Nigel Harris sat in the breakfast nook of his penthouse suite atop London’s Claridges Hotel, fifteen newspapers piled on a small table in front of him. Nestled in among them stood a cup of weak tea, a plate with two hard-boiled eggs, no yolks, and a bowl of piping hot oatmeal-the same breakfast he’d had every morning for the past twelve years, save, of course, for his recent meeting in Spain. Not that he didn’t enjoy fruits and jams and countless other savories, but the bland diet was all his stomach could abide. His eyes weren’t the only casualties of a military career.
The brief meal with the contessa was still having its residual effects. So be it. He’d hardly been in a position to refuse, the contessa famous for her strict adherence to the rules of hospitality. How and what he had eaten had been as important as what he had said. He’d known that going in. More than that, he truly believed she would have taken a weak stomach for a weak character, and he couldn’t have her thinking that. Thus far, the results of their meeting had more than made up for the few days of discomfort.
Bringing the cup to his lips, he took a sip of the tea, the first always eliciting a momentary twinge in the hollow of his gut. Something to do with acids, the doctors had explained. The sickly sweet taste of bile constricted in his throat, a compression of liquid and air, nauseous tightening gripping at the base of his tongue. He swallowed several times, the saliva only adding to the swell of gastric insurgence. He waited, then took a bite of the first egg. He had trained himself to visualize its path, the malleable white adapting to the contours of his esophagus, down through the center of his chest, every toxin absorbed within its spongy skin. The burning began to dissipate. He ate the second egg. Routine. It had gotten to the point where he almost wasn’t aware of it. Almost.
He pulled the last of the papers from the table and flipped to the end of the A section, the op-ed pieces, with no hint of yesterday’s events. Instead, they offered the usual New York Times fare: a Hoover Institution expert on U.S. policy in Kosovo; Safire on Clinton (one more chance to paint Nixon in a softer hue); the mayor on tax restructuring. No doubt tomorrow, things would be different. For now, though, he’d have to settle for the editorials. He’d already made it through fifteen of the world’s leading papers, a mixed bag of responses to the Faith Alliance’s mission statement. He’d saved the Times for last. Best to build up his stamina.
The title of the first piece said it all: “Savonarola in a Suit.”
He sat back and read:
Yesterday, Nigel Harris, former executive director of the Testament Council, began his latest campaign to assert himself as moral beacon of the West. His most recent attempt comes in the form of the loosely defined Faith Alliance, a group that boasts a following from as far afield as Hollywood and academe, Wall Street and the church. A broad base, to be sure. With a set of Twelve Guiding Principles (the number only fitting), the new apostles of ethical probity have decided the time is ripe to confront those elements within society that threaten the basic tenets of decency. Their answer: a cross-cultural, multifaith incentive “devoid of political ambition.”
While on an abstract level we applaud Mr. Harris and his colleagues for their concerns, we find enough in the alliance’s mission statement to raise serious questions. Although never pinpointing the focus of the campaign, Mr. Harris does hint at where we might expect to find his alliance making its presence known: rap music, the Internet, single-sex marriages, prayer in the schools, etc. It seems somewhat disingenuous to dive into these hotly debated issues while claiming to have no political agenda.
More troubling, though, is the ambiguous definition he gives for an “alliance of faith,” one in which “religious differences fade in favor of a wider spiritual commitment.” That Mr. Harris champions tolerance is commendable, especially given the history of his former associates at the Testament Council, who shied away from such inclusiveness. That he chooses to characterize that coherence, however, as a response to “a threat from those who understand holy war as a form of diplomacy” paints a far more divisive picture. Islam as straw man hardly seems the best way to foster decency.
For the fifteenth-century Savonarola, the scourge …
Harris glanced at the final paragraph, the historical tie-in something of a stretch, though amusing, a stern reminder of the fate the Florentine preacher had met at the hands of his own followers. Given the response from the majority of papers, however, Harris had little reason to heed the warning. Overwhelming approval. Confirmation of the fifty thousand E-mails that had arrived just in the last two hours.
Not bad for quarter to eight in the morning.
Pearse sat on a slab of rock, the mountainside strewn with countless such mounds, the camp some two hundred yards below. To the east, an artificial lake-courtesy of the Fierza hydropower station-spread out like a wide pancake, serenely smooth within a curve of mountains, the water long ago contaminated, unfit for drinking or bathing, according to the latest Red Cross bulletin. It didn’t seem to matter. The refugees continued to put it to use, dysentery, diarrhea, and fungus acceptable tradeoffs when pitted against their own squalor. He could just make out a small group of women huddled by the shore, too far, though, to see what they were doing. Still, from this distance, it looked quite tranquil, his perch a temporary refuge from the chaos below.
Mendravic sat at his side, silently waiting. They’d been here for over an hour, sitting, staring. Finally, Pearse spoke.
“She should have told me.”
Mendravic said nothing.
“Does he know about me?”
Mendravic started to answer, then stopped. “An hour ago, I would have said yes. Now …” He let the thought trail off. “I thought she’d told you. I haven’t seen them in months.”
Pearse nodded and continued to stare out. His eyes fixed on a clump of burned grass, a spray of blackened roots, only the tips still green. He had no idea what had caused its singular presence. Nothing other than to stare blankly into the charred wound.
At some point-not quite remembering when-he’d reached up and pulled the collar from his shirt. Seeing it in his hand now, he turned to Mendravic.
“Still think it suits me?”
Mendravic waited, then answered. “What are you really doing here, Ian?”
“That’s a very good question.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” Whatever Mendravic had meant, Pearse had been asking himself the same question for the last hour, his only answer one that seemed to define the past eight years of his life.
Running.
Not that he’d known about Petra and the boy, not that he could have known. But whatever he thought he’d find in the church hadn’t really been there. Not for a long time now. Granted, he’d never lost his faith in the Word, in its power-he did have that-but it didn’t make much sense to be a servant of the church when the church itself was causing all the misgivings. He couldn’t help but wonder: Except for a collar and an address at the Vatican, how different had he really turned out from his dad? Priest or not, he’d made a habit of keeping everything at a distance. He’d abandoned Bosnia and Petra to become a priest. He’d abandoned Boston to become a scholar. He’d abandoned Cecilia Angeli … What reason this time? Kukes was simply one more noble distraction in an all-too-predictable pattern. And one that rang equally hollow.
His devastation at hearing of his son had nothing to do with the profligacy of a priest, the corruption of canon law, the depravity of mortal sin. It had to do with a boy, a woman, and a man. And the realization of a life lived in flight.
“You’re not here because you came to help the refugees,” said Mendravic, as if having read his mind.
Pearse slowly turned to him. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t really belong here, do you? The ICMC had no record of you. And the Vatican thought you were in Rome. It looks as if you simply appeared out of nowhere.”
“You contacted Rome?”
“I had to make sure I had the right priest, didn’t I? I wasn’t going to trek halfway across Kosovo for the wrong one.”
It took Pearse several moments to answer. Somehow, the mention of Rome brought him out of himself. He looked at Mendravic. “I have to get to Visegrad.”
The sudden shift caught Mendravic off guard. “What?”
“And then you have to take me to Petra.”
Before Mendravic could answer, Pearse was on his feet. “You’re right. I didn’t come here for the refugees. And I let myself forget that.”
Without waiting, he started down the mountain.
Via Condotti on a summer afternoon is, more often than not, a swirl of wall-to-wall people. The spill of tourists from the Spanish Steps combined with the surge of shoppers on the Corso take it to critical mass at around 4:00 P.M., not the moment to be fighting one’s way toward a building nestled at its midpoint. Poor timing, to be sure, for Arturo Ludovisi, whose plane from Frankfurt had been delayed just long enough so that he now had the pleasure of experiencing Via Condotti at its most lunatic. Still, given the ledgers he had taken with him, he knew it was best to deposit them back in the safe as quickly as possible.
Pressing his way through the crowd, he arrived at the stoop of number 201, a building remarkable for its ordinariness, four floors of gray-black brick squeezed in between two elegant boutiques, men’s apparel draped over faceless mannequins. The shops’ interiors mirrored that austerity, stark walls, hardly any clothing in sight. Ludovisi had never understood the point.
As he fished through his pocket for the key, he carefully glanced around to make sure that no one was taking any special interest in him. Satisfied, he turned the handle and stepped inside.
The smell of damp wool wafted up to greet him as he shut the door. He turned on the overhead light, the dilapidation of the place brought into clear focus. Beyond the tiny foyer, a narrow staircase labored up to the second floor, a pronounced sag matched by an equally crumbly banister. Matted brown carpet, worn and stained, stretched taut along each step, enough of a cushioning, though, to mute the creaks and squeals from the wood below. Along the walls, strips of blue-and-white wallpaper-flowers and vases, as far as he could tell-vainly tried to brighten the hall. Years of cigarette smoke had smeared the pattern with a yellowish brown film, relieving it of all such responsibility. All in all, a grotty little cave, four floors high.
And yet, if just for a moment, the place managed to transport Ludovisi to another seedy little hallway, another building now long torn down, the sounds of screeching violins and crackling trumpets filling the air. The tiny conservatorio in Ravenna of il Dottore Masaccio, the man’s enormous foot pounding out the meter, thick fingers stabbing at the notes on the page, an ominous stare as the young Ludovisi tried again and again to master the dreaded triplet, always to no avail. He always seemed better in two-two time. Room after room of young virtuosi, all but a select few with the talent only to frustrate the great maestro.
Ludovisi hadn’t picked up a clarinet in over forty years; 201 Via Condotti hadn’t inspired him to reconsider.
No doubt because the old place conjured a far more powerful association than the strains of Mozart and Vivaldi. Strange as it seemed, 201 had once been the breeding ground for the most debilitating financial scandal in the history of the Vatican. The story’s most poignant memento? The image of Roberto Calvi dangling at the end of a rope under London’s Blackfriars Bridge-June of 1982-the end to a rather undistinguished career, an unwitting dupe brilliantly placed at the center of the entire mess by von Neurath. That the press, along with countless “conspiracy theorists,” had managed to mangle the facts surrounding Calvi’s death had only made the cardinal’s scheme all the more ingenious. A tale so intriguing that none other than Mario Puzo had found a place for it in his Godfather trilogy. Freemasonry, Mafia money laundering, the death of John Paul I. All somehow linked together. It still made Ludovisi smile to think of it.
In all honesty, von Neurath had never meant to undermine the prestige of the Institute of Religious Works (the IOR)-known to the outside world as the Vatican Bank. At least not at the start. His target had been far less lofty: one Licio Gelli, an erstwhile rival for the position of summus princeps, the highest office within the Brotherhood.
Born in 1919, Gelli had chosen the political, rather than the religious, path within Manichaeanism, infiltrating the Blackshirt battalions in Spain in the 1930s, later the SS Hermann Goring Division during the war. In the 1950s, he’d established himself as a leading player in the Italian secret service, instrumental in operations Gladio and Stay Behind-the West’s efforts to station anti-Communist guerillas behind the lines in the event of a Soviet offensive. But while seemingly ideal to spearhead the “great awakening,” Gelli had become too visible. When, in 1960, he was passed over in favor of the much younger von Neurath, he’d decided his link to Manichaeanism had outlived its usefulness. Simple fascism would be more than acceptable.
With access to the most sensitive intelligence files in Europe-blackmail the surest way to fill his coffers-and with fifteen thousand operatives at his disposal, Gelli created Propaganda Due, a private shadow army with tentacles into every aspect of Italian life. At his trial in 1983, one prosecutor claimed that, by the late 1960s, P2 included “three members of the Cabinet, several former prime ministers, forty-three members of Parliament, fifty-four top civil servants, one hundred and eighty-three army, navy, and air force officers (including thirty generals and eight admirals), judges, leading bankers, the editor of the country’s top newspaper (Corriere della Sera), university professors, and the heads of the three main intelligence services.” Though limited in scope to Italian politics, P2 looked as though it might pose some serious problems, especially given Gelli’s intimate knowledge of the Manichaean cell structure.
At first, von Neurath responded subtly. He would control Gelli, rather than destroy him. Realizing that Propaganda Due was the perfect distraction for anyone looking to expose a group like the Manichaeans-conspiracies all the rage, given the Kennedy shooting-the cardinal created the myth of the Lodge. Von Neurath let slip that P2 was actually the most recent successor in a long line of secret societies connected to the Knights Templar-Freemasonry, the Sovereign Military Order of Malta, the Carbonari. An organization not to be trifled with. Just for fun, he hinted that the Vatican had taken a hand in funding operations, all in the name of the great fight against the godless Left. (After all, the IOR had fostered some rather dubious affiliations over the years-Spider and ODESSA, the ratlines that had ferreted former Nazis out of Europe. Why not P2?) A few well-placed minions in the right offices were enough to substantiate the ruse. And while Gelli was certainly carrying on his own dirty war-albeit on a very rudimentary level-it was von Neurath who saw to it that P2 was linked to any number of terrorist activities throughout Europe and the Middle East, from arms sales to purchases of crude oil. A wonderful opportunity to test just how much influence a Manichaean could wield. In fact, for a period in the late 1970s, it was virtually impossible to unearth anything to do with “black ops” and not hear the name Propaganda Due. To those in the world of intelligence, Gelli’s influence extended to South America (Juan Peron), and even to the United States (Alexander Haig and the Nixon administration). That P2 was actually involved with less than 10 percent of those activities mattered very little. Gelli-quickly dubbed “the Puppet Master”-was being held responsible for it all. Those looking for conspiracies had found their demon.
Von Neurath-perhaps naively (although Ludovisi would never have been the one to point it out to him)-assumed that eventually one of the myriad international crime-fighting organizations would step in and put an end to it all. Not so. In fact, Gelli’s influence began to match the reputation von Neurath had concocted for him. Myth had turned to reality. The Vatican and Mafia were now two of P2’s leading contributors. Evidently, subtlety wasn’t doing the trick.
As much as von Neurath enjoyed having P2 as a diversion for any prying eyes, he realized Gelli had become a genuine threat. With the Lodge ever more active, he knew his old rival would need a place to launder the money he was receiving from his more unsavory connections, thereby protecting his association with the IOR. Enter Roberto Calvi and the Milan-based Banco Ambrosiano. Calvi had been in von Neurath’s pocket since the mid-1960s, when the bank had gone through several lean years. Under the guise of private investment, the Manichaeans had been more than happy to bail him out. Those investors now called in the favor. Calvi became Gelli’s middleman. Ambrosiano started funneling the dirty money. And the Vatican was kept clean.
Until von Neurath told Calvi to muck up the works.
The scandal surrounding Calvi, Gelli, the shortfall of nearly $1.3 billion at Banco Ambrosiano and its link to the laundering of reputed Mafia money through the IOR became front-page news in 1982 and set the ball rolling. Calvi’s “suicide” forced the Vatican to establish an independent commission, introducing one of its junior members-a young investment analyst named Arturo Ludovisi-to the inner circles of Vatican finance. An added boon. The final results: a tremor through the very heart of the papacy, the imprisonment of Gelli-reported to have escaped Swiss jailers in 1986, his body delivered to von Neurath two days later-and the dismantling of Propaganda Due. For those seeking out secret organizations and the like, victory had been won. No reason to look elsewhere.
And all neatly orchestrated by von Neurath.
For the Manichaeans, the payoff proved even more beneficial. They easily incorporated the P2 cells into their own network-all of which came to believe they were still working for Gelli through his successor, one Arturo Ludovisi. They, of course, had been a bit surprised by the nervous little man the first time they had met him. Ludovisi’s genius for numbers had more than won them over. After all, who would believe someone like that to be the head of P2? The cells had given him their full endorsement. As a result, the first seeds of Pentecostal, Baptist, and Methodist Manichaeanism had taken root in the States. And, to top it all off, Ludovisi was asked to stay on as senior analyst at the Vatican Bank-on special recommendation from the Cardinal Camerlengo-a position of considerable autonomy. Not bad for what had started out as nothing more than a bit of housecleaning.
In fact, it was Ludovisi’s relationship with the old P2 cells that had made his recent trip so easy. Eighteen cities in nine days, another $30 million deposited with over six hundred cells. If the “great awakening” was on the horizon-as von Neurath had promised-the financials were more than in place. It was just a matter of making sure the ledgers he had taken with him remained consistent with the numbers on the Vatican database.
Hence the need for the quick trip to 201 Via Condotti.
Reaching the second floor, he headed for the back office, little more than a six-by-six square, room enough for a weathered desk and chair, the former bolted to the floor. An odd touch for anyone not in the know. A single window overlooked the alley below, little light, less air. Ludovisi liked it here. No one to bother him. No one to answer to. He turned on the table lamp, then pulled the cord for the overhead fan. Sitting, he retrieved a small card from his jacket pocket and began to glide his fingers along the underside of the desktop. Locating a narrow slot on the left-hand side, he slid the card in. A moment later, a keypad-far more sophisticated than one would have expected-slid out from one of the drawers. He punched in a series of numbers, then watched as a panel opened at the center of the desk. Beneath it, a computer screen. Hence the need for the bolts.
As much as he recognized its technical wizardry, he’d never learned to trust the thing. Too great a chance that someone from the outside might hack his way into the files. It was why Ludovisi continued to use the written ledgers for the Manichaean accounts. One copy, safely stored. That the Vatican had switched over to the more modern system five years ago meant that he had no choice but to play with the gizmo from time to time.
He opened a file and began to type.
Twenty minutes later, the IOR database reflected the recent outlays-funds for relief projects, schools throughout Latin America, pro-democracy movements in the Far East. Nothing that could be traced with any real precision. That over half the $30 million had gone to finance the Faith Alliance was nowhere in evidence.
He pulled a second card from his pocket, and spent another few moments hunting for a slot. Finding it, he slid the card in-another keypad, another combination. This one released the door to a safe located within the two bottom right-hand drawers. Ludovisi placed the ledgers inside and closed the safe. Scanning the desk for anything he might have missed, he reached underneath and pulled out the two cards. The computer and keypads disappeared-the ancient desk restored. He then cracked the cards in half and tossed them out the window.
A minute later, he stepped out onto Via Condotti and began to make his way to the Corso. Almost at once, he felt someone grab his arm. Instinctively, he turned, a twinge of pain in his shoulder, as he saw a man directly at his right, the grip extraordinary.
“What … what are you doing?”
Another subtle twist of the arm. “Don’t scream.” They crossed the Corso, the rear door of a waiting limousine opening as they approached. The man helped Ludovisi inside, then closed the door behind him. The lock bolted shut.
Staring across at him sat Stefan Kleist.
Pearse emerged through the canvas flap in a clean, if wrinkled, pair of pants and shirt, the priest’s attire having been divvied up among his various tent mates. At first, they had hesitated. Priest’s clothes. Not that any of them were Catholics, but, given their current situation, no one seemed all that eager to tempt the fates, no matter whose God was involved. Then again, an extra pair of pants and coat would certainly come in handy when the weather changed. It hadn’t taken Pearse long to convince them that the clothes would be far more useful to them than to him, for more reasons than perhaps he cared to admit.
It had been forty minutes since Mendravic had gone off to rustle up whatever he could-water, food, and, more important, a ride west. Podgorica if possible. Not the most traveled route, but certainly the fastest. And with the sky promising imminent downpour, they both knew it was best to get going before everything turned to slop. That Mendravic had headed out without pressing Pearse for a more detailed explanation for the change in plans-the Croat more concerned that each of the men in the tent had enjoyed several swigs of the brandy he had brought-reminded the young priest just how comforting it was to have his friend looking out for him. Again.
Another nod from on high.
But it wasn’t Mendravic’s calming influence that confirmed a divine will at work. Nor his sudden appearance as ideal guide for the trip to come. Those would have made for too easy an affirmation of faith. It was the turmoil he brought-the news of Petra and the boy-the jarring intrusion of reality into Pearse’s life. What confirmed the Divine here, as it had done on Athos, was a kind of brutality, there within nature, here within a single truth. One not to test faith, but to define its very essence: harsh, jolting, perhaps even gnawing, but ultimately human. A living faith in its fullest sense, a Teresian ecstasy born of genuine struggle, the human condition painted in raw, jagged lines. Gone was the notion of serenity nurtured in cloistered retreat. That brand of contentment could only dull clarity, cushion it under a haze of self-serving bliss. Faith required confrontation. Clarity demanded such vigor.
It was only now that Pearse was beginning to understand that.
“Baba Pearsic?” He looked down. A boy no more than ten was staring up at him, his eyes beginning to bulge from a lack of food and real shelter. Still, a hint of animation, a sparkle as he spoke. He seemed eager to talk with the priest. The change of clothing, however, was causing him some confusion. “Father?”
“It’s me. What’s wrong?”
“Some men. My grandfather told me. Men from the outside. They come to see you.” Pearse had trouble keeping up with the Serbo-Croatian; he heard more than enough, though, to recognize the fear in the boy’s voice.
“Did they say what they wanted?”
The boy continued to stare. He pointed in the direction of the western gate. “Some men. They come to see you.” And with that, he sped off through the maze of tents and rope lines.
Men from the outside. It was an odd way to describe anyone. Pearse knew that a boy that age would have had no trouble identifying the uniforms of every relief worker in the camp, likewise those of the KLA, NATO, and the Albanian police. The vague designation “men from the outside” told him the boy’s fears were warranted.
His first thought was the Austrian. It had been five days, ample time to grow impatient. Pearse had to believe that they still needed Angeli whether they’d pinpointed his location or not. Finding him-Men-dravic’s call to Rome, his search for a missing priest in a refugee camp, had seen to that-was only half the battle. They still needed something to keep him in line. He was praying that their hook remained Cecilia Angeli.
Then again, maybe the Greeks had gotten lucky? The discovery of Andrakos’s car, the connection between Blace and Kukes?
Whoever they were, Pearse knew he needed to get a good look at them before they him. Sizing up his options, he quickly crossed the mud path and slipped into a tent three down from his own. At once, a line of familiar faces peered up at him, four women ranging in age from eleven to sixty, a boy of four, a man in his seventies.
Before any of them could ask, Pearse brought a finger to his lips. Silence. They had learned to appreciate its power early on in the war, hiding in basements, attics, waiting for the Serb patrols to loot and move on. A single gesture was all they required. Pearse nodded, then turned to peek through the crack in the flap.
Less than a minute later, he spotted them, conspicuous by their clothes, more so by their attitudes, four men who, from their expressions, had only recently entered a war zone, each trying his best not to show too great an aversion to the filth and disarray. Dressed in field khakis, windbreakers, and mountain boots-a muted yellow, tied halfway up the calf-they could easily have passed for members of a weekend climbing club, save, of course, for their physiques. Each stood at least six two, rigidly straight posture, broad shoulders, thick, powerful forearms. Everything about them screamed military. And yet, unlike their comrades in Rome, these men from the Vatican displayed none of the swagger Pearse had witnessed the first time around. Instead, they seemed far more … humane. It was the only way he could think to describe them. Even as they split up to take positions around his original tent, they indulged in none of the commandolike gesticulating he expected. One at the rear, one ten yards to the south, one ten yards to the north. Coordinated and precise.
With a nod, the fourth man entered the tent.
He reemerged a minute later with one of Pearse’s former tent mates in tow: Achif Dema, the barber who had set up shop under a nearby tarp, the man who had accepted Pearse’s jacket as a farewell gift. The obvious choice for consultation. Dema shook his head several times, pointing off in the direction of the medical tents, hands waving in a series of convoluted gestures, all accepted with an easy smile from the Vatican man. He knew exactly what the refugee was doing, or at least trying to do. A wild-goose chase for an inquisitive stranger. It might have done the trick had Mendravic not chosen that moment to return.
Dema, no actor to begin with, could hardly contain his reaction; at once, Mendravic became everyone’s focus. Dressed as he was, he had no chance of passing for a fellow refugee, a fact not lost on the men. As one, they began to circle in-subtly, but again with a precision that bespoke a familiarity with such situations. Pearse was left to observe as the strange dance played itself out.
Luckily, Mendravic knew his way around the floor, as well. Pearse watched as his old friend moved along the path, his eyes aimed at the ground-seemingly oblivious-but with an intensity that indicated a plan of attack already in the making. As he drew to within earshot of Pearse’s hiding place, he began to scratch his cheek. At the same time, and without breaking stride, he whispered under his breath:
“Wait for them to follow me. Meet at the north gate.”
Pearse had no idea how Mendravic had known he was inside the tent. Nor did he have time to digest the information. Within seconds, Mendravic was springing to his left, a wild-bear version of the boy who had darted through the tents only minutes before. Instantly, the men from the Vatican raced after him.
Except for the one who stood by Dema. He remained perfectly still, only his head moving in a slow rotation, scanning the line of tents with great concentration.
His eyes came to rest on Pearse’s. And he began to walk.
If faith required confrontation, Pearse knew he was about to enter a state of grace. The man quickened his pace. Pearse felt his heart accelerate, a sudden pounding in his throat. He had no choice but to go. Pulling the flap back, he bolted out-an instant of recognition from the Vatican man, Pearse ducking to his right through the web of rope lines.
The sound of pursuit was immediate. Forcing it from his mind, he began to weave his way through the tents, his head still groggy, his body crouched so as to avoid the lines, more so to gain as much shielding from the low canvas walls as he could. His eyes swept along the ground, never more than two, three feet in front of him, hunting for stakes, ruts, anything that might trip him up. Wherever the path grew wide enough, small gatherings of people appeared, obstacles to be run over and through. Their curses trailed after him, each a sonar’s ping to trace his escape. A second wave always followed-the advent of his pursuer-the surest means of measuring the distance between them. The echoes were coming quicker and quicker.
Pearse did his best to keep himself moving northward in the hope of finding the gate. Several minutes in, he became acutely aware of a sudden shift in the air, a familiar sweetness, somehow lighter, the moment before deluge, when sky and earth darken under sooted clouds, a breathless hint of the coolness to come. He could almost taste the breeze as the sky began to open up, first gentle, then pail after pail of water, the sudden patter of clapping mud, Pearse drenched in seconds. The timpani of rain on canvas propelled him from tent to tent. All sound seemed to vanish, no sense for anything or anyone behind him, only his tiny bubble world shaped by the relentless barrage.
Underfoot, the ground grew slick with incredible speed, tiny inlets seeking out the low ground, rutted tracks from carts and trucks providing the network of conduits. Above, the clouds pressed farther down, a porous gray plummeting the afternoon into premature twilight. He had no idea how far he had ferreted his way into the confusion of tents, hardly willing to take his focus from the ground so as to gain his bearings. Instead, he continued to run, no chance at even a quick look back to see how close his assailant had drawn. The rope lines, once obstacles, now kept him upright, his hands sliding along the slick fiber in an attempt to maintain his balance, one narrow path to the next, improvised benches and chairs upended along the way as he raced by them.
Minute passed into minute-the gate nowhere in sight-his lungs and muscles starting to give out, his head beginning to pound, a burning in his throat, no amount of adrenaline able to stifle its hold. He tried to push himself on, but his chest began to constrict, his sides cramping. Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he fully expected to see the large man barreling toward him.
The path stood empty.
Amazed, Pearse slowed, then stopped. Slouched over, hands on his knees, he sucked in air, rain cascading through his hair, thick drops streaking down his face. He wiped them away. Again he turned, certain that the rain had somehow distorted his vision, the man only feet from him. Nothing. A flare of lightning illuminating the area, confirmation that he was alone. Not quite believing his luck, he stood upright, still breathing heavily, the pain subsiding, an uncontrollable grin spreading across his lips. He had lost him. With a sudden surge of confidence, he turned around, hoping to get a better sense of where he had brought himself.
His legs nearly buckled when, no more than thirty yards in front of him, he saw the man now propelling himself forward from rope line to rope line, knees brought high with each powerful thrust, the mud below no deterrent to the strangely mechanical leaping. Somehow, he had made his way around, anticipating Pearse’s movements and positioning himself to cut him off. To the peal of thunder, Pearse swung around, too quick for his own footing, a hand to the ground as he began to tumble headfirst, trying to push himself forward, the boy’s shoes no match for the sludge. He looked back for only an instant, a nightmare sensation, his own legs unable to move, his body in the grasp of the mud, his hands clawing to get himself to his feet. He lunged for the nearest line, hoisting himself up, the first hint of racing steps behind beginning to break through the rain’s compulsive beat.
With the sound of the man’s breath closing in, Pearse turned, catching sight of a pair of crystal blue eyes no more than fifteen feet from him. Their stare, however, exhibited none of the menace Pearse had conjured in his own mind. In fact, the man seemed to be slowing, his arms at his sides, a pose to pacify, not to intimidate. Strangely unnerving.
The image lasted less than a second.
From somewhere off to his right, a figure sprang out in a blur of movement, hands latching onto the man’s chest, plunging him into the side of a nearby tent, spikes jerked from the ground, bodies trapped within the deflating canvas.
It was then that Pearse recognized Mendravic, now pulling the man upright and driving his knee into an unsuspecting groin. At once, the man doubled over, his head easy prey for a second assault. Mendravic swung his knee up, this time into the man’s skull, the neck snapping back, the body instantly crumbling to the ground.
It had taken less than ten seconds. Pearse stared in astonishment.
Mendravic stooped down to check the man for papers. Finding none, he stepped toward Pearse and pulled him to his feet. “Don’t worry,” he said, yelling to him over the rain. “He’ll be up and about in twenty minutes. He’ll just have a very bad headache for a day or so. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”
Pearse was still unsure what had just happened. “Where did you come from?” he yelled back.
Mendravic led him to the spot from which he had just leapt, then pointed through the tangle of ropes. Remarkably, the north gate stood some forty yards from them, two cement block hovels on either side, checkpoint stations for those coming and going. An odd collection of trucks and vans sat parked around the open expanse, two Albanian guards in rain gear monitoring the area, their chosen perch the back of one of the larger trucks, shelter against the rain, rifles resting at their sides. Not exactly the most taxing duty in camp. Probably another two or three men inside the buildings. Pearse couldn’t quite believe his luck at having gotten this close to the gate.
“I was here a minute, maybe two, before you,” Mendravic yelled. “That’s when I saw your head pop up, then the other one. Him,” he said, pointing at the unconscious body. “At least I thought it was you.” He started to make his way to the gate.
“And the other three?” Pearse asked, following.
“The rain helped.” Mendravic seemed content to leave it at that. Pearse saw no reason to press for details.
As they moved into the opening, one of the Albanians jumped down from his perch. His smile made it clear that he and Mendravic had already done business. “He needs another two hundred dollars,” Mendravic said under his breath. “I assumed you’d have it.”
Pearse reached for the backpack, evidently too quickly for both soldiers. The one still in the truck reached for his rifle. The one moving toward them stopped, his smile gone. Mendravic raised his hands, a wide smile on his face; Pearse did the same. When they had drawn to within a few feet of the man, Mendravic began to speak in a cordial Albanian.
“My friend,” he said, his hands now extended, “he’s just getting the rest of your money. What did we say? One hundred American?”
“Two hundred,” answered the man.
“Of course. Two hundred.”
The guard’s smile returned.
Pearse nodded slowly, as if to ask permission to open the backpack. The soldier motioned to his friend in the truck. The rifle returned to its resting place. Careful to bring out only the necessary bills, Pearse handed them to Mendravic who then handed them to the guard. After a quick count of the money, the man nodded again to his friend. He then waved for Pearse and Mendravic to follow him outside the gate.
A few hundred feet on, they arrived at the edge of a thickly wooded area. The guard pulled a flashlight from his jacket and let the thin beam cut across the rain-soaked bark of the trees. He found what he was looking for some fifty feet farther on, a virtually hidden path, but one with which the man was clearly familiar. It was nearly a quarter of a mile before they came to a small glade, a pair of run-down delivery vans-the small European kind, little more than a car with extended cab at the back, two cramped seats up front-standing side by side. Pearse guessed they had been “procured” from the streets of Pec or Prizren in the last two days, a cottage industry for the guards and any refugees willing to pay. Four hundred dollars seemed reasonable enough for an American priest and his Croatian friend. No doubt, the price varied considerably depending on the clientele. The guards had done well today.
“You’ve enough petrol to get you to Shkoder,” the man said pointing to the van on the right. “There’s a map inside. And some towels.” He smiled. “Don’t say you didn’t get your money’s worth.” He started back, shouting over his shoulder as he walked. “And don’t worry. The car won’t have any trouble at the Yugoslav border.”
Mendravic fired up the engine, doing his best to maneuver the van through the mud and roots, the rain pounding at the roof in a snare-drum frenzy. Pearse had squeezed the pack between them and was now making the most of the “towels”-ratty little handkerchiefs on a good day-to dry himself off and to clear the windshield, which had quickly fogged over. Mendravic pressed one of the tiny rags through his hair as he tried to jump-release the clutch so as to gain some added traction. It was several minutes before the bumps and jolts of the wooded floor gave way to something resembling a road.
Cranking his window open to combat the mist, Mendravic yelled to Pearse over the din. “So, who exactly are we running from?”
Not that difficult a question, thought Pearse, even if he was having trouble explaining the man’s strangely nonaggressive attitude just prior to Mendravic’s intervention. None of the swagger. None of the menace. Still … “How does Vatican security strike you?” He began to fiddle with the knobs on the dashboard in an attempt to get some air onto the windshield.
Mendravic glanced at him quickly. “What?”
“I’d need a phone to make sure,” answered Pearse, the knobs quickly proving useless; he sat back and stared out at the empty horizon. “So unless we happen to pass a McDonald’s somewhere out here, you’ll have to settle for a best guess.”
“I’m not much for fast food,” said Mendravic, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a tiny cellular phone. “Probably could have traded it for one of those NATO trucks back there. Maybe two.” With one eye on the road, he flipped it open and pressed several buttons. “I piggyback onto the NATO satellite linkups from time to time.” He handed it to Pearse. “Just enter the number.”
Pearse knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. Doing as he was told, he fished a piece of paper from his pocket. “By the way,” he asked as he dialed, “how did you know I was in that tent?”
Mendravic laughed to himself. “Next time, keep your fingers inside the flap, not outside.”
Angeli’s machine picked up, her message brief. A trip to Paris. Research. She’d be back in a week. “It’s Ian Pearse-”
The machine disengaged. “Do you have the ‘Hodoporia’?”
Pearse didn’t recognize the voice. “Let me speak with the professor.”
“Do you have the ‘Hodoporia’?” Pearse remained silent. It was several moments before the question came again.
“Have you found what they want?” Tired, clearly frightened, it was Angeli.
“Thank God,” said Pearse. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better. They want to know if you have the parchment.”
“I will. Soon. Have they-”
“How soon, Father?” The man was back on the line.
“Put her on the phone.” This time, it was the other end that chose not to answer. “It’ll take a lot longer if you keep sending people out after me.”
There was a momentary pause. “Say again.”
“The four men you sent to find me in Kukes,” Pearse answered. “They didn’t get what they came for.”
Another pause, then the sound of muffled conversation in the background. Pearse thought he heard a second phone dialing. It was nearly a minute before the man answered. “Describe these men.”
The tone on the line spoke volumes. The men in Rome were as much in the dark about his recent assailants as he was. They had sent no one.
No swagger. No menace. No Vatican.
The question remained: Where had they come from? And who had sent them?
“Describe them,” came the repeated order.
Pearse waited. “Keep the professor safe.” He then pulled the phone from his ear and flipped it shut. He handed it to Mendravic.
“So?” he asked.
Pearse let his head fall back, the pounding subsiding. “Not the best guess.”
It was after seven by the time the limousine deposited Ludovisi back on Via Condotti, his steps unsteady-to anyone nearby, a man clearly worse for the wine. The street had mellowed since his hasty departure, strings of multicolored Christmas lights hanging overhead to lend the place a kind of festival atmosphere. The sneers of boutiques had given way to the clownish smiles of gelato carts and rose stands, as always, the strains of an ill-tuned guitar echoing from somewhere on the Spanish Steps. Ludovisi noticed none of it, clumsily maneuvering himself through the crowd, the outer rim of the piazza fountain a welcome relief as he stumbled his way down to it and sat. Staring into the gurgling water, he tried to shake the haze from his head, unable to recall the last three hours with any precision.
As far as he could remember, the evening had begun in silence, Kleist stone-faced to his questions, their destination kept hidden behind windows tinted to the point of impenetrability, only the car’s speed-too fast for the city streets-giving anything away. Somewhere on the outskirts of town. A villa perhaps. Kleist had finally offered him a drink-in the car, at the villa-he couldn’t remember. Brandy, scotch, it made no difference now. The light-headedness had followed. He recalled something of an underground garage, a set of stairs, a rather grand library.
Once inside, they had thrown a barrage of papers at him, some to be signed, others simply to be held, each immediately retrieved by Kleist. Computer discs, as well. Endless questions about account numbers, funds deposited, all of it streaming by in an ever-growing fog.
By the time they had taken him back to the garage, he’d required a man on either side to help him down the stairs. The ride back to town had passed in a disjointed series of words and faces.
With a sudden spasm, he dropped his head between his knees and vomited. It only made his head ache all the more. A second wave followed, most passersby moving off as quickly as possible, one or two trying to offer some help, a collision of voices and hands swimming in slow motion in front of him. Ignoring them, he reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his mouth; instead, he pulled out two cards, identical to the ones he had tossed from the window at 201. He stared down at them, unable to gain his focus. I … destroyed these. And yet here they were, whole. What the hell is going on? Nausea gave way to fear.
Without warning, the left side of his neck constricted, a sudden twinge in his arm. At the same moment, his head began to convulse, more of the vomit curling up through his throat, his body slumping to the cold stone below. Somewhere within the pain, he heard shouts, whistling. Nothing registered, his body no longer his to control.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Arturo Ludovisi had been dead for over six minutes, the cards still clutched in his hand.
Shkoder came and went with a quick stop for gas, no letup in the rain, the car managing the border just as the guard had promised. The various passports and transit cards Mendravic had produced hadn’t hurt their chances, either-Albanian migrant-worker ID required no pictures.
“So this book, the one in Visegrad, it will do what for them?” asked Mendravic, still trying to piece things together.
“Not really sure,” answered Pearse, his attention on the final quintet of the Ribadeneyra entries. He’d been struggling with them for over an hour. “Whatever it’s supposed to do for them, they’re very eager to get their hands on it.”
“And what you’re doing there”-Mendravic nodded toward the small black book-“that’s going to tell us where we go?”
Pearse hummed in response, not really having heard the question. He continued to stare at the words, bits and pieces he had scribbled on the page, countless little circles of crossed-out letters, words on top of words, side by side in odd configurations.
It hadn’t taken him long to realize that Ribadeneyra’s “quaestio lusoria” was far more complex than simply a series of arcane anagrams. His first stab at entry number two, during his second night at Kukes, had made that clear. There had been nothing to it that even remotely hinted at an anagram. The same held true for numbers three through five, each of them either too long or too short to make even the most subtle reconfigurations provide an answer. It was only when he had moved on to number six that he’d seen the pattern. Here, again, was an intricate yet solvable anagram. Seven through ten, impenetrable. Eleven, doable. Every fifth one. It had suddenly dawned on him what he was looking at. As with the “Perfect Light” letters, the entries here held to the Manichaeans’ predilection for divisions within divisions, and always in sets of five. In the scroll, it had been through the prophetic ascents; here, Ribadeneyra had managed it through the distinct types of wordplay. Five categories, five of each kind. The question remained: Aside from the anagrams, what sorts of manipulations would the other four categories require?
It had struck him that, perhaps, there was a simple way to find out. Stealing a few minutes on one of the camp’s computers, he’d quietly scanned the Internet for anything on cryptogrammics. Not the most detailed or accurate source, but at least something to give the hunt direction. The result: long, drawn-out lists on the various forms of modern cryptic wordplay, far more than the five categories he was looking for. Procedures called “deletions,” “reversals,” “charades,” and “containers” dominated, each with a quick explanation and an equally simplistic example. Tools for the elite crossword fanatic. The “quaestio lusoria” had clearly come a long way in four centuries. Pearse wondered how many of its modern enthusiasts understood its darker history.
Back in his tent, he had discovered that the two-line (as he had come to refer to those entries in the same category as number two) resembled a charade, albeit in a slightly less straightforward form. The modern version, according to the Internet, required the solver to break the answer into several words, each defined independently: syllables, as it were, of the final charade. For example, “sharpen the pen for truth” had produced the answer “honesty.” The derivation:
hone (sharpen) + sty (pen) = honesty (truth)
A one-to-one relationship. Ribadeneyra had relied on more obscure references, some using only partial words, but all creating longer sequences between the clues and their combining forms, especially when the answer was a phrase rather than a single word. In all cases, though, they required a very creative understanding of a given definition.
To make things even more difficult, Ribadeneyra had rarely chosen to include the answer as part of the clue; he offered no phrases such as “for truth” to hint at the solution. One of his more vexing had read:
Ab initio, surgunt muti in herbam.
Loosely translated:
From the beginning, they rise without speaking into the grass.
Strange as it sounded, it made perfect sense, given the Manichaean influence. In fact, the real mark of Ribadeneyra’s genius was his ability to construct entries that revolved around references to those things that could help set the light free: “rising,” “fruits,” “herbs.”
The answer, Pearse discovered, was “deversoriolum,” the Latin word for “inn.” The derivation had gone quite easily at the start:
DE = from
VER = the beginning (the Latin for the season spring, the beginning of all things)
OLUM = into the vegetable (the accusative form of the word herb, olus, thus olum)
But what of “sori,” stuck in the middle? Here was where Ribadeneyra had shown his special gift (the kindest way Pearse could think to put it). After too many hours tossing the clue around in his head, Pearse had realized that the verb “to rise”-here “surgere”-could be replaced with the Latin sororio (“to swell,” primarily as with milk in a mother’s breast, another appropriate choice, given the metaphor of beginnings and birth). In conjunction with the second-to-last part of the clue, “muti” (“without speaking”), he saw he needed to remove the Latin word for “to speak” (“oro”), so as to make the combining form, literally, “speechless.” Removing “oro” from “sororio” (with a little tweak) left “sori.” Hence:
De — ver — sori — olum
A lot of work for a three-letter answer.
So it had gone with the three- and four-lines, each a more opaque version of a modern cryptogram, naturally made more difficult by the interplay of Greek and Latin references. The three-line had worked primarily with deletions-single or double letters removed from one word to create another. The Internet example, “headless trident bears fruit,” had given the answer “pear.” The derivation:
spear (trident)? s (its “head”) = pear (fruit)
The most direct of all the categories.
The four-line, however, had proved the most difficult, combining elements from the other three to create the longest phrases. For example, to unearth just the single word “pons” (meaning “bridge”) in one of the answers, he’d had to take the word “pomus” (meaning “fruit tree”), eliminate “the Greek Medusa” and replace it with the “the Roman Neptune.” Here, “the Greek Medusa” had signified the letter Mu-the Greek for M, the first letter in Medusa; “the Roman Neptune” had implied the letter n. Replace mu in “pomus” with n, and you have “pons”-“bridge.”
Granted, the gnosis here wasn’t quite as deviously hidden as with the “Perfect Light”-no letters and cross-references to construct the map. Then again, the earlier Manichaeans had had five centuries to devise their puzzle. Ribadeneyra had taken a few months. An effort certainly worthy of their legacy.
Pearse quickly came to appreciate the beauty of the game, its precision. Everything was there from the start, no landmarks to be found, no mechanisms to be unhinged. A genuine alchemy, the gold trapped within the obscurity of a language waiting for release. A strange taste of the Sola Scriptura. Discovery in its purest form.
Pearse knew Angeli would have needed, at most, a few hours for the entire lot; he had taken the better part of four days. Even when helping with the refugees, he’d been aware that his subconscious was continuing to play with the clues, flashes of understanding bubbling to the surface at the strangest of moments, often a word or two in conversation enough to spark revelation. Though frustrating at times, the process nevertheless gave him a real sense of satisfaction, each of the entries offering up tiny moments of triumph. Given the mayhem of the last week, such fleeting brushes with resolution were deeply rewarding.
Still, he had yet to penetrate even one of the five-line entries, none of them coming close to anything he had seen on the computer. More than that, he had come to recognize that the last of the categories held the key to the entire puzzle. As with the acrostics, the rest remained meaningless-a mishmash of abstract phrases and words-without something to tie them together. With “Perfect Light,” it had been the prophetic letters. Here, it was the five-line entries. Another map waiting to be discovered.
An image of Angeli came to mind, her plump little hand sweeping along the sheets of yellow paper, eyes staring up at him, so eager for him to see what she herself had already detected. The elation at her discovery. Her impatience with his thickheadedness.
He couldn’t afford to keep her waiting too much longer.
At this rate, though, he had little to bolster his confidence. He had no idea as to what would help to unlock the last of the entries. He needed to clear his mind. More than that, his eyes needed a rest. The vibration from the van was hardly making the reading easy, his head still battling the last vestiges of the concussion.
He flicked off the flashlight, let the paper drop to his lap, and set his head back against the seat. After a few minutes-eyes gazing out at the blackened landscape-he said, “You’re wrong, you know.”
Not sure what Pearse was referring to, Mendravic remained silent.
“About your friends in the KLA,” he clarified.
“Ah.” Mendravic kept his eyes on the road. A return to the conversation they’d started over two hours ago.
“They’re as much to blame for the refugees now as the Serbs were a year ago.” Pearse continued to stare out.
“Five days in the region and you’re an expert.”
“They’re a bunch of thugs, Irish Provisionals, Kosovo-style. Except maybe a little more brutal.”
“I see.” Mendravic nodded to himself. “I’ve always had trouble distinguishing Milosevic from Tony Blair.” Before Pearse could respond, he said, “A year after a peace accord, and the Serbs are still ‘encouraging’ people not to return home. I don’t say I agree with everything the KLA does, but at least they’re doing something.”
“Like killing Serbs?”
“Yes. Like killing Serbs.” He waited, then looked over at Pearse. “Not all that enlightened, I know. But there it is.” Focusing again on the road, the hint of a grin now on his face, he added, “We’re a sort of an eye-for-an-eye kind of people. Never really been that much room in this part of the world for turning the other cheek.”
Pearse smiled to himself. “I wasn’t aware the KLA set its policy based on scriptural debate.”
“Just the overall strategy,” Mendravic said. “Too many different kinds of scripture floating around these parts to map out the day-to-day game plan.”
It was remarkable how easily they slipped into the familiar sparring, even after eight years. Pearse was about to let loose with his next jab, when he suddenly stopped.
Instead, he flicked on the flashlight and looked down at the pages on his lap. Something in what Mendravic had just said. Scriptural mapping.
“What?” prodded the Croat.
Lost in the pages, Pearse slowly realized that each of the five-line entries had a peculiar quality to it, something he would never have seen had he continued to attack each one as an individual cryptogram. Reading them as continuous phrases, he saw that each of them produced a kind of singsong cadence, almost a lilting meter, as if it was meant to be spoken aloud.
So do I stretch out my two hands toward You,
All to be formed in the orbit of light.
When I am sent to the contest with darkness,
Knowing that You can assist me in sight.
The fragrance of life is always within me.
Like a piece of Scripture. Like the verse of a prayer.
He felt a swell of satisfaction, quickly doused by the realization that he had no idea what it meant. This was no verse he recognized. Pieces of Scripture or not, the five-line entries remained a mystery.
He was about to tell Mendravic, when he noticed a sign indicating a split in the road just ahead: east to Visegrad, west to Rogatica and Sarajevo. From there, another twenty minutes to the “town on the Drina.”
When Mendravic opted for the Rogatica turnoff, Pearse shot up in his seat. He began to point in the other direction.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“It’s after ten,” said Mendravic. “Visegrad’s not exactly a tourist spot since the war. Much better chance of finding a hotel nearer the city.”
Watching the Visegrad road disappear, Pearse knew Mendravic was right. After all, what could they accomplish tonight? He was too tired to make sense of the recent discovery. He needed sleep to clear his mind.
They drove for another half an hour, Mendravic intent on the roads, Pearse with his head in the book. Surprisingly, Mendravic was rather familiar with Rogatica and its surroundings. Mumbling street names to himself, he seemed to be in search of a specific hotel. After several miscues, they finally arrived at what looked like an apartment house, six stories of dull gray brick.
“This doesn’t look like a hotel,” said Pearse.
Maybe it was his preoccupation with the final set of entries, or the cumulative effects of the last week, but it wasn’t until he saw Mendravic smiling back at him that Pearse realized where he had been taken.
“You’re not very bright, are you?” asked Mendravic.
The Croat leaned forward in his seat and peered up at the building through the windshield. “Fifth floor. Second in from the right.”
Pearse couldn’t bring himself to lean forward.
“This was your second request, wasn’t it?” Mendravic sat back, the grin once again in evidence. “Shall we see if the two of them have room for us tonight?”
Dona Marcella pulled the half glasses from her face and placed the papers on the coffee table in front of her. She waited for Blaney to finish reading.
She hadn’t been to his rooms off the Giardini del Quirinale in years, the priest, by the look of them, well taken care of by his Chicago archdiocese. Thick velvet drapes hung across the twelve-foot windows, the furniture distinctly Edwardian, a bulky mahogany roughness befitting the man seated across from her. Browns on browns, with a hint of maroon here and there. What few splashes of color he permitted came from a pair of large vases standing on either side of a rather dour sideboard.
“Am I actually supposed to believe this?” she asked when he finally looked up.
“I don’t think you’re the one they’re trying to convince,” Blaney answered.
“It’s all tabloid.” She reached for the paper nearest to her. “ ‘Gelli’s Ghost Returns,’” she read. “Complete nonsense.” She tossed it back onto the table. “The morning papers won’t be so quick to swallow all of this. Who’s going to believe Arturo capable of such things?”
“He was found with the papers, the discs.”
She waited before answering. “If what they say is true, this will make the whole Calvi business look like a minor inconvenience. This isn’t going to be the usual mop-up. I’m going to need time, and I’m not sure I have it.”
“That’s not what worries me,” said Blaney. “Weakening the bank only makes the church more vulnerable, raises the specter of corruption. Which makes the job of the ‘Hodoporia’ all the easier. The question is, did he leave anything on those discs to link us with the bank?”
“That’s exactly my point; the church isn’t the issue.” Frustration forced her up from her chair. “Tell me he wouldn’t have been that stupid, John?” Blaney started to answer. She cut him off. “What does Erich say?”
He shook his head dismissively. “No idea. He’s unreachable. The novemdieles concludes tomorrow morning. They’ve already started to convene the conclave.”
“Not the best timing.”
Blaney nodded. “Unless it’s what he was planning all along.”
It took her a moment to respond. “And what is that supposed to mean?” When he didn’t answer, she pressed him. “You can’t be serious? Why would Erich have had any part in this?”
“Let’s just say I’m not so sure his faith in the ‘Hodoporia’ is what it once was.” He let the words sit for a moment. “He’s very fond of reminding me that it’s a ‘complicated world.’ And a complicated world demands complicated answers.” Again, he shook his head. “There’s very little I’d put past Erich now. Despite all of Arturo’s fidgeting, he was a remarkably fit man. Prided himself on it. He was also something of a hypochondriac. A man like that doesn’t suddenly collapse in the Piazza di Spagna for no apparent reason.”
“And you think Erich would have …” She couldn’t finish the thought. “Why?”
Blaney sat back and let his eyes wander. For some reason, they stopped on a small crystal lamb nestled within a group of pictures-a gift from his very first parish. Something long forgotten. He stared at it, then turned to the contessa. “Because the thought of anyone else having something to do with this is even more unsettling.”
She had sounded excited over the intercom, Mendravic announcing only himself, the real surprise left for upstairs. It had taken a good ten minutes for Pearse to get out of the car, the prospect of meeting his son somehow less daunting than seeing her again. He had no idea what to expect from the boy. With Petra, though, he knew what he wanted to hear, what had been running through his head since this afternoon. Nothing to assuage. No attempts to let him off the hook, tell him it had been for the best. He had outgrown that kind of coddling.
Inside, he quickly fell behind, nearly a full flight below by the time Mendravic reached the fifth floor. Moving slowly, Pearse heard the chirped “Salko” from above, an excited Petra at the top of the stairs, the sound of an embrace, an instant of laughter. He stopped, listened for a moment, then continued on. Rounding the final turn, he saw her arms clutched around Mendravic’s enormous bulk, her face resting on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, a moment to see her as she was, as he knew she would be.
And then her eyes opened. No change in expression. No hint of movement. Only the eyes peering down at him.
Somehow, Mendravic sensed it. Without a word, he pulled away and moved off down the corridor, the sound of a squealing hinge in the distance a few moments later.
The two of them continued to stare.
Whatever image Pearse had carried with him for the last eight years came to life as she looked down at him. If she had aged, it was only around the eyes, one or two creases. The battle with her hair continued to rage on, the familiar wisps draped along her cheek. She wore a simple shirt, skirt-something he had never seen before, never even imagined on her-ankle-length, bobbing atop her bare feet.
She leaned back against the railing. Silence.
“Hey,” he said finally, regretting the choice before the word had even left his mouth.
“Hey,” she answered.
“You look-”
She nodded to herself before he could finish the thought. “I look great, right?”
Again, he realized how stupid it must have sounded. He tried a smile. “Right.”
She shook her head. “You still don’t look like a priest.”
“I guess some things never change.”
“No, I guess they don’t.” She waited. “Amazing how long you imagine this, and it doesn’t make it any easier, does it?” Again, she waited. “Why are you here, Ian?”
He wanted to move to her but couldn’t. “It’s a long story.”
She continued to stare at him. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“I know.” Another stab at the smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”
“Neither was I, for a while.” She was about to say something else, then stopped.
Another awkward silence. Finally, he spoke: “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Salko told you.” A dismissive laugh. “Of course he told you. That’s why you’re here.”
“It’s not the only reason.”
She’d become preoccupied with something on the step, her foot rubbing away at it. “I didn’t know the last time we spoke.”
“So why didn’t you get in touch with me when you found out?”
Again, silence. When she turned to him, her expression was far from what he expected. Her own attempt at a smile. Not terribly convincing. “Right to the tough stuff,” she said. “That isn’t fair, is it?” He tried to answer. “Look, Salko’s probably halfway through the fridge. Why don’t you come inside?” Not waiting for him, she turned and headed down the hall.
The apartment was much as he’d expected it-living room, galley kitchen, narrow hall, rooms somewhere beyond. A low overstuffed couch took up much of the far wall, Mendravic now taking up much of it, already a plate of something in his lap. A small table perched under the near window, half of it reserved for a rather ancient television-an even older video game hooked up to its back-two chairs around the far end for mother and son. A bookshelf-slanting just a bit-stood by the entry to the hall, a wide assortment of knickknacks, pictures, and books atop its six shelves. Pearse recognized a few of the faces, Mendravic’s the most prominent, one shot of him caught in midlaugh, the boy clutched in his arms, outside, winter hats.
“He was four in that picture,” Petra said, noticing where Pearse’s eyes had come to rest. “It’s a park in Sarajevo. Veliki. I think you were there once. It still had some trees left. Near where we lived.”
“Dusanov,” chimed in Mendravic, his mouth busy with a piece of orange. “It was Dusanov, the other side of the river. Remember, he cut himself when he fell?”
Petra shook her head and moved toward the shelf. “That happened in Veliki.” She picked up the plastic frame, slid the picture out, and flipped it over. A moment later, the smile on her face signaled her capitulation. “‘November fifth, 1997,’” she read. “‘Dusanov Park with Salko.’” She looked over at Mendravic. “How do you always do that?”
He shrugged as he finished off the wedge. “Must be that I love him more than you do.” A smile peeked out from behind the rind.
“That must be it,” she said. She was about to put it back in its frame. Instead, she handed it to Pearse.
He looked down into the child’s face and realized he was staring into Petra’s eyes, tinier versions to be sure, but the same deep charcoal, the same long black lashes above, that pinch at either end when lost in laughter. The cheekbones were hers as well, sharply contoured around the dollop of nose, lips already hinting at his mother’s fullness. But where the individual features were hers, the shape of the face was not, most notably in the jaw, its curve more pronounced, its line more angular-a child’s size of one Pearse knew all too well.
Five minuscule fingers squeezed at Mendravic’s large nose, the howls of laughter from them both almost audible.
“He’s beautiful,” Pearse finally said.
“Yes, he is.” She waited for him to hand back the picture. She looked at it for several seconds, then slotted it into the frame and placed it on the shelf. “He’s asleep,” she said. She looked at Pearse, the first hint of softness in her eyes. “You’ll have to be quiet.” Not waiting for an answer, she started down the hall, Pearse at once behind her.
With a finger to her lips, she quietly opened the door, the mustiness of a sleeping seven-year-old at once rising up to greet them. Waiting a moment for her eyes to adjust, she led the way through, a tangle of clothes and toys scattered along the path, a sliver of shadow cutting across the room through a slit in the curtains. When she reached the bed, she remained perfectly still for several seconds, Pearse at her side.
The boy lay curled up on his side, hands nestled under his chin, a thin blanket draped along his back, only his feet peeking out at the edge. Beneath the cover, a small shoulder rose and fell, the sound of gentle breath on pillow. Nothing else to break the silence. A few years older-the chin more pronounced, the lips having lived up to their promise-the face remained hers. Pearse couldn’t help but marvel at him, the quiet wonder of this boy. He had a sudden need to reach out to him, hold him, equally desperate not to disrupt the moment’s perfect serenity. Torn between the two impulses, he crouched down and brought his face to within a hair’s breadth of the boy’s cheek, the closeness almost unbearable. Shutting his eyes, he felt the warmth just beyond his grasp, and a sense of overwhelming loss.
Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to hold his son, no matter how great the need. He hovered on the brink, eyes now open, his own breath growing shorter and shorter. When it became too much, he pulled himself back and turned to her. She had been looking at him all along. She continued to stare, her eyes unwilling to give into the tears.
Then, without a sound, she stepped closer into the bed, leaned past him and kissed her son. The child moved, his lips parting, a deep breath, as if he might say something; then, just as quickly, he was still. She waited, then nodded to Pearse and headed for the door.
When she had pulled it shut, she turned to him. She seemed unsure for a moment. “You could have held him,” she finally said. “It would have been all right.”
Pearse thought of answering, but couldn’t. They stood there for a moment. The sound of a plate being dropped momentarily broke the silence. Instinctively, she turned toward the kitchen, then back to Pearse.
“Salko,” she said.
She started down the hall; Pearse reached out and took her hand. He felt her entire body tense. Just as quickly, she relaxed and turned to him.
“Not yet,” she said softly. She slowly pulled her hand away. For just a moment, she let it rest on his chest, then turned and headed for the living room. Pearse watched her go, then followed.
Mendravic was at the fridge.
“It’s not going to be enough,” he said, his head deep inside. “You hardly have a thing.”
“It’s not as if I was expecting you,” she said as she sidled past him and opened several cabinets along the cupboard by the stove. From the one at the top, she produced crackers, a collection of boxes filled with foods Pearse had never heard of, and pasta.
Mendravic removed himself from the fridge and peered over at the scant offerings. Crinkling his face, he shook his head. “Crackers? This is Salko.” When she continued to stare at him-no hint of mercy in her eyes-his expression at once became more benign. “The orange was good,” he said sheepishly.
Ten minutes later, he had convinced her that they needed to go out. Ten-thirty. Not so late in this part of the world. The boy would be fine. Yes, he knew the right place. Yes, it was very close by. They’d be away half an hour. Forty-five minutes at the most. With tremendous reluctance, and a constant barrage of encouragement, she had knocked on her neighbor’s door. Explanations of friends from out of town, nothing in the house. The woman had been more than accommodating.
“I know the place,” she had said. “Go. It’ll do you good. He’ll be fine with me.” A wink from Mendravic hadn’t hurt, either.
True to his word, the cafe was no more than a five-minute drive from the apartment. A good deal more than crackers and pasta.
And, as with just about everything else, Mendravic seemed to be on familiar terms with everyone at the restaurant. The promised crowds, however, proved to be no more than a waiter and cashier, both eager to close up shop. Evidently, his recollection of late-night carousing wasn’t terribly accurate. No matter. The two were more than happy to keep the kitchen open a little while longer. For an old friend.
“I’m in the mood for burek,” Mendravic began, the waiter nodding his approval. “And some of the lemon-ginger rakija.”
“‘Burek?’” asked Pearse.
“Like Greek spanokopita.” When Pearse continued to stare blankly, Mendravic explained: “Casserole. Spinach, cheese, light pastry. Delicious.”
Pearse’s expression showed far less enthusiasm. “Nothing heavier?” he said.
“One order of the burek, and one of the maslenica,” Petra told the waiter. “And a bottle of prokupac.”
“Masle what?” Again Pearse was at a loss.
“Trust me.” She smiled. “Heavier. Much heavier.”
Half an hour later, there was still plenty on the plate, even Mendravic too full to take a taste of the generous helping of stew. The wine and brandy were another matter.
“You’re telling me one person usually eats this whole thing,” said Pearse, having had a bit more to drink than he was used to, and unable to wrap his mind around the Bosnian capacity for consumption.
“Sure.” Petra laughed. “Ivo has at least two of them each night for dinner.”
Mendravic laughed as well, a few hums of approval as he now began to pick at the bits of feta that had broken free of the remaining heap of meat.
“Ivo?” Pearse couldn’t recall an Ivo.
Before Petra could answer, Mendravic cut in: “Her son. Your son. Ivo. It’s as close as you get to Ian in Croatian.” He was hunting for the last of the mushrooms. Poking away with his fork, he added, “Two of them, easy.” A lazy laugh as he pushed the plate away.
Ivo. Pearse realized he hadn’t even bothered to ask. For some reason, he laughed as well. Only for a moment, but distinctly, a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” asked Petra.
He shook his head, the laughter subsiding, a nervous energy competing with the effects of the brandy.
“Good a reason as any,” Mendravic chimed in as he hoisted himself up. “Men’s room,” the declaration more to remind himself why he’d gotten up than to update his dinner companions. He picked one last mushroom from the plate, swallowed it, and headed back.
When Petra turned to him, she saw Pearse was staring at her.
“What?” she said.
“Hearing his name … it made me laugh.”
“It’s a good name,” she said. “Good enough for you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Yes, I know you know.”
Petra refilled their glasses. She took a sip, then placed hers on the table.
After another awkward silence, Pearse spoke: “It’s just when I first saw him, it made me … I can’t explain it. To see him and know how much I hadn’t seen, how much he was without my ever having …” The thought trailed off. “And then hearing his name. I don’t know. It just … came out of nowhere.” Without any thought, he picked up his fork and began to run it along the plate. “Does that make any sense?”
Petra continued to look at him. “He’s your son. He has your name. Yes. That should make you happy.”
Pearse nodded, his focus still on the plate. After several moments, he asked, “And you?”
“And me, what?”
“Does it make you happy?”
She waited before answering. “That’s a silly question.”
“Why?” he asked, turning back toward her.
“‘Why?’” Again she paused. “You saw him. It’s a silly question.”
Once again, an overwhelming sense of loss cut through him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“A priest with a son?” A smile, a shake of the head. “We both know you would have thrown that all away, done the right thing. And I wasn’t going to do that to any of us. You asked me to understand.” She held his gaze. “Don’t you see, I finally did.”
“Maybe better than I did.”
She stopped, never for a moment thinking he would say that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s never been as clear as I thought it would be. It’s never made as much sense.”
“As what?”
He continued to look at her.
“Don’t … don’t say that. Every day you didn’t come back confirmed how right your choice was. That you belonged in another life. And every one of those days made me feel stronger about what I was doing. About the decision I made.”
It was several seconds before he spoke.
“Does he know about me?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“That I’m a priest.”
Now she laughed. Her reaction caught him by surprise. “You don’t tell a seven-year-old his father is a priest, Ian.” She reached for her glass. “Don’t worry. It’s not that strange for a boy here not to have a father. Half his friends are the same way. Except theirs are dead. At least he knows you’re alive.”
“I guess that’s something.”
“Believe me, it is.” She took a sip. “He knows you’re an American. He knows you fought with Salko and me during the war.” She stopped and placed the glass on the table. She then looked up at him. “And he knows you’re a good man.”
He stared at her for several seconds. “Thank you,” he said.
“I’m not going to lie to my son.”
“Except for that bit about the priest.”
“Right. Except for that.”
He waited. “Look, I’m sorry-”
“Don’t do that, okay?”
Again he waited. “Okay.” He took a sip, then said, “He must wonder why I haven’t visited him.”
“You’re an American. That makes up for a lot of things to a boy here. You brought peace and chocolates and video games.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She was about to say something, but instead began to cradle the glass in her hands. Staring down into it, she said, “He has Salko, who’s been wonderful. And he has an image of a father that makes him feel different from all the other kids. What more could he want?”
“So right now, I’m some generic American who’s made of chocolate and designed in Japan.”
“You’re everything that’s possible to him. Everything that’s beyond here.” She took another sip, her eyes again on the glass. “Most fathers dream of being that to their sons.”
For the first time, Pearse realized he’d been missing something entirely. From his first moments with her tonight, he’d been focusing on Ivo. Everything they’d talked about had been the boy. Strange that in the car he’d been so concerned with how he would react to her. And yet it had all slipped from his mind the instant he’d seen her.
And now he’d needed her to remind him.
“So what about you?” he asked.
A nervous laughter erupted in her throat. Again, it caught him completely by surprise. “You really were never very good at this, were you?”
For some reason, he laughed, as well. “I guess not,” he said.
“I’m telling you,” said Mendravic, who chose that moment to reappear, “it’s not that funny. Ivo, Ian. They’re just names.” It was clear from his expression that he knew exactly what they’d been talking about. Pearse couldn’t be sure just which one of them Mendravic thought he was rescuing, or, more to the point, which of them he thought needed the rescuing.
Whichever it was, Mendravic was clearly eager to go, hovering by the chair, his eyes scanning the area by the door. He’d had his food. He needed a bed. Same old Salko. Pearse turned back to Petra, who was also peering up at Mendravic. “Well, we can’t keep you waiting,” she said, “now can we?”
She slid back her chair and was about to stand, when Mendravic said, “Wait here.” His tone was direct, none of the charm of only seconds ago. Before she could answer, he was making his way to the door. She looked at Pearse.
His expression told her everything. “You didn’t come just to see us, did you?”
She had been trained too well not to recognize an order. And she was too smart not to understand the implications.
Pearse stared blankly, then turned to watch Mendravic leave the restaurant.
Twenty seconds later, he returned. By his side stood Petra’s next-door neighbor. In his arms, he held the boy, Ivo peering down from the height, his cheeks that puffy red from recent rousing. Even half-asleep, his eyes lit up at the sight of Petra. She was already to him by the time Mendravic spoke.
“We should move to the back,” he said, releasing the boy into his mother’s arms. With Mendravic, Ivo had fit perfectly; with Petra, he seemed to overwhelm her smaller frame. Still, she held him tightly to her shoulders, his head lost in her neck, legs dangling awkwardly below. The expression on her face betrayed none of the unwieldiness, her cheek pressed to his, whispering something into his tiny ear. Pearse watched as the two women headed back, the boy’s eyes drifting into sleep, his hands lost in his mother’s hair. At the same time, Mendravic stepped over to the waiter; they exchanged a few words, the man nodding. As Mendravic returned, Pearse saw the waiter move to the door and lock it.
“How did you-”
“I saw them across the street, through the window,” Mendravic explained.
Now on his feet, Pearse realized the corner lamp illuminated much of the area outside. Not too difficult to pick up two figures on an empty street.
Once all four adults were settled into a booth-Ivo’s head now on Petra’s lap-Mendravic explained:
“She says a man came to the apartment.”
“How he got into the building,” the woman piped in, “I don’t know, but there he was, five, maybe ten minutes after you left.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?” asked Petra. She turned to Pearse, then Mendravic. “What haven’t you told me?”
Mendravic shook his head once, then asked, “Did he say what he wanted?”
“You,” the woman answered, nodding toward Petra.
Mendravic hesitated, then said, “Naturally. It’s her apartment. Did he say why he wanted to see her?”
“No.” The woman looked at Mendravic. “A police badge, or something like it. You learn to look at the eyes, not the badge. I’d seen that same stare plenty of times during the war. Men appearing in the middle of the night. I kept the chain on the whole time.” She turned back to Petra. “I told him you didn’t live there anymore, that it was my place. When he asked me where you lived now, I shrugged”-she demonstrated for the table-“said it wasn’t my business. I waited by the window until I saw him leave. He got into a car with someone else. Ten minutes after that, I brought Ivo here.”
“You walked here?” It was the first time Pearse had said anything.
“Don’t worry,” said the woman as she turned to Mendravic. “The basements of all the buildings on the block are connected. We went down, then came out on the street behind. They wouldn’t have seen us.” She turned and handed Petra a small bag she had been holding on her lap. “Some clothes for you and Ivo. I thought it might be a good idea.” She then turned back to Mendravic, the smile almost coquettish. “I also fought in the war.”
Mendravic nodded. “I can see that. Excellent work.”
The woman seemed well pleased and sat back.
“What was the man wearing?” asked Pearse.
The woman’s expression made it clear that she felt she had said all that was necessary. “Wearing?” She shrugged again. “I don’t know. A jacket. Some pants. Oh … and some of those high boots. Tied outside the pants. The sort you take into the mountains.” Again, she turned to Mendravic for approval. Again, he smiled with a nod.
“High boots,” echoed Pearse, also peering over at Mendravic. He could see the gears working behind the Croat’s eyes.
“All right,” Mendravic said. “You need to stay with friends for the next few days.” The woman’s reaction told him she’d already taken the precaution. “And we have to get out of here now.”
“We all have to get out of here now.” Petra was staring directly at Mendravic.
Again, the gears cranked before he answered. “Right.”
“We can’t take them to-”
The woman cut Pearse off. “I don’t want to know where you can’t take them. I don’t want to know where you can take them.” She was clearly enjoying her return to Mendravic’s world, the posturing far more compelling than any possible danger. She stood. “I’ll wait to go back to the apartment for three days. You can contact me then.” She turned to Petra, offered a smile, a kiss on both cheeks for Mendravic, and then headed for the front.
As he watched her go, Mendravic spoke under his breath, “Vive la resistance.”
“Behave,” chided Petra. “She saw more than you and I ever did during the war. And she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s just a little lonely now. Without her, your friends in high boots would be standing here with us right now.”
“We can’t take them to Visegrad,” said Pearse, picking up where he had left off.
“And we can’t leave them here,” answered Mendravic.
“Before we make any decisions,” Petra said, “we all have to know exactly whom and what we’re running away from.”
“No, we don’t.” The tone in Mendravic’s voice was one neither of them had heard in years. He stood, stepped around, and picked up Ivo before Petra could respond. The boy, who had fallen back to sleep, was now stirring, one eye lazily opening. Mendravic quickly whispered something to him, his massive hand rubbing gently along the boy’s slender back. In a hushed voice, he continued. “We get in the car and we drive. And then we fill in the gaps.”
He turned and headed toward the kitchen. Pearse and Petra had no choice but to follow.
The coolness in the air surprised him, more than a hint of the coming autumn. He was glad he had brought a sweater, the walk to the church nearly a mile from the inn he had chosen on the edge of town. He’d had time enough to acclimate himself-two days since his flight into Heathrow-ample opportunity to monitor the comings and goings of Bibury’s inhabitants, a typical Cotswold village, replete with teahouses, ancient Tudor shops, long barrow walks, and the usual infestation of summer renters up from the city. He’d opted for one of the more prominent villages, easier to go unnoticed, another tourist taking in the pleasant English summer. Even so, quarter to twelve, and only the central streets showed any signs of life. And what life there was kept itself to a minimum. The pubs and restaurants had closed over an hour ago-coming from the south of Spain, he’d never understood how the English could abide the early closings-leaving little else to do but head back home for the down quilts and goose-feather pillows.
A more and more inviting prospect the farther on he walked.
That there was hardly any light didn’t seem to bother him in the least. The lamps were for town; out here, they would have been an intrusion.
He had walked the route perhaps fifteen times in the last day, committing to memory the exact number of paces required along each lane, the placement of each turn, the points when the road would rise and fall-but nothing visual. Too much conspired at night to make anything but the most precise measurements a reliable guide. The countryside could play tricks, tease with the appearance of a hedge, the outline of a house. He might as well have been blindfolded, for the attention he gave to his surroundings.
Concentrating on the numbers also allowed him to focus on the sound of his steps, barely audible even within the crisp stillness of the late evening. The last of the houses had come and gone some ten minutes back, his only indication a sudden quickening in the roll of the road, the undulation more and more aggressive during the last quarter mile of the walk.
As he reached the end of the count, he looked up and saw the small church in front of him, its outline cutting into the sky, its Norman lines lost to the blackness. He scanned the area to his right; the manse, a small cottage by day, was now little more than an amorphous hump on the horizon. He headed for the side of the church farthest from it, a window he had left unlatched during his visit that afternoon. Truth be told, he’d removed the latch entirely. No reason to leave anything to chance.
Hoisting himself up to the sill, he lifted the window, a momentary screech of metal on wood, nothing, though, to cause concern. He then pivoted himself through, slid down to the stone floor, and removed the pack from his back. Retrieving a laser-line flashlight from one of the compartments, he twisted its head and pointed the fine beam at the ground.
It would take him almost an hour to plant the explosives, most of the time devoted to positioning them so that enough of the fragments could be found and traced. That took some expertise. It was why he had been chosen.
Why others had been chosen.
Vienna. Ankara. Bilbao. Montana. Over a thousand names. Over a thousand churches.
One result.
Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.
The humidity had returned, even in the short amount of time they had spent in the restaurant. Added to that, the alley outside smelled like three-day-old garbage, the neighborhood cats having made easy work of the cans and bags placed along the walls. One or two were still busy, unconcerned with the arrival of the odd quartet. A quick glance over, then back to the hunt.
As the four of them neared the alley’s edge, Mendravic turned to Pearse. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll bring the car around.” He then handed him the boy and moved off down the street.
For just a moment, Ivo lifted his head, eyes half-asleep; just as quickly, he dropped his head down, nuzzling into the soft of Pearse’s neck.
It had happened so quickly, Pearse had no time to react. The boy in his arms. The very thing he’d been unable to do himself back in the apartment now handed to him without a thought. Mendravic had had other things to worry about.
Strangely enough, Pearse couldn’t recall what they were. Not with his son in his arms. For several minutes, he stood, eyes closed, arms wrapped around the sleeping boy, forcing himself not to hold him too tightly, the impulse almost too much. Mind a blank. The smell of sleep from his hair. The sound of breath on his neck. Here was the Teresian moment, felt, not thought, not even fully understood.
At some point, Pearse began to feel a hand on his arm. He turned to see Petra.
“You can let me have him,” she said, her arms outstretched, waiting.
He was about to tell her that it would be easier for him to carry the boy, when he saw the expression on her face. She seemed torn, unsure whether to give in to a moment she had wanted for so long, or to take back what was hers-if, in fact, she could think of Ivo as hers alone anymore.
Pearse suddenly understood why he had been so afraid in the apartment. It was because of this moment. Having held him, and then to give him up. That was the loss.
With a simple nod, he reached up under Ivo’s shoulder and carefully lifted him to his mother. Again, the boy’s body draped awkwardly on hers, but it didn’t seem to register with her at all.
Trying to focus on anything but the last few minutes, Pearse suddenly realized it was taking Mendravic a very long time to get the car they had left just outside the front of the restaurant. Motioning for Petra to stand back in the shadows, he slowly edged his face out into the light. He looked back over his shoulder. “Wait here.”
An eerie quiet filled the street, heightened by the glow of two white lamps at either end. No signs of life as he slowly began to move out along the pavement, head low, his own shadow half a foot in front of him. The air seemed to grow more sterile with each step, a dryness in his throat. Nearing the corner, he heard his own voice begging him to turn back. Still he walked.
The sound of squealing wheels broke through, his first instinct to flatten himself against the wall. The car was coming from behind him, its lights on high beam, blinding him for an instant as it careened down the street. With a sudden choking of the engine, it stopped directly in front of the alley. Pearse pulled himself from the wall and began to run, the only image in his head that of Petra and the boy, his own horror at having abandoned them. With his hand up to guard against the glare, he saw the driver’s door open, a man begin to emerge. Pearse propelled himself faster, lunging at the figure as he stood.
Mendravic caught him with a quick forearm, locking his throat in a viselike grip.
The two recognized each other instantly. Mendravic released, Pearse gasping for air as he steadied himself against the car.
“What the hell were you …” Mendravic had no time for questions as he moved to the back of the van, opened the trunk, and motioned for Petra to bring Ivo. Mother and son emerged from the alley, Mendravic taking the boy and placing him inside the van. Petra stepped up into the back cabin as well. Mendravic shut the door.
It was only then that Pearse saw the blood on his arm.
“Salko, what-”
“Get in the car,” he barked, racing to the driver’s side. Pearse leapt around to the other. He’d barely pulled the door shut before the car bolted out into the road.
Mendravic reached behind him and slid open a small glass partition to the back.
“Are you all right back there?” he asked.
“We’ll be fine,” Petra answered. “He’s up, though.” A small face suddenly appeared in the opening, eyes wide, a smile equally electric.
“Hello, Salko.”
“Well, look who’s up.” Mendravic continued to glance at his side mirror, his attention more on what lay behind them than on the road ahead. “Hello, little man,” he said. A hand now appeared and tugged at Mendravic’s ear, evidently a game between them. Removing the tiny fingers, Mendravic said, “Can you do me a favor, Ivo? Can you sit back there with Mommy and not make a sound? Can you do that for me?”
“Can I come sit with you?”
“Can you sit with Mommy?”
It was then that Ivo noticed Pearse. “Hello,” he said, his tone no less forthright.
“Hello.” Pearse smiled.
“I really need you to sit with Mommy,” said Mendravic, eyes still on the mirror. “Okay?”
The boy stared for another moment at the stranger, then back to Mendravic. Another quick squeeze, and then gone.
Mendravic slid the glass partition shut.
“He takes it all in stride, doesn’t he?” said Pearse.
“What?” Mendravic was concentrating on the road.
“Nothing.” Seeing the blood on Mendravic’s arm, he asked, “What happened?”
“Obviously, our friend in the resistance wasn’t as good as she thought she was.”
“They found you?”
“No. I found them. At the car. Good news, it was only two of them this time. Bad news, I wasn’t as effective.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we could have company.” He pulled the car around a corner, forcing Pearse up against the door.
“And your arm?”
“Is in pain.”
Pearse said nothing, watching as Mendravic took the road heading up into the mountains. Evidently, Visegrad would have to wait.
After nearly twenty minutes of silence, Mendravic finally seemed to relax behind the wheel.
“We’re not going to Visegrad,” said Pearse.
“Not tonight we’re not.” Mendravic took the car to seventy. “And we’re not taking Ivo anywhere near there.”
Pearse nodded, suddenly angry with himself. It was something he shouldn’t have needed to be told.
“Why did you leave them in the alley?” asked Mendravic.
The question felt like a slap to the face. “I … thought-”
“Next time, don’t. If I tell you to stay someplace, stay there. Do you understand?”
Pearse didn’t need to answer.
“I’ve got some friends,” Mendravic continued. “We’ll stay with them for a day or so until the boys with the boots move on.”
Pearse nodded.
“Just like old times,” said Mendravic, his attempt to lighten the mood ringing hollow.
Pearse looked back through the glass. Ivo was once again asleep in Petra’s lap. Her eyes were shut, as well.
Just like old times. It was a nostalgia he could have done without.