Shout in the Dark Read Online Free

long ears? Far from it, Holiness. Like all good
sayings one must not look too closely at the words. Rest assured,
Sartini is a survivor. I have seen his records. However, in the end
we may have to accept..."
    The laughter stopped abruptly. "You will
put his life at risk, Josef?"
    " As you said just now, Holiness, every step we make in life
involves a degree of danger."
    " Then we must pray to the Lord for his safety."
    Reinhardt nodded. "I have done so
constantly, since I met him this morning. I believe there is a plan
for revenge that will ensnare the innocent as well as the guilty. A
darkened web of evil with a powerful man at its center. I beg you,
Holiness, pray for the innocent."
    The Pope closed his eyes. "How old is
Sartini?"
    " Twenty-nine, and I believe he still has both his feet
firmly on the ground."
    " Both feet?" The Holy Father's smile was back in place.
"Then he must indeed be a young priest in a million!"
    A sharp knock at the door interrupted the
conversation. "You really must excuse me, Josef, but duty calls.
They are waiting for me in the Basilica."
    Reinhardt stood in front of the closed
door to delay the Pontiff's departure. "There are still many who
would change the course of history. Sartini has the
potential..."
    The Pope placed a hand firmly on
Reinhardt's shoulder. "Josef, I know I can trust you to deal with
this matter."
    Reinhardt was scarcely listening as he moved
to one side to let the Holy Father pass. Marco Sartini had a
critical role to play.
    The circle of red ink. The sentence of
death. The war was not over yet.

Chapter 4
    Rome
Via Nazionale
Evening
    MANFRED KESSEL looked around the cheap Rome
hotel room with its shoddy and basic furniture. A shortage of funds
made this place the only sensible option on his rare visits to
Italy.
    He sniffed in disgust at the sight of young
Karl Bretz sitting on the end of the bed, listening to loud music
on lightweight headphones. The youth was carefully cleaning the
outside of a black Makarov handgun he had brought from Düsseldorf.
The brash, disrespectful neo-Nazi must be twenty-two now.
    The boy was always playing with a stupid
knife. It had started out as Rüdi's paperknife. The word "big"
described the son of his dead friend Rüdi Bretz perfectly. Young
Karl was tall and overweight, and his appearance and manner seemed
designed to intimidate. The shaved head was probably a deliberate
attempt to shock. Even though he was nothing more than an overgrown
kid, young Karl did have one point in his favor: he was popular
with his group of friends in Düsseldorf. Karl and the youngsters in
the ADR gang could prove useful here in Rome -- if violence was
ever needed.
    Kessel tried to detest young Karl, but
felt captivated by things he wanted in his own life: a lack of
fear, and a lack of concern for the future. Rüdi would probably
have been proud of him. Rüdi had always been proud of his son,
unheeding of the boy's many failings. It still hurt to recall
Rüdi's death from a brain tumor.
    Kessel sighed. To be here in Rome was
bringing back too many memories of his childhood. Born to an
Italian woman in a backstreet a few months after the liberation of
Italy by the British and American forces in June 1944, he was given
the name Enzo Bastiani. It had not taken him long to sense
something different about his physical appearance. As he floundered
into his teens he became aware of a spiritual inner difference, and
the face in the mirror told him he undoubtedly belonged to a race
far to the north.
    At first his mother Renata merely passed
off his queries about his birth, but after an increasing
bombardment of questioning she had reluctantly explained about his
father. Two men seemed to be contenders for the privilege -- an SS officer and a British
soldier -- although his mother believed the German SS officer to be
the responsible party. She had told him about it as though it were
a matter of shame, as though she had something to hide.
    Kessel recalled how as a boy he