Day Of Confession

58

Rome. Same time.

Harry stood in Eaton's tiny kitchen, staring at the cell phone on the counter. Next to it was a partially eaten loaf of bread and, with it, some cheese he'd picked up at one of the few stores open on Sunday. By now Marsciano would know what had transpired between him and Father Bardoni in the park. And the cardinal would have made a decision what to do when Harry called.

If he called.

'You have no idea what's going on, or what you're getting into.' Father Bardoni's warning hung chillingly in his mind.

The man in the blue shirt had been one of Farel's policemen, and he had been watching Father Bardoni, not Harry. Eaton had been certain some dark intrigue was going on at the highest levels of the Holy See. And maybe that was what Father Bardoni had been talking about, cautioning Harry that his intrusion was more than unwelcome – it was very dangerous. Suggesting he was close to drowning them all in his own waves.

Harry looked away from the phone. He didn't know what to do. By pushing Marsciano further he could make things far worse than they already were. But for whom? Marsciano. Farel's people. Anyone else involved. Who?

For no reason he picked up the knife he had used to slice the bread and cheese. It was an everyday kitchen knife, its cutting edge a little bit dull like most. As a knife it wasn't very impressive, but it did the job. Holding it up, he rotated it in his hand, saw the blade glint in the overhead light. Then, with the easiest of motions, he turned and slid it deep into what remained of the bread. The safety and well-being of his brother was all that mattered. All the rest – the Vatican, its power struggles and intrigues – could go to hell.