'Saturday night.'

'Not before?'

'Before? No, of course not.'

'You made the reservations yourself?' Pio spoke for the first time. His English had almost no accent at all, as if he were either American himself or had spent a lot of time in the U.S.

'Yes.'

'On Saturday.'

'Saturday night. I told you that.' Harry looked from one to the other. 'I don't understand your questions. You knew I was coming. I asked the U.S. Embassy to arrange for me to talk to you.'

Roscani slid Harry's passport into his pocket. 'We are going to ask you to accompany us into Rome, Mr Addison.'

'Why? – We can talk right here. There's not that much to tell.'

Suddenly Harry could feel sweat on his palms. They were leaving something out. What was it?

'Perhaps you should let us decide, Mr Addison.'

Again, Harry looked from one to the other. 'What's going on? What is it you're not telling me?'

'We simply wish to talk further, Mr Addison.'

'About what?'

'The assassination of the cardinal vicar of Rome.'

4

They put Harry's luggage in the trunk and then rode in silence for forty-five minutes, not a word or a glance between them, Pio at the wheel of the gray Alfa Romeo, Roscani in the back with Harry, taking the Autostrada in from the airport toward the ancient city, passing through the suburbs of Magliana and Portuense and then along the Tiber and across it, passing the Colosseum, and moving into Rome's heart.

The Questura, police headquarters, was an archaic five-story brownstone-and granite building on Via di San Vitale, a narrow cobblestone street off Via Genova, which was off Via Nazionale in the central city. Its main entrance was through an arched portal guarded by armed uniformed police and surveillance cameras. And that was the way they came in, with the uniforms saluting as Pio wheeled the Alfa under the portal and into the interior courtyard.