Day Of Confession

92

Marsciano might have left the room alone, but that was where his freedom ended. Protocol forced him to wait for the others, and now, inside the limousine, there was silence.

Marsciano looked purposely out the window as the green gate closed behind them and they turned onto Via Bruxelles – knowing, with the investments already in place, his actions inside had all but sealed his fate.

Once again he thought of the three lakes Palestrina had promised. Which two were to come after Hefei, and when, only the secretartiat knew. Palestrina's sickness and cruelty were beyond comprehension. His just-witnessed act of self-deception, incredible. When and how had an intelligent and respectable man turned? Or had the monster always been there and only sleeping?

Now the driver turned onto Via Salaria and slowed to a crawl in heavy afternoon traffic. Marsciano could feel Palestrina's presence beside him, and the eyes of Capizzi and Matadi as they sat opposite watching him, but he acknowledged none of it. Instead his thoughts went to the Chinese banking head, Yan Yeh, remembering him not as an astute businessman who was, at the same time, an autocratic lifelong member of the Chinese Communist Party and prominent adviser to the party chairman, but rather as a friend and humanitarian, a man who could produce a cursory political diatribe one minute and in the next, talk about his personal concerns for health care and education and the well-being of the poor around the world; and then in the next, smile warmly and laugh and make small talk about Italian wine makers coming to the People's Republic to show them how it was done.

'-Do you often make telephone calls to North America?' Palestrina's voice echoed suddenly and sharply behind him.

Marsciano turned from the window to see Palestrina staring at him, his huge frame taking up most of the seat between them.

'I don't understand.'

'Canada, in particular.' Palestrina kept his eyes on Marsciano. 'The province of Alberta.'

'I still don't understand…'

'1011 403 555 2211,' Palestrina said from memory. 'You don't recognize the number?'

'Should I?'

Marsciano could feel the lean of the car as they turned onto Via Pinciana. Outside was the familiar green of the Villa Borghese. Abruptly, the Mercedes accelerated. Moving toward the Tiber. Soon they would be across it, turning onto Lungotevere Mellini, going toward the Vatican. Somewhere not far behind them was Marsciano's apartment on Via Carissimi, and he knew that he had seen it for the last time.

'It is the number for the Banff Springs Hotel. Two calls were made to it from your office on Saturday morning, the eleventh. Another, that afternoon, from a cellular phone signed out to Father Bardoni. Your private secretary. The man who replaced the priest.'

Marsciano shrugged. 'Many calls are made from my office, even on a Saturday. Father Bardoni works long hours, so do I, so do others… I do not keep track of every telephone call…'

'You told me in the presence of Jacov Farel that the priest was dead.'

'He is…' Marsciano's eyes came up and looked at Palestrina directly.

'Then who was brought to Bellagio, to Villa Lorenzi two days ago? On Sunday evening, the twelfth?'

Marsciano smiled. 'You have been watching the television.'

'The calls to Banff were made Saturday, and the priest was brought to Villa Lorenzi on Sunday.' Palestrina leaned forward into the face of Nicola Marsciano, stretching the material of his jacket tight across his back.

'Villa Lorenzi is owned by the writer Eros Barbu. Eros Barbu is vacationing at the Banff Springs Hotel.'

'If you are asking if I know Eros Barbu, Eminence, you are right. We are old friends from Tuscany.'

Palestrina watched Marsciano carefully for a moment longer. Finally, he sat back. 'Then you should be saddened to hear he has committed suicide.'