Part 24 (1/2)
And now she was alone with Michael Roark sleeping in the room behind her, praying to hear the sound of the outboard coming back. But there was no sound other than the gentle lap of the water against the rock walls.
She was turning back for the room, determined her only course was to pick up the telephone and call her mother general in Siena, tell her what had happened and ask what she should do, when she heard the distant rumble of a motorboat echo off the grotto's walls.
Certain it was Luca and the others, she walked, nearly ran, down the corridor toward the landing. Then she saw the bright beam of the searchlight, heard the cut of the engines, and then the sleek hull of the flat-bottomed motorboat slid into view. It was Edward Mooi.
72.
THREE OF THEM CAME OVER THE BOAT'S gunwale. Edward Mooi and a man and woman Elena had never seen before.
”The men have gone,” she said quickly.
”I know.” Mooi's look was intent as he introduced her to the couple with him. They were trusted, longtime employees of Eros Barbu and had come to stay with Michael Roark while she went into Bellagio.
”Bellagio?” She was startled.
”I want you to meet someone-a priest from the United States-and bring him here.”
”Here, to the grotto?”
”Yes.”
Elena glanced at the man and the woman, then looked back to Edward Mooi. ”Why me?-Why not go yourself?”
”Because we are known in Bellagio and you are not...”
Again Elena looked to the man and woman. Salvatore and Marta, Edward Mooi had called them. They said nothing, only stared back at her. They were probably in their fifties. Salvatore was tanned, the woman, Marta, was not. Which meant he probably worked outside at the villa, while she worked inside. Both wore wedding bands, but there was no way to tell if they were married to each other. It made no difference, their eyes told everything. They were frightened and apprehensive and at the same time alert and determined. Whatever Edward Mooi asked, they would do.
”Who is this priest?” Elena asked.
”A relative of Michael Roark,” Edward Mooi said quietly.
”No, he is not.” Elena had already made up her mind when she said it. There was no fear, only anger at not having been told earlier, by Luca or Marco or Pietro or by her own mother general.
”There is is no Michael Roark, or if there is, the man in there is not him.” She pointed off, back toward the room where her patient slept. ”He is Father Daniel Addison, the Vatican priest wanted for the murder of Cardinal Parma.” no Michael Roark, or if there is, the man in there is not him.” She pointed off, back toward the room where her patient slept. ”He is Father Daniel Addison, the Vatican priest wanted for the murder of Cardinal Parma.”
”He is in danger, Sister Elena, that's why he's here...”-Edward Mooi spoke calmly-”why he was given a new ident.i.ty and moved as he was...”
Elena stared at him. ”Why are you protecting him?”
”We were asked...”
”By whom?”
”Eros Barbu...”
”A world-famous writer is safeguarding a murderer?”
Edward Mooi said nothing.
”Luca knew and the others? My mother general?” Elena stared, incredulous.
”I... don't know....” Edward Mooi's eyes narrowed. ”What I do know is that the police are watching everything we do. That's why I asked you to go into Bellagio. If any of us went and met this priest, they would either arrest us all on the spot or wait and see where we went.”
”This priest,” Sister Elena said, ”is Father Addison's brother. Yes?”
”I think he is.”
”And you want me to bring him here...”
Edward Mooi nodded. ”By land there is another way in that I will show you...”
”What if, instead, I went to the police?”
”You don't know for certain Father Daniel is a murderer.... And I have seen how you care for him....” Edward Mooi's eyes were those of a poet. Fierce, yet at the same time trusting and sincere. ”He is your charge, you will not go to the police.”
73.
Villa Lorenzi. 6:00 A.M A.M.
HAIR DISHEVELED, BAREFOOT, AND IN A BATHrobe, Edward Mooi stood in the doorway of the caretaker's cottage and simply shrugged his shoulders, letting Roscani and his army-Gruppo Cardinale special agents, heavily armed uniformed carabinieri carabinieri, along with an Italian army canine unit, five Belgian Malinois dogs and their handlers-have their second run at Villa Lorenzi.
Again they searched the palace-like main house, the adjoining sixteen-bedroom guest wing, the wing opposite, which was Eros Barbu's private quarters, the bas.e.m.e.nts and sub-bas.e.m.e.nts. The Malinois led them everywhere, hunting the scent of clothing flown in from Rome, and taken from Father Daniel's apartment on Via Ombrellari and from Harry Addison's belongings left behind at the Hotel Ha.s.sler.
Afterward they combed the huge domed structure behind the main residence, which housed the indoor swimming pool and tennis courts and, on the second floor, the immense, gilt-ceilinged, grand ballroom. And then the eight-car garage, the servants' apartments, the twin, single-story maintenance buildings, and finally, the three-quarter-acre greenhouse.
Roscani walked through it all. Tie loosened, s.h.i.+rt open at the collar against the early heat. One room after another, one building after another, directing the operation, alert to the actions of the dogs, opening closet doors himself, looking for access panels, looking between walls, under floors-his personal attention given to everything. At the same time his mind kept coming back to the murders in Pescara and the man with the ice pick. Who he was, might be. And in that, he sent an urgent request to INTERPOL headquarters in Lyon, France, for a list of terrorists and killers still at large thought to be in Europe; the list to include suspected whereabouts and, where possible, a personality profile.
”HAVE YOU SEEN ENOUGH, Ispettore Capo?” Edward Mooi was still in his bathrobe.
Roscani looked up, suddenly aware of where he was and of both men standing at the top of a flight of stairs inside Villa Lorenzi's boathouse. Outside, the morning sun painted a bright, s.h.i.+mmering surface across the still of the lake, while below, in semidarkness, two of the Belgian Malinois sniffed and grumbled at the gunwales of a large motorboat moored at the dock, their handlers letting them do as they pleased, four armed carabinieri carabinieri watching closely as they did. Roscani turned to watch, and so did Edward Mooi, Roscani glancing at the South African as he did. watching closely as they did. Roscani turned to watch, and so did Edward Mooi, Roscani glancing at the South African as he did.
Finally the dogs gave up, one after the other, walking lazily around the dock sniffing at nothing. One of the handlers looked up and shook his head.
”Grazie, Signore, ”Roscani said to Edward Mooi.
”Prego,” Mooi nodded, then walked out and back along the path toward the villa.
”That's all,” Roscani called to the dog handlers, and watched as they and their animals and the four carabinieri carabinieri climbed the stairs, following in the direction Edward Mooi had gone, toward the house and the convoy of parked police vehicles. climbed the stairs, following in the direction Edward Mooi had gone, toward the house and the convoy of parked police vehicles.