'You are close to him.'

'Yes, I guess…'

'As close to him as to anyone?'

'I guess so.'

'Meaning you might tell him things you would tell no one else.'

'What are you getting at?'

Farel's gray-green eyes found Harry's and held there. Finally his gaze moved off and they continued to walk. Slowly, deliberately. Harry had no idea where they were going or why. He wondered if Farel did, if it was simply his manner of interrogation.

Behind them, a blue Ford turned the corner, drove slowly for a half block, then pulled over and stopped. No one got out. Harry glanced at Farel. If he was aware of the car, he didn't acknowledge.

'You never spoke with your brother directly.'

'No.'

Farther down, the men loading bottles finished, and their van pulled from the curb. Parked beyond it was a dark gray Fiat. Two men sat in the front seat. Harry glanced back. The other car was still there. The block was short. If the men in the cars belonged to Farel, it meant they had essentially sealed off the street.

'And the message he left on your answering machine… you erased.'

'I wouldn't have done it if I had known how things were going to turn out.'

Abruptly Farel stopped. They were nearly to the gray Fiat, and Harry could see the men in the front seat watching them. The one at the wheel was young and leaned forward in his seat almost eagerly, as if he hoped something would happen.

'You act like you don't know where we are, Mr Addison.' Farel smiled slowly, then swept his hand at the yellow stained and paint-peeled four-story building in front of them.

'Should I?'

'Number one-twenty-seven Via Ombrellari – you don't know?'

Harry looked down the street. The blue Ford was still there. Then his eyes came back to Farel.

'No, I don't.'

'It's your brother's apartment building.'

Danny's apartment was on the ground floor, small and exceedingly Spartan. Its cubicle of a living room faced a tiny back courtyard and was furnished with a reading chair, small desk, floor lamp, and bookcase, all of which looked as though they had come from a flea market. Even the books were secondhand, most of them old and dealing with historical Catholicism, with titles such as The Last Days of Papal Rome, 1850-1870, Plenarii Concilii Baltimorensis Tertii, The Church in the Christian Roman Empire.

The bedroom was sparer yet – a single, blanket-covered bed and a small chest of drawers, with lamp and telephone on top, which served as a bedside table. His closet was as meager. A suit of the classic priest's vestments – black shirt, black slacks, and black jacket all on one hanger. A pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, worn gray sweat suit, and pair of old running shoes. The chest of drawers revealed a white clerical collar, several pairs of well-worn underwear, three pairs of socks, a folded sweater, and two T-shirts, one with the logo of Providence College.

'Everything just as he left it when he went to Assisi,' Farel said quietly.

'Where were the cartridges?'

Farel led him into the bathroom and opened the door of an ancient commode. Inside were several drawers, all of which had locks that had been pried open, presumably by the police.

'The bottom drawer. In the back behind some toilet tissue.'

Harry stared for a moment, then turned and walked slowly back through the bedroom and into the living room. On the top shelf of the bookcase there was a hot plate he hadn't noticed before. Beside it was a lone cup with a spoon in it, and next to that a jar of instant coffee. That was it. No kitchen, no stove, no refrigerator. It was the kind of place he might have rented as a freshman at Harvard, when he had no money at all and was enrolled only because he'd earned an academic scholarship.

'His voice-'

Harry turned. Farel stood in the bedroom doorway watching him, his shaved head looking suddenly too large and disproportionate to his body.

'Your brother's voice on the answering machine. You said he sounded frightened.'

'Yes.'

'As if he might be afraid for his life?'

'Yes.'

'Did he mention names? People you would both know. Family? Friends?'

'No, no names.'

'Think carefully, Mr Addison. You hadn't heard from your brother in a long time. He was distraught.' Farel stepped closer, his words running on. 'People tend to forget things when they're thinking about something else.'

'If there had been names I would have told the Italian police.'

'Did he say why he was going to Assisi?'

'He didn't say anything about Assisi.'

'What about another city or town?' Farel kept pushing. 'Somewhere he had been or might be going?'

'No.'

'Dates? A day. A time that might be important-'

'No,' Harry said. 'No dates, no time. Nothing like that.'

Farel's eyes probed him again. 'You are absolutely certain, Mr Addison…'

'Yes, I'm absolutely certain.'

A sharp knock at the front door drew their attention. It opened, and the eager driver of the gray Fiat – Pilger, Farel called him – entered. He was even younger than Harry had first thought, baby-faced, looking as if he were barely old enough to shave. A priest was with him. Like Pilger, he was young, probably not thirty, and tall, with dark curly hair and black eyes behind black-rimmed glasses.

Farel spoke to him in Italian. There was an exchange, and Farel turned to Harry.

'This is Father Bardoni, Mr Addison. He works for Cardinal Marsciano. He knew your brother.'

'I speak English, a little, anyway,' Father Bardoni said gently and with a smile. 'May I offer my deepest condolences…'

'Thank you…' Harry nodded gratefully. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged Danny in any context outside of murder.

'Father Bardoni has come from the funeral home where your brother's remains were taken,' Farel said. 'The necessary paperwork is being processed. The documents will be ready for your signature tomorrow. Father Bardoni will accompany you to the funeral home. And the following morning, to the airport. A first-class seat has been reserved for you. Father Daniel's remains will be on the same plane.'

'Thank you,' Harry said again, right now wanting only to get out from under the overbearing shadow of the police and take Danny home for burial.

'Mr Addison,' Farel warned, 'the investigation is not over. The FBI will follow up for us in the States. They will want to question you further. They will want to talk to Mr Willis. They will want the names and addresses of relatives, friends, military associates, other people your brother may have known or been involved with.'

'There are no living relatives, Mr Farel. Danny and I were the last of the family. As for who his friends or associates were, I couldn't say. I just don't know that much about his life… But I'll tell you something. I want to know what happened as much as you do. Maybe even more. And I intend to find out.'

Harry looked at Farel a beat longer. Then, with a nod to Father Bardoni, he took a final look around the room, a last, private moment to see where and how Danny had lived, and started toward the door.

'Mr Addison.'

Farel's voice rasped sharply after him, and Harry turned back.

'I told you when we met that it's what you haven't said that interests me… It still does… As a lawyer you should know the most insignificant pieces sometimes make the whole… Things so seemingly unimportant, a person might pass them on without realizing it.'

'I've told you everything my brother said to me…'

'So you say, Mr Addison.' Farel's gaze narrowed and his eyes grasped Harry's and held there. 'I was washed with the blood of a cardinal. I will not bathe in the blood of a pope.'