Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [104]
“A relative of Michael Roark,” Edward Mooi said quietly.
“No, he is not.” Elena had already made up her mind when she said it. There was no fear, only anger at not having been told earlier, by Luca or Marco or Pietro or by her own mother general.
“There is no Michael Roark, or if there is, the man in there is not him.” She pointed off, back toward the room where her patient slept. “He is Father Daniel Addison, the Vatican priest wanted for the murder of Cardinal Parma.”
“He is in danger, Sister Elena, that’s why he’s here…”—Edward Mooi spoke calmly—“why he was given a new identity and moved as he was…”
Elena stared at him. “Why are you protecting him?”
“We were asked…”
“By whom?”
“Eros Barbu…”
“A world-famous writer is safeguarding a murderer?”
Edward Mooi said nothing.
“Luca knew and the others? My mother general?” Elena stared, incredulous.
“I… don’t know….” Edward Mooi’s eyes narrowed. “What I do know is that the police are watching everything we do. That’s why I asked you to go into Bellagio. If any of us went and met this priest, they would either arrest us all on the spot or wait and see where we went.”
“This priest,” Sister Elena said, “is Father Addison’s brother. Yes?”
“I think he is.”
“And you want me to bring him here…”
Edward Mooi nodded. “By land there is another way in that I will show you…”
“What if, instead, I went to the police?”
“You don’t know for certain Father Daniel is a murderer…. And I have seen how you care for him….” Edward Mooi’s eyes were those of a poet. Fierce, yet at the same time trusting and sincere. “He is your charge, you will not go to the police.”
73
Villa Lorenzi. 6:00 A.M.
HAIR DISHEVELED, BAREFOOT, AND IN A BATHrobe, Edward Mooi stood in the doorway of the caretaker’s cottage and simply shrugged his shoulders, letting Roscani and his army—Gruppo Cardinale special agents, heavily armed uniformed carabinieri, along with an Italian army canine unit, five Belgian Malinois dogs and their handlers—have their second run at Villa Lorenzi.
Again they searched the palace-like main house, the adjoining sixteen-bedroom guest wing, the wing opposite, which was Eros Barbu’s private quarters, the basements and sub-basements. The Malinois led them everywhere, hunting the scent of clothing flown in from Rome, and taken from Father Daniel’s apartment on Via Ombrellari and from Harry Addison’s belongings left behind at the Hotel Hassler.
Afterward they combed the huge domed structure behind the main residence, which housed the indoor swimming pool and tennis courts and, on the second floor, the immense, gilt-ceilinged, grand ballroom. And then the eight-car garage, the servants’ apartments, the twin, single-story maintenance buildings, and finally, the three-quarter-acre greenhouse.
Roscani walked through it all. Tie loosened, shirt open at the collar against the early heat. One room after another, one building after another, directing the operation, alert to the actions of the dogs, opening closet doors himself, looking for access panels, looking between walls, under floors—his personal attention given to everything. At the same time his mind kept coming back to the murders in Pescara and the man with the ice pick. Who he was, might be. And in that, he sent an urgent request to INTERPOL headquarters in Lyon, France, for a list of terrorists and killers still at large thought to be in Europe; the list to include suspected whereabouts and, where possible, a personality profile.
“HAVE YOU SEEN ENOUGH, Ispettore Capo?” Edward Mooi was still in his bathrobe.
Roscani looked up, suddenly aware of where he was and of both men standing at the top of a flight of stairs inside Villa Lorenzi’s boathouse. Outside, the morning sun painted a bright, shimmering surface across the still of the lake, while below, in semidarkness, two of the Belgian Malinois sniffed and grumbled at the gunwales of a large motorboat moored at the dock, their handlers letting them do as they pleased, four armed carabinieri watching closely as they did. Roscani turned to watch,