Day Of Confession

3

Delta Airlines flight 148, New York to Rome.

Monday, July 6, 7:30 a.m.

Danny was dead, and Harry was on his way to Rome to bring his body back to the U.S. for burial. The last hour, like most of the flight, had been a dream. Harry had seen the morning sun touch the Alps. Seen it glint off the Tyrrhenian Sea as they'd turned, dropping down over the Italian farmland on approach to Rome 's Leonardo da Vinci International Airport at Fiumicino.

'Harry, it's your brother, Danny…'

All he could hear was Danny's voice on the answering machine. It played over and over in his mind, like a tape on a loop. Fearful, distraught, and now silent.

'Harry, it's your brother, Danny…'

Waving off a pour of coffee from a smiling and pert flight attendant, Harry leaned back against the plush seat of the first-class cabin and closed his eyes, replaying what had happened in between.

He'd tried to call Danny twice more from the plane. And then again when he checked into his hotel. Still, there had been no answer. His apprehension growing, he'd called the Vatican directly, hoping to find Danny at work, and what he'd learned, after being passed from one department to another and being spoken to in broken English and then Italian and then a combination of both, was that Father Daniel was 'not here until Monday'.

To Harry that had meant he was away for the weekend. And no matter his mental state, it was a legitimate reason why Danny was not answering his phone. In response, Harry had left a message on his answering machine at home, giving his hotel number in New York in the event Danny called back as he said he would.

And then Harry had turned, with some sense of relief, to business as usual and to why he had gone to New York – a last-minute huddle with Warner Brothers distribution and marketing chiefs over this fourth of July weekend's opening of Dog on the Moon, Warner's major summer release, the story of a dog taken to the moon in a NASA experiment and accidentally left there, and the Little League team that learns about it and finds a way to bring him back; a film written and directed by Harry's twenty-four-year-old client Jesus Arroyo.

Single and handsome enough to be a movie star, Harry Addison was not only one of the entertainment community's most eligible bachelors, he was also one of its most successful attorneys. His firm represented the cream of multimillion-dollar Hollywood talent. His own list of clients had either starred in or were responsible for some of the highest-grossing movies and successful television shows of the past five years. His friends were household names, the same people who stared weekly from the covers of national magazines.

His success – as the daily Hollywood trade paper Variety had recently put it – was due to 'a combination of smarts, hard work, and a temperament markedly different from the savagely competitive young warrior agents and attorneys to whom the "deal" is everything and whose only disposition is "take no prisoners." With his Ivy League haircut and trademark white shirt and dark blue Armani suit, the Harry Addison approach is that the most beneficial thing for everyone is to cause as little all-around bleeding as possible. It's why his deals go through, his clients love him, the studios and networks respect him, and why he makes a million dollars a year.'

Dammit, what did any of that mean now? His brother's death overshadowed everything. All he could think of was what he might have done to help Danny that he hadn't. Call the U.S. Embassy or the Rome police and send them to his apartment? He didn't even know where he lived. That was why he had started to call Byron Willis, his boss and mentor and best friend, from the limo when he'd first heard Danny's message. Who did they know in Rome who could help? was what he had intended to ask but hadn't because the call had never gone through. If he had, and if they had found someone in Rome, would Danny still be alive? The answer was probably no because there wouldn't have been time.

Christ.

Over the years how many times had he tried to communicate with Danny? Christmas and birthday cards formally exchanged for a short while after their mother's death. Then one holiday missed, then another. Finally nothing at all. And busy with his life and career, Harry had let it ride, eventually accepting it as the way it was. Brothers at opposites. Angry, at times even hostile, living a world apart, as they always would. With both probably wondering during the odd quiet moment if he should be the one to take the initiative and find a way to bring them back together. But neither had.

And then Saturday evening as he'd been in the Warner's New York offices celebrating the huge numbers Dog on the Moon was realizing – nineteen million dollars with Saturday night, Sunday, and Monday still to come, making a projected weekend gross of thirty-eight to forty-two million – Byron Willis had called from Los Angeles. The Catholic archdiocese had been trying to reach Harry and was reluctant to leave word at his hotel. They'd traced Willis through Harry's office, and Byron himself had chosen to make the call. Danny was dead, he'd said quietly, killed in what appeared to be a terrorist bombing of a tour bus on the way to Assisi.

In the emotional gyration immediately afterward, Harry had canceled his plans to return to L.A. and booked himself on a Sunday evening flight to Italy. He would go there and bring Danny home personally. It was the last and only thing he could do.

Then, on Sunday morning, he'd contacted the State Department, requesting the U.S. Embassy in Rome arrange a meeting between himself and the people investigating the bombing of the bus. Danny had been frightened and distraught; maybe what he had said might help shed some light on what had happened and who had been responsible. Afterward, and for the first time in as long as Harry could remember, he had gone to church. And prayed and wept.

Beneath him, Harry heard the sound of the landing gear being lowered. Looking out, he saw the runway come up and the Italian countryside fly past. Open fields, drainage ditches, more open fields. Then there was a bump and they were down. Slowing, turning, taxiing back toward the long, low sunlit buildings of Aeroporto Leonardo da Vinci.

The uniformed woman behind the glass at Passport Control asked him to wait and picked up the telephone. Harry saw himself reflected in the glass as he waited. He was still in his dark blue Armani suit and white shirt, the way he was described in the Variety article. There was another suit and shirt in his suitcase, along with a light sweater, workout gear, polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes. The same bag he had packed for New York.

The woman hung up and looked at him. A moment later two policemen with Uzi submachine guns slung over their shoulders walked up to her. One stepped into the booth and looked at his passport, then glanced at Harry and motioned him through.

'Would you come with us, please.'

'Of course.'

As they walked off, Harry saw the first policeman ease the Uzi around, his right hand sliding to its grip. Immediately two more uniformed police moved in to walk with them as they crossed the terminal. Passengers moved aside quickly, then turned, looking back over their shoulders when they were safely out of the way.

At the far side of the terminal they stopped at a security door. One of the policemen punched a code into a chrome keypad. A buzzer sounded, and the man opened the door. Then they went up a flight of stairs and turned down a corridor. A moment later they stopped at another door. The first policeman knocked, and they entered a windowless room where two men in suits waited. Harry's passport was handed to one of them, and the uniforms left, closing the door behind them.

'You are Harry Addison-'

'Yes.'

'The brother of the Vatican priest Father Daniel Addison.'

Harry nodded. 'Thank you for meeting me…'

The man who held his passport was probably forty-five, tall and tanned, and very fit. He wore a blue suit, over a lighter blue shirt with a carefully knotted maroon tie. His English was accented but understandable. The other man was a little older and almost as tall but with a slighter build and salt-and-pepper hair. His shirt was checkered. His suit, a light brown, the same as his tie.

'I am Ispettore Capo Otello Roscani, Polizia di Stato. This is Ispettore Capo Pio.'

'How do you do…'

'Why have you come to Italy, Mr Addison?'

Harry was puzzled. They knew why he was there or they wouldn't have met him as they had. '-To bring my brother's body home… And to talk with you people.'

'When had you planned to come to Rome?'

'I hadn't planned to come at all…'

'Answer the question, please.'

'Saturday night.'

'Not before?'

'Before? No, of course not.'

'You made the reservations yourself?' Pio spoke for the first time. His English had almost no accent at all, as if he were either American himself or had spent a lot of time in the U.S.

'Yes.'

'On Saturday.'

'Saturday night. I told you that.' Harry looked from one to the other. 'I don't understand your questions. You knew I was coming. I asked the U.S. Embassy to arrange for me to talk to you.'

Roscani slid Harry's passport into his pocket. 'We are going to ask you to accompany us into Rome, Mr Addison.'

'Why? – We can talk right here. There's not that much to tell.'

Suddenly Harry could feel sweat on his palms. They were leaving something out. What was it?

'Perhaps you should let us decide, Mr Addison.'

Again, Harry looked from one to the other. 'What's going on? What is it you're not telling me?'

'We simply wish to talk further, Mr Addison.'

'About what?'

'The assassination of the cardinal vicar of Rome.'