Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [150]
Two police researchers stationed in the hallway to assist Roscani saw him suddenly turn, pick up the telephone, and dial. He waited for a moment, then said something and hung up. Abruptly he stood up and walked across the room, an unlit cigarette put in his mouth, taken out, then put back in. Suddenly the phone rang. He turned and came back quickly, immediately picking it up. Nodding, he scrawled something on a piece of paper, underlined it, then said something brief and hung up. A half second later, he threw the cigarette into a wastebasket, snatched up the paper, and headed out the door.
“I need one of you to drive me to the helicopter pad,” he said as he came into the hallway.
“Where are you going?” The first researcher was already up and on his feet, moving with Roscani down the hallway.
“Lugano, Switzerland.”
114
Lugano. Same time.
A DARK GRAY MERCEDES WITH VATICAN CITY license plates and two priests in the front seat left Lugano in an early evening darkened by rain. Passing the hotels along the lakefront, the Mercedes turned onto Via Giuseppe Cattori, then headed west toward the N2 motorway that would take them south to Chiasso and then into Italy.
Elena sat in back, watching Danny give Harry directions as he read from a map in the glow of the light above the rearview mirror. There was tension between the brothers. She could see it and feel it. What it was exactly she didn’t know, and Harry hadn’t mentioned it, only given her the opportunity to stay behind, but she had refused. Where the brothers were going, she was going. It was a given, and she told Harry so, reminding him she was a nurse and Father Daniel was still in her care. Moreover, she was Italian and they were going back into Italy and, if Harry didn’t remember, that was something that had proven beneficial more than once in the past. And when Harry smiled ever so slightly at her pluck and determination, it was clear she was coming with them.
As they reached the motorway, Danny abruptly reached up and shut off the map light, settling back out of sight as he did. Suddenly Harry was the only one Elena could see.
Lighted by the dim of the instrument panel, he became the entire focus of her attention. The tense movement of his fingers over the steering wheel. His concentration on the road in front of him. That same aura of uneasiness grew as he sat back, then leaned forward again against the restraint of the seat harness, a discomfort not with the car but with where it was going. Rome, it was obvious, was not his idea.
“Are you all right?” Harry asked quietly.
Elena looked up and saw he was watching her in the mirror.
“Yes…” Her eyes fastened on his, and they studied each other in silence.
“Harry.” Danny’s voice suddenly warned over the metronome of the wipers.
Instantly Harry’s eyes left Elena and went to the road. The traffic in front of them was slowing. Then came the distinct pink-white glow of mercury-vapor lamps against the turbid night sky.
“The Italian border.” Danny sat up, alert, attentive.
Elena saw Harry’s hands tighten on the wheel. Felt the Mercedes slow as he touched the brakes. Then he glanced at her once more, his eyes holding for the briefest instant before he looked back to the road ahead.
115
Beijing. Thursday, July 16.
PIERRE WEGGEN’S BLACK CHAUFFER-DRIVEN limousine entered Zhongnanhai Compound, the private complex where China’s most preeminent leaders resided, shortly after one in the morning. Five minutes later, the Swiss investment banker was being shown into a large living room in the home of Wu Xian,