Day Of Confession

153

10:40 a.m.

A dark Mercedes limousine was parked in the shadow of a hedgerow near the tower, the car to take the bodies of the Addison brothers out of the Vatican.

Thomas Kind sat inside, behind the wheel and out of the smoke. He had known from the first fire the brothers were coming. At first he thought it was a simple diversion, and then had come more fires and then the blanket of smoke and he knew he was dealing with someone with definitive military training. He knew Father Daniel had been a skilled marksman and a member of an elite unit in the U.S. Marine Corps; but the smoke and effectiveness of it were telling him the priest had been with a group such as Force Recon, which was schooled in deep insurgency. If so, he would have trained with the Navy SEALS, who are schooled to do with a small number of men what a major force might do, and who rely almost entirely on the individual.

What it meant was the Addisons were much more inventive and dangerous than he thought. It was a musing abruptly brought to life when suddenly Harry Addison darted past an opening in the hedge directly in front of him and vanished back into the smoke moving toward the tower.

Thomas Kind's immediate response was to go after Harry right then and kill him himself. And he was starting to, his hand already on the car door, when he pulled himself back. His reaction hadn't just been strategic, it had also been uncontrolled and flush with urgency. It was the old feeling, and it terrified him. This was what he had thought about earlier when he had admitted to himself that he was ill and decided to distance himself from the act.

There were other men here who were paid and waiting to do the job. He needed to let them and refuse to become involved himself. If he did, he would be all right.

Abruptly he lifted his two-way radio. 'This is S,' he said into it, S now his official command designation. 'Target B is dressed in civilian clothes and moving alone on the tower. Let him get inside and then eliminate him immediately.'

Hidden in the vegetation at the bottom of the tower, Harry looked up through the smoke. He could just see Hercules. Again the dwarf pointed toward the far bushes where the black suits had gone. Acknowledging, Calico in hand, he moved. In an instant he was at the heavy glass tower door, throwing it open and going inside. Closing it behind him, he locked it and turned quickly to look at what was there. A small foyer, with narrow stairs leading up, a tiny elevator.

Glancing over his shoulder at the door, he pressed the elevator button and waited for the door to slide open. When it did, he reached inside and clicked the lock switch into place. Then, using the Calico as a hammer, he brought the grip down hard on the top of the switch, breaking it off and disabling the elevator.

Quickly, he turned back, glanced again at the door, and then started up the stairs.

He was halfway up when he heard them trying to get past his lock and in through the door. It would be only a matter of seconds before they would break the glass and come in after him.

He looked up. Another dozen steps and stairs turned abruptly to the right. Quickly he climbed them, stopping at the corner and easing around, Calico first, ready to fire. There was nothing. The stairs simply continued up to the next floor, maybe twenty steps higher.

Suddenly he heard the crash of glass below. Then the door slammed open, and he glimpsed two men in black suits come in and start up the stairs, guns drawn. Quickly he darted around the corner and stopped. Slipping the Calico into his belt, he opened the waist pack and took out the olive-oil-and-rum-filled Moretti beer bottle. He could hear the footsteps as the men raced up the stairs behind him.

Lighting a match, he touched it to the wick in the bottle, counted – one, two. Suddenly he stepped out, flinging the bottle at the feet of the first man. The crash of glass and whoosh of flame were buried in a hail of gunshots. Bullets chewed up the stairs beside Harry, wanged off the ceiling and walls. Then the shooting stopped. In its place came the sound of the men below screaming.

'This time you're out of luck,' a heavily accented voice barked from above.

Harry whirled, pulling the Calico free. A familiar figure was coming down the stairs toward him. Young, black suited, eager, deadly. Anton Pilger. A large gun was in his hand, and his finger closing on the trigger.

Harry was already firing, pulling the Calico's trigger. He kept on pulling it, making Pilger's body seem to dance on the stairs where it was, his own gun firing into the steps at his feet, his expression one of surprise and puzzlement.

Finally, his legs gave out and he slid backward against the stairs. There was a crackle from the radio in his jacket. But that was all. In the deathly silence that came next Harry knew that he had heard the voice before. Suddenly he understood what Pilger had said about luck. He had tried to kill Harry before and failed. It had been in the sewer, after he had been tortured and before Hercules found him.

Then Harry bent over, taking Pilger's radio and moving on up the stairs in a daze, only now realizing why he was there, why he had done all of this. It was because he loved his brother and because his brother needed him. There was no other reason.

10:45 a.m.