Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [149]
Harry could feel his legs turn to rubber. “You put it there…”
“It was a present, Harry. The only one I could give. You needed to trust in yourself, because that’s all any of us had. And you did. And you ran with it. You built your life around it. And you did a helluva job….” Danny eyes danced over Harry’s face, studying him. “Getting to Rome means everything to me, Harry…. I’m the one who needs a present now…. And you are the only one who can give it.”
For the longest moment Harry just stood there. Danny had reached into the pack and pulled out the trump card, the only one he had left. Finally Harry stepped back into the room and closed the door.
“How the hell are we going to get to Rome?”
“These…”
Danny picked up a flat manila envelope from the bedside table and slid out what was inside—long, narrow white license plates emblazoned with the black letters SCV 13.
“Vatican City plates, Harry. Diplomatic plates. Very low number. No one will stop a car with those on it.”
Slowly Harry looked up.
“What car?” he said.
113
5:25 P.M.
THE RABBI LOOK WAS OUT, THE PRIEST LOOK back in. Once again Father Jonathan Arthur Roe of Georgetown University, Harry was making his way through the rush-hour streets of Lugano, looking for the rented gray Mercedes Father Bardoni had supposedly left parked on Via Tomaso across the tracks and up the hill from the railroad station.
Following Veronique’s directions, he took the funicular up to the Piazza della Stazione and then crossed to the railroad station itself and went inside. Keeping his head down, doing his best to avoid looking at people directly, he worked his way through the crowds waiting for trains, trying to find a place where he could cross the tracks to the stairs leading up to Via Tomaso.
His mind was on Rome and getting there without getting caught. And what to do about Elena. It was a mental turmoil that left him totally unprepared for what happened next, as he turned a corner inside the station.
Uniformed police, six of them, suddenly materialized out of a crowd directly in front of him, walking forcefully toward a train that had just come into the station. But it wasn’t just the police—it was who they had with them: three prisoners in chains and handcuffs. The second, and now passing directly in front of Harry, was Hercules. The shackles were making it all but impossible for him to move on his crutches, but he was doing it anyway. And then he saw Harry, and their eyes met. Even as they did, he abruptly looked away, protecting Harry from any happened glance from the police that might make them single him out, wonder why he recognized one of their prisoners. And then they were gone, Hercules hustled with the others, up the steps and onto the train.
Harry saw him a moment later as one of the police took his crutches and helped him into a seat beside a window. Immediately, Harry pushed through the crowd, moving alongside the train toward the window. Hercules saw him coming and quickly shook his head, then looked away.
Station chimes sounded, and with Swiss precision the train moved off, leaving the station exactly on time. Heading south for Italy.
Harry turned away, stunned, absently looking for the stairs to Via Tomaso. The whole thing had taken no more than sixty seconds. Hercules had looked pale and resigned until he had seen Harry, and then everything seemed to change as he worked to protect him. For a moment at least, life and the fire of it, had seemed to come back to him. What he had regained, if fleetingly, had been a purpose.
Siena, Italy. Police headquarters. 6:40 P.M.
It had come to this. An unlit cigarette held between the fingers. Then, once in a while, snuggled into the corner of the mouth for a minute or two. But that, Roscani promised himself, was as far as it would go. No matter how much more frustrating or anxious things became from here on in, he would not go for the match. In a ceremonial gesture for himself, and just to make sure, he took the one packet of matches he had from his jacket pocket, tore one match off, then