Roscani would know their real purpose, but only he. No one else would be told, not even Farel.

'I must tell you truthfully, Mr Addison.' Pio stopped for a red light. 'We can go just so far before Farel finds out. When he does, he may terminate everything.'

'Why?'

'Because of what Cardinal Marsciano said to you. Because if what has happened has to do with Vatican politics, Farel will end it right there. The case will be closed, and we will have no authority to pursue it. The Vatican is a sovereign state and not part of Italy. Our job is to cooperate with the Holy See and help them any way we can. And if they do not invite us in, we cannot go.'

'Then what?'

The light changed, and Pio moved the Alfa Romeo off, shifting through the H of the manual transmission. 'Then nothing. Unless you go to Farel. And Farel, I can assure you, will not help you.'

Harry saw Pio glance in the mirror again. He had done it several times while they were on the Autostrada, and he'd thought nothing of it. A driver being cautious. But now they were on city streets, and this was the third time in the last few minutes.

'Something wrong?'

'I don't know…'

A small white Peugeot was two cars behind them. Pio had been watching it ever since they'd turned onto Via Salaria. Now he turned left onto Via Chiana and then right onto Corso Trieste. The Peugeot moved out in traffic, staying with them.

Ahead was a cross street bordering a small park, and Pio took it fast, downshifting suddenly and making a sharp right without a signal. The Alfa leaned heavily, its tires screeching. Immediately Pio slowed, his eyes on the mirror. The Peugeot came into view but did not turn, just continued on.

'Sorry.' Pio accelerated again. They were in a quiet neighborhood separated by the park. Old buildings interspersed with new. Big trees, lush bushes, and everywhere oleander in bloom. Pio turned a corner and again glanced at the mirror.

The Peugeot.

It had just cut in from a side street and was accelerating toward them. Instinctively Pio slid a 9mm Beretta from a clip under the dash and put it on the seat beside him. At the same time he reached for the car's radio.

'What's going on?' Fear stabbed at Harry.

'Don't know.' Pio glanced in the mirror. The Peugeot was right behind them. The windshield was heavily tinted. It was impossible to see the driver. Downshifting quickly, he stepped hard on the accelerator.

'Ispettore Capo Pio-,' he said into the radio.

'Look out!' Harry yelled too late.

A truck abruptly pulled out of a side street blocking the road. A tremendous squeal of tires was followed by a deadening crash as the Alfa hit the truck full on. The force pitched Pio forward, his head slamming off the steering wheel. Harry flew forward, then was jolted back by his safety belt.

Instantly the door beside him was pulled open. He saw a face for the briefest moment, then something hit him hard and everything went black.

Pio looked up to see his own gun in the gloved hand of a stranger. He tried to move, but his seat belt held him in. Then he saw his gun buck in the stranger's hand and thought he heard a thundering explosion. But he was wrong. There was nothing but silence.

Hospital St Cecilia. Pescara, Italy.

Still Wednesday, July 8. 6:20 p.m.

Nursing sister Elena Voso passed the man at the door and went into the room. Her patient was as she'd left him, on his side, sleeping. Sleeping was what she called it, even though from time to time he opened his eyes and was able to blink in response when she squeezed a finger or toe and asked if he could feel it. Then his eyes would close and he would be as he was now.

It was approaching six-thirty, and he needed to be turned again. The man at the door would help with that, as whoever was on duty did every two hours to prevent the destruction of muscle tissue, which could lead not only to bedsores but kidney failure. Coming in at her call, he would take the shoulders while she took the feet, easing her charge carefully from his back and onto his side, being especially careful of the IV and of his broken legs, set in blue fiberglass casts, and the bandages covering his burns.

Michael Roark, age 34. Irish citizen. Home, Dublin. Unmarried. No children. No family. Religion, Roman Catholic. Injured in an automobile accident near this Adriatic seacoast town, Monday, July 6. Three days after the terrible explosion of the Assisi bus.

Elena Voso was a member of the Congregation of Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart. At twenty-seven, she had been a nursing sister for five years, working in the long-term-care ward at the Hospital of St Bernardine in the Tuscan city of Siena. She had come to this small Catholic hospital on a hill overlooking the Adriatic only yesterday, assigned to this patient as part of a new kind of program for the Order. It was a way to expose younger nursing sisters to situations away from their home convents, preparing them for future emergencies where they might be called upon to go almost anywhere on short notice. And, though no one had said so, she also believed she had been sent because she spoke English and could communicate with the patient as he progressed, if he progressed.

'My name is Elena Voso. I am a nursing nun. Your name is Michael Roark. You are in a hospital in Italy. You were in an automobile accident.'

It was a string of words she had said over and over, trying to comfort him, hoping he could hear and understand. It wasn't much, but it was something she knew she would like someone to say to her if she were ever in a similar situation. Especially since he had no relatives and therefore no familiar face he might recognize.

The man outside the door was named Marco. He worked from three in the afternoon to eleven at night. A year or two older than Elena, he was strong and handsome and deeply tanned. He said he was a fisherman and worked at the hospital when the fishing was slow. She knew he had been a carabiniere, a member of the national police, because he had told her so. She had seen him talking with other carabinieri earlier in the day, when she'd walked along the lungomare, the road along the seashore, during a short respite from her duties. She had seen the bulge under his hospital jacket and knew he had a pistol there.

The turning of Michael Roark done, Elena checked the fluid in the IV, then smiled at Marco and thanked him. Afterward she went into the next room, which was where she could sleep or read or write letters, and where she would be immediately available at any moment.

Her room, like Roark's, was a hospital room with its own toilet and shower, small closet, and bed. She was grateful especially for the toilet and shower, where, unlike in the communal bathrooms of the convent, she could be totally alone. Her being, her body, her thoughts private, except to God.

Now, as she closed the door and sat down on the bed, intending to write a letter home, she glanced at the red glow of the audio monitor on the bedside table next to her. The sound of her patient's steady breathing was clearly audible, the monitor's electronics so advanced that it seemed almost as if he were there beside her.

Lying back against the pillow, she closed her eyes and listened to his breathing. It was strong and healthy, even vital, and she began to imagine that he was there, alongside her, alert and well, as muscular and handsome as she knew he must have been before his injuries. The longer she listened, the more sensual his breathing seemed to become. In time she began to feel the press of his body against hers. Felt herself breathing with him, as if the rise and fall of their chests were the same. Her breathing became deeper, overriding his. She felt her own hand touch her breast, and she reached out, wanting to touch him and to keep touching him, exploring him in a way far more provocative and passionate than any way she had when she cared for his wounds.