Day Of Confession

66

Como. 7:40 p.m.

The Fiat was stopped just off the Autostrada on the main road leading into Como. Hercules had asked Harry to pull over, and Harry had. And now they sat together for one last time, the soft yellow of the evening sky filling the car with a delicate light and standing in sharp contrast to the harshness of the ongoing stream of bright headlights passing by outside.

'Police or no police, Chiasso is too close not to try… You understand, Mr Harry…'

'I understand, Hercules… I'm sorry I wasn't able to do more…'

'Then good luck, Mr Harry.' Hercules smiled and suddenly put out his hand, and Harry took it.

'You, too…'

And like that, Hercules was out of the car and gone. Harry watched for a moment as he crossed the street in the path of oncoming traffic. At the far curb, he looked back and grinned, then swung away on his crutches into the growing twilight. Walking, if that was the word, to Switzerland.

Ten minutes later Harry parked the Fiat on a side street down from the railroad station and wiped the steering wheel and gearshift clean of his fingerprints with a handkerchief. Getting out carefully, locking the car, he made his way to Via Borsieri and then onto Viale Varese, following the street signs for the lake and for Piazza Cavour. He walked at the same pace as the people around him, trying to blend in, to seem nothing more than a priest out to enjoy the warm summer evening.

Now and again someone would nod or smile as he passed. And he would return the pleasantry, and then turn casually and glance back, make sure one of them hadn't recognized him or told others, or wasn't coming back for a closer look.

Crossing a square, watching the signs, he was suddenly aware of people walking more slowly, the crowd thickening. Ahead he could see people gathered at a news kiosk. As he neared, he saw Danny's face staring from the late editions. Each paper carried nearly the same headline:

SACERDOTE FUGGITIVO A BELAGGIO?

Was the fugitive priest in Bellagio?

Quickly he turned away and walked on.

Turning down one street and then another, Harry tried to follow the confusion of signs toward the lakefront and the Piazza Cavour. Dodging a chattering couple walking hand in hand, he turned a corner and stopped. The street directly ahead was blocked off by police barricades. Beyond them were police vehicles, media vans, and satellite trucks. Farther down he could see police headquarters.

'Christ.' Harry waited a half second, then moved on, trying to regain his composure. Ahead was a cross street and he went left on a whim, certain he'd find himself back at the police barricades or the kiosk or even the railroad station. Instead he saw the lake, traffic flowing along the boulevard at its edge. Immediately in front of him was a street sign for the Piazza Cavour.

Another half block and he was on the boulevard. To his right was the Palace Hotel, a huge brownstone with a busy outdoor cafe in front. Festive music played. People ate and drank, white-aproned waiters moving among them. They were normal, everyday people, doing everyday things, yet never knowing how close they sat to a potential climax of the first order had but one of them recognized the bearded priest in the black beret walking past them and sounded the alarm. In seconds the street would be filled with police. It would be like an American action movie. A Gruppo Cardinale showdown with a cop killer, the outlaw brother of the assassin of the cardinal vicar of Rome. Flashing lights. Helicopters. Chiseled extras running everywhere with machine guns and flak jackets. A Lee Harvey Oswald ride at an amusement park. Watch the bad guy get it from all sides. Buy your tickets, be there when it happens.

But none of them did. And then Harry was gone, just someone else walking by. A moment later he turned a corner and entered Piazza Cavour. Directly ahead was the Hotel Barchetta Excelsior.