Part 8 (1/2)

”Stop it!” she whispered to herself.

Abruptly she got up from the bed and deliberately went into the bathroom to wash her face and hands. G.o.d was testing her again, as He had been more and more frequently over the past two years.

When exactly the feelings had begun she wasn't sure, nor had there been anything in particular to precipitate them. They had just started, rising seemingly from nowhere. And they'd astonished her. They were deep and sensual and erotic. Profound physical and emotional hungers she'd never experienced in her life. Feelings she could talk to no one about-certainly not to her family, who were strict and tradition bound in the way of old Italian Catholic familes; certainly not to the other nuns, and most a.s.suredly not to her mother general-yet the feelings were there just the same and made her pulse with an almost unmanageable desire to be unclothed and in a man's arms, and to be a woman with him in the fullest sense. And, increasingly, not just a woman woman, but one wild and l.u.s.ty, like the Italian women she'd seen in the cinema.

There had been times early on when she'd pa.s.sed the emotions off as nothing more than the extension of an adventurous spirit; one that had always been physical and brave and, on occasion, overly impulsive. One time, visiting Florence as a teenager, and to the horror of her parents, who were with her, she'd run to a car that had just been in a terrible collision with a taxi, pulling the unconscious driver from it seconds before it burst into flame. Another time, when she was older, she'd been on a picnic with nursing nuns from St. Bernardine and had climbed to the top of a hundred foot radio tower to bring down a young boy who had scaled it on a dare, but who, once at the top, had become frozen with fear, unable to do more than cling there and cry.

But finally she'd realized physical courage and s.e.xual desire were not the same. And with that she'd suddenly understood.

This was G.o.d's doing!

He was testing her inner strength, and her vows of chast.i.ty and obedience. And each day He seemed to test her a little more. And the more He did, the more difficult it became to overcome. But somehow she always did, her subconscious suddenly making her aware of what was happening, enabling her to abruptly bring herself back from the edge. The same as she had now. And, in doing so, giving her the courage and conviction to know she had the fort.i.tude to withstand His purposeful temptations.

As if to prove it, she let her mind go to Marco standing guard outside the door. His strapping body. His bright eyes. His smile. If he was married he hadn't said, but he wore no wedding ring, and she wondered if he spent his off hours bedding women at will. He was certainly handsome enough to do so if he wanted. But, if he did, he would do so with other women, not her. To her he was simply a man doing his job.

Seeing him in that light, she knew it was safe to think about him any way she wished. He said he had been trained as a nursing aide, as supposedly the others had been. But if he was only that, why did he carry a pistol? That question alone made her think of the others-the stocky Luca, who came on at eleven at night on the s.h.i.+ft following Marco's, and Pietro, who began at seven in the morning when Luca left. She wondered if they were armed as well. If they were, why? In this peaceful seacoast town, what threat could there possibly be?

20.

Rome. 6:45 P.M P.M.

ROSCANI WALKED AROUND THE CAR. OUTSIDE, beyond the police barricades, faces stared at him, wondering who he was, if he was anyone of importance.

A second body had been found in the bushes just off the sidewalk twenty feet behind the Alfa. Shot twice. Once in the heart, once above the left eye. An elderly man with no identification.

Roscani had left it to Castelletti and Scala, the other ispettori capi ispettori capi from homicide. His princ.i.p.al interest was the Alfa Romeo. Its winds.h.i.+eld cracked, its front end was smashed into the truck it had hit full on, just missing the gas tank behind the driver's door. from homicide. His princ.i.p.al interest was the Alfa Romeo. Its winds.h.i.+eld cracked, its front end was smashed into the truck it had hit full on, just missing the gas tank behind the driver's door.

Pio's body had still been there when he arrived. He'd studied it without touching, had it photographed and videotaped, and then it was taken away, the same as had been done with the body in the bushes.

There should have been a third body, but there wasn't. The American, Harry Addison, had been riding with Pio, coming back into the city from the farmhouse location where they had recovered the Spanish-made Llama pistol. But Harry Addison was gone. So was the pistol, the ignition keys still in the trunk lock, as if someone had known exactly where the gun was and where to find it.

Inside the Alfa, what appeared to be the murder weapon, Pio's own 9mm Beretta, lay on the backseat on the driver's side, as if it had been casually tossed there. Bloodstains were on the pa.s.senger side, on top of the seat by the door, just below the headrest. Shoe prints were in the carpet beneath it-not terribly distinct, but there just the same. Fingerprints were everywhere.

Tech crews were dusting, taking samples, marking them, putting them in evidence bags. Police photographers were on the scene as well. Two of them. One taking photographs with a Leica, the other making a video record with a modified Sony Hi-8.

And then there was the truck-a large Mercedes delivery vehicle reported stolen earlier that afternoon, its driver long gone.

Ispettore Capo Otello Roscani got behind the wheel of his dark blue Fiat and drove slowly around the barricades and past the faces watching him. The glare of police work lights illuminated the scene like a movie set, filling in the darkness for the faces and providing additional light for media cameras, which were there in frenzy.

”Ispettore Capo!”

”Ispettore Capo!”

Voices shouted. Men and women. Who did this? Does it have to do with the murder of Cardinal Parma? Who was killed? Who was suspected? And why?

Roscani saw it all, heard it all. But it didn't matter. His mind was focused on Pio and what had happened in the moments immediately preceding his death. Gianni Pio was not a man to make mistakes, but late this afternoon he had, somehow letting himself be compromised.

At this point-without an autopsy, without lab reports-questions were all Roscani had. Questions and sadness. Gianni Pio was G.o.dfather to his children and had been his friend and partner for more than twenty years. And now, as he headed back across Rome toward the Garbatella section, where Pio had lived-going to see Pio's wife and his children, where Roscani knew his own wife already was, giving what little comfort she could-Otello Roscani tried to keep his personal feelings at a distance. As a policeman he had to, and out of respect for Pio he had to, because they would only get in the way of what had become his primary objective.

The finding of Harry Addison.

21.

Still Wednesday, July 8. Same time.

THOMAS KIND STOOD IN THE DARKNESS, WATCHing the man in the chair. Two others were in the room with him, dressed in coveralls, standing somewhere behind him. They were there to help if he needed it, which he would not. And to do the work afterward, which should be simple enough.

Thomas Kind was thirty-nine, five foot ten and very slim, a hundred and forty pounds at most, and in superb condition. His hair was cut short and jet-black, as were his slacks, shoes, and sweater, which made him difficult-if not impossible-to see in the darkness. Besides the paleness of his skin, the only color about him was the deep blue of his eyes.

The man in the chair stirred, but that was all. His hands and feet were bound and his mouth closed, pinched tight by thick tape.

Thomas Kind stepped closer, watched for a moment, then walked completely around the chair.

”Relax, comrade,” he said quietly. Patience and calmness were everything. It was how he lived each day. Even tempered, waiting for the right moment. It was the sort of thing Thomas Jose Alvarez-Rios Kind, native Ecuadorean born of an English mother, might put on his resume. Patient. Painstaking. Well educated. Multilingual. Add to that, one-time actor-and also one of the world's most-hunted terrorists.

”Relax, comrade.” Harry heard the phrase again. A male voice, the same as before. Calm. In accented English. Harry thought he felt someone moving past him, but he couldn't be sure. The throbbing of his head overrode everything. All he knew was that he was sitting up and that his hands and feet were bound and there was tape across his mouth. And then there was the darkness that was all-pervasive. No shadows, no light spill from behind a door seam. Only dark.

He blinked. Then blinked again, twisting his head from side to side, trying to find some bit of light. But there was none. Suddenly it came to him that whatever had happened, wherever he was, whatever day this was, he was blind!

”NO! NO! NO!” he screamed, his voice garbled by the tape covering his mouth.

Thomas Kind stepped closer.

”Comrade,” he said with the same unhurried quietness. ”How is your brother? I understand he is alive and well.”

Immediately the tape was torn from Harry's mouth. And he cried out as much in surprise as from the sting of it.

”Where is he?” The voice was closer than it had been.

”I don't... know... if... he's alive...” Harry's mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. He tried to make enough moisture to swallow but couldn't.

”I asked about your brother... where he is...”

”Could-I-please-have some-wa-ter?”

Kind lifted a small remote control. His thumb found a b.u.t.ton and touched it.

Instantly, Harry saw a pinpoint of light in the distance and he started. Did he really see it, or was it an illusion?

”Where is your brother, comrade?” This time the voice came from behind his left ear.