Day Of Confession

70

A handsome man with clear blue eyes sat at a back table along the sidewalk cafe of the Hotel Du Lac. He was in his late thirties and wore loose-fitting jeans and a light denim shirt. He had been there for most of the evening, relaxing, occasionally taking a sip from his beer, and watching the people pass by in front of him.

A waiter in a white shirt and black trousers stopped and gestured at his nearly empty glass.

'Ja, 'Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind said, and the waiter nodded and left.

Thomas Kind no longer looked as he had. His jet-black hair had been dyed strikingly blond as had his eyebrows. He seemed Scandinavian or an aging but still very fit California surfer. His passport, however, was Dutch. Frederick Voor, a computer software salesman who lived at 95 Bloemstraat, Amsterdam, was how he had registered at the Hotel Florence earlier that day.

Despite the Gruppo Cardinale's announcement some three hours earlier that the fugitive American priest, Father Daniel Addison, was no longer being sought in Bellagio and that his reported sighting there had been deemed erroneous, the roads in and out of town were still being closely watched. It meant the police hadn't given up entirely. Nor had Thomas Kind. He sat where he did out of experience, observing the people who came and went from the hydrofoils as they landed. It was a basic concept that went back to his days as a young revolutionary and assassin in South America. Know who you were looking for. Choose a place he would most probably have to pass through. Then, taking with you the arts of observation and patience, go there and wait. And tonight, like so many times before, it had worked.

Of all the people who had passed by in the hours he had been there, the most interesting, by far, was the bearded priest in the black beret who had arrived on the late hydrofoil.

The nearly bald, middle-aged night porter opened the door to room 327, turned on a bedside lamp, then set Harry's bag on a luggage rack next to it and handed Harry the key.

'Thank you.' Harry reached in his pocket for a tip.

'No, Padre, grazie.' The man smiled, then abruptly turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him as he did. Locking it – a habit now – Harry took a deep breath and glanced around the room. It was small and faced the lake. The furnishings were well used but hardly shabby. A double bed, chair, chest of drawers, writing table, a phone, and a television.

Pulling off his jacket, he went into the bathroom. Turning on the water, he let it run cold, then wet his hand and ran it over the back of his neck. Finally he raised his head and saw his face in the mirror. The eyes were not the same as those that had peered so intently into another mirror in what seemed a lifetime ago, watching as he made love to Adrianna; they were different, frightened, alone, yet somehow stronger and more determined.

Abruptly, he turned from the mirror and walked back into the room, glancing at his watch as he did.

11:10

Crossing to the bed, he opened the small suitcase Adrianna had given him. In it was something the police had overlooked in their hasty search of the bag. A page torn from a notepad of the Hotel Barchetta Excelsior in Como, with the telephone number of Edward Mooi.

Picking up the bedside phone, he hesitated, then dialed. He heard it ring. Once, twice. On the third, someone picked up.

'Pronto,' a male voice answered.

'Edward Mooi, please – I'm sorry to be calling so late.'

There was a silence, then:

'This is Edward Mooi.'

'My name is Father Jonathan Roe from Georgetown University. I'm an American. I just arrived in Bellagio.'

'I don't understand…' The voice was guarded.

'It's about the hunt for Father Daniel Addison… I've been watching television-'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'As an American priest, I thought I might be able to help where others couldn't.'

'I'm sorry, Father. I don't know anything. It's all been a mistake. If you'll excuse me…'

'I'm at the Hotel Du Lac. Room three-two-seven.'

'Goodnight, Father.'

CLICK.

Slowly Harry clicked off his own phone.

Harry heard the thinnest crackle of static just before Edward Mooi hung up. It confirmed what he had feared. The police had been listening.