Roscani saw the lake and then the treetops as the helicopter swung in over the cliffs, taking one last careful look for himself, his father's way of doing things, as if because of it, he would succeed where everyone else had failed. But he didn't. He saw nothing but rock and trees and the water off to the left.
'Damn,' he swore under his breath. They were down there somewhere, all of them. Father Daniel, the nun, the blond ice picker/razor man, and Harry Addison. Roscani's earlier hunch had been right: the American had been in the grotto. Fingerprints lifted from a medicine case in the room where Father Daniel had been confirmed it.
Roscani wouldn't allow himself to imagine how the American had slipped from them all and found the water caves before they did, or how he and the others had managed to avoid the blond man, which, it seemed, they had. On the positive side, a manhunt across all of Italy had narrowed down to an area of a few square miles. On the negative, he had two sets of fugitives – the Addison group and the blond killer – each with either extraordinary skill at avoidance, third-party help, or just plain luck. Roscani's job was to stop it all, pinch off any possible route of escape, and end it here as quickly as possible.
Ahead, as the pilot brought them north in growing twilight, he could see the buildup of the huge Gruppo Cardinale force he was putting in place to do it – hundreds of Italian Army, carabinieri, local police personnel – arriving at the tactical staging area on top of the cliffs above the grotto.
Abruptly, Roscani ordered the helicopter back to strategic headquarters set up hours earlier at Villa Lorenzi, his mind shifting to the next. Gruppo Cardinale was hunting two separate entities. The Americans and the nun he knew, but he had no idea who his aggressive blond ice picker was. At this point, it was essential he find out.