Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [143]
OFFENSES: Murder, kidnapping, bombing, taking of hostages, aircraft hijacking.
NATIONALITY: Ecuador.
Roscani skipped down.
TRAITS: Master of disguise. Multilingual, esp. Italian, French, Spanish, Arabic, Farsi, English, American English. Highly individualistic. Works alone. Nonetheless, has extensive terrorist connections worldwide.
OTHER: Self-styled revolutionary.
LAST RESIDENCE: Khartoum, Sudan.
FINAL COMMENTS: Excessive sociopath. Killer for hire. Available to highest bidder.
Those were the official profile notes. Hand scrawled on the bottom was a more personal message:
“Subject is not known to have traveled outside Sudan.
Per your request French Intelligence is investigating.
Will notify immediately on confirmation.”
“I can tell you right now,” Roscani said to himself as he folded the slim dossier and put it on the seat beside him, “he’s not in Sudan, he’s in Italy.”
Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a large piece of biscotti wrapped in plastic and secured by a rubber band. Opening it, he bit into it with the same absent abruptness he would have used to light a cigarette, his thoughts going to the Milan city morgue, where he’d been a half hour earlier.
The body of one Aldo Cianetti, age twenty-six, a fashion designer, had been found in the storage closet of a women’s washroom at a service-station stop on the A9 Autostrada halfway between Como and Milan. His throat had been cut and the wound stuffed with paper towelettes. Four hours later Cianetti’s new, dark green BMW was found parked near the Palace Hotel in Milan.
“Thomas Kind,” Roscani had said to no one in particular. Investigators might prove him wrong, but he doubted the killer was anyone but his ice picker/razor man. Somehow he had avoided the Gruppo Cardinale dragnet and made it from Bellagio to Milan, along the line hitching a ride with the young Cianetti and then killing him. And where had he gone from Milan? Or was he still there, hiding?
But the larger question was why he had come back into Italy and the heat of an all-out police hunt when as easily he could have crossed into the relative safety of Switzerland and moved on from there. Why? What was so important in Italy that he risk everything?
Lugano, Switzerland. 2:00 P.M.
Harry pulled back a chair, and Elena sat down. “Thank you,” she said, still without looking at him. The table setting was for two, with fresh melon and prosciutto and a small carafe of red wine. Veronique had ushered them out onto the covered bougainvillaea-framed terrace after they had fed Danny and put him to bed in a room on the floor above where they were now. Demanding they sit down and eat, she had gone quickly back inside, leaving them alone for the first time since the night before, when Elena had been in Harry’s room.
“What happened between you and your brother?” Elena asked as Harry sat down opposite her. “You had words. I could tell the way you both reacted when I came back into the room.”
“It was nothing. Brothers being brothers, that’s all…. We hadn’t talked in a long time…”
“If I were in your position, I would have talked about the police. And I would have talked about the killing of the cardinal vicar of—“
“You’re not in my position, though, are you?” Harry cut her off sharply. What had gone on between his brother and him was something he didn’t care to share with her. Not right now, anyway.
Elena looked at him briefly, then, demurring, picked up her knife and fork and began to eat. As she did, a slight breeze picked up her hair, and she had to reach up with one hand to settle it.
“—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that…. There are just things that…”
“You should eat something, Mr. Addison….” Elena kept her eyes on the plate in front of her. Cutting a small slice of melon, she did the same with a piece of prosciutto, then very slowly set the utensils down and looked up and quietly changed the subject.
“I want to… apologize for—last night…”
“It’s all right,” Harry said gently. “You only said what you felt.”
Elena’s eyes held his. “Still, I am sorry…”
“Look—” Harry