Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [87]
If he called.
“You have no idea what’s going on, or what you’re getting into.” Father Bardoni’s warning hung chillingly in his mind.
The man in the blue shirt had been one of Farel’s policemen, and he had been watching Father Bardoni, not Harry. Eaton had been certain some dark intrigue was going on at the highest levels of the Holy See. And maybe that was what Father Bardoni had been talking about, cautioning Harry that his intrusion was more than unwelcome—it was very dangerous. Suggesting he was close to drowning them all in his own waves.
Harry looked away from the phone. He didn’t know what to do. By pushing Marsciano further he could make things far worse than they already were. But for whom? Marsciano. Farel’s people. Anyone else involved. Who?
For no reason he picked up the knife he had used to slice the bread and cheese. It was an everyday kitchen knife, its cutting edge a little bit dull like most. As a knife it wasn’t very impressive, but it did the job. Holding it up, he rotated it in his hand, saw the blade glint in the overhead light. Then, with the easiest of motions, he turned and slid it deep into what remained of the bread. The safety and well-being of his brother was all that mattered. All the rest—the Vatican, its power struggles and intrigues—could go to hell.
59
The Hospital of St. John.
Via dell’ Amba Aradam, 9:50 P.M.
HARRY WAS ALONE IN THE SMALL CHAPEL, sitting in a pew three rows back from the altar, his black beret tucked inside his jacket pocket, his head bowed, seemingly in prayer. He’d been there fifteen minutes when the door opened and a man in a short-sleeved shirt and what looked like tan Levi Dockers came in and sat down nearby.
Harry glanced at his watch and then back toward the door. Marsciano was to have met him there twenty minutes ago. It was only when he decided he would give the cardinal another five minutes and then leave that he looked again at the man who had come in and realized in amazement that it was Marsciano.
For a long while the cardinal remained still. Head bowed, silent. Finally he looked up, made eye contact, and nodded toward a door to the left. Then he stood, crossed himself before the altar, and pushed through the door. At the same moment, a young couple entered, knelt before the altar and crossed themselves, taking seats together in the front row.
Harry counted slowly to twenty, then got up, made the sign of the cross and went out through the same door Marsciano had taken.
On the far side was a narrow hallway, and the cardinal stood alone in it.
“Come with me,” Marsciano said.
Their footsteps echoing on the worn black-and-white tile floor, the cardinal led Harry down the empty corridor and into an older part of the building. Turning down another hallway, Marsciano opened a door, and they entered a small private room which was another sanctuary for prayer. Dimly lit, more intimate than the first, it had a stone floor and several polished wooden benches facing a simple bronze cross on the wall opposite. Above, on the left and right, high windows, now dark against the night sky, touched the ceiling.
“You wished to see me. Here I am, Mr. Addison.” Marsciano closed the door and turned in such a way that the lights of the room cut him at an angle that left his eyes and the top of his head in shadow. Purposeful or not, it underscored his authority, reminding Harry that whatever else he was, or might be, Marsciano was still a major figure within the hierarchy of the Church. Hugely forceful, and larger than life.
Still, Harry could not let himself be intimidated. “My brother is alive, Eminence, and you know where he is.”
Marsciano was silent.
“Who are you protecting him from? The police?… Farel?”
Harry knew Marsciano was watching him, the eyes he couldn’t see searching his own.
“Do you love your brother, Mr. Addison?”
“Yes…”
“Do—you—love—your—brother?” Marsciano said again. This time more deliberate, demanding, unforgiving. “You were estranged. You did not speak for years.”
“He is my