Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [59]
“Where could they have gone?” Roscani turned to a tall, mustached Metro official.
“Anywhere. In this section there are many original tunnels, for one reason or another no longer in use.”
Roscani hesitated. The stations at either end of this part of the tunnel had been shut down, passengers taken out and shifted to buses under the close eye of a phalanx of police. But it was only a matter of time before the entire Metro would begin to suffer from the closing.
“There are maps of these tunnels?”
“Yes.”
“Get them.” He looked to Scala. “Go to Mr. Addison’s hotel room. Find something he has worn recently, something not laundered. Bring it back here as quickly as you can.”
Scala looked back. He understood. “You want dogs.”
“Yes.”
HARRY MOVED QUICKLY along the sidewalk, already sweating with the July heat. Leaving the area of the café was one thing. His picture stared out from newspapers on every kiosk he passed. It was not only frightening, it was bizarre, as if he had been transported to another planet where everyone on it was looking for him. Suddenly he stopped, thunderstruck at the sound of his own voice. He was passing an electronics store. In the window was a bank of televisions. Large screen to small. And he was on every one of them, wearing dark glasses and sitting on a stool, dressed in the sport coat he had left behind with Hercules. His voice was coming from a small speaker just above the front door.
“Danny, I’m asking you to come in…. To give yourself up…. They know everything…. Please, for me…. Come in… please…. Please…”
Now the picture cut to an interior of a television station. A male broadcaster sat at a news desk speaking in Italian. He heard his name and Danny’s. Then there was a video clip of the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome. Police were everywhere, ambulances, a glimpse of Farel, a brief shot of the Holy Father’s car as it sped him from the scene.
Suddenly Harry was aware of other people standing on the sidewalk watching the televisions. Turning his head, he moved away. Dazed. Where had the video come from? Vaguely he remembered the business with the earphone, someone talking into it. Vaguely remembered repeating what was said, then thinking something was wrong and trying to do something about it. Then being hit and everything going black again. Now he realized what it was. He had been tortured to reveal Danny’s whereabouts, and when they realized he didn’t know, they’d forced him into making the video, then taken him away to kill him.
Stepping off a curb, he waited for a car to pass, then crossed the street. The photos in the newspapers had been bad enough, but now his face was on every television screen in the country. Maybe even worldwide. Thank God for the dark glasses. They had to have helped some in disguising him. At least a little.
Directly ahead was an arched portal in an ancient wall. It reminded him of a similar wall near the Vatican that Farel’s driver had taken him through on the way to meet the Vatican policeman. He wondered if this was the same wall, if he was close to the Vatican itself. He didn’t know Rome, he’d simply popped out of a subway station somewhere in the middle of it and started walking. It was no good; he could be going in circles for all he knew.
Abruptly he walked into the deep shade of the portal. For an instant the shade and cool were a relief from the bright sun and July heat. Then he reached the far side and stepped back into the sunlight again. As he did, and for the second time in minutes, he stopped dead.
Little more than a half block in front of him was a swarm of police vehicles near the entrance to a metro station. Mounted police on horseback kept a gathering crowd at bay. To one side were several ambulances and parked media cars, including two satellite trucks.
People were suddenly rushing past him toward what was happening, and he stepped back, trying to get some idea of where he was. It didn’t help. All he saw was a massive intersection of converging streets. Via La Spezia. Via Sannio. Via Magna