The Confessor

place."
    Something in the street below caught Rossi's attention. He leaned forward and pulled aside the curtain, peering through the window intently. Then he leaped to his feet and seized Gabriel's arm.
    "Come with me. Now!"
    THE FIRST police officers poured through the front door of the pensione: two plainclothes Polizia di Stato followed by a half-dozen carabinieri with submachine guns across their chests. Rossi led the way across the common room, then down a short corridor to a metal door that opened onto a darkened interior courtyard. Gabriel could hear the police hammering up the stairs toward his empty room. They had successfully eluded the first wave. More were sure to follow.
    Across the courtyard was a passageway leading to the street that ran parallel to the Via Gioberti. Rossi grabbed Gabriel by the forearm and pulled him toward it. Behind them, on the second floor of the pensione, Gabriel could hear the carabinieri breaking down his door.
    Rossi froze as two more carabinieri came through the passageway at a run, weapons at the ready. Gabriel gave Rossi a shove and they started moving again. The carabinieri reached the courtyard and clattered to a stop. Immediately their submachine guns swung
    up to the firing position. Gabriel could see that surrender was not an option. He dived to the ground, landing heavily on his chest, as the first rounds scorched over his head. Rossi was not quick enough. A shot struck him in the shoulder and threw him to the ground.
    The Beretta fell from his grasp and landed three feet from Gabriel's left hand. Gabriel reached out and pulled the gun to him. Without hesitating, he rose to his elbows and started firing. One carabiniere fell, then the other.
    Gabriel crawled over to Rossi. He was bleeding heavily from a wound to his right shoulder.
    "Where did you learn to shoot like that?" "Can you walk?" "Help me up."
    Gabriel pulled Rossi to his feet, wrapped his arm around the Italian's waist, and shepherded him toward the passageway. As they passed the two dead carabinieri, Gabriel heard shouting behind him. He released his hold on Rossi and scooped up one of the submachine guns, then dropped to one knee and raked the side of the pensione with automatic fire. He heard screaming and saw! men diving for cover.
    Gabriel grabbed a spare magazine, rammed it into the weapon, and shoved Rossi's Beretta nine-millimeter into the waistband of his trousers. Then he hooked his arm through Rossi's left elbow and pulled him through the passageway. As they neared the street, two more carabinieri appeared. Gabriel fired instantly, blowing both men from their feet.
    As they reached the pavement, Gabriel hesitated. From the left, a car was racing toward him, lights flashing, siren blaring. From the right, four men were approaching on foot. Across the street was the entrance of a trattoria.
    As Gabriel stepped forward, shots erupted from inside the passageway. He lunged to his left, behind the cover of the wall, and tried to pulled Rossi toward him, but the Italian was hit twice in the back. He froze, his arms flung wide, his head back, as one final round tore through the right side of his abdomen.
    There was nothing Gabriel could do for him now. He sprinted across the street and threw open the door of the restaurant. As he burst into the dining room with the machine gun in his hands, there was pandemonium.
    In Italian, he shouted: "Terrorists! Terrorists! Get out! Now!"
    Everyone in the room rose in unison and rushed toward the door. As Gabriel ran toward the kitchen, he could hear frustrated carabinieri screaming at the patrons to get out of the way.
    Gabriel raced through the tiny kitchen, past startled cooks and waiters, and kicked open the back door. He found himself in a narrow alleyway, not four feet wide, foul-smelling and dark as a mine-shaft. He slammed the door behind him and kept running. A few seconds later, the door flew open again. Gabriel turned and sprayed the alleyway with gunfire. The door slammed shut.
    At the end of the alley, he came to a broad boulevard. To his right was the facade of the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore; to his left, the expanse of the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. He dropped the submachine gun in the alley and crossed the street, weaving his way through the traffic. Sirens rang out from every direction.
    He wound his way through a chain of narrow streets, then dashed across another busy boulevard, the Via Merulana, and found himself at the edge of the vast park