Day Of Confession

37

A cafeteria in Stazione Termini, Rome's main train terminal. 9:30 a.m.

Roscani watched him walk out toward the trains and disappear into the crowd. He would finish his coffee and take his time leaving, making certain no one had the impression they knew each other or had left together.

Enrico Cirelli had been just another face ordering coffee. He'd taken it from the counter and come to the table where Roscani was having his own coffee and reading the morning paper. No more than a dozen words had been exchanged between them, but they were all Roscani needed.

An electrician, Cirelli had been north on a job and had come back only yesterday. But for Roscani it was worth the wait. As a ranking member of the Democratic Party of the Left, the new name for the Italian Communist Party, Cirelli knew as well as he knew his children whatever was happening inside Rome's far left. And the far left, he told Roscani straight out, had had nothing to do with the murder of Cardinal Parma, the bombing of the Assisi bus, or the killing of Ispettore Capo Gianni Pio. If there were outside factions at work, a splinter group, he didn't know. But if they existed, he would find out.

'Grazie,' Roscani had said, and Cirelli had simply stood and walked out. There was no need for the party leader to acknowledge the appreciation. Roscani would reciprocate later. When it was needed.

Finally Roscani stood and walked out himself. By now the Harry Addison video would have played on every channel of Italian television. His picture and that of his brother would have been seen in ninety percent of the country.

Roscani had purposely stayed away from the Questura and out of the limelight. It was a decision that had been made when he'd called Taglia at home at three in the morning to inform him Italian television had gotten hold of the video, and also a photo of Father Daniel, complete with pertinent details of the Gruppo Cardinale investigation of him. In response, Taglia had assigned Roscani to discover who had leaked the material. It was an inquiry to be rigorously pursued. One necessary to preserving the integrity of Gruppo Cardinale, not to mention Italian jurisprudence. Yet it was a pursuit both agreed would be difficult at best and might lead nowhere. Since both knew the material had been leaked by Roscani.

Now, as he crossed the terminal and out toward the street, pushing quickly through the tremendous flow of humanity that moved through it, Roscani saw the large numbers of uniformed police watching all of it. And knew there were more watching in other public places – airports, train stations, bus and ship terminals – from Rome to Sicily, and north to the borders at France, Switzerland, and Austria. Knew, too, that because of the media, the general populace would be on the lookout for them as well.

As he pushed through the glass doors and out into the bright sunshine, walking across toward his car, the immense scope of the Gruppo Cardinale manhunt began to sink in. He felt his eyes begin to narrow and realized he was watching faces, too. That was when he knew the feelings and emotions he thought he had put aside and buried under the guise of distance and professionalism hadn't been left behind at all. He could feel their heat coming up through him.

Whether Father Daniel was alive or dead was a guess – conjecture one way or the other. But Harry Addison was somewhere out there. It was only a matter of time before he would be recognized. When that happened he would be pinpointed and watched. People in harm's way would be quietly evacuated. And then, when the time was right, probably after dark, one man would go in after him alone. He would wear a flak jacket and be armed, both with a gun and memories of a fallen comrade.

That man would be Roscani himself.