Part 17 (1/2)
The security chief was out, he was told, and not due back until eight that evening. And Thomas Kind had simply nodded and said he would return then.
By eight-fifteen the two were chatting amiably in the security chief's office. Turning the conversation to business, he asked whether, in light of the bombing of the a.s.sisi bus and the a.s.sa.s.sination of the cardinal vicar of Rome in what the government feared might be a new wave of terrorist attacks, the hospital had done anything to increase its security situation.
Not to worry, he was told by the a.s.sured and surprisingly young security chief. Moments later the two men entered St. Cecilia's security operations center and sat down at a bank of sixteen television monitors taking live feed from surveillance cameras throughout the building. One, in particular, caught Thomas Kind's attention. The one he was looking for. The camera covering the ambulance dock.
”Your cameras operate twenty-four hours a day, every day,” he said.
”Yes.”
”Do you keep videotape of everything?”
”There.” The chief of security pointed to a narrow closet-like hallway where red recording lights of video recorders glowed in the dim light.
”The tapes are kept for six months before they are erased and reused. I designed the system myself.”
Thomas Kind could see the pride the man took in his accomplishment. It was something to be applauded and then exploited. And Thomas Kind did, saying how impressed he was with the setup, enthusiastically pulling his chair closer, asking for a demonstration of how the system's video retrieval worked. Asking, for example, if the security chief could pull up a videotaped record of someone arriving or leaving by ambulance at a specific time on a particular day-say, oh, last night about ten.
Only too happy to oblige, the security chief grinned and punched in a number on the master board. A video screen in front of them snapped on. A time/date code showed in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, and then a video of the ambulance dock at the hospital's rear entrance came to life. The security chief fast-forwarded, then brought the tape back to speed as an ambulance arrived. The vehicle stopped, attendants got out, and a patient was taken from the ambulance and disappeared into the hospital. Clearly seen were the faces of the attendants as well as that of the patient. A moment later the attendants returned and the ambulance pulled away.
”You have stop motion,” Kind said. ”If there were a problem and investigators needed a license plate number-”
”Watch,” the security chief said, punching REVERSE REVERSE and bringing the ambulance back. Then letting it go forward again in stop motion to freeze and hold a frame on a clearly identifiable license plate number. and bringing the ambulance back. Then letting it go forward again in stop motion to freeze and hold a frame on a clearly identifiable license plate number.
”Perfect.” Kind smiled. ”Could we see a little more?”
The tape ran forward, and Kind, with his eye carefully on the running time code, engaged the security chief in conversation through the comings and goings of several more ambulances, until, at nine-fifty-nine, a unmarked beige Iveco van pulled in.
”What is that, a delivery truck?” Kind asked, as he watched a heavy-set man step from behind the wheel and walk out of the camera's view into the hospital.
”Private ambulance.”
”Where is the patient?”
”He's picking one up. Watch.” The tape fast-forwarded, then came back to speed as the man returned, this time accompanied by a woman who looked like a nursing nun, another man, who appeared to be a male nurse, and a patient on a gurney, heavily bandaged with two IVs hanging from a rack overhead. The heavy-set man opened the door. The patient was put inside. The nursing nun and male nurse got in with him. Then the door was closed and the heavy-set man got behind the wheel and drove off.
”You can retrieve that license number, too, no doubt,” Kind said, stroking the security chief again.
”Sure.” The security chief stopped the tape, then backed it up. Then forwarded in stop motion and froze. The license number was clearly visible-PE 343552. The time/date code in the upper corner-22:18/9 July.
Kind smiled. ”PE is a Pescara prefix. The ambulance company is local.” is a Pescara prefix. The ambulance company is local.”
”Servizio Ambulanza Pescara.” The security chief's pride showed again. ”You see, we have everything under control.”
Smiling in admiration, Thomas Kind pushed the chief's pride b.u.t.ton one more time and retrieved the name the anonymous patient had used-Michael Roark.
THE SQUARE BOXED ad in the telephone book gave Thomas Kind the rest. Servizio Ambulanza Pescara was headquartered at 1217 Via Arapietra, directly across the street from where he waited now. The ad also listed the name of the company's direttore responsabile direttore responsabile, its owner, Ettore Caputo, and alongside showed his photograph. Beneath it were its business hours. Monday through Sat.u.r.day. 7:30 A.M A.M. to 7:30 P.M P.M.
Kind glanced at his watch.
7:25.
Suddenly he looked up. A man had turned the corner across the street and was walking down the block. Thomas Kind watched him carefully, then smiled. Ettore Caputo was four and a half minutes early.
47.
THE PHOTOGRAPH ON THE Pa.s.sPORT IN FRONT of him was Harry's, showing him bearded, as he still was. The pa.s.sport itself was worn, its stiff cardboard covers bent, softened as if it had been carried around for years. It had been issued by the U.S. Pa.s.sport Agency, New York. The inside pages showed the entry stamps of British, French, and U.S. immigration authorities, but beyond that there was nothing to indicate the course of the traveler's movements because few western European countries stamped pa.s.sports anymore.
The name beside his photograph was JONATHAN ARTHUR ROE JONATHAN ARTHUR ROE-born 18/SEP/65-New York, U.S.A.
On the table next to the pa.s.sport was a District of Columbia driver's license and a faculty members.h.i.+p card for Georgetown University. The driver's license listed his residence as the Mulledy Building, Georgetown University, Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. Both pieces carried his photograph.
In fact, all three photos were different. With Harry wearing either one or the other of Eaton's s.h.i.+rts or his sweater. None looked as if it could have been taken at the same place as another-the room in which he now stood-or at the same time, yesterday evening.
”That's the rest of it.” Adrianna Hall slid a letter-sized envelope across the coffee table in front of her. ”There's cash there, too. Two million lire, about twelve hundred dollars. We can get more if you need it. But Eaton said to warn you-priests do not have money, so don't spend it like you do.”
Harry looked at her, then opened the envelope and took out its contents-the two million in Italian lire, in fifty-thousand lire notes, and the lone sheet of paper with its three neatly typed, single-s.p.a.ced paragraphs.
”It tells you who you are, where you work, what you do, all of it,” Adrianna said. ”Or enough for you to fake your way through if someone asks. The instructions are to memorize what's there, then destroy it.”
Harry Addison was now Father Jonathan Arthur Roe, a Jesuit priest and a.s.sociate professor of Law at Georgetown University. He lived in a Jesuit residence on the campus and had taught there since 1994. He had grown up an only child in Ithaca, New York. Both his parents were deceased. The rest gave his background: the schools he had attended, when and where he had joined the seminary, a physical description of Georgetown University and its environs, the Georgetown section of Was.h.i.+ngton, down to the detail that he could see the Potomac River from his bedroom, but only in fall and winter when the leaves were off the trees.
And then there was the last, and he looked up at Adrianna. ”It seems as a Jesuit, I've taken a vow of poverty.”
”Probably why he didn't give you a credit card...”
”Probably.”
Harry turned and walked across the room. Eaton had promised and delivered, giving him everything he needed. All Harry had to do was the rest.
”It's kind of like Charades, isn't it?” He turned back. ”You totally become someone else...”
”You don't have much choice.”
Harry studied her. Here was a woman, like many, one he'd slept with but hardly knew. And except for that one moment in the dark when he'd sensed that some part of her feared her own mortality and was genuinely afraid-not so much to die as to no longer live-he realized he almost knew her better from seeing her on television than he did standing in a room with her.
”You're how old, Adrianna? Thirty-four?”
”I'm thirty-seven.”
”All right, thirty-seven. If you could be someone else,” he asked seriously, ”who would you choose?”
”I never thought about it...”
”Take a stab at it, go on. Who?”