The Hotel Hassler.

Still Tuesday, July 7. 10:00 p.m.

'Great! Great! I love it!… Has he called in?… No, I didn't think he would. He's where?… Hiding?'

Harry stood in his room and laughed out loud. Telephone in hand, his shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, shoes off, he turned to lean against the edge of the antique desk near the window.

'Hey, he's twenty-four, he's a star, let him do what he wants.'

Signing off, Harry hung up and set the phone on the desk among the pile of legal pads, faxes, pencil stubs, half-eaten sandwich, and crumbled notes. When was the last time he'd laughed, or even felt like laughing? But just now he'd laughed, and it felt good.

Dog on the Moon was a monster hit. Fifty-eight million dollars for the three-day holiday weekend, sixteen million more than Warner Brothers' highest estimates. Studio number crunchers were projecting a total domestic gross of upward of two hundred and fifty million. And as for its writer-director, Jesus Arroyo, the twenty-four-year-old barrio kid from East L.A. Harry had found six years ago in a special writing program for troubled inner-city teenagers and had mentored ever since, his career was blasting off the planet. In little more than three days he had become the new enfant terrible, his golden future assured. Multi-picture contracts worth millions were being overtured to him. So were demands for guest appearances on every major television talk show. And where was baby Jesus in all this? Partying in Vail or Aspen or up the coast looking at Montecito real estate? No? He was – hiding!

Harry laughed again at the purity of it. Intelligent, mature, and forceful as Jesus was as a filmmaker, at heart he was really a shy little boy who, following the biggest weekend of his career, could not be found. Not by the media, not by his friends, his latest girlfriend, or even his agent – whom Harry had been on the phone with. No one.

Except Harry.

Harry knew where he was. Jesus Arroyo Manuel Rodriguez was his full name, and he was at his parents' house on Escuela Street in East L.A. He was with his mom and his hospital custodian dad, and his brothers and sisters, and cousins and aunts and uncles.

Yes, Harry knew where he was, and he could call him, but he didn't want to. Let Jesus have his time with his family. He'd know what was going on. If he wanted to be in touch he would be. Much better to let him celebrate in his own way and let all the other stuff, including the congratulatory call from his lawyer, come later. Business did not yet rule his life as it did Harry's and the lives of most everyone else who was a success in the entertainment world.

There had been eighteen calls waiting for him to return when he'd checked in yesterday. But he'd answered none of them, just gone to bed and slept for fifteen hours, emotionally and physically exhausted, the idea of business as usual impossible. But tonight, after his encounter with Farel, work had been a welcome relief. And everyone he'd talked to had congratulated him on the big success of Dog and the bright future of Jesus Arroyo, and had been kind and sympathetic about his own personal tragedy, apologizing for talking business under the circumstances and then – all those things said – talking business.

For a time it had been exhilarating, even comforting, because it took his mind off the present. And then, as he'd ended the last call, he realized no one he had talked to had any idea that he was dealing with the police or that his brother was the prime suspect in the assassination of the cardinal vicar of Rome. And he couldn't tell them. As much as they were friends, they were business friends, and that was all.

For the first time, it came to him how singular his life really was. With the exception of Byron Willis – who was married and had two young children and still worked as many hours as Harry did and maybe more – he had no genuine friends, no soul mates of any kind. His life moved too quickly for those kinds of relationships to develop. Women were no different. He was part of Hollywood 's inner circle, and beautiful women were everywhere. He used them and they used him; it was all part of the game. A private screening, dinner afterward, sex, and then back to business; meetings, negotiations, telephones, maybe seeing no one at all socially for weeks at a time. His longest affair had been with an actress and lasted little more than six months. He'd been too busy, too preoccupied. And until now it had seemed all right.

Turning from the desk, Harry went to the window and looked out. The last time he'd looked, the city had been a dazzle of early-evening sun. Now it was night, and Rome sparkled. Below him, the Spanish Steps and the Piazza di Spagna beyond teemed with people – a mass congregation of coming and going and just being, with little collections of uniformed police here and there making sure none of it got out of hand.

Farther away he could see a convergence of narrow streets and alleyways, above which the orange-and-cream-colored tile rooftops of apartments, shops, and small hotels fingered out in ancient orderly blocks until they reached the black band of the Tiber. Across it was the lighted dome of St Peter's, that part of Rome where he'd been earlier in the day. Beneath it sprawled Jacov Farel's domain, the Vatican itself. Residence of the pope. Seat of authority for the world's nine hundred and fifty million Roman Catholics. And the place where Danny had spent the final years of his life.

How could Harry know what those years had been like? Had they been enriching or merely academic? Why had Danny gone from the marines to the priesthood? It was something he had never understood. Not surprising, because at the time they were barely talking, so how could he have asked at all without sounding judgmental? But looking out now at the lighted dome of St Peter's, he had to wonder if it was something there, inside the Vatican, that had driven Danny to call him, and afterward sent him to his death.

Who or what had he been so frightened of? And where had it originated? At the moment, the key seemed to be the bombing of the bus. If the police could determine who had done it and why, they would know if Danny himself had been the target. If he had been the target, and the police knew who the suspects were, then they would all be a major step closer to confirming what Harry still believed in his heart – that Danny was not guilty and had been set up. For some unknown reason altogether.

Once more, he heard the voice and the fear.

''I'm scared, Harry… I don't know what to do… or… what will happen next. God help me.'

11:30 p.m.

Harry wound his way down the Via Condotti to the Via del Corso and on, unable to sleep, looking in shop windows, just wandering with the late crowd. Before he'd gone out he'd called Byron Willis in L.A., telling him about his meeting with Jacov Farel and alerting him to the probability of a visit from the FBI, then discussing with him something deeply personal – where Danny should be buried.

That twist – one that, in the crush of everything, Harry hadn't considered – had come in a call from Father Bardoni, the young priest he'd met at Danny's apartment, informing him that, as far as anyone knew, Father Daniel had no will, and the director of the funeral home needed to advise the funeral director in the town where Danny was to be interred about the arrival of his remains.

'Where would he want to be buried?' Byron Willis had asked gently. And Harry's only answer was 'I don't know…'

'You have a family plot?' Willis had asked.

'Yes,' Harry had said. In their hometown of Bath, Maine. In a small cemetery overlooking the Kennebec River.