Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [29]
And even if it did, then what? They would meet. Harry would explain what had happened. And he would be back to square one. This wasn’t simply about a misidentified corpse, it was about an investigation of murder on the highest levels. In no time, they would all be under an intense media spotlight, and he, his firm, his clients would make world news. No, he had to find another way. Come from the inside, ask the help of someone who already knew what was going on.
Again Harry looked at Pio’s card. Why not the Italian homicide investigator? They had developed a relationship of sorts, and Pio had encouraged further communication. He had to trust someone, and he wanted to believe he could trust Pio.
12:35
Someone in Pio’s office who spoke English said the ispettore capo was out but took Harry’s name and number, saying he would call back. That was all. That he would call back. No idea when.
12:55
What to do if Pio didn’t call? Harry didn’t know. The best he could do was put his faith in the policeman and his professionalism and hope he would call back sometime before six-thirty tomorrow morning.
1:20
Harry had taken a shower and was shaving when the phone rang. Immediately he picked the receiver from the mount over the sink, smearing it with Ralph Lauren gel.
“Mr. Addison—“
It was Jacov Farel.
“Something new has come up concerning your brother. I thought it might interest you.”
“What is it?”
“I’d rather you saw for yourself, Mr. Addison. My driver will pick you up and take you to a site near the scene of the bus explosion. I will meet you there. Will ten minutes give you enough time?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
THE DRIVER’S NAME was Lestingi or Lestini. Harry didn’t quite get the pronunciation, nor did he ask again, because the man apparently spoke no English. Dressed in aviator sunglasses, off-white polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes, Harry simply got into the rear seat of a maroon Opel and sat back as they drove off, staring at the blur of Rome as they wound through it.
The idea of another encounter with Farel was disturbing enough, but projecting what he might have found at the site of the explosion troubled Harry even more. Obviously, whatever it was would not be something in Danny’s favor.
Up front, Lestingi or Lestini, in the trademark black suit of Farel’s soldiers, slowed for a toll plaza, took a ticket, and accelerated out onto the Autostrada. Immediately the city fell away. Ahead were only vineyards and farms and open land.
As the Opel pushed north, with only the hum of its tires and the whine of its engine for sound, as they passed signs for the towns of Feronia, Fiano, and Civitella San Paolo, Harry thought about Pio and wished it had been he who had called him and not Farel. Pio and Roscani were tough policemen, but at least there was something human about them. Farel—with his presence and bulk and raspy voice and the way his glassy stare cut through you—seemed more like some kind of beast, ruthless and without conscience.
Maybe it was because he had to be. Maybe it was because, as he said, he was accountable for the safety of a nation—and of a pope. And maybe, over time, that kind of strain and responsibility unknowingly turned you into something that, at heart, you were not.
16
TWENTY MINUTES LATER FAREL’S DRIVER SWUNG off the Autostrada, paid the toll, and they moved off once more, turning onto a country highway, passing a gas station and a large building housing farm equipment. Then there was nothing but the road and cornfields on either side of it. They drove on, a mile, then two, then three. The bus had blown up on the Autostrada, and they were rapidly moving away from it.
“Where are we going?” Harry asked suddenly.
The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror and shook his head. “Non capisco inglese.”
In the last minutes they had passed no other traffic. Harry looked over his shoulder, then out through the windshield. The corn was lush, higher than the car. Dirt farm roads cut off left and right, but they kept on. Five