Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [39]
Abruptly a male voice beside him spoke sharply in Italian—the same man, he thought, who had argued about the earphone while trying to fit it. A moment later, a hand shoved him from behind and he nearly stumbled. His recovery cleared his thoughts enough to tell him that while his hands were still bound behind him, his feet had been freed. He was walking on his own, and he thought he could hear traffic. His mind cleared to another level, telling him that if he could walk, he could run. The hand shoved him again. Hard. And he fell, crying out as he hit the ground and felt his face scrape the pavement. He tried to roll over, but a foot stamped on his chest, holding him there. Somewhere nearby came the sound of a man straining, then there was a clank, and he heard something heavy, like iron scraping stone, sliding past his ear. Then he was lifted up by his shoulders and put over an edge. His feet touched steel and he was forced down the rungs of a ladder. Instantly what little light there was faded, and stench dominated everything.
A second male voice farther off cursed and then echoed. There was the sound of rushing water. The smell was overpowering. And then Harry knew. He’d been brought into the sewer. An exchange came in Italian.
“Prepararsi?”
“Si.”
Harry felt a jarring between his wrists. There was a snap, and his hands came free.
CLICK. The unmistakable metallic sound of a gun being cocked.
“Sparagli. “Shoot him.
In reflex reaction Harry stepped backward, throwing his hands in front of his face.
“Sparagli!”
Immediately there was a thundering explosion. Something slammed into his hand. Then his head. The force threw him backward into the water.
Harry did not see the face of the gunman who stepped over him. Or of the other man who held the flashlight. Harry did not see what they saw; the enormous volume of blood covering the left side of his face, matting his hair, a trickle of it washing away in the flow of water.
“Morto,” a voice whispered.
“Si.”
The gunman knelt down and rolled Harry’s body over the edge into a deeper, faster rush of water, then watched as it floated away.
“I topi faranno it resto.”
The mice will finish it.
24
The Questura, police headquarters.
HARRY ADDISON SAT THERE, A BANDAGE OVER his left temple, dressed in the off-white polo shirt, jeans, and aviator sunglasses he wore when he left the Hotel Hassler at little after one-thirty yesterday afternoon. Nearly thirty hours earlier.
The fifteen-second video of the fugitive Harry Addison had come anonymously to Sala Stampa della Santa Sede, the press office of the Holy See, at 3:45 that afternoon, with a request it be sent immediately to the pope. Instead it had been put on a shelf and not opened until approximately 4:50. Immediately it had been sent to Farel’s office and, after being viewed by a junior staff member, sent to Farel himself. By six o’clock Farel, Gruppo Cardinale prosecutor Marcello Taglia, Roscani, along with Castelletti and Scala, the homicide detectives assigned to Pio’s murder, and a half dozen others were sitting in the dark of a video room viewing it together.
“Danny, I’m asking you to come in…. To give yourself up.” Harry spoke in English, and an interpreter from Roscani’s office translated into Italian.
As far as they could tell, Harry was sitting on a wooden stool in a darkened room, alone. The wall behind him appeared to be covered with a textured and patterned wallpaper. That and Harry, his dark glasses, and the bandage on his forehead were all that was visible.
“They know everything…. Please, for me…. Come in… please…. Please…“There was a pause and Harry’s head started to come up as if to say something more, then the tape abruptly ended.
“Why wasn’t I told the priest might still be alive?” Roscani looked at Taglia and then Farel as the lights came up.
“I learned of it only moments before this video was brought to my attention,” Farel said. “The incident happened yesterday, when the American asked that the casket be opened, and when it was, swore the remains