Part 22 (1/2)

”So am I.”

”But I cannot put on the clothes of a priest and pa.s.s for someone else. Nor does a dwarf travel by bus or train unnoticed.”

”But he could by private car.”

Hercules smiled conspiratorially. ”None had been available until now...”

Harry glared at him. ”Hercules, this is not exactly a pleasure tour. I'm not on vacation.”

”No, you are trying to get to your brother. And so are the police. On the other hand, Chia.s.so is hardly much farther than Como. I get out, you turn around and go back. Nothing to it.”

”What if I said no?”

Hercules rose up indignantly. ”Then you would be a man whose word cannot be trusted. When I gave you those clothes, I asked you to help me. You said, ”I will do the best I can. I promise you.'”

”I meant with the law and in Rome.”

”Under the circ.u.mstances I think it would be more sensible for me to take the help now, Mr. Harry. An extra twenty minutes out of your life.”

”Twenty minutes...”

”Then we are even.”

”All right, then we're even.”

Very shortly afterward they pa.s.sed the Como exit, and very soon after that their agreement suddenly became moot. Ahead of them the traffic to Chia.s.so slowed, narrowing into one lane. Then it stopped. And Harry and Hercules stared into an endless succession of brake lights. Then, in the distance, they saw them. Flak-jacketed, Uzi-carrying policemen walking slowly toward them in the traffic, looking into each vehicle they pa.s.sed.

”Turn around, Mr. Harry. Quick!”

Harry backed up a few feet, then slammed the Fiat into drive and, with a sharp squeal of tires, swung it in a sharp U-turn, accelerating back the way they had come.

”What the h.e.l.l was that?” Harry glanced in the mirror.

Hercules said nothing, instead punching on the car's radio. A scan of stations found a newscaster rattling in Italian. The border at Chia.s.so was a ma.s.sive police checkpoint, Hercules translated. Every vehicle was being turned inside out in the hunt for the fugitive priest, Father Daniel Addison, who had somehow eluded the police at Bellagio and was thought to be attempting a border crossing into Switzerland.

”Eluded them?” Harry turned to look at Hercules. ”Does that mean somebody actually saw him?”

”They didn't say, Mr. Harry...”

66.

Como. 7:40 P.M P.M.

THE FIAT WAS STOPPED JUST OFF THE AUTOstrada on the main road leading into Como. Hercules had asked Harry to pull over, and Harry had. And now they sat together for one last time, the soft yellow of the evening sky filling the car with a delicate light and standing in sharp contrast to the harshness of the ongoing stream of bright headlights pa.s.sing by outside.

”Police or no police, Chia.s.so is too close not to try.... You understand, Mr. Harry...”

”I understand, Hercules.... I'm sorry I wasn't able to do more...”

”Then good luck, Mr. Harry.” Hercules smiled and suddenly put out his hand, and Harry took it.

”You, too...”

And like that, Hercules was out of the car and gone. Harry watched for a moment as he crossed the street in the path of oncoming traffic. At the far curb, he looked back and grinned, then swung away on his crutches into the growing twilight. Walking, if that was the word, to Switzerland.

Ten minutes later Harry parked the Fiat on a side street down from the railroad station and wiped the steering wheel and gears.h.i.+ft clean of his fingerprints with a handkerchief. Getting out carefully, locking the car, he made his way to Via Borsieri and then onto Viale Varese, following the street signs for the lake and for Piazza Cavour. He walked at the same pace as the people around him, trying to blend in, to seem nothing more than a priest out to enjoy the warm summer evening.

Now and again someone would nod or smile as he pa.s.sed. And he would return the pleasantry, and then turn casually and glance back, make sure one of them hadn't recognized him or told others, or wasn't coming back for a closer look.

Crossing a square, watching the signs, he was suddenly aware of people walking more slowly, the crowd thickening. Ahead he could see people gathered at a news kiosk. As he neared, he saw Danny's face staring from the late editions. Each paper carried nearly the same headline: SACERDOTE FUGGITIVO A BELLAGIO?.

Was the fugitive priest in Bellagio?

Quickly he turned away and walked on.

Turning down one street and then another, Harry tried to follow the confusion of signs toward the lakefront and the Piazza Cavour. Dodging a chattering couple walking hand in hand, he turned a corner and stopped. The street directly ahead was blocked off by police barricades. Beyond them were police vehicles, media vans, and satellite trucks. Farther down he could see police headquarters.

”Christ.” Harry waited a half second, then moved on, trying to regain his composure. Ahead was a cross street and he went left on a whim, certain he'd find himself back at the police barricades or the kiosk or even the railroad station. Instead he saw the lake, traffic flowing along the boulevard at its edge. Immediately in front of him was a street sign for the Piazza Cavour.

Another half block and he was on the boulevard. To his right was the Palace Hotel, a huge brownstone with a busy outdoor cafe in front. Festive music played. People ate and drank, white-ap.r.o.ned waiters moving among them. They were normal, everyday people, doing everyday things, yet never knowing how close they sat to a potential climax of the first order had but one of them recognized the bearded priest in the black beret walking past them and sounded the alarm. In seconds the street would be filled with police. It would be like an American action movie. A Gruppo Cardinale showdown with a cop killer, the outlaw brother of the a.s.sa.s.sin of the cardinal vicar of Rome. Flas.h.i.+ng lights. Helicopters. Chiseled extras running everywhere with machine guns and flak jackets. A Lee Harvey Oswald ride at an amus.e.m.e.nt park. Watch the bad guy get it from all sides. Buy your tickets, be there when it happens.

But none of them did. And then Harry was gone, just someone else walking by. A moment later he turned a corner and entered Piazza Cavour. Directly ahead was the Hotel Barchetta Excelsior.

67.

HARRY PRESSED THE BUZZER FOR ROOM 525 and waited, beret in hand, soaked with sweat. From his own rattled nerves as much as from the July heat. Still eighty-some degrees at almost sunset.

He started to push the buzzer again when the door abruptly opened and Adrianna stood there, hair wet from the shower, a white hotel bathrobe around her, a cell phone to her ear. Harry went in quickly, closing the door behind him and locking it.

”He's here now.” Adrianna was at the window pulling the curtains, talking into the phone as she did. The television next to the window was on, tuned to the news channel, the sound off. Somebody was doing a standup in front of the White House. As quickly the scene s.h.i.+fted to the British Parliament.

Crossing to a dressing table, Adrianna bent in front of the mirror to scribble something on a notepad.

”Tonight, okay.... I have it....”

Clicking off the phone, she looked up. Harry was watching her in the mirror.

”That was Eaton... ,” he said.

”Yes.” Adrianna turned to face him ”Where the h.e.l.l is Danny?”