Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [45]
Marsciano had no idea how the others felt, but he was certain none despised his own weakness and fear more than he.
Once again he looked at his watch.
8:10
“Eminence.” Pierre Weggen approached with Yan Yeh. The president of the People’s Bank of China was quite short, and trim, his dark hair flecked with gray.
“You remember Yan Yeh,” Weggen said.
“Of course.” Marsciano smiled and took the Chinese banker’s hand firmly. “Welcome to Rome.”
They had met once before, in Bangkok, and except for a few terse moments when Palestrina had purposefully challenged the banker about the future of the Catholic Church in the new China and been told coldly, directly, and authoritatively that the time was not right for a rapprochement between Beijing and Rome, Marsciano had found Yan Yeh to be personable, outgoing, even witty, and with seeming genuine concern for the well-being of people, whoever they were.
“I think,” Yan Yeh said, a twinkle in his eye as he lifted a glass of red wine and touched it to Marsciano’s, “the Italians should give us Chinese a good lesson in wine making.”
Just then Marsciano saw the papal nuncio enter and approach Palestrina, taking him aside, away from the Chinese ambassador and foreign minister. The two spoke briefly, and he saw Palestrina glance his way before leaving the room. It was a small gesture, insignificant to anyone else. But for him it was everything, because it meant he had been singled out.
“Perhaps,” Marsciano said, turning back to Yan Yeh, “an arrangement could be made.” He smiled.
“Eminence.” The nuncio touched the cardinal’s sleeve.
Marsciano turned. “Yes, I know…. Where do you want me to go?”
27
MARSCIANO STOPPED BRIEFLY AT THE BOTtom of the stairway, then walked up. At the top, he turned down a narrow hallway, stopping at an elaborately paneled door. Turning the knob, he entered.
The late sun cut sharply through the lone window dividing the ornate meeting room in half. Palestrina stood on one side of it, partly in shadow. The person with him was little more than a silhouette, but Marsciano didn’t need to see him to know who it was. Jacov Farel.
“Eminence… Jacov.” Marsciano closed the door behind him.
“Sit down, Nicola.” Palestrina gestured toward a grouping of high-backed chairs that faced an ancient marble fireplace. Marsciano crossed the shaft of sunlight to do as he had been asked.
As he did, Farel sat down opposite him, crossing his feet at the ankles, buttoning his suit coat, then his gaze coming up to Marsciano’s and holding there.
“I want to ask you a question, Nicola, and I want you to answer with the truth.” Palestrina let his hand trail lightly across the top of a chair, then took hold of it and pulled it around to sit down directly in front of Marsciano. “Is the priest alive?”
Marsciano had known, from the moment Harry Addison declared the remains were not his brother’s, that it was only a matter of time before Palestrina came with his questions. He was surprised it had taken this long. But the interval had given him the chance to prepare himself as best he could.
“No,” he said, directly.
“The police believe he is.”
“They are wrong.”
“His brother disagreed,” Farel said.
“He merely said the body was not that of his brother. But he was mistaken.” Marsciano worked to seem dispassionate and matter-of-fact.
“There is a videotape in the possession of Gruppo Cardinale made by Harry Addison himself, asking his brother to give himself up. Does that sound like someone who was mistaken?”
For a moment Marsciano said nothing. When he did speak, it was to Palestrina and in the same tone as before. “Jacov was there beside me at the morgue when the evidence was presented and the identification made.” Marsciano turned toward Farel. “Is that not true,