Day Of Confession

157

Roscani lay prone in the grass. The first black suit was fifteen yards away sprawled on his back and moaning, the second was facedown in the grass not more than ten feet from Roscani, his eyes open but lifeless, blood slowly oozing from a hole between his eyes.

Taking a chance there had been only the two, Roscani rolled over and looked down the hill in the direction Harry had carried Hercules. He could see only the swirl of smoke that instead of dissipating was becoming thicker.

Getting up cautiously, he glanced around for more black suits, then went to the dead man in front of him. Taking the man's gun, Roscani slipped it in his belt, then moved off toward the black suit still lying moaning on the ground ahead.

10:55 a.m.

'Danny.' Harry's urgent voice came over the open phone line. 'Where are you?'

'Close to the station.'

'Get on the freight car. I've got Hercules, he's been shot.'

Elena stopped. They were at the edge of the trees and behind a hedge across from the Vatican City Hall and the Mosaic Studio. Directly ahead was the railroad station, and to the right of it she could see a part of the freight car. Then came the blast of an air horn, and a dirty, bright green work engine chugged slowly into view. Abruptly it stopped, and a lone man with white hair walked out from the station, a clipboard in his hand. Stopping at the track he seemed to note the number painted on the engine, then moved to it and climbed aboard.

'I don't know if Hercules is going to make it.'

Elena glanced at Danny. They could both hear the fear, the desperation in Harry's voice.

'Danny.' Harry's voice came again. 'Marsciano's gone.'

'What?'

'I don't know where, he went off on his own.'

'Where were you when he did?'

'Near Vatican Radio. We're passing the Ethiopian College now… Elena, Hercules is going to need you.'

Elena leaned into the phone. 'I'll meet you, Harry. Just be careful…'

'Danny – Roscani's here, so is Thomas Kind. I'm sure he knows about the train. Watch it.'

'Don't move!' Roscani commanded, his Beretta held military style in both hands and pointed at the moaning black suit.

As he drew closer, Roscani could see the man on his back. One leg was twisted under him, and his eyes were closed. Now he could see a bloodied hand limp across his chest; the other was out of sight beneath him. The man was going nowhere. In the distance came the sound of the train whistle. It was the second blast within seconds. Roscani turned quickly, looking through the smoke in its direction. Harry and Hercules had to be going toward it. Maybe Marsciano, too, and Father Daniel and Elena Voso. That meant there was every chance Thomas Kind was going there as well.

Instinct made Roscani turn back. The black suit was raised up on an elbow, an automatic in his hand. Both men fired at the same time. Roscani felt a jolt. His right leg collapsed under him, and he went down. Rolling over, he came up on his stomach firing. There was no need, the black suit was dead, the top of his skull blown away. Grimacing, Roscani struggled to his feet, then, crying out, slumped back down. A patch of red spread across the beige material of his upper pant leg. He'd been shot in his right thigh.

There was a deafening roar, and the whole building shook.

'Va bene,' - Okay – crackled through Farel's radio.

Farel nodded and two jumpsuited Swiss Guards carrying automatic rifles pushed open the rooftop door. And they went out into smoky daylight, the guards first and then Farel, holding firmly onto the Holy Father's arm, guiding the white-clad old man out.

A dozen more heavily armed Swiss Guards were on the ancient rooftop as they crossed it, moving hastily toward the Italian Army helicopter balanced on the edge of the terrace wall, its rotors slowly turning. Two army officers waited in its open doorway, two of Farel's black suits with them.

'Where is Palestrina?' the pope asked Farel, looking around, fully expecting his secretariat of state to be waiting to leave with him.

'He said to tell you he would join you later, Holiness,' Farel lied. He had no idea where Palestrina was. Had not communicated with him in the last half hour at all.

'No.' The Holy Father suddenly stopped at the helicopter's open door, his eyes fixed on Farel's.

'No,' he said again. 'He will not join me. I know it, and he knows it.'

With that, Giacomo Pecci, Pope Leo XIV, turned away from Farel and let the black-suited Vigilanza help him into the helicopter. Then they and the Italian Army officers followed him onboard. The door closed, and Farel moved back, waving to the pilot.

A thundering roar was followed by an immense blast of wind, and Farel and the Swiss Guards ducked away as the machine lifted skyward. Five seconds, ten. And then it was gone.