Taking off his jacket, he set it on a chair and went into the kitchen. In a cupboard next to the sink he found a glass and started to fill it. Then he had to set it down. The room spun, and it was all he could do to get his breath. Emotion and exhaustion had caught up with him. That he was even alive was a miracle. That somehow he was off the street was a gift from the gods.

Finally he calmed enough to splash some water on his face and begin to breathe normally. How long had it been since he'd left Hercules and come here? Three hours, four? He didn't know. All sense of time was gone. He looked at his watch. It was Friday, July 10. Ten after five in the afternoon. Ten after eight in the morning Los Angeles time. Another breath and his eyes went to the telephone.

No. Can't. Don't even consider it. By now the FBI would have every line to his home and office tapped. If he tried to call, they'd know where he was in a millisecond. The fact was that even if he reached someone without being caught, what could they do? In truth, what could anyone do, even Adrianna? He was caught in a horrendous dream that was no dream at all. Just stark, brutal reality.

And except for that few square feet of apartment where he was, there was absolutely nowhere he could go where he didn't risk being caught and turned over to the police. Even here, how long was he safe? He couldn't stay where he was forever.

Suddenly there was a sound in the other room. A key had been put into the lock. Heart pounding, he pressed back against the kitchen wall. Then came the sound of the door opening.

'Mr Addison?' a male voice said sharply.

Harry could see the jacket he'd left on the chair in the front room. Whoever had come in would see it, too. Quickly he glanced around. The kitchen was little more than a closet. The only way out, the way he had come in.

'Mr Addison?' the voice rang out again.

Dammit! Adrianna had set him up for the police. And he'd walked right into it. At his elbow was a butcher block with carving knives. No good. They'd kill him in a second if he came out with a knife in his hand.

'Mr Addison – are you here?' Whoever it was spoke English and without an accent.

What to do? He had no answer because there was none. Better to just walk out facing them and hope that Adrianna or someone from the media was with them so they wouldn't kill him on the spot.

'I'm here!' he said, loudly. 'I'm coming out. I'm not armed. Don't shoot!' Taking a deep breath, Harry raised his hands and stepped into the room.

What he saw was not the police but a sandy-haired man alone, the door closed behind him.

'My name is James Eaton, Mr Addison. I'm a friend of Adrianna Hall. She knew you needed a place to stay and-'

'Jesus God…'

Eaton was probably in his late forties or early fifties. Medium height and build. Dressed in a gray suit with striped shirt and gray tie. The most striking thing about him, other than that he was alone, was his plainness. He looked like the kind of guy who'd made it as far as he could in a bank, still takes his family to Disneyland, and cuts his lawn on Saturdays.

'I didn't mean to frighten you.'

'This is your apartment…' Incredulous, Harry lowered his hands.

'Sort of…'

'What do you mean sort of?'

'It's not in my name, and my wife doesn't know about it.'

That was a surprise. 'You and Adrianna.'

'Not anymore…'

Eaton hesitated, looking at Harry, then he crossed the room and opened a cabinet above the television. 'Would you like a drink?'

Harry glanced at the front door. Who was this guy? FBI? Checking him out, making sure he was unarmed and alone?

'If I'd told the police where you were, I wouldn't be standing here offering you a drink… Vodka or Scotch?'

'Where's Adrianna?'

Eaton took out a bottle of vodka and poured them each two fingers.

'I work in the U.S. Embassy. First Secretary to the counselor for Political Affairs… No ice, sorry.' He handed Harry a glass and then walked over and sat down on the couch. 'You're in a lot of trouble, Mr Addison. Adrianna thought it might be helpful if we talked.'

Harry fingered his glass. He was overwrought. Beat up. His nerves all over the place. But he had to pull himself back. Be aware enough of what was happening to protect himself. Eaton might be who he said he was and there trying to help him. Or he might not. He could be doing a diplomatic thing. Making sure no feathers got ruffled between the U.S. and Italy when they handed him over to the police.

'I didn't kill the policeman.'

'You didn't

'No.'

'What about the videotape?'

'I was tortured, then coerced into making it by the people who I assume did kill him… They took me away afterward… Then they shot me and left me for dead…' Harry lifted his bandaged hand. 'Except I didn't die.'

Eaton sat back. 'Who were these people?'

'I don't know. I never saw them.'

'Did they speak English?'

'Some… Mostly Italian.'

'They killed a policeman and, in essence, kidnapped and tortured you.'

'Yes.'

Eaton took a pull at his drink. 'Why? What did they want?'

'They wanted to know about my brother.'

'The priest.'

Harry nodded.

'What did they want to know about him?'

'Where he was…'

'And what did you tell them?'

'I said I didn't know. Or if he was even alive.'

'Is that true?'

'Yes.'

Harry lifted his glass and took half the vodka in one swallow. Then he finished it and set the glass on the table in front of Eaton.

'Mr Eaton, I am innocent. I believe my brother is innocent… And I am scared to death of the Italian police. What can the embassy do to help? There has to be something.'

Eaton looked at Harry for a long moment, as if he were thinking. Finally he stood and picked up Harry's glass. Crossing to the cabinet, he poured them each a second drink.

'By rights, Mr Addison, I should have informed the consul general the moment Adrianna called. But then he would have been obliged to notify the Italian authorities. I would have betrayed a trust, and you would have been in the jail, or worse… And that wouldn't have done either of us much good.'

Harry looked at him, puzzled. 'What does that mean?'

'We are in the information business, Mr Addison, not law enforcement… The job of the counselor for Political Affairs is to know the political climate of the country to which he or she is assigned. In our case that applies not only to Italy but the Vatican… The killing of the cardinal vicar of Rome and the sabotage of the Assisi bus, which I know the police believe are somehow interconnected, involve both.

'As private secretary to Cardinal Marsciano, your brother was in a privileged position within the Church. If he did assassinate the cardinal vicar, it's more than probable he wasn't acting alone. If so, there's every reason to believe that the murder was not an isolated incident but part of a larger intrigue taking place at the highest levels of the Holy See…' Eaton came back and handed Harry his glass. 'That's where our interest is, Mr Addison, inside the Vatican.'

'What if my brother didn't do it? What if he wasn't involved at all?'

I have to believe what the police do, that the Assisi bus was bombed for one reason, to kill your brother. Whoever did it thought he was dead, but now they doubt it and are very fearful of what he knows and what he can tell. And they will do anything to find him and shut him up.'

'What he knows. What he can tell…' Suddenly Harry understood. 'You want to find him, too.'

'That's right,' Eaton said quietly.

'No, I mean you. Not the embassy. Not even your boss. You, yourself. That's why you're here.'

'I'm fifty-one years old and still a secretary, Mr Addison. I have been passed over for promotion more times than you would want to know… I don't want to retire as a secretary. Therefore I need to do something that will make it impossible for them not to raise my standing. Uncovering something going on deep inside the Vatican would do that very well.'