Day of Confession Page 11

  Almost immediately Palestrina crossed to greet them, bowing formally then smiling broadly and taking the hand of each, and afterward motioning for drinks and chatting happily as if they were his old and dear friends. Chatting, Marsciano knew, in Chinese.

  China’s expanding relationship with the West, coupled with its rapid emergence as a towering economic power, had had little or no effect on the all but nonexistent relations between Rome and Beijing. And while there remained no formal diplomatic communication between them, the Holy See, under Palestrina’s careful posturing, was attempting to pry open the door. His immediate goal was to arrange a papal visit to the People’s Republic.

  It was an objective that had far-reaching implications because, if his overture was accepted, it would be a sign that Beijing was not simply opening its doors to the Church but was ready to embrace it. Which was something, Palestrina was certain, China had no intention of doing—today, tomorrow, or, in all likelihood, ever; making his objective exceedingly ambitious at best. Yet, the secretariat of state was no wallflower. And moreover, the Chinese were here, and publicly.

  That they were here was due chiefly to Pierre Weggen, with whom they had worked for years and whom they trusted implicitly. Or, as implicitly as any Oriental trusted any Westerner. Seventy, tall, and genteel, Weggen was a preeminent international investment banker. World renowned and immensely respected, he functioned primarily as liaison between major multinational companies looking to create global working partnerships. At the same time, he continued to work as a private counselor to longstanding clients and friends; the people, companies, and organizations who, over the years, had helped build his reputation.

  It was a client base that had always been and still remained confidential. The Vatican was among them. And Nicola Marsciano, the man responsible for Vatican investments, had spent the entire afternoon sequestered in a private apartment on Via Pinciana with Weggen and a battery of lawyers and accountants he’d brought with him from Geneva.

  For more than a year Marsciano and Weggen had been belt-tightening the Holy See’s portfolio, narrowing the range of investments to focus on energy, transportation, steel, shipping, heavy equipment; corporations, companies, and spin-off companies that specialized in major international infrastructure development—the building and rebuilding of roads, waterways, power plants, and the like in emerging nations.

  The Vatican’s investment strategy was the kingpin in Palestrina’s mandate for the future of the Holy See, and was why the Chinese had been invited here to mingle and why they had come, to show that China was a modern country that shared the same economic concerns for emerging nations as did her European friends. The invitation had been out of goodwill, giving the Chinese a way to quietly intermingle and to discreetly establish a presence—and at the same time to be stroked by Palestrina.

  Yet emerging nations in the plural was not on Palestrina’s agenda. One nation, in the singular, was: China herself. And outside of a very few—Pierre Weggen and the pope’s remaining men of trust—no one, not even the Holy Father, had any idea of the secretariat’s real objective, which was to see the Vatican become a wholly anonymous yet major partner and influencer in the future of the People’s Republic, economic and otherwise.

  The initial step was tonight, with the hand holding of the Chinese. The second would take place tomorrow, when Marsciano would present the newly revised “Emerging Nation Investment Strategies” to a commission of four cardinals charged with him in overseeing the Church’s investments for ratification.

  The session would be tumultuous because the cardinals were conservative and not open to change. It would be Marsciano’s job to convince them, to show in exhaustive detail the regions his extensive research had targeted—Latin America, Eastern Europe, and Russia. China would be there, of course, but hidden within the sweeping term Asia—Japan, Singapore, Thailand, Philippines, China, South Korea, Taiwan, India, etc.

  The trouble was it was a deliberate fabrication. Unethical and immoral. A calculated lie designed to give Palestrina exactly what he wanted without ever divulging it.

  Moreover, it was only the beginning of Palestrina’s plan. China, the secretariat understood all too well, was, for all its openness, still at heart a closed society, tightly controlled by an authoritarian Communist guard. Yet authoritarian or not, China was modernizing quickly; and a modern China with one-quarter of the world’s population and its accompanying economic leverage would, with little doubt and in little time, become the most formidable power on earth. With that truth came the obvious—control China and you control the world. And that was the heart and soul of Palestrina’s plan—the domination of China in the next century, reestablishing the Catholic Church and its influence in every city, town, and village. And, within a hundred years, to create a new Holy Roman Empire. With the people of China answering no longer to Beijing but to Rome, the Holy See would become the greatest superpower on earth.

  It was madness, of course—and to Marsciano an all too clear illustration of Palestrina’s progressively deranged thinking—but there was nothing any of them could do about it. The Holy Father was enamored with Palestrina and had no knowledge of his plan whatsoever. Furthermore, slowed by precarious health and an exhausting daily schedule, and trusting Palestrina as he would trust himself, the pope had all but handed the global directives of the Holy See over to his secretariat of state. So to go to the Holy Father would be doing nothing more than going to Palestrina himself because, if called, the secretariat would deny everything, and his accuser would be summarily shipped off to a parish unknown and never heard from again.

  And therein was the true horror of it. Because, with the exception of Pierre Weggen, who believed in Palestrina fully, the others—Marsciano, Cardinal Matadi, Monsignor Capizzi, the remaining three most influential men in the Catholic Church—were all in one way or another terrified of Palestrina. Of his physical size, of his ambition, of his exceptional ability to find a man’s weakness and then exploit it to further his own ends, and—perhaps most frightening of all—the tremendous force of his character once you became the focus of his attention.

  They were terrified, too, of the madmen who worked for him: Jacov Farel, who was, on the one hand, the very public and outspoken chief of the Vatican police, and on the other, the secretive and ruthless henchman to Palestrina’s ambition; and the terrorist Thomas Kind, who had assassinated Palestrina’s archfoe, Cardinal Parma, in their presence and in the presence of the Holy Father, and in the presence of Palestrina, who had ordered it done, and then calmly stood beside him as he was shot down.

  Marsciano had no idea how the others felt, but he was certain none despised his own weakness and fear more than he.

  Once again he looked at his watch.

  8:10

  “Eminence.” Pierre Weggen approached with Yan Yeh. The president of the People’s Bank of China was quite short, and trim, his dark hair flecked with gray.

  “You remember Yan Yeh,” Weggen said.

  “Of course.” Marsciano smiled and took the Chinese banker’s hand firmly. “Welcome to Rome.”

  They had met once before, in Bangkok, and except for a few terse moments when Palestrina had purposefully challenged the banker about the future of the Catholic Church in the new China and been told coldly, directly, and authoritatively that the time was not right for a rapprochement between Beijing and Rome, Marsciano had found Yan Yeh to be personable, outgoing, even witty, and with seeming genuine concern for the well-being of people, whoever they were.

  “I think,” Yan Yeh said, a twinkle in his eye as he lifted a glass of red wine and touched it to Marsciano’s, “the Italians should give us Chinese a good lesson in wine making.”

  Just then Marsciano saw the papal nuncio enter and approach Palestrina, taking him aside, away from the Chinese ambassador and foreign minister. The two spoke briefly, and he saw Palestrina glance his way before leaving the room. It was a small gesture, insignificant to anyone else. But for him it was everyth
ing, because it meant he had been singled out.

  “Perhaps,” Marsciano said, turning back to Yan Yeh, “an arrangement could be made.” He smiled.

  “Eminence.” The nuncio touched the cardinal’s sleeve.

  Marsciano turned. “Yes, I know…. Where do you want me to go?”

  27

  MARSCIANO STOPPED BRIEFLY AT THE BOTtom of the stairway, then walked up. At the top, he turned down a narrow hallway, stopping at an elaborately paneled door. Turning the knob, he entered.

  The late sun cut sharply through the lone window dividing the ornate meeting room in half. Palestrina stood on one side of it, partly in shadow. The person with him was little more than a silhouette, but Marsciano didn’t need to see him to know who it was. Jacov Farel.

  “Eminence… Jacov.” Marsciano closed the door behind him.

  “Sit down, Nicola.” Palestrina gestured toward a grouping of high-backed chairs that faced an ancient marble fireplace. Marsciano crossed the shaft of sunlight to do as he had been asked.

  As he did, Farel sat down opposite him, crossing his feet at the ankles, buttoning his suit coat, then his gaze coming up to Marsciano’s and holding there.

  “I want to ask you a question, Nicola, and I want you to answer with the truth.” Palestrina let his hand trail lightly across the top of a chair, then took hold of it and pulled it around to sit down directly in front of Marsciano. “Is the priest alive?”

  Marsciano had known, from the moment Harry Addison declared the remains were not his brother’s, that it was only a matter of time before Palestrina came with his questions. He was surprised it had taken this long. But the interval had given him the chance to prepare himself as best he could.

  “No,” he said, directly.

  “The police believe he is.”

  “They are wrong.”

  “His brother disagreed,” Farel said.

  “He merely said the body was not that of his brother. But he was mistaken.” Marsciano worked to seem dispassionate and matter-of-fact.

  “There is a videotape in the possession of Gruppo Cardinale made by Harry Addison himself, asking his brother to give himself up. Does that sound like someone who was mistaken?”

  For a moment Marsciano said nothing. When he did speak, it was to Palestrina and in the same tone as before. “Jacov was there beside me at the morgue when the evidence was presented and the identification made.” Marsciano turned toward Farel. “Is that not true, Jacov?”

  Farel said nothing.

  Palestrina studied Marsciano and then rose from his chair and walked toward the window, his enormous body blocking the sunlight. Then he turned, so that he stood wholly in shadow, with nothing visible except the dark hugeness of his form.

  “The top is taken from a box. A moth flies out to disappear in the breeze…. How did it survive where it was? Where did it go when it flew away?” Palestrina came back toward them.

  “I grew up a scugnizzo, a common Neapolitan street urchin. My only teacher was experience. Sitting in the gutter with your head bleeding because you had been lied to but had believed you had been told the truth…. From it you learned. And you took care so that it wouldn’t happen again….” Palestrina stopped at Marsciano’s chair and looked down at him.

  “I will ask you once more, Nicola—for the good of the church. Is the priest alive?”

  “No, Eminence. He is dead.”

  “Then we are finished here.” Palestrina glanced at Farel, then abruptly left the room.

  His sensibilities all but frozen, Marsciano watched him go. Then, knowing Palestrina would question his policeman about his manner after he left, Marsciano gathered himself and looked to Farel. “He is dead, Jacov,” he said. “Dead.”

  ONE OF FAREL’S plainclothes guards stood at the bottom of the stairs as Marsciano came down, and the cardinal passed him without a glance.

  Marsciano’s entire life had been given to God and the Church. He was as strong yet simple as his Tuscan background. Men like Palestrina and Farel lived in a world beyond his, one that he had no place in and feared greatly, yet circumstance and his own competence had placed him there.

  “For the good of the Church,” Palestrina had said because he knew the Church and its sanctity were Marsciano’s weakness, that he revered them nearly as much as he revered God, because to him they were close to one and the same. Give me Father Daniel, Palestrina was telling him, and the Church will be saved from the spectacle of a trial and the public scandal and degradation certain to come with it if it is true he is alive and the police get him. And he would be right, because if he did, Father Daniel, already presumed dead, would simply vanish. Farel or Thomas Kind would see to that. He would be judged guilty within the Church and the matter of Cardinal Parma’s murder put to rest.

  But giving up Father Daniel only to have him murdered was not something Marsciano was prepared to do. Under the noses of Palestrina and Farel and Capizzi and Matadi, he had called upon all the resources at his command in an attempt to get away with the impossible; to have Father Daniel declared dead when he knew he was not. And were it not for Father Daniel’s brother, it might have worked. But it hadn’t. In result, he had no choice but to continue the charade and, with it, hope to buy time. But he had done poorly, of that there was little doubt.

  His attempt to reassure Farel he had been telling the truth after Palestrina left had been feeble and had fallen on deaf ears. His fate, he knew, had been sealed with the secretariat’s glance at his policeman as he’d walked from the room. With it, he’d taken Marsciano’s liberty. From that moment on, he would be watched. Wherever he went, whoever he saw or spoke with, whether on the telephone or in the corridor, even at home, would be monitored and reported. First to Farel and then from Farel to Palestrina. What it amounted to was house arrest. And there was nothing at all he could do about it.

  Once again he looked at his watch.

  8:50

  All he could do was pray there had been no glitches. That by now they were gone, safely out of there as planned.

  28

  Pescara. Still Thursday, July 9. 10:35 P.M.

  NURSING SISTER ELENA VOSO RODE ON A FOLDdown jump seat in the back of an unmarked beige van. In the dimness she could see Michael Roark next to her. He lay on his back on a gurney, staring at the IV hanging overhead as it swung with the motion of the truck. Across from her was the handsome Marco, while up front, the heavy-set Luca drove, guiding the van deliberately through the narrow streets as if he knew exactly where he was taking them, though none had spoken of it.

  Elena had not been prepared when, little more than an hour earlier, her mother general had called from her home convent of the Congregation of Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart in Siena to tell her the patient in her charge was to be moved by private ambulance that night and she was to accompany him, continuing to give him the care she had been. When she asked where he was being moved, where they were going, she was simply told “to another hospital.” Very shortly afterward Luca had arrived with the ambulance and they were on their way. Leaving Hospital St. Cecilia quickly and quietly, with hardly a word spoken between them, as if they were fugitives.

  Crossing the Pescara River, Luca took a number of side streets before ending up in a slow parade of traffic along Viale della Riviera, a main thoroughfare that paralleled the beach. The night was steamy hot, and scores of people ambled along the sidewalk in shorts and tank tops, or crowded the pizzerias that sat along the edge of the sand. Because of their route Elena wondered if perhaps they were going to another hospital in the city. But then Luca turned away from the ocean and drove a zigzag course through the city, which took them past the massive railroad terminal before swinging northeast on a main highway out of town.

  Through it all Michael Roark’s gaze shifted, from the IV to her, to the men in the van, and then back to her. It made her think that his mind was working, that somewhere he was trying to put it all together and understand what was happening. Physically he seemed as well as
could be expected, his blood pressure and pulse remained strong, his breathing as normal as it had been all along. She had seen the EKG and EEG results of tests done prior to her arrival that reflected a strong heart and a functioning brain. The diagnosis was that he had suffered acute trauma; and that aside from the burns and broken legs, the main damage and the one bearing the closest watching had been a severe concussion. He could recover from it fully, partially, or not at all. Her job was to keep his body operative while the brain attempted to heal itself.

  Smiling gently at Michael Roark’s gaze, she looked up to see Marco watching her as well. Two men examining her at the same time—the thought tickled her, and she grinned. Then quickly she looked away, embarrassed she had reacted so openly. In doing so, she saw for the first time that dark curtains covered the van’s rear windows. Turning back, she looked at Marco.

  “Why are the windows covered?”

  “The truck was rented. It came that way.”

  Elena hesitated. “Where are we going?”

  “Nobody told me.”

  “Luca knows.”

  “Then ask him.”

  Elena glanced forward at Luca at the wheel, then back to Marco. “Are we in danger?”

  Marco grinned. “So many questions.”

  “We are directed to leave, suddenly, almost in the middle of the night. We drive as if to make it impossible to follow us. The truck windows are covered over, and you… carry a gun.”

  “Do I. .?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you I was a carabiniere…”