Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [153]
Liars. They were all liars.
Why?
It was driving Roscani crazy. Every one of them risked going to jail and for a long time. Yet none of them had even begun to crack. Who, or what, were they protecting?
Leaving Veronique’s house, Roscani walked the street alone. The neighborhood was quiet, its residents still asleep. Lake Lugano stretching in the distance was also still, glassed over, from this distance not even a ripple. What was he doing out there? Looking for clues the others had missed? Once again becoming the bulldog of his father’s legacy? Going in circles until he had some kind of answer? Or, did he have a sense that this was where he should be? Like some kind of magnet drawn toward a pile of sawdust and a lost nail. Throwing off the notion, telling himself he was out there for the fresh air, for a moment of assoluta tranquillità, he pulled a battered cigarette pack from his jacket, once again twisted an unlit cigarette into the corner of his mouth, and turned back for the house.
Five paces later he saw it. It was on the edge of the road, under an overhanging bush that kept last night’s rain from soaking it through. A flat manila envelope with the impression of a tire tread on it.
Tossing away his cigarette, Roscani bent over and picked it up. More ragged than it had first appeared, it looked as if a wet tire had run over it, caught it up and turned it several revolutions before speed had thrown it off. There was an impression in its surface, as if something stiff and hard had once been inside.
Going back to the house, Roscani went inside and found Veronique Vaccaro—still incensed from her long night and the continued presence of the police—sitting in her kitchen in a bathrobe, one hand around a cup of coffee, the other drumming fingers on the table as if that in itself would make the authorities leave once and for all. Politely he asked for a hair dryer.
“It’s in the bathroom,” she said in Italian. “Why not use the bath, too, and take a nap in my bed.”
With a half smile at Castelletti as he passed him, Roscani went into Veronique’s bathroom, took down the hair dryer and played it over the envelope until it dried.
Castelletti came in and stood behind him, watching as Roscani smoothed the envelope on the edge of the sink, and pushed a pencil back and forth across it, as one might do in the creation of a rubbing. Little by little the image of what had been inside appeared.
“Jesus Christ.” Suddenly Roscani stopped.
Raised on the envelope in front of them were the highly select letters and number of a diplomatic license plate.
SCV 13
“Vatican City,” Castelletti said.
“Yeah,” Roscani looked at him. “Vatican City.”
118
Rome.
IT WAS JUST BEFORE FIVE IN THE MORNING and still dark when Danny signaled Harry to stop in front of Via Nicolò V, 22, an old, well-kept three-story apartment complex on a tree-lined street. Locking the Mercedes, Harry and Elena took Danny in his wheelchair up the small elevator to the top floor, where Danny took a set of keys from an envelope Father Bardoni had given him in Lugano. Choosing one, he opened the door to Piano 3a, a spacious rear apartment.
Once they were inside, Danny, visibly wearied from the long drive, had gone to bed. Then Harry, taking brief stock of the surroundings and warning Elena to let no one in but himself, left.
Following Danny’s instructions, he drove the Mercedes to a street several blocks away, where he removed the Vatican City license plates and replaced them with the original ones. Then, locking the keys inside, he walked off, the Vatican plates hidden inside his jacket. Fifteen minutes later, he was back at number 22 Via Nicolò V, taking