The Confessor

ROME

THE YOUNG MAN sitting astride the motorino on the Via Gioberti had an air of bored insolence typical of Roman teenagers. He was not bored, nor was he a teenager, but a thirty-year-old Vigilanza officer assigned to Carlo Casagrande's special section of the Vatican Security Office. His youthful appearance proved an asset in his present assignment: the surveillance of Inspector Alessio Rossi of the Polizia di Stato. The Vigilanza man knew only what he needed to know about Rossi. A troublemaker, the inspector. Poking his nose into places it didn't belong. At the end of each shift, the officer returned to the Vatican, then typed up a detailed report and left it on Casagrande's desk. The old general always read the Rossi reports the moment they came in. He had taken a special "interest in the case.

Rossi had been acting suspiciously. Twice that day--once in the again in the late afternoon--he'd driven an unmarked

car from headquarters to the Via Gioberti and parked there. The Vigilanza man had observed Rossi staring at the Pensione Abruzzi like a man who suspected his wife was having an affair upstairs. After the second visit, the officer contacted an informant in Rossi's department, a pretty young girl who answered the telephones and handled the filing. The girl told him that Rossi had received several telephone calls that day from a guest at the Abruzzi offering information about a cold case. The guest's name? Siedler, the informant had answered. Heinrich Siedler.

The Vigilanza man had a hunch. He climbed off the motorino and entered the pensione. The night manager looked up from a pornographic magazine.

"Is there a man named Heinrich Siedler staying in this hotel?"

The night manager shrugged his heavy shoulders. The Vigilanza officer slid a pair of euro notes across the counter and watched them disappear into the manager's grubby paw.

"Yes, I believe we have a man called Siedler staying here. Let me check." He made a vast show of consulting the registry book. "Ah,

yes, Siedler."

The man from the Vatican pulled a photograph from the pocket of his leather jacket and laid it on the counter. This produced a noncommittal frown from the night manager. His face brightened at the appearance of more money.

"Yes, that's him. That's Siedler."

The Vigilanza man scooped up the picture. "What room?"

THE APARTMENT on the Via Pinciana was too large for an old man living alone: vaulted ceilings, a spacious sitting room, a broad terrace with a sweeping view of the Villa Borghese. On nights when

Carlo Casagrande was tormented by memories of his wife and daughter, it seemed as cavernous as the Basilica. Had he still been a mere carabinieri general, the flat would have been well beyond his reach, but because the building was owned by the Vatican, Casagrande paid nothing. He felt no guilt about living well on the donations of the faithful. The flat served not only as his residence, but as his primary office as well. As a result, he took precautions that his neighbors did not. There was a Vigilanza man permanently at his door and another in a car parked on the Via Pinciana. Once a week, a team from the Vatican Security Office scoured the flat to make sure it was free of listening devices.

He answered the telephone on the first ring and immediately recognized the voice of the Vigilanza man assigned to the Rossi case. He listened in silence while the officer filed his report, then severed the connection and dialed a number.

"I need to speak to Bartoletti. It's an emergency."

"I'm afraid the director is unavailable at this time."

"This is Carlo Casagrande. Make him available."

"Yes, General Casagrande. Please hold."

A moment later, Bartoletti came on the line. Casagrande wasted no time on pleasantries.

"We have received information that the papal assassin is staying in room twenty-two of the Pensione Abruzzi in the San Lorenzo Quarter. We have reason to believe he is armed and very dangerous."

Bartoletti hung up. Casagrande lit a cigarette and began the wait.

In Paris, Eric Lange brought his cellular phone to his ear and heard the voice of Rashid Husseini.

"I think we may have found your man."

"Where is he?"

"Your Italian detective has been acting peculiar all day. He just went inside a pensione called the Abruzzi--a real shithole near the train station."

"What street?"

"The Via Gioberti."

Lange looked at his watch. There was no way to get to Rome tonight. He'd have to leave in the morning. "Keep him under surveillance," he said. "Call me if he moves."

"Right."

Lange rang off, then dialed Air France reservations and booked a seat on the seven-fifteen flight.