Day Of Confession

109

Roscani ignored the muffled whine of the helicopter's jet engine as the machine banked sharply over the gray sprawl of Milan and headed southeast, toward Siena; his whole focus on the just-received INTERPOL fax in his lap. Most of which he already knew.

THOMAS JOSE ALVAREZ-RIOS KIND

INTERPOL PROFILE: One of the world's most notorious terrorists. Celebrated murderer of French antiterrorist police. Violent criminal. Fugitive. Request to apprehend and detain. Extremely dangerous.

OFFENSES: Murder, kidnapping, bombing, taking of hostages, aircraft hijacking.

NATIONALITY: Ecuador.

Roscani skipped down.

TRAITS: Master of disguise. Multilingual, esp. Italian, French, Spanish, Arabic, Farsi, English, American English. Highly individualistic. Works alone. Nonetheless, has extensive terrorist connections worldwide.

OTHER: Self-styled revolutionary.

LAST RESIDENCE: Khartoum, Sudan.

FINAL COMMENTS: Excessive sociopath. Killer for hire. Available to highest bidder.

Those were the official profile notes. Hand scrawled on the bottom was a more personal message:

'Subject is not known to have traveled outside Sudan. Per your request French Intelligence is investigating. Will notify immediately on confirmation.'

'I can tell you right now,' Roscani said to himself as he folded the slim dossier and put it on the seat beside him, 'he's not in Sudan, he's in Italy.'

Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a large piece of biscotti wrapped in plastic and secured by a rubber band. Opening it, he bit into it with the same absent abruptness he would have used to light a cigarette, his thoughts going to the Milan city morgue, where he'd been a half hour earlier.

The body of one Aldo Cianetti, age twenty-six, a fashion designer, had been found in the storage closet of a women's washroom at a service-station stop on the A9 Autostrada halfway between Como and Milan. His throat had been cut and the wound stuffed with paper towelettes. Four hours later Cianetti's new, dark green BMW was found parked near the Palace Hotel in Milan.

'Thomas Kind,' Roscani had said to no one in particular. Investigators might prove him wrong, but he doubted the killer was anyone but his ice picker/razor man. Somehow he had avoided the Gruppo Cardinale dragnet and made it from Bellagio to Milan, along the line hitching a ride with the young Cianetti and then killing him. And where had he gone from Milan? Or was he still there, hiding?

But the larger question was why he had come back into Italy and the heat of an all-out police hunt when as easily he could have crossed into the relative safety of Switzerland and moved on from there. Why? What was so important in Italy that he risk everything?

Lugano, Switzerland. 2:00 p.m.

Harry pulled back a chair, and Elena sat down. 'Thank you,' she said, still without looking at him. The table setting was for two, with fresh melon and prosciutto and a small carafe of red wine. Veronique had ushered them out onto the covered bougainvillaea-framed terrace after they had fed Danny and put him to bed in a room on the floor above where they were now. Demanding they sit down and eat, she had gone quickly back inside, leaving them alone for the first time since the night before, when Elena had been in Harry's room.

'What happened between you and your brother?' Elena asked as Harry sat down opposite her. 'You had words, I could tell the way you both reacted when I came back into the room.'

'It was nothing. Brothers being brothers, that's all… We hadn't talked in a long time…'

'If I were in your position, I would have talked about the police. And I would have talked about the killing of the cardinal vicar of-'

'You're not in my position, though, are you?' Harry cut her off sharply. What had gone on between his brother and him was something he didn't care to share with her. Not right now, anyway.

Elena looked at him briefly, then, demurring, picked up her knife and fork and begin to eat. As she did, a slight breeze picked up her hair, and she had to reach up with one hand to settle it.

'-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you like that… There are just things that…'

'You should eat something, Mr Addison…' Elena kept her eyes on the plate in front of her. Cutting a small slice of melon, she did the same with a piece of prosciutto, then very slowly set the utensils down and looked up and quietly changed the subject.

'I want to… apologize for being a little "excessive" last night…'

'You only said what you felt,' Harry said gently.

'To me it was excessive, and I am sorry.'

'Look-' Harry started to say something, then pushed back from the table and crossed the terrace to look out over a sweep of orange-and-white-tile rooftops that fell to the city and Lake Lugano below.

'Whatever you need or feel, or' – he looked back at her – 'whatever I might feel in return, we can't get into. I've told myself – his voice became gentler – 'and now I'm telling you. It's why I snapped at you a moment ago. We're in trouble, a lot of it, and we have to get out. Veronique may be an extraordinary woman, but we're not safe here. By now Roscani will know we've slipped him. Lugano is too close to the Italian border. It won't be long until the Swiss police are everywhere. If Danny could walk it might be different, but-' Suddenly Harry stopped.

'What is it?'

'I… just thought of…' Harry's gaze drifted off. 'This is Wednesday. Monday, a friend of mine got out of a car in Como and left on foot to walk here, to Lugano. It wasn't far, but it wasn't easy either, because the police were looking for him, too, and he was a cripple and on crutches.' Now he looked back. 'But he went anyway. Smiled and went, because he believed he could do it and because he wanted to be free… His name is Hercules. He's a dwarf… I hope to God he made it.'

Elena smiled gently. 'I hope he did, too…'

Harry looked at her for a long moment, then suddenly turned to look out over the city once again. Purposely, he kept his back to her, all but overwhelmed by a sudden wave of emotion. For some reason, the combination of everything that had happened – finding Danny alive, being with Elena, and the vision of Hercules courageously swinging off in the Como twilight sent an enormous yearning for life – to live it fully and to old age – sweeping over him.

He had never realized until that moment how extraordinary human beings could be, or, just by being with her, how truly beautiful Elena was. To him, she was purer, more magnetic, and more real than anyone he could ever remember. Maybe the first real person he had known, or allowed himself to know, since childhood. And if he wasn't careful, all of his protestations would be wasted, because he would fall hopelessly in love with her. And if he did, it could kill them all.

Suddenly a loud chime from the hallway inside jolted Harry from his reverie. He swung around to look. So did Elena. There was silence and then the chime rang again. Someone was downstairs at the front door.

A half second later, Veronique entered and went to the intercom. Pushing a button, she spoke into it, listened, then pressed the buzzer, letting whoever it was into the building.

'Who is it?' Harry came into the hallway behind her. Elena followed.

Veronique looked up.

'Someone to see your brother,' she said quietly, then went to the door and opened it.

'Who knows he's even here?'

Harry could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. One person, maybe two. A man, the step was too heavy for a woman. Who was it? The blond man? A trick, set up by the Bellagio priests. Give the killer clear operating room away from Roscani's people. Or maybe they had made a deal with the Swiss police, and it was a detective coming up to check things out. Why not? – the priests were poor, and there was still a considerable reward for their arrest. Maybe the clergymen couldn't take the money, but Veronique certainly could, easily funneling a share back to them.

Harry glanced over his shoulder at Elena, nodding toward the upper floor. In an instant she had slipped past him, going up the stairs to where Danny was.

The footsteps were louder. Whoever it was had climbed almost to the top of the stairs. Harry started past Veronique to close the door and lock it.

'It's all right.' Veronique stopped him.

Then, whoever it was was there, almost to the top. One man, alone, mostly in shadow. Not the blond man – someone else, taller, dressed in jeans and a light sweater. Then he stepped through the door. And Harry saw the dark curly hair, the familiar black eyes behind black-rimmed glasses.

Father Bardoni.