Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [162]
Palestrina smiled easily. “The Holy Father has been asking for you, Eminence. He wanted to visit. I told him you were very weak, and that it was best that for the time being you rested.”
“No more deaths, Umberto,” Marsciano whispered. “You already have me. Stop the horror in China. Stop it and I will give you what you have wanted from the beginning…”
“—Father Daniel?” Palestrina smiled again, this time benevolently. “You told me he was dead, Nicola…”
“He is not. If I ask him, he will come here. Call off the last lake and you can do with us as you wish…. The secret of your ‘Chinese Protocol’ passing with us.”
“Very noble, Eminence. But, unfortunately, too late on both counts…” Palestrina turned to glance for a moment at the television, then he looked back.
“The Chinese have capitulated and have already asked for the contracts…. Even so”—Palestrina added, smiling distantly—“in war there is no pulling back; the campaign must be concluded according to plan…” Palestrina hesistated long enough for Marsciano to know any further argument would be in vain, and then he continued. “As for Father Daniel. No need to summon him, he is on his way to see you. May even be in Rome as we speak.”
“Impossible!” Marsciano shouted. “How could he even know I was here?”
Again Palestrina smiled. “Father Bardoni told him.”
“No! Never!” Marsciano was flushed with anger and outrage. “He would never give up Father Daniel.”
“But he did, Eminence…. Ultimately he became convinced that I was right and that you and the cardinal vicar were wrong. That the future of the Church is worth more than the life of one single man, no matter who he is—Eminence…” Palestrina’s smile faded. “Have no doubt, Father Daniel will come.”
Marsciano had never hated in his life. But he hated now, with everything in him.
“I do not believe you.”
“Believe what you wish…”
Slowly Palestrina slipped his hand into the pocket of his priest’s jacket and took out a dark velvet drawstring purse. “Father Bardoni sends his ring to you as proof…”
Setting the purse on the writing table next to Marsciano, Palestrina fixed his eyes on the cardinal, then turned and walked to the door.
Marsciano did not see Palestrina leave. Did not hear the door open or close, or even the click of the lock as it was turned. His eyes were frozen on the dark velvet pouch in front of him. Slowly, his hand trembling, he picked it up and opened it.
Outside, a gardener looked up sharply at the sound of a hideous scream.
125
10:42 A.M.
ROSCANI WALKED ALONE DOWN VIA INNOcenzo III. It was hot, and getting hotter as the sun moved higher overhead. In front of him was Stazione San Pietro. He’d stepped from the car a half block back, leaving Scala and Castelletti to go on to the station. They were to come in separately from either side, one arriving before Roscani, the other just afterward. They would be looking for Harry Addison, but doing nothing to apprehend him unless he ran. The idea was to give Roscani room to operate comfortably one on one with the fugitive, to keep the thing as easy and relaxed as it could be; but at the same time to position themselves in such a way that if he did bolt, one or the other would be in his path. There were no other police, no backups. It was what Roscani had promised.
Harry Addison had been good. His call had come into the Questura switchboard at ten-twenty. He’d said simply:
“My name is Harry Addison. Roscani is looking for me.”
Then he’d given his cell-phone number and hung up. No time to trace. Nothing at all.
Five minutes later Roscani called him from where he had been since his plane had touched down in Rome and he and Scala and Castelletti had rushed there—the crime scene in Father Bardoni’s apartment.
ROSCANI: This is Roscani.
HARRY ADDISON: We should talk.
ROSCANI: Where are you?
HARRY ADDISON: The train station at St. Peter’s.
ROSCANI: Stay there. I’ll meet you.
HARRY ADDISON: Roscani, come alone. You won’t know me, I look different. If I see any police, I’ll leave.
ROSCANI: Where in the station?