Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [63]
“Elmer. Mr. Vasko. How are you?” She tried to sound up and gracious even if she wasn’t. “Mr. Vasko…?”
The phone was silent and she started to hang up when the voice came on.
“I need your help.”
“Oh fuck!” Adrianna felt the breath go out of her.
It was Harry Addison.
HARRY STOOD IN A PHONE BOOTH near a small café across the Piazza della Rotonda from the ancient circular structure that was the Pantheon. By now he had his hat, a black beret bought easily at a corner shop selling hats of all kinds and pulled down to cover the bandage at the top of his forehead. His still-bandaged left hand he kept in his jacket pocket.
“Where are you?” The surprise was gone from Adrianna’s voice.
“I…”
There’d been no way to know if she was back from Croatia, but he’d taken the chance she was. He’d called her because he’d added up his options and realized she was the only one he could call. The only one who would know what was going on and whom he dared trust. But now that he actually had her on the phone, he wasn’t sure if he could trust anyone. She knew the police, relied on her relationship with them for access to stories she might not otherwise have; would she agree to meet him somewhere and then bring the police with her?
“Harry, where are you?” Her voice came again, stronger than before.
Again he hesitated. Unsure. The dull ache still in the back of his head, reminding him he wasn’t as alert as he might have been.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
A group of schoolgirls suddenly walked past, giggling and joking among themselves. They were loud, and he turned away trying to hear. As he did, he saw two mounted carabinieri on horseback slowly crossing the piazza toward him. They were in no hurry, simply on patrol. But still every policeman in the country was on the lookout for him, and he had to take every precaution he possibly could to avoid them. In this case it probably meant staying right where he was until they passed. Turning ever so slightly away from them, he spoke into the phone.
“I didn’t kill Pio.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“I’m scared to death the Italian police are going to kill me.”
“Harry, where are you?”
Silence.
“Harry, you called me. I assume because you trust me. You don’t know Rome, you don’t know Italian, and if I told you to meet me somewhere, you’d have to ask someone, and that could get you into trouble. If I know where you are, I can come to you. Reasonable?”
The carabinieri were closer now. Both young. Both on big white horses. Both with side arms. And they weren’t just on patrol, they were watching the people they passed carefully.
“Police on horseback coming toward me.”
“Harry, for Crissake, where are you?”
“I… don’t…” Turning, he glanced around, trying not to look at the police but to see a street sign, the name of a building, a café, anything that would tell him where he was. Then he saw it. A plaque on the side of a building twenty feet away.
“Something rotunda.”
“Piazza della Rotonda. At the Pantheon?”
“I guess.”
“Big circular building with columns.”
“Yes.”
The carabinieri were almost on top of him, their horses moving slowly, their eyes searching the crowd in the piazza, the people at the outdoor cafés surrounding it. Now one officer pulled up and both stopped, only feet away.
“Holy fuck,” Harry breathed.
“What is it?”
“They’re right here. I could touch the horse.”
“Harry, are they looking at you?”
“No.”
“Ignore them. They’ll move on in a minute. When they’re gone, cross the square to the right of the Pantheon. Take any side street and walk two blocks to the Piazza Navona. Near the fountain in the middle are benches. The piazza will be crowded. Pick a bench and I’ll find you there.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Harry looked at his watch.
4:32
“Harry?”
“What?”
“Trust me.”
Adrianna clicked off. Harry stayed as he was, the phone in his hand. The police were still there. If he hung up and they saw him, he’d have to leave. If he didn’t hang up, with one end of the line dead, he took the chance the phone company