of its people.

"Women shenme s.h.i.+hou neng nadao hetong?" Wu Xian said to Weggen, finally and quietly.