'I can't…' Danny's voice was barely a whisper.

'Give me a reason.' Harry was hard, even brutal, determined to get an answer.

'I-' Danny hesitated.

'I said, give me a reason, dammit.'

For a long moment there was silence, then finally Danny spoke. 'In your business, Harry, it's called client-counselor privilege. In mine it's called confession… Now do you understand?'

'Marsciano confessed to you?' Harry was stunned. Confession was something he'd never considered.

'I didn't say who or what, Harry. I simply told you why – I can't talk about it.'

Harry turned away to stare out the small window at the end of the room. For once in their adult lives he wanted them on the same side. Wanted Danny to trust him enough to tell him the truth. But now it was clear he couldn't.

'Harry,' Danny said quietly. 'Cardinal Marsciano is being held prisoner inside the Vatican. If I don't go, they'll kill him.'

Harry turned back. 'Who is "they"? – Farel?'

'The Vatican secretariat of state. Cardinal Palestrina.'

'Why?' Harry breathed.

Danny shook his head ever so slightly. '-can't tell you.'

Abruptly Harry crossed back, toward Danny's bed. 'They want you for Marsciano, that's the deal, isn't it?'

'Yes… Except it's not going to work that way,' Danny said. 'Father Bardoni and I are going to get the cardinal out. That's why he went back alone, to start setting things up, and because we couldn't take the chance of traveling together and us both getting caught.'

'You are going to get Marsciano out of the Vatican?' Harry stared in disbelief. 'Two men, one of them a cripple, against Farel and the Vatican secretariat of state? Danny, this isn't just two powerful men you're fighting, it's a country.'

Danny nodded. 'I know…'

'You're crazy.'

'No… I'm methodical, I think things through… It can be done… I was a marine, remember. I learned a few tricks…'

'No,' Harry said sharply.

'No, what?' Danny sat up quickly.

'No, period!' Harry was intense, decisive. 'It's true, I didn't come back for you in Maine all those years ago, but I'm making up for it now – New York to Rome, to Como, to Bellagio, to wherever the hell we are now – Well, here I finally am… and I'm getting you the fuck out. But not to Rome, Geneva… I'm going to try to get us there and arrange a surrender to the International Red Cross. And hope to hell that much spotlight will give us at least some rational measure of protection.'

Abruptly Harry crossed to the door. He had his hand on the knob when he looked back to Danny. 'I don't care about the rest of it, brother of mine, I am not going to lose you… Not for Marsciano or the Holy See, and not to Farel or Palestrina or anyone else…' Harry's voice dropped off. 'I am not going to lose you to them, the way I lost Madeline to the ice…'

Harry stared at Danny for a long moment, making sure he understood. Then he opened the door and started out.

'Who I am is me!' Danny's voice exploded behind Harry, stabbing into him like a knife. Harry stopped short, frozen where he was. When he turned back, Danny's eyes were riveted on his.

'Your thirteenth birthday. You saw it chalked on a rock in the woods when you walked home from school, the same long way around you always took when you didn't want to come home. And that day, especially, you didn't want to come home.'

Harry could feel his legs turn to rubber. 'You wrote it…'

'It was a present, Harry. The only one I could give. You needed to trust in yourself, because that's all any of us had. And you did. And you ran with it. You built your life around it. And you did a helluva job…' Danny eyes danced over Harry's face, studying him. 'Getting to Rome means everything to me, Harry… I'm the one who needs a present now… And you are the only one who can give it.'

For the longest moment Harry just stood there. Danny had reached into the pack and pulled out the trump card, the only one he had left. Finally Harry stepped back into the room and closed the door.

'How the hell are we going to get to Rome?'

'These

Danny picked up a flat manila envelope from the bedside table and slid out what was inside – long, narrow white license plates emblazoned with the black letters SCV 13.

'Vatican City plates, Harry. Diplomatic plates. Very low number. No one will stop a car with those on it.'

Slowly Harry looked up.

'What car?' he said.

113

5:25 p.m.

The rabbi look was out, the priest look back in. Once again Father Jonathan Arthur Roe of Georgetown University, Harry was making his way through the rush-hour streets of Lugano, looking for the rented gray Mercedes Father Bardoni had supposedly left parked on Via Tomaso across the tracks and up the hill from the railroad station.

Following Veronique's directions, he took the funicular up to the Piazza della Stazione and then crossed to the railroad station itself and went inside. Keeping his head down, doing his best to avoid looking at people directly, he worked his way through the crowds waiting for trains, trying to find a place where he could cross the tracks to the stairs leading up to Via Tomaso.

His mind was on Rome and getting there without getting caught. And what to do about Elena. It was a mental turmoil that left him totally unprepared for what happened next, as he turned a corner inside the station.

Uniformed police, six of them, suddenly materialized out of a crowd directly in front of him, walking forcefully toward a train that had just come into the station. But it wasn't just the police – it was who they had with them: three prisoners in chains and handcuffs. The second, and now passing directly in front of Harry, was Hercules. The shackles were making it all but impossible for him to move on his crutches, but he was doing it anyway. And then he saw Harry, and their eyes met. Even as they did, he abruptly looked away, protecting Harry from any happened glance from the police that might make them single him out, wonder why he recognized one of their prisoners. And then they were gone, Hercules hustled with the others, up the steps and onto the train.

Harry saw him a moment later as one of the police took his crutches and helped him into a seat beside a window. Immediately, Harry pushed through the crowd, moving alongside the train toward the window. Hercules saw him coming and quickly shook his head, then looked away.

Station chimes sounded, and with Swiss precision the train moved off, leaving the station exactly on time. Heading south for Italy.

Harry turned away, stunned, absently looking for the stairs to Via Tomaso. The whole thing had taken no more than sixty seconds. Hercules had looked pale and resigned until he had seen Harry, and then everything seemed to change as he worked to protect him. For a moment at least, life and the fire of it, had seemed to come back to him. What he had regained, if fleetingly, had been a purpose.

Siena, Italy. Police headquarters. 6:40 p.m.

It had come to this. An unlit cigarette held between the fingers. Then, once in a while, snuggled into the corner of the mouth for a minute or two. But that, Roscani promised himself, was as far as it would go. No matter how much more frustrating or anxious things became from here on in, he would not go for the match. In a ceremonial gesture for himself, and just to make sure, he took the one packet of matches he had from his jacket pocket, tore one match off, then put the packet into an ashtray, struck the lone match, and touched it to the others. For the briefest moment he felt a pang of remorse, then, as quickly, turned back to the telephone company print-outs spread across the desk in front of him and went over them again. Logs were numbered in date/time order, the path of telephone calls coming to and going from Mother Fenti's office and the private number in her apartment, from the day of the Assisi bus explosion up through today. Thirteen days altogether.