Day Of Confession

42

Still Friday, July 10. 4:15 p.m.

Adrianna Hall sat in her tiny office at the Rome bureau of World News Network watching the Harry Addison video for something like the tenth time, trying to make some sense of it.

She'd spent less than three hours with him – granted, a very passionate and provocative three hours – but in that short time, after all the men she'd known, the one thing she knew about Harry Addison, if she knew nothing else, was that he was not someone who could kill a policeman. Yet the police believed he had, and had his fingerprints on the murder weapon to prove it. She also knew that a Spanish-made Llama pistol recovered from the scene of the Assisi bus explosion was missing from Pio's car, and the police believed Harry took it as he fled after killing Pio.

Abruptly she put both hands flat on her desk and pushed back in her chair. She didn't know what the hell to think. Then her phone rang, and for a moment she let it before picking up.

'Mr Vasko,' her secretary said. He was calling for the third time in the last two hours. He hadn't left a call-back number before because he was traveling but said he would call back again. And now he was on the phone.

Elmer Vasko was a former professional hockey player and Chicago Blackhawks teammate of her father's who had later worked with him when he'd coached the Swiss team. In his halcyon days on the ice they'd called him 'Moose'. Now he was a gentle giant, a kind of distant uncle she hadn't seen for years. And here he was in Rome calling her at the worst of all possible times, when an enormous story was on fire and burning all around her.

Adrianna had come back from Croatia early that morning at her own request when news of the Harry Addison story first broke. Going straight to the Questura, she'd arrived at the tail end of Marcello Taglia's impromptu interview. She'd tried to corner him afterward without success and then looked for Roscani, ending with the same result.

Going home for a shower and quick change of clothes, she'd been drying her hair when the Metro tunnel business happened. She'd gone there on the back of her cameraman's motor scooter with her hair still wet. But the media, all media, were being kept out of the tunnels and away from the action. After an hour, she'd retreated to the studio to start putting the story together and to watch the Harry Addison video for the first time. And then she'd gone out, and when she came back, there were the Elmer Vasko messages. And now he was calling again. She had no choice but to take it.

'Elmer. Mr Vasko. How are you?' She tried to sound up and gracious even if she wasn't. 'Mr Vasko…?'

The phone was silent and she started to hang up when the voice came on.

'I need your help.'

'Oh fuck!' Adrianna felt the breath go out of her.

It was Harry Addison.

Harry stood in a phone booth near a small cafe across the Piazza della Rotonda from the ancient circular structure that was the Pantheon. By now he had his hat, a black beret bought easily at a corner shop selling hats of all kinds and pulled down to cover the bandage at the top of his forehead. His still-bandaged left hand he kept in his jacket pocket.

'Where are you?' The surprise was gone from Adrianna's voice.

'I…'

There'd been no way to know if she was back from Croatia, but he'd taken the chance she was. He'd called her because he'd added up his options and realized she was the only one he could call. The only one who would know what was going on and whom he dared trust. But now that he actually had her on the phone, he wasn't sure if he could trust anyone. She knew the police, relied on her relationship with them for access to stories she might not otherwise have; would she agree to meet him somewhere and then bring the police with her?

'Harry, where are you?' Her voice came again, stronger than before.

Again he hesitated. Unsure. The dull ache still in the back of his head, reminding him he wasn't as alert as he might have been.

'I can't help you if you don't talk to me.'

A group of schoolgirls suddenly walked past, giggling and joking among themselves. They were loud, and he turned away trying to hear. As he did, he saw two mounted carabinieri on horseback slowly crossing the piazza toward him. They were in no hurry, simply on patrol. But still every policeman in the country was on the lookout for him, and he had to take every precaution he possibly could to avoid them. In this case it probably meant staying right where he was until they passed. Turning ever so slightly away from them, he spoke into the phone.

'I didn't kill Pio.'

'Tell me where you are.'

'I'm scared to death the Italian police are going to kill me.'

'Harry, where are you?'

Silence.

'Harry, you called me. I assume because you trust me. You don't know Rome, you don't know Italian, and if I told you to meet me somewhere, you'd have to ask someone, and that could get you into trouble. If I know where you are, I can come to you. Reasonable?'

The carabinieri were closer now. Both young. Both on big white horses. Both with side arms. And they weren't just on patrol, they were watching the people they passed carefully.

'Police on horseback coming toward me.'

'Harry, for Crissake, where are you?'

'I… don't…' Turning, he glanced around, trying not to look at the police but to see a street sign, the name of a building, a cafe, anything that would tell him where he was. Then he saw it. A plaque on the side of a building twenty feet away.

'Something rotunda.'

'Piazza della Rotonda. At the Pantheon?'

'I guess.'

'Big circular building with columns.'

'Yes.'

The carabinieri were almost on top of him, their horses moving slowly, their eyes searching the crowd in the piazza, the people at the outdoor cafes surrounding it. Now one officer pulled up and both stopped, only feet away.

'Holy fuck,' Harry breathed.

'What is it?'

'They're right here. I could touch the horse.'

'Harry, are they looking at you?'

'No.'

'Ignore them. They'll move on in a minute. When they're gone, cross the square to the right of the Pantheon. Take any side street and walk two blocks to the Piazza Navona. Near the fountain in the middle are benches. The piazza will be crowded. Pick a bench and I'll find you there.'

'When?'

'Twenty minutes.'

Harry looked at his watch.

4:32

'Harry?'

'What?'

'Trust me.'

Adrianna clicked off. Harry stayed as he was, the phone in his hand. The police were still there. If he hung up and they saw him, he'd have to leave. If he didn't hang up, with one end of the line dead, he took the chance the phone company might report it as a phone suddenly out of service, something the police, in their heightened state of awareness, might be looking for. He looked back. And his heart sank.

Two more carabinieri on horseback had ridden up and were talking with the others. Four policemen. Only feet away. Slowly he hung up. He couldn't stay there without making another call, and there was no call to make. He had to do something before one of them looked over and saw him just standing there. And he did. Simply stepped out and walked past them. Moving across the square toward the Pantheon.

One of the carabinieri saw him go, even watched him for a moment, then his horse tugged at its bit, and he had to pull him back. When he looked back Harry was gone.