Ispettore Capo, Gianni Pio

Questura di Roma

sezione omicidi

Harry sat in his hotel room, turning Pio's card over in his hand. Father Bardoni had dropped him off just before noon, saying he would pick him up at six-thirty the following morning to take him to the airport. Danny's casket would already be there, checked in. All Harry would have to do would be board the plane.

The trouble was, even in the shadow of Marsciano's warning, Harry couldn't. He could not take a body home and bury it for all time as Danny's when he knew in his heart it was not. Nor could he take it home and, by burying it, make it easy for the investigators to officially close the book on the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome; an act that, for all intents, would brand Danny forever as his killer. And this, after his meeting with Marsciano, was something Harry was more certain than ever was not true.

The problem was what to do about it, and how to do it quickly.

It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon in Rome, three-thirty in the morning in Los Angeles. Whom could he call for help there right now who would be able to do anything other than be sympathetic? Even if Byron Willis or someone in the office could arrange for a prominent Italian attorney to represent him in Rome, it wouldn't happen in the next few hours.

And even if it did, then what? They would meet. Harry would explain what had happened. And he would be back to square one. This wasn't simply about a misidentified corpse, it was about an investigation of murder on the highest levels. In no time, they would all be under an intense media spotlight, and he, his firm, his clients would make world news. No, he had to find another way. Come from the inside, ask the help of someone who already knew what was going on.

Again Harry looked at Pio's card. Why not the Italian homicide investigator? They had developed a relationship of sorts, and Pio had encouraged further communication. He had to trust someone, and he wanted to believe he could trust Pio.

12:35

Someone in Pio's office who spoke English said the ispettore capo was out but took Harry's name and number, saying he would call back. That was all. That he would call back. No idea when.

12:55

What to do if Pio doesn't call? Harry didn't know. The best he could do was put his faith in the policeman and his professionalism and hope he would call back sometime before six-thirty tomorrow morning.

1:20

Harry had taken a shower and was shaving when the phone rang. Immediately he picked the receiver from the mount over the sink, smearing it with Ralph Lauren gel.

'Mr Addison-'

Jacov Farel – Harry would never forget the voice.

'Something new has come up concerning your brother. I thought it might interest you.'

'What is it?'

'I'd rather you saw for yourself, Mr Addison. My driver will pick you up and take you to a site near the scene of the bus explosion. I will meet you there.'

'When?'

'Ten minutes.'

'All right, ten minutes.'

The driver's name was Lestingi or Lestini. Harry didn't quite get the pronunciation, nor did he ask again, because the man apparently spoke no English. Dressed in aviator sunglasses, off-white polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes, Harry simply got into the rear seat of a maroon Opel and sat back as they drove off, staring at the blur of Rome as they wound through it.

The idea of another encounter with Farel was disturbing enough, but projecting what he might have found at the site of the explosion troubled Harry even more. Obviously, whatever it was would not be something in Danny's favor.

Up front, Lestingi or Lestini, in the trademark black suit of Farel's soldiers, slowed for a toll plaza, took a ticket, and accelerated out onto the Autostrada. Immediately the city fell away. Ahead were only vineyards and farms and open land.

As the Opel pushed north, with only the hum of its tires and the whine of its engine for sound, as they passed signs for the towns of Feronia, Fiano, and Civitella San Paolo, Harry thought about Pio and wished it had been he who had called him and not Farel. Pio and Roscani were tough policemen, but at least there was something human about them. Farel – with his presence and bulk and raspy voice and the way his glassy stare cut through you – seemed more like some kind of beast, ruthless and without conscience.

Maybe it was because he had to be. Maybe it was because, as he said, he was accountable for the safety of a nation – and of a pope. And maybe, over time, that kind of strain and responsibility unknowingly turned you into something that, at heart, you were not.

Twenty minutes later Farel's driver swung off the Autostrada, paid the toll, and they moved off once more, turning onto a country highway, passing a gas station and a large building housing farm equipment. Then there was nothing but the road and cornfields on either side of it. They drove on, a mile, then two, then three. The bus had blown up on the Autostrada, and they were rapidly moving away from it.

'Where are we going?' Harry asked suddenly.

The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror and shook his head. 'Non capisco inglese.'

In the last minutes they had passed no other traffic. Harry looked over his shoulder, then out through the windshield. The corn was lush, higher than the car. Dirt farm roads cut off left and right, but they kept on. Five miles now. Harry's uneasiness grew. Then he felt the car begin to slow. He watched the speedometer drop, 80 kilometers, 60, 40, 20. Abruptly the driver swung right, turning off the highway and starting down a long, rutted lane. Instinctively, Harry glanced at the door locks to see if they were down, if the driver controlled them electronically from up front.

There were none.

Only holes in the leatherette trim where they'd been. Then he realized this was a police car, and the rear seats of police cars never had door locks, were always locked, could be opened only from the outside.

'Where are we going?' Harry said it louder this time. He could feel the thump of his heart against his chest, the stick of sweat on his palms.

'Non capisco inglese.'

Again the driver glanced at him in the mirror. Then Harry saw his foot press down on the accelerator. The car picked up speed, bucking and jolting over the uneven road. Corn rows flew past. Behind them was a curtain of dust. Harry put out a hand to keep his balance. Sweat trickled down from under his arms. For the first time in his life he felt real fear.

Without warning the road turned, and they rounded a bend. Ahead was a clearing and a modern two-story house. A gray Alfa Romeo was parked in dry grass alongside a tiny three-wheel farm vehicle. The Opel slowed and then slopped. The driver got out and walked around the car, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. Then he pulled the door open and motioned for Harry to get out.

'Fuck,' Harry swore under his breath. He got out slowly, watching the man's hands, trying to decide what to do if he moved them. Then he saw the door to the house open. Two men came out. Farel was one and – Harry felt a huge surge of relief cut through him – Pio was the other. A man and two young boys followed. Harry looked off and at the same time let out a deep sigh. Behind the house, on the far side of a row of trees, traffic flowed on the Autostrada. They had done nothing but make a large circle off the highway and come up on the house from behind.