The last day and a half had been nothing short of a miracle, the first bombings-including the devastation at the Vatican-merely a prelude to the madness of the past nine hours. The wave of fear, mixed with outrage, was producing a kind of support Harris had never experienced in all his years connected with mass movements. Even the millennium nuts were getting involved. Religious commitment-whose death the pundits had been tolling for years-was having a genuine rebirth. Spontaneous rallies were springing up all over the place, doctrinal defensiveness evidently inspiring action. And what had begun with groups in the hundreds-petitioners in city squares, others outside state assemblies demanding greater “spiritual” security-had grown to ten times that number in a matter of hours.
And everywhere that blind hatred and moral indignation were commingling, the alliance was there.
Faith with firepower.
Those not so fortunate to share in the right system of belief were starting to feel the repercussions. Incidences of violence against Arab, Indian, even Chinese communities were occurring in every major city in Europe, as well as in the States. Kreutzberg, a section of Berlin, with the largest group of Turks outside of Turkey, had been the target of prolonged rioting. Stateside, several of the more outlandish radio personalities had taken to reminding their listeners not to forget who would benefit most from a clash between Christians and Muslims. Why not include an old favorite in the new brand of anti-Semitism?
In the meantime, Harris had been called by the PM to help devise a plan for calming the growing hysteria. Ten Downing Street was told it would have to wait. Harris needed to put the finishing touches to a Saturday-afternoon rally at Wembley Stadium. He’d been planning it for months-at the time, nothing more than an appearance to coincide with the alliance announcement. In fact, it had been Stefan Kleist who had suggested the date. The original sale of thirty thousand tickets had ballooned to over seventy in the last twelve hours. English television crews had been told to make space for the internationals, the Times Square Jumbotron in New York even promising to broadcast bits of the session.
Evidently, Savonarola would have his day after all.
The three-hundred-mile drive from Visegrad to Zagreb was eerily quiet, everything, Pearse noticed, virtually deserted. It was as if all of Bosnia and Croatia were holing themselves up. And why not? Who knew better how to gear up for the kind of conflict now boiling to the surface than those who had been caught on its dividing line for centuries?
He’d called the hospital twice along the way. Both times, she’d been asleep. Ivo, as well. No reason to bother them. He’d call again.
Pulling off the highway at Zagreb, he made his way to the station. He’d realized an hour back he needed time with the scroll, time to find out what lay inside, and he wasn’t going to get that in the van. It was why he was now opting for the train. More than that, he knew a train would meet far less rigorous security at the border than the van. Why take the risk? Five to midnight, and he was on board the last overnight to Italy, the scroll-wrapped in velvet-tucked deep inside his pack. The iron box, and everything else Ribadeneyra had placed inside it, remained with the van in the parking lot.
Except for the coins. Those he’d saved for Ivo.
Finding an isolated foursome and table at the end of one of the cars, Pearse settled in. He waited until the conductor had made his rounds, then turned to the scroll.
If he’d anticipated any awe or wonder as he undid the straps, he felt almost none. The scroll was no longer a piece of scripture existing in and of itself. It had a far more defined purpose, regardless of the imagined purity of its message. It was simply one more device to be used. And Pearse knew he was no different from the Manichaeans in that respect. They needed it to establish their church; he needed it to save Angeli and get back to Petra and Ivo. Who was to say which was more noble?
No vacuum dome at his disposal, he laid it out as best he could and began to read.
It took him nearly four and half hours to get through it, his only interruption at the Slovenian border some twenty minutes into the trip. The officer had checked his papers, uninterested in the roll of papyrus carefully placed on the table. Given the events of the past day, itwasn’t an American priest-even one out of black clericals-they were concerned with.
After that, he’d sat undisturbed, his astonishment growing with each verse he read. Device or not, the “Hodoporia” was far more than he expected, especially in its last few verses, his own familiarity with them at first unnerving. Almost disorienting. Why would these be in here? Until he realized what he was reading. He’d been so caught up in the Manichaeans that he’d let one of the most obvious choices slip from his mind.
Q.
My God.
Eight hundred and forty-five verses, and he’d only recognized it in the last half dozen or so.
The “Hagia Hodoporia” was Q, from the German word Quelle, meaning “source.” Die Quelle. The answer to a pedant’s dream.
Q.
Staring down at the ancient script, he couldn’t quite believe that this was what he had been after all along. Incredible.
Up to this moment, Q had been nothing more than an hypothesis, a scholar’s way to make sense of the central dilemma in Christian theology, the Synoptic Problem. In essence: if Matthew and Luke had used Mark as a common source (as they certainly had), what, then, of the parallel passages in the two Gospels that bore no connection to Mark? In other words, how could either writer-without ever having seen the other’s work-have come up with nearly identical elaborations in his own telling of the story? How? The only answer: another source beyond Mark. And one which, by definition, had to predate the Gospels.
A source contemporary with Christ, and thus unlike any of the four Gospels.
Q.
Reading through it, Pearse knew it was far more than just another exegetical tool. It stood as the last great mystery, even beyond that of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
A link to the Divine. Jesus’ sayings, untouched, pure, written in His lifetime.
Clarity at his fingertips.
Though no expert, Pearse was familiar enough with the scholarship to recognize Q from several of its final verses: “The Coming of John the Baptist,” “John’s Preaching of Repentance,” “John’s Preaching of the Coming One,” and “The Baptism of Jesus.” Matthew 3:1-17, Luke 3:1-22, the first of the non-Markan elaborations. Later still, the “Inaugural Sermon,” “Jesus on Blessings and Woes,” “Retaliation,” “Judging.” More stories: “Jesus’ Temptation,” “The Healing of the Roman Centurion’s Slave,” “The Exorcism of the Mute.” And, of course, the critical passage for any Q scholar-Luke 10:4–6, Matthew 10:10–13:
Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and salute no one on the road. Whatever house you enter, first say, “Peace be to this house!” And if a son of peace is there, your peace shall rest upon him; but if not, it shall return to you.
It was astounding enough to see the verses, one after another, stripped of their usual surroundings, now laid bare on a piece of parchment nearly two thousand years old. The true marvel, though, lay in the earlier passages-the vast majority of the scroll-those that appeared nowhere in the canonical Gospels, and which gave the words a meaning Pearse had never conceived, something to take it far beyond the narrow scope of scholarship.
It wasn’t simply the new collection of Jesus’ sayings, unseen until now, that made it so remarkable, but the structure itself, the form of the discourse, that placed the scroll in a context he couldn’t quite believe. Or perhaps accept.
Q was half Gospel, half diary, one that traced twenty years in the life of a Cynic teacher named Menippus. Like Diogenes-the father of Cynicism, who had walked about with a lantern in broad daylight, looking for an honest man-Menippus was a wanderer, no purse, no bag, no sandals. His mission, to teach the Cynic ideal: flout convention, scoff at authority, disbelieve in civilization itself, and embrace a poverty that could grant freedom and thus a kind of royalty. To be king within a kingdom unknown by those still mired in the excesses of a material world.
A Cynic through and through.
How like another school of thought.
Driven by a force he couldn’t explain, Menippus had set off on his “Hagia Hodoporia” from his home in Gadara-a Greek city east of the Jordan River, overlooking the Sea of Galilee-traveling to points as far west as Salonika, as far east as Jaipur, in India. Along the way, he had lived in Sepphoris, not far from Nazareth, then spent several years with the Nozrim ha-Brit, the Essene community at Qumran-those who had written the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Keepers of the Covenant. But not alone. Never alone:
I found Him when He was but a boy, but with such power, such thought. I knew why I had been brought to His side.
Menippus had wandered with a companion, at first the boy’s teacher, then his student, ultimately his “Beloved Disciple.” Menippus, the man forever unnamed in the Gospels, now revealed in the rolls of the “Hodoporia.”
Q was nothing less than a history of the lost years of Jesus’ life, his development from ages twelve to thirty, all transcribed by the pen of a Cynic teacher.
Pearse sat amazed.
To read the sayings in that context created an image of Jesus he had never seen before:
Blessed are those who have grown confident and have found faith for themselves!
Do not worry, from morning to evening and from evening to morning, about what you will wear. Consider the ragged cloak to be a lion’s skin.
When you know yourselves, then you will be known, and will understand that you are children of the living Father. The task lies within you, the journey yours alone. Do not look to another to find a guide to yourself. He will not be there.
When you make male and female into a single one, so that the male will not be male and the female will not be female, then you will enter the kingdom.
And so with all instruction and teaching, men and women share equally in perfection. In me, there is neither male nor female.
Jesus was, in point of fact, a young Jewish radical firmly rooted in the teachings of a still-thriving school of Greek thought. His mission: to unleash a social experiment based on the rejection of traditional constraints in favor of the individual as part of a wider human family. The rituals associated with eating and drinking, the insistence on a voluntary poverty, the loving of one’s enemies, even the choice of dress that Jesus insisted upon all came directly from the Cynic influence:
And how is it possible that a man who has nothing, who is naked, houseless, squalid, without a city, can pass a life in peace? See, God has sent you a man to show you that it is possible. Look at me. And what do I want? Am I not without sorrow? Am I not without fear? Am I not free?
Diogenes himself might have said it.
What was most clear from Q, however, was how strange the message had become in the hands of the writers of the Gospels and beyond. Not only had they inserted certain events-the Last Supper (and thus the Eucharist) was nowhere to be found in Q-but they had eliminated key sentiments that Pearse could only guess had run counter to the needs of the early church. The role of women as preachers (in keeping with the Cynic tradition), the constant emphasis on the individual’s responsibility to maintain his or her own commitment, all disappeared once out of Q’s hands.
Why no women? Why such import to the Last Supper and the Eucharist? No doubt to confirm the crucial role of the male apostles after Jesus’ death.
And yet, the power structure of an elite corps of disciples had had no place in Q. Menippus had gone to great lengths to recount several sermons by Jesus-still in His twenties-that expressly denounced such hierarchy. His was a populist movement, meant for the people as a whole. Everything about it portrayed Jesus not as a harbinger of a mighty structure but as a railer against such monoliths:
And He said to them, “For what would you find through others that you cannot find in me alone? What walls exist that can house my power? And if they should try, I shall throw down this building, and no one will be able to build it.”
For God does not have a house, a stone set up as a temple, dumb and toothless, a bane which brings many woes to men, but one which is not possible to see from earth, nor to measure with mortal eyes, since it was not fashioned by mortal hands.
It was all too clear that Jesus had sensed His own power, and that He had done everything He could to warn against its misappropriations and abuses. His was a brotherhood of believers, not a church of followers. The true authority came from God alone. The individual’s personal and creative experiences of that faith-not the dictates of an institution-were the catalysts of that power:
For those who name themselves bishop, and also deacon, as if they had received their authority from God, are, in truth, waterless canals.
Here it was, thought Pearse. Faith at its most personal, and thus most powerful. There was no denying the clear condemnation of his own calling. “Waterless canals.” And yet, Q also offered the most perfect affirmation of his own brand of faith, one freed of a structure built around detached hierarchy.
The simplicity of Jesus’ sayings had been lost, funneled through Mark, Matthew, Luke, John, Peter, and Paul to assure the connection with a Messianic past-the prophecies of Isaiah-and to establish the foundations for an infallible church. But had that been the message?
Not according to Q. Jesus as wisdom teacher, yes. Jesus as apocalyptic Savior, no.
Nothing was more clear on that point than the Beloved Disciple’s retelling of his visit to Jesus’ tomb three days after His death:
And at that time, a great noise went up through Jerusalem, a wailing for the death of this Son of Man. And with it came word of a resurrection, His tomb laid empty, His being risen and returned. “But this will not be so,” He had told me, “though some will come to say otherwise. It is but the folly of men to need such signs, their folly to place their faith in the body and not in the spirit.”
In a single phrase, Menippus had brought down two thousand years of church authority: “But this will not be so,” He had told me, “though some will come to say otherwise.” Not from the distance of the canonical or Gnostic gospels, but from one who had spent his life with Jesus, and had been there at the bitter end, and beyond. No need to interpret. No need to explain. No need for a Luther to divine his priesthood of all believers from an ambiguous text. The message here was clear as day. And while Luther’s ninety-five theses had been more than enough to shake the very core of Christendom, here was the Word of Christ, unambiguous and unassailable. Imagine how much more shattering it could be.
Angeli’s words raced back to him: without Peter standing there saying, “I was the first, I can vouch for His return …” without the doctrine of bodily resurrection, there’s no way to validate the apostolic succession of bishops. No way to lay claim to the papacy.
Pull out the pin, and the entire structure falls.
At first, it seemed strange to Pearse that so monumental a shift could require so little ink. More so that Matthew and Luke had so easily glossed over it. But the more he read, the more it made perfect sense. Q wasn’t the story of Jesus the Destined. That was for the Gospels. It was the story of a life built on faith and wandering, of a dream of revolution, inspired by ideas such as love and tolerance and spiritual equality. More than that, it wasn’t advancing an image of Christ that no one had ever seen before-violent or self-serving, or whatever other character flaws iconoclasts had come up with over the centuries to debunk the mythology. It was Jesus at His most essential. The Messiah was still there, but it was a messianic message drawn from the pages of Cynicism, Indian mysticism, and Essene wisdom. Resurrections and the like only distracted from that message. The meaning was in the life, not in the death.
And for Pearse, it made Jesus all the more powerful, all the more holy. Pure divinity.
What Q made abundantly clear was that the revolution was the faith-the spirit, not the body-the rest of the structure merely trappings, more for the exploitation of men than for their salvation, something that Pearse himself had always believed. The shift from Q to the Gospels was a shift away from the individual to an overarching and alienating edifice. No wonder the Manichaeans had seen it as the answer to their problem. Here was something to undermine that structure.
And by the fifth century, the church was the faith. Topple one, topple the other. It had been no different for Ribadeneyra in the sixteenth. For over a thousand years, Q had truly held that power.
The question was, Could it pose that kind of threat today? Except for the passages on Resurrection, Q put forward an image of Jesus and faith that the modern church would have been only too happy to embrace. Q’s commitment to individual rights and responsibility, and its view of women and their role in the church-anathema to a fifth- or sixteenth-century mind-were perfectly designed to resolve any number of contentious debates now ripping Catholicism apart. And all through the Word of Christ. Where was the hyperasceticism the Manichaeans had promised? Where was the gnosis they said they would be called upon to reveal? Everything in Q was plain as day. The irony, Pearse realized, was that their beloved tract, the scroll destined to bring about the ruin of the church, looked like it might actually be the device to save the church from itself.
That is, of course, if one could discount the passages on the Resurrection. Those were equally unambiguous. And given recent events, Pearse wasn’t sure if the church could survive that kind of assault, real or not.
More than that, he understood why the Manichaeans had gone to such lengths to get their hands on it, especially now. Whatever madness they were planning to unleash would mean nothing without a way to justify the emergence of their unified church, something to show that the old one had been corrupted from the very start. The only response to a world gone mad? Remake the church. Embrace unity through a new notion of faith. No doubt most of the scroll would remain “hidden” or “lost.” Keep only what was necessary. Use Jesus to secure Mani. The Resurrection sections would suffice.
How like the Manichaeans to distort the message in the name of gnosis.
The door to the car suddenly opened, the sound prompting Pearse up from the parchment for the first time in hours. He glanced back, to see another passport controller making his way down the aisle. The Italian border. He looked out the window, the sun already creeping out from behind a group of hills in the distance. He checked his watch: 6:15. He’d been so wrapped up in Q, he’d missed the sunrise entirely. He suddenly felt very thirsty.
“How soon to Trieste?” he asked as the man took his papers.
“About forty minutes.” The man pulled what looked to be a tiny hole punch from a holster on his belt, ready to stamp Pearse’s passport, then stopped. “The Vatican?”
Pearse wasn’t sure how to respond.
“They just announced the body count, Father. Eight cardinals survived.” He crossed himself. “Those people are animals.” A quick squeeze of the imprint.
Pearse crossed himself, as well. “You have to learn to forgive,” he said.
“I suppose, Father.” He handed Pearse the papers and began to move on. “I suppose.”
Trieste came as the man had promised, the station alive with early-morning travelers. Now, back in Italy, Pearse knew he could take the chance on a plane-no computer network checking his passport, no security on alert. Even if the Manichaeans did manage to get hold of a passenger manifest, he’d be in Rome an hour after takeoff, too short a period of time for them to do much about it.
Just in case, though, he’d decided to call in the cavalry. The puzzle was solved. It was time for someone else to put it to use and end this.
Stopping at the nearest news kiosk, he picked up a paper and looked for the private message, the phone number from his “friends in Rome … day or night.” The fact that Salko had cut them off was reason enough to make the call.
He scanned the page. It was filled with stories on the travesties spreading like wildfire throughout Europe, an article on the Vatican Bank and the Syrian infiltration. What an appropriate word, he thought.
But no box.
He flipped through several other papers, the news seller becoming more and more irritated.
“Either buy one or move off,” he said finally.
“Are there any from yesterday?” asked Pearse.
“Yesterday? Why would anyone want-”
“Do you have any papers from yesterday?” he insisted.
The man’s irritation mounted. “I have today’s papers. You want something else, try outside the station. Maybe Buchi’s, two blocks down.”
Five minutes later, Pearse stood inside the small tobacconist’s, walls lined with papers from around the world. The most recent copy of Helsingin Sanomat out of Finland was two days old. He pulled it from the rack and immediately located the box in the lower right-hand corner of the page.
Whatever was on Athos, you
have friends, Father. In Rome.
Day or night: 39 69884728
Pearse scribbled the number on his palm, bought a phone card, and headed out into the street. Within half a minute, he was inside a booth dialing.
A recorded voice came on the line: “We’re sorry. The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the listing and try again …. We’re sorry….”
He slowly replaced the receiver.
Why would they have disconnected the line? The answer came to him as he stood there staring at the phone. His window of opportunity had been slim at best, too great a chance that the Manichaeans could trace the number, find whoever had been on the other end, and eliminate them. Once Salko had cut the line, the window had closed.
Flying back wasn’t sounding all that clever now. Without his “friends in Rome,” what exactly was he planning to do once there? Walk up to the Vatican and tell them that the Pope was a Manichaean, but not to worry-the scroll would solve everything? Or better yet, just hand the “Hodoporia” to von Neurath and explain to him that it might not be all that he’d hoped it would be? Nice try, but better luck next time. Now please tell everyone that Islam isn’t our enemy so we can all go home.
For some reason, Pearse started to laugh. It was perfect. A Manichaean dream come true. Everything flipped on its head. Now that he had the “Hodoporia,” he was powerless to use it. It only made him more vulnerable. Flight manifests notwithstanding, the Brotherhood would find him soon enough-here, or in Rome. And if he had the scroll with him, everything and everyone would become expendable. Which left him only one choice: confront them head-on. He picked up the phone and dialed Angeli’s number.
It was the same message as before.
“It’s Ian Pearse. I have the ‘Hodoporia.’” He waited. “Hello…. Hello….”
After fifteen seconds of silence, he placed the receiver back in its cradle. Again he stared at the phone. Then, slowly, he let his head fall back against the glass.
They wouldn’t have….
He suddenly stood upright. Of course. As much as he didn’t want to involve anyone else in this, he really didn’t have any other options. He picked up the phone and began to dial.
He just had to hope Blaney was back in Rome.
“Eight minutes, Mr. Harris.”
A quick nod as he sipped at a glass of ice water, Wembley Stadium packed to the gills beyond the window of the luxury box. Harris waited for the man to leave, then turned and stared out at the crowd. The contessa, seated, kept her gaze on him.
“Your new army,” she finally said.
The hint of a grin. “I don’t think it’s completely mine.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Still, that doesn’t seem to be a concern of yours, does it?”
He looked over at her, momentarily at a loss. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Don’t you?” She waited. “The churches. The Vatican. You put our money to quick use, didn’t you, Colonel? And here I thought we were talking rhetoric, not mass hysteria. Evidently, I was meant to take the term holy war literally.”
A slight squinting of his eyes. “That’s not the way I work, Contessa.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “I won’t say it hasn’t helped things enormously. Hysteria does have a way of rallying the troops. But I won’t take credit for something I haven’t done. I assumed that was your people.”
Not convinced, she said, “And who exactly do you think my people are? Or did Mr. Kleist fail to bring you up to speed on that?”
Again, he waited before answering. “I’m now wondering if I should be asking you that same question.” She said nothing. “I have connections, Contessa, but even I couldn’t organize what’s taken place over the last twelve hours in a matter of days. Something like that takes weeks, if not months, to plan. I can’t say it fills me with confidence to hear that you’re not quite clear on who orchestrated the attacks.” Another pause. “Or perhaps you are, but aren’t willing to admit it just yet?” He placed the glass on the bar. “Either way, I need to get down there.” He moved to the door, then turned. “I suggest you make a few phone calls before all of this gets under way. Oh, and give my best to the cardinal. And my congratulations. Tell him I appreciate everything he’s done.” A single nod of the head, and Harris was gone.
She sat staring after him. She had come to rein him in, make sure he understood his role. What else had the bomb in Rome been but a message, a colonel’s way of reminding them that he knew exactly who, and where, they were? The rest of the churches, she could almost understand, the first seeds of his holy war, misguided or not. Evidently, that wasn’t the case at all.
More troubling was his none-too-subtle reference to Erich. Obviously, Harris hadn’t appeared on Kleist’s suggestion alone, as she had been led to believe.
The crowd roared. She stood and moved to the window. Harris was emerging from one of the runways, bodyguards in clear view. She watched as he made his way toward an enormous structure rising forty feet off the ground at the far end of the field. Two huge screens stood on either side of the raised oval, his entrance beamed out larger than life. A single cameraman led the pack, backing his way up the ramp so as to capture Harris up close. Music blared, grating yet inspirational. Harris waved to the throng. It was clear he’d picked up a good deal from his time in America. The whole thing had that National Convention feel to it. When he finally reached the podium at the center, his entourage fell back, only the cameraman down on one knee to continue the feed. For the contessa, there was something strangely familiar to the man, even from the back, the way he moved, the way his shoulders nestled into the camera. She picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.
Nearly half a minute of wild adulation passed before Harris spoke, the contessa continuing to scrutinize the cameraman.
Harris raised his hand: “My friends-”
He never had a chance to finish. Adulation turned to screams as four cracks erupted over the loudspeakers, the sight of the cameraman racing at Harris, gun in hand, blood everywhere. It was then that she saw it. The hair and skin color were darker, the facial hair, the contours of the face more acute, but it was him, his face screaming wildly, his eyes beyond madness.
Stefan.
An instant later, the bodyguards let loose, the barrage sending Kleist over the platform’s edge. He fell, somehow in slow motion for her, his body arching gracefully until it crashed down onto the field below.
The contessa stared in disbelief. A single phrase fixed in her mind: There’s very little I’d put past Erich now.
Maybe it was time for her to accept that, as well.
“No, take a left there.” Pearse leaned forward in the cab and pointed across the piazza.
“No, no, signore,” said the cabbie. “Avigonesi is on the right.”
“I know. Just take the left.”
With a shrug, the man did as he was told.
Pearse had taken the cab from the airport, his flight and arrival uneventful as far as the Manichaeans were concerned. His sudden change of plans, though, had everything to do with the scroll. He wasn’t going to chance holding on to it for too much longer. Should anything happen, it remained his only bargaining chip. Best to keep it safe. Plus, there was no reason to put Blaney at more risk than necessary.
“Here,” said Pearse.
The driver pulled up along the cobbled piazza; Pearse got out. Three minutes later, he was making his way up the short flight of stairs to the office of the church of San Bernardo. He knocked on the door.
It was half a minute before he heard the sound of shuffling feet. The door opened, revealing the wizened priest, his eyes puffy from sleep, though no less enormous behind the thick glasses.
“Yes. Hello. Can I help you?”
“I was here last week.” No sign from the old man that Pearse was registering. “The priest … who fell asleep on-”
“Ah, yes.” A long, slow nod. “From Albuquerque.” Before Pearse could correct him, he said, “No, no, from …” He thought for a moment. “No collar. Of course. Come in, come in.”
Pearse stepped through. He waited until the priest had taken his seat behind the desk before pulling up one of the other chairs. He sat.
“Father, I need your help….”
Twenty minutes later, Pearse was at the front door of 31 Via Avigonesi. Gianetta answered and ushered him in, her hair, as ever, pulled back in a tight bun. At no more than five feet tall, and with a paper-thin figure beneath a dour black sweater and skirt, she needed a bit of effort to pull the thick oaken door closed behind him. She then led him across the foyer, stopping in front of what Pearse recalled as the door to the library. Equally imposing, it was situated at the foot of a narrow set of stairs leading up to the second floor. She knocked once.
A moment later, Pearse heard the familiar voice. “Si?”
“Padre Pearse, Padre.” Not waiting for an answer, she smiled and headed back to the kitchen.
From behind the door, Blaney bellowed. “Ian. Come in. Come in.”
Pearse opened the door and stepped inside. Blaney was seated by the empty fireplace, looking far older than when they’d last seen each other. Pearse guessed it was almost a year now.
“Hello, Ian. Hello. Please, come in.”
The large study was exactly as he remembered it-a college reading room replete with thick-stuffed maroon leather chairs and sofas amid wall-to-wall bookshelves. Blaney stood as Pearse drew toward him. The two men embraced.
“It’s good to see you, John J.” They sat.
“You look tired, Ian.”
Pearse smiled. “I’m fine, mom.”
“Just concerned, that’s all. But since you bring it up, how are they, mother and dad?”
“The same. I think they’re out on the Cape. End of summer. You were at the house once.”
“That’s right. I remember a very cold midnight swim. Less refreshing than advertised.”
“Family tradition.”
“Yes,” Blaney said. “So … you know I’m always delighted to see you, but your message … it didn’t sound like this was going to be a social visit. What’s wrong?”
“Actually, I’d love a glass of water.”
“I’m sorry. Of course.” Blaney pressed a button on the intercom next to him. “Gianetta. Puoi portarmi dell’ acqua e forse un po’ di frutta? Grazie.” He didn’t wait for a response. “They insisted I get this thing a few months ago. They’re very keen to make me feel as old as they can.”
“You look fine,” said Pearse.
“No, I don’t, and neither do you.” A look of playful concern crossed his eyes. “It’s not Ambrose, again, is it? You’re not in the midst of one of those binges without sleep? It’s not healthy, Ian.” Father as father. Pearse had gotten used to Blaney’s paternal instincts a long time ago. “You need to take a vacation once in a while. Lie on a beach. That sort of thing.”
“A few midnight swims?” Pearse was about to continue, when Gianetta appeared at the door.
“Eccellente,” said Blaney, indicating the table between the two men. “Va bene di la. Grazie.”
“Si, Padre.” She moved across the room, placed the tray on the table, and quickly poured out two glasses. She then retreated to the door.
Waiting until they were alone, Pearse inched out on his seat, taking a glass as he spoke. “I’ve found Q.”
Blaney was retrieving the other glass. He sat back and took a sip. “Q?”
“‘Quelle.’ The Synoptic Problem. I’ve found the scroll.” It took Blaney a moment to respond. “That’s … remarkable. Where?”
“‘How?’ might be a better question. Or ‘Why?’”
“You’re sure it’s Q?”
Pearse nodded as he drank.
“And it’s a collection of Jesus’ sayings?”
Pearse thought he heard the slightest hint of disappointment in Blaney’s tone. “Yes. But in a context you won’t believe. It’s the lost years, John. Jesus from twelve to thirty.”
“‘Jesus from …’ Remarkable,” he repeated.
“And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. It turns out that the ‘Beloved Disciple’ was actually a Cynic teacher who wandered with Him. There are nonparable conversations with Jesus, transcriptions of early sermons He gave, a recounting of the two years He spent in Jaipur with a group of Buddhist monks. The Eastern and Cynic influences are unmistakable.”
“Cynic? You mean the teachings are …” Blaney had to think for a moment. “You’re not telling me we’re in danger of having to rethink the entire tradition, are you?”
“No. That’s what’s extraordinary. Q gives us the same Jesus, the same faith we’ve always known, except maybe with a little expansion here and there. It’s the way we’ll look at the church that’s going to change.”
“The church?” Blaney’s enthusiasm seemed to return. “You think it might cause problems.”
Pearse sat back. “I don’t know. That’s where it gets tricky. There are things in Q, things that could rock the foundations as we know them.”
“So there is something dangerous.”
“Yes, but it’s not the real threat. That’s not why I came to you.” Again, he leaned forward. “Your connections at the Vatican are still-”
“Can I see it?” Blaney interrupted. He slowly placed his glass on the table.
“Q isn’t the problem, John. Trust me. You might find this hard to believe, but there’s a group of-”
“Still, I’d like to see it.”
Pearse hesitated, momentarily uneasy with Blaney’s insistence. “I don’t have it with me,” he said.
Now Blaney paused. “Why not?”
“It wouldn’t have been safe. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Where is it, Ian?”
“You don’t have to worry about the scroll, John.”
“The ‘Hagia Hodoporia.’” Blaney paused again. “Where is it, Ian?”
The two men stared at each other. For nearly half a minute, Pearse couldn’t move. Then, slowly, he sat back in his chair.
“I was hoping you’d just bring it to me,” said Blaney.
Pearse continued to stare.
“Not that you had too many other options, I imagine.” He waited for a response. When none came, he reached again for his glass. “Q. That’s a bit of a surprise. Although I suppose it does make sense.” He took a sip.
Another long silence. Finally, Pearse spoke. “How long?” No anger, no accusation. “Slitna? Chicago?”
Blaney held the glass in his lap. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“How long?” repeated Pearse. “I’d like to know when I stopped making decisions for myself.”
“Don’t get dramatic, Ian. You’ve always made your own decisions.”
“All that talk about the ‘purity of the Word,’ ‘faith untethered.’ Only you weren’t talking about my faith, were you?”
“Faith in the Word is faith in the Word. It ultimately amounts to the same thing. Now, where is it?”
“When?” Pearse asked again, still no sign of emotion.
“That doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Pearse didn’t answer. The two men sat in silence.
“All right,” Blaney finally said. “About … a year and a half ago. When we found the last of the ‘Perfect Light’ packets. When I knew we were getting close.”
“A year and a half? I met Salko over eight years ago.”
“Yes, you did.” Blaney nodded. “And it was completely unrelated to all of this. I wanted you to come out of that war alive. I asked Mendravic to look after you. As a friend. Nothing more. That we unearthed one of the packets while you were there … Mani’s will, I suppose. You have to believe me.”
Now Pearse waited. “So, you and von Neurath-”
“Erich? No. He has no idea who you are. That was the whole point.”
“‘The whole point?’”
“There are things going on here you don’t understand.”
It took Pearse a moment to respond. “So you were the one who sent the Austrian to the Vatican?”
“The Austrian?” Now Blaney needed a moment. “Ah,” he finally said.
“Herr Kleist.” He shook his head. “No. Not at all. In fact, it was my men who made sure you got out of there that night. Why do you think I sent Mendravic to Kukes? I’ve been trying to protect you all along.”
“Protect me?” The first hint of anger. “Did that make it necessary to involve the woman and the boy?”
“Von Neurath’s men would have tracked them down,” he answered, “used them as bait, or worse. They did it with your friend Angeli. That’s why Mendravic picked them up. Yes. In order to protect them.”
“So you knew about Angeli, and you just let her sit there.”
“Interfering would have shown my hand. I had no choice.”
“Protect me from what?” asked Pearse again. It slowly began to dawn on him. “Von Neurath?” He continued to stare at Blaney.
“Where is it, Ian?”
“Why?”
Blaney waited. “I need the scroll.”
“And how did you know the ‘Perfect Light’ prayer would fall into my hands?”
This time, Blaney said nothing.
“How?”
“Don’t put me in a difficult position, Ian. I need the ‘Hodoporia.’”
“And you think I’m actually going to give it to you?”
“Yes. I think you will.” Before Pearse could answer, Blaney pressed the intercom. “Puoi portarli dentro adesso, Gianetta.” He released the button and looked at Pearse.
“Did I tell you to go to seminary even when you were having doubts? No. Did I tell you to continue with the classics after seminary? The ancient puzzles? No. You made your own choices. That was Mani’s will, as well. I’m sure you can see that.”
The two sat silently.
A knock at the door, and Gianetta stood waiting. Blaney turned and nodded to her. She stepped aside. A moment later, Ivo’s little head appeared in the doorway.
For the second time in the last five minutes, Pearse slowly sat back, stunned.
With a little prodding, Ivo moved into the room, Mendravic directly behind him. Two guards remained by the door.
“The woman is upstairs,” said Blaney.
Pearse stared at the little face. Ivo looked slightly confused; as ever, though, he was holding his own.
“Hi, Ian,” he said.
Pearse tried to focus. “Hi, Ivi.”
“I took a plane trip,” said Ivo, his hand now locked in Mendravic’s.
Pearse nodded. “That sounds great.” He waited for the little nod. He then turned to Blaney. The words almost caught in his throat. “You knew all along, didn’t you? Even before I went back to seminary?” Blaney said nothing.
“You knew about them, and you said nothing.” Pearse had never felt such a rush of violence. “A year and a half? This goes back a lot further than that.”
“There are things going on here-”
“That I don’t understand. Yes. You’ve said that.”
“Did you want me to let von Neurath’s men find them?”
“You turned my son into one of you.” Pearse was having trouble stifling his anger. “What? You couldn’t find someone else who knew how to play with the scrolls? Who knew how to decipher the cryptograms? Or was it just that you knew you could use the two of them to keep me in line? Just in case.”
“Ian-”
“Let me see her,” said Pearse.
Blaney remained silent.
“I need to see that she’s okay.”
“When I have the ‘Hodoporia.’”
Pearse waited. “Still protecting me? Them?” He continued to stare at Blaney. He then stood. The guards inched farther into the room. Pearse ignored them. “You want your scroll, I’ll need half an hour.”
“I think we can send some of my men.”
Pearse shook his head. “I don’t need you ‘protecting’ the person who’s got it. You want the ‘Hodoporia,’ you let me go.” He glanced at Ivo, then back to Blaney. “You’ve made sure I’ll be coming back.”
Blaney thought for a moment. “All right. But you’ll take my men along with you. Just to make sure you come back alone.”
Rather than answering, Pearse stepped over to Ivo and crouched by his side.
He tried a smile. “Was the plane fun?”
“My ears hurt for a while.”
“That happens to me, too. A little gum usually helps.”
“Mommy doesn’t let me chew gum.”
“I guess I’ll have to talk to Mommy about that, won’t I?”
Ivo smiled. “Mommy said … she said it wasn’t my fault what happened yesterday.”
“And she was right, Ivi. None of that had anything to do with you. I promise.”
He nodded. Then, in a whisper, he added, “She said it wasn’t your fault, either.”
Pearse reached out and gently pulled Ivo in close. At once, the little arms squeezed around his shoulders, the tiny cheek buried in his neck. The boy released. It took Pearse a moment longer to let go. He turned to Blaney.
“I’ll bring it to you, but then the boy and the woman go with me. And you leave us alone. I don’t care what you do with it.”
“You know me better than that, Ian.”
“No, I don’t.” He stared for a moment, then turned to Ivo. “I have to go for a little while, Ivi, but I’ll be back soon. You take care of Mommy, okay?” Another nod. Pearse winked, then stood. He moved past Mendravic. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the man.
Without acknowledging either guard, Pearse stepped through the doorway.
Two minutes later, all three were on the street, making their way to a Jaguar parked at the curb. The first man reached out to open the door, Pearse ducking his head to get in.
He was halfway there when he was suddenly pushed to the floor of the car. He tried to get up but was held immobile for perhaps fifteen seconds before being pulled back, the grip on his arm unbelievably strong. Outside the car, he saw the guards lying flat on the pavement, unconscious, two men in yellow boots standing over them. The sound of screeching wheels brought his focus to the road as a sedan drew up behind the Jag. Before he knew what was happening, Pearse found himself shuttled into its backseat, thick tinted glass all around him. The door slammed shut. The car pulled away.
Alone, Pearse sat stunned.
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” said von Neurath. “It’s not the best timing.”
Seated across from him, the contessa stared in silence. He was strangely less imposing tucked behind his desk, deep within his bunker. He seemed much smaller by contrast, a man in need of protection. Hardly the image of a Manichaean Pope with the “Hodoporia” at his fingertips. Or maybe that was just what she wanted to see.
The stark quality of the Gabbia’s private room-a few chairs, a sofa, a bed up against the far wall-mirrored what she had just witnessed on her drive in from the airport. The height of the tourist season, and she’d seen no one at the Colosseum, no crowds in the Piazza Venezia or along the Corso, Rome all but deserted. Most jarring, though, had been the barricade barring entry to St. Peter’s from every direction, a surreal backdrop to the detachment of regular army stationed on the Vatican wall. They had made the vigilanza at the gate seem more than a little redundant.
The Catholic church at its most desperate, she had thought. Where was the accompanying titillation she had always expected?
“Watching Harris die and seeing Stefan pull the trigger?” she answered. “You don’t think that’s sufficient reason to pay you a visit?”
It was now von Neurath who took a moment. “I wasn’t aware you were there.”
“Well, then it looks like we’re all full of surprises, doesn’t it?”
He poured himself a glass of water. “You should know, the response has been extraordinary. Even in the last hour. Amazing how five hundred years of contention can melt away when the Devil himself makes an appearance.”
“I didn’t realize your aspirations were so high.”
He laughed. “You’ve got it backward, Contessa. I’m going to be their savior. The father of a new church that recognizes the need for a unified front against our common enemy. The message is already going out as we speak.”
“Everything according to plan.”
“Don’t sound so derisive. You’re hardly the innocent.”
“We’re not talking about me.”
For several seconds, von Neurath didn’t answer. “What are you really here about? I can’t imagine the loss of a lover would matter that much to a woman of your … stature. Or is it the fact that it was two in one day? My condolences.”
“Ever the gentleman, Erich. And no, it doesn’t matter to me in the slightest.”
“Then why come here? It only draws attention. As I said, not the best timing.”
“It might not be the best timing for many things.”
Silence. “Harris is already being touted as a martyr,” he continued. “He’s proving far more useful to us dead than alive. The ground swell is enormous. You made a very good choice there.”
“Did I?” She let the question sit. “I think we both know I didn’t have anything to do with that. At least not according to the late colonel. He wanted me to send on his congratulations, thank you for everything you’ve done.” She waited. “Was he meant to be some sort of distraction? Keep me preoccupied while you ascended the throne?”
“You have such a vivid imagination. I’ve always liked that about you.”
“Yes, I’m sure you have.” She watched as he placed his glass on the desk, slowly spinning it in a pool that was forming below it. “Was the fact that you had Arturo killed also part of my imagination?” Von Neurath looked up. “The distraction obviously worked. Blaney was much quicker on that than I was.”
He let go of the glass. “You two really have been spending entirely too much time together. John Joseph’s always been best when concentrating on his prayers. I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything else he has to say.”
“Why Stefan?”
“I don’t like betrayal.”
“To whom?”
Von Neurath started to answer, then stopped. “Did you enjoy the files he sent you?” The contessa remained silent. “I gave him the opportunity to make amends. He took it.” Again, she said nothing. “Blaney has the ‘Hodoporia.’ That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Turns out the priest was an old friend of his. It took us a bit too long to figure that one out.” He waited. “Surprises all around.”
His response caught her off guard. Not a pleasant experience for a woman who had spent a lifetime making sure she knew exactly what was going on. It slowly dawned on her what he was talking about. “This has all been about jockeying for position, hasn’t it?” Before von Neurath could answer, she said, “My apologies. I’m usually much smarter than that. Neither of you really cares what the ‘Hodoporia’ has to say, do you?”
“Actually, that’s not true. To be fair to the good Father, I think he truly believes he’s preserving the ‘purity of the Word.’” He shook his head. “How many times have I heard that phrase? Rather endearing, don’t you think, if you let yourself forget everything we’re trying to accomplish.”
She stood and took a glass of her own. “And what exactly is that, Erich?”
Again he laughed. “You’re even beginning to sound like him.”
“I can almost accept the bombings. I’m not quite the idealist John J. is,” she said, pouring out the water. “But Arturo, Harris, Stefan … it’s hard for me to believe that they were sacrificed just to create greater panic. You can see how their deaths might look to someone like me, can’t you?”
“Rather threatening, I would imagine.”
“Interesting choice of words.”
“Yes.”
“Said the spider to the fly.” She took a sip, then looked around the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. It has that cozy, insulated feel to it. One might even say … isolated.”
“We don’t have to do this, you know.”
“You never answered my question.” She looked back at him, placing her glass on the desk. “What is it, exactly, that we’re trying to accomplish here?”
“Why, our one true and holy church. Isn’t that right, Contessa?”
“Why does it sound so hollow when you say it, Erich?”
Von Neurath smiled. “More and more like John J. every minute.”
“He was right. The ‘Hodoporia’ means nothing to you.”
“That shows how little you understand.”
“No, I don’t think it does.”
For the first time, his composure seemed to dip. “What do you want?”
“Obviously, something you gave up a long time ago. I just never saw it until now.” She turned from him and reached up under her skirt. When she turned back, she was holding a revolver, barely the size of her palm.
Von Neurath didn’t flinch. “I won’t ask where you were keeping that toy.”
“Security’s rather tight for the Pope these days.” She waited. “It is a Manichaean Pope, isn’t it, Erich?”
“Don’t make this mistake.” He pressed a button on the side of the desk.
“Too many of them have already been made. I’m just here to clean up the mess.”
“You know we’ll never have an opportunity like this again.”
“No, you’ll never have an opportunity like this. The rest of us have always been very good at waiting for the right moment. It’s making sure we get beyond the surprises along the way. The loss of focus.” She paused. “And the sacrifices.”
The door to the room opened. A guard entered, his gun out.
The contessa aimed and fired.
“This way, Father.” A man stood waiting at the open car door. Pearse had no choice but to step out. Forty-five minutes in darkened silence to arrive inside a garage, five identical cars in a row, the smell of gasoline and oil. He glanced through what few windows there were-trees, a drive disappearing into the hillside-as he was led to a door at the far wall, a second escort now behind him. Neither said a word.
When they reached the door, the first man turned and started patting Pearse down, arms and legs, a flat palm across his back and chest. He then produced a small box from his jacket pocket, flipped a switch, and ran it the length of Pearse’s body. The box remained silent. He turned and opened the door. A staircase. They headed up.
Two minutes later, Pearse sat in a rather formal library, a fuller view of the countryside through two high oriel windows. Everywhere else, bookshelves and paintings climbed to the ceiling some two stories above, a narrow balcony extending along three of the four walls. Access to the books. Except for the somewhat modern desk situated between the two windows, the room might have passed for a Vatican gallery. The men waited by the door. Still, no word of explanation.
Pearse sat patiently. He was long past even a mild apprehension. It wasn’t quite resignation. He knew that. But the mechanism to shock had shorted out sometime in the last hour. In its place, he’d found a numbing fatigue, a kind of heaviness he couldn’t quite shake. But also a calm, a token gift from a psyche beyond the saturation point. It had been over thirty hours since he’d last slept, but he knew that wasn’t it, either. He placed his hands in his lap, his head against the soft cushion of the chair, and stared out at the trees. And waited.
When the door finally opened, he didn’t bother to look around. Only when Cardinal Peretti took a seat behind the desk did Pearse shift his focus.
Peretti looked much older than he had on television, older than Pearse recalled from the one or two times they had met over the past few years, large functions, little chance to remember a young priest. He was dressed in simple clericals, only the purple shirt beneath to distinguish his office. Pearse saw a kind face, gentle features, olive skin with a hint of a tan. The eyes alone betrayed the strain he was under.
“I’m sorry for all the precautions,” Peretti began, “but we had to make sure that you hadn’t been forced to wear a wire, that sort of thing. You understand. There’s so much going on right now.”
Pearse continued to stare at him.
Peretti nodded, then said, “Something to drink, Father? Or eat?”
Pearse shook his head slowly.
Peretti let out a long breath. “You’re wondering what’s going on.” He waited, then said, “Maybe I’m not the best person to do that.” He looked past Pearse to one of the men at the door. A quick nod. Pearse heard the door open, then close. Peretti tried a smile. “You’ve been put through a great deal in the last week. I know. I wish …” He seemed genuinely concerned. “I wish I could have stepped in earlier. But until I knew you had the scroll-”
“I’m going to give it to Blaney,” said Pearse, no emotion in his voice. “I thought you might want to know that. I don’t really care what he does with it after that.”
“Yes, you do.”
The voice came from behind him. Pearse turned.
There, in the middle of the room, stood Cecilia Angeli.
“You know you do, Ian,” she continued.
Without thinking, Pearse stood and moved to her, their embrace immediate, her viselike grip around his back enough to begin to shake some life into him.
“It’s good to see you, too, Ian,” she said.
Pearse spoke. “I wasn’t sure if you-”
“For a little while there, neither was I.” Letting go of her, he returned to his chair, while she sat on the edge of the desk, arms folded at her chest. Same old Angeli. “The cardinal was nice enough to come and get me.” Before Pearse could ask, she pressed on. “Actually, the men at my flat were quite pleasant. A little threatening at first, but after that-or at least after you called-they let me get down to my work without too many distractions. Having them there actually forced me to take the time to finish that piece for the English journal. I really should thank them. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to leave, but I sometimes stay in for days anyway. It was rather nice to have someone to cook for.” She looked at Peretti. “Of course, there’s still the matter of those broken windows. And I’m going to need an entirely new front door.”
“Yes. I know,” answered Peretti. “As I said … we’ll take care of all of that, Professor.” He leaned across to Pearse. “So I take it Blaney doesn’t have it.”
“Of course he doesn’t have it,” answered Angeli, waving her hand to quiet Peretti, her eyes on Pearse. “Ian’s too smart for that.” The glint in her eyes was growing. “So … what is it?”
Pearse’s gaze, however, remained on Peretti: “How did you know to find me at Blaney’s?” he asked.
“Trieste,” he answered. “That’s where we caught up with you.”
“You were at the airport?” Pearse said, his head clearing. “Then why didn’t you just pick me up? You could have gotten your hands on the scroll then and there.”
“Yes, but we wanted to see where you were going, whom you were getting in touch with. We needed to know who was involved.”
“And if I had been involved, I would have been delivering it to them.”
“By that point, we knew you weren’t.”
“‘By that point?’” Pearse repeated.
“About three days ago, we began to link you to what was going on: a priest missing from the Vatican, his name on a ferry manifest to Greece a day before the theft on Athos, then at a camp in Kosovo. We tracked down your friend Andrakos a day later. He was rather surprised to hear you were a priest.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“He told us about the professor, whom we found two days ago and brought here. It was only then that we realized the extent to which you had been involved. Even then-”
“You thought I was one of them.”
Reluctantly, Peretti nodded. “You never answered the notices we placed in the newspapers. And, given the way you handled the men at Kukes-men who we’d sent to help you-yes.”
Pearse thought for a moment. “The boys with the yellow boots.”
Peretti nodded.
“Salko must have known,” he said to himself.
“What?”
Pearse looked back at Peretti. “Nothing.”
“Not to mention,” Peretti added, “we’d pieced together your connection with Blaney back in the States.”
“So you knew he was involved?”
“Yes and no. We had our suspicions. We knew von Neurath and Ludovisi were meeting a great deal.”
“Who?” asked Pearse.
“The link to the Vatican Bank. Blaney’s name had come up as well, but there was nothing substantial.”
“So you must have known about the Manichaean connection?”
“To tell the truth, no. The most we knew was that the ‘Perfect Light’ prayer was floating around, but we had no idea what it meant. That information, unfortunately, died with Boniface. At first, we assumed it had to do with the bank. We thought that maybe von Neurath was using the specter of the Manichaeans as some sort of diversion while he ferreted away the funds to ensure his election. We had no idea that this was something far more … I don’t even know the right word to use.”
“Mind-blowing?” offered Angeli. “I’ve added that one to my list, along with ‘minor-league’ and ‘boonies.’”
Peretti nodded somewhat distractedly, then turned back to Pearse. “Your visit to Blaney was the confirmation we needed.”
“But I didn’t know Blaney was connected until I got there,” said Pearse. “I went to him for help, and I didn’t take the scroll in order to protect him.”
“We took the chance that you wouldn’t have left yourself that vulnerable coming back to Rome.”
“That was quite a chance.”
Peretti looked at Angeli. “The professor can be quite persuasive.”
Pearse seemed ready to accept the answer. Instead, he began to shake his head. “That still doesn’t explain how Blaney knew it would land in my lap?”
“How what would land in your lap?” asked Angeli.
“The ‘Perfect Light.’ None of this happens unless I get hold of that first scroll.”
Angeli slowly looked over at Peretti. The two of them shared a glance before she spoke: “He might talk to Ian, help us understand the scope of this thing.”
Peretti said nothing.
“Who might talk to me?” Pearse asked.
Peretti continued to look at her; he then turned to Pearse. “There was … an inconsistency in everything the professor told us.”
“I don’t understand,” said Pearse.
Again, Peretti looked at Angeli. “It’s worth a shot, I suppose.” He nodded, then stood. “Why don’t you come with me.” Before Pearse could ask, Peretti was out from behind the desk and headed for the door. Pearse had no choice but to follow, Angeli at once behind him.
They made their way along the corridor and up a short flight of steps at its end. A single door awaited them at the top. Peretti removed a key, unlocked the door, and opened it. He led the way in.
There, by the window, sat Dante Cesare. He continued to stare out as they stepped inside.
“The one inconsistency,” said Peretti.
Pearse stood dumbfounded. “I … don’t understand. You saved him?”
“Hardly,” said Peretti. “We were equally surprised that the ‘Perfect Light’ scroll had conveniently fallen into your hands, so we decided to check on that. The professor said that you had told her that the men from Vatican security had visited Cesare, and that they had spoken with his abbot. Imagine our surprise when we found out that the time sequencing you had described wasn’t quite right. According to the abbot, the Vatican men had visited Cesare, but only after Ruini’s funeral, not before.”
Pearse stared at Cesare. “After?”
“Which meant,” said Angeli, “that everything he’d told you was pure fabrication.”
Pearse needed a moment to respond. He moved closer to the monk. “He wasn’t in any kind of danger?”
“Not in the least,” said Peretti. “We found him digging away at San Clemente. He’s refused to say anything.”
Pearse turned to the cardinal. “But I thought von Neurath’s men-”
Cesare quietly laughed to himself as he gazed out the window.
Pearse stared at the monk, then turned again to Peretti. “I want to talk to him. Alone.”
Peretti waited. “All right, but I’m not sure you’ll get any response. My men will be outside.” He took one last look at Cesare, then followed Angeli out into the corridor.
Pearse waited for the door to close before moving to the bed. He sat. It was only then that he saw the handcuffs attached to a rail on the wall.
“Don’t worry,” said Cesare, rattling the metal, “they’ve taken every precaution.”
“I thought you weren’t speaking to anyone.”
“None of them have read the ‘Hodoporia.’ I’m assuming you have. I envy you that. Which means you understand what we’re trying to do.”
Pearse continued to stare. “You were with Blaney all along.”
“Very good.”
“No chance meeting in the park.”
“No.”
Pearse nodded slowly. “Amazing performance.”
“You missed a better one that last night for von Neurath’s men.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t kill you.”
Another smile. “The Father took care of that. You became far more interesting to the cardinal rather quickly. Blaney saw to that, as well.”
“He told me he was trying to protect me.”
“Oh, he was. But he also knew a little fire under your feet would get you to the ‘Hodoporia’ all the faster. As long as von Neurath’s men were always a few steps behind, no need to worry.”
Pearse waited. “If Blaney knew how to find the ‘Perfect Light’ scroll, why use me at all? Why not send you?”
“Knowing how to find it was far different from actually finding it.”
Pearse needed a moment. “Ruini.”
“Funny little man.” Cesare’s gaze dipped for just a moment. “Boniface had him off looking for something entirely different, and he stumbles across the ‘Perfect Light.’” Again, he laughed to himself. “Talk about bad luck. For everyone.” He waited. “Once Ruini had the scroll, we knew von Neurath would do whatever was necessary to get it from him. And we knew the cardinal was going to be the next Pope.” Cesare finally looked at Pearse, eyes devoid of all emotion. “Now do you understand?” When Pearse didn’t answer, Cesare turned back to the window. He let out a long breath. “Allowing von Neurath to get his hands on the ‘Hodoporia’ would have made him uncontrollable. Who knows what he would have done with it? He’s never trusted the Word. He doesn’t understand its power. So Blaney needed someone who wasn’t part of this, someone von Neurath wouldn’t know, someone to find it for him first. Keep the balance. It’s what Mani had prepared you for.” Again he turned. “Any clearer?”
“So Ruini found the scroll, and you killed him.”
“Von Neurath’s people did that. We knew they would. It’s why I was sent. To bring you in.” Another long breath. “I suppose, for a time, he thought I might be able to handle it on my own. But then I didn’t have the training for the scrolls that you did. Plus, there was always the outside chance von Neurath might be able to link me with Blaney. Your connection was far more remote. We knew it would take them at least a week to discover it. By then, you’d be back. Or dead.” He turned back to the window. “At least now I never have to hear about baseball again.”
“The sacrifices we make,” said Pearse.
“Yes.”
Unable to look at the smirk any longer, he stood. “So Blaney went through all of this just to keep von Neurath in line?”
“He did it to make sure that the power of Mani’s Word would remain pure.”
“Purity at its finest.”
Cesare waited. “I’m surprised. I’d have thought after reading the ‘Hodoporia,’ you’d be less hostile. You really think we’re some group of fanatics, don’t you? I find that very … odd.”
“Why should I think that?” he said, turning to Cesare, his tone now matching the monk’s apparent indifference. “The church bombings, the Vatican, the bank, the hysteria over Islamic fundamentalism. Am I missing anything? Oh, and of course the one true and holy church for the initiated. Do we all get to be Manichaeans now, guided by those of you with the gnosis? No, that doesn’t sound like fanaticism at all, does it, Dante?”
“Ten million Manichaeans is more than enough.”
“Impressive.”
“We’ve no interest in converting the masses.”
“Just leading them around by their noses.”
Something seemed to change in Cesare. He turned to Pearse, a decided contempt in his eyes. “Unlike the Catholic church, Father?” He didn’t wait for a response. “What if I told you we’ve got child-welfare initiatives, drug-abuse programs, planned-parenting centers, all set up by the hundreds, both here in Europe and in the States? Would you think differently? We’re simply removing the darkness to free the light. In the abstract, I suppose it does sound like fanaticism. But not when it has a practical face to it. We’ve pumped millions of dollars into those areas and others so as to establish the base we need to put our cells to proper use. The Catholic church isn’t capable of making that kind of difference now. You’re an outdated and impotent monolith. You won’t even go near half those areas because of ancient doctrine. Well, we’re going into them and doing something about it. Fifteen hundred years ago, we wanted to destroy you because of the corruption of certain theological truths. Now, we simply want to put you out of your misery, turn the church into something that has real power, and that can make the world whole again.”
“Those are two very different objectives.”
“Not if you understand what we’re trying to do.”
“You mean like creating raw panic? I guess there’s nothing more practical than that. I’m not sure that’s what the ‘Hodoporia’ has in mind.”
“I agree. And it’s not what we have in mind, either.”
“Not from what I’ve seen.”
Cesare seemed ready to press on. Instead, he stopped. The lazy smile reappeared. His gaze drifted out the window. “That will all be corrected.”
“Oh.” Pearse nodded. “I get it. Blaney’s the good Manichaean with all the programs. It’s von Neurath who’s been the rogue all along.” When Cesare didn’t answer, Pearse continued. “You really expect me to believe that Blaney had no idea what von Neurath was doing? Do you actually believe that? Unless I’ve missed something, you need to eliminate every other church out there before your true and holy one can make its appearance. Which means von Neurath is every bit the committed Manichaean Blaney is, and every bit as crucial. Maybe more so. Blaney needs this violence and hysteria just as much as von Neurath does.”
Cesare looked again at Pearse. “He needs the ‘Hodoporia’ for the reason you’ve just pointed out. Are you that dense that you think there haven’t been Manichaean Popes before now? Benedict the Ninth, Celestine the Fifth-but they were as devoted to the ‘Hodoporia’ as we are. And not just to its destructive force as von Neurath is. They refused to do anything-in fact, they knew they couldn’t do anything-because the promise of the ‘Hodoporia’ isn’t just about destruction. It’s about rebirth. You more than anyone know that it explains what the unity is meant to look like beyond the corrupted church. Without the ‘Hodoporia’ and its full promise, those Popes had no choice but to keep their power in check while they served a corrupted church. A man like von Neurath doesn’t understand that.”
“Really? Or maybe those Popes realized the greater paradox. That in order to achieve the triumph here on earth-your one pure church-they had to unleash a darkness that would have tainted any consequent light, no matter how pure. Blaney’s just convinced himself that the ‘Hodoporia’ can rise above that. How convenient.”
Cesare had lost the smile. “You really didn’t understand it at all, did you?”
“I guess not.”
Silence. Cesare again turned to the window. “Well, then, you’ve missed your opportunity now that Blaney has it.”
“Oh, he doesn’t have it.”
Pearse thought he saw the slightest crack in Cesare’s expression. Just as quickly, the monk regained his composure.
“Then he will soon enough.” He slowly turned to Pearse. “How’s the boy? I meant to ask. He has such a good mind for the prayers.”
The two men stared at each other. Cesare then returned his gaze to the window. “Such a lovely little soprano.”
Pearse stood there, his eyes fixed on Cesare. Once again, he felt a rush of violence. With every ounce of restraint he had, he slowly turned and headed for the door.
“Good-bye, Ian.”
Half a minute later, Pearse watched Angeli rise from her chair as he walked back into the library. “Well?” she said.
Pearse said nothing as he moved toward them.
Angeli sensed something. “What is it, Ian?”
“Did he tell you anything?” asked Peretti, once again seated behind the desk.
Pearse drew up to them. He continued to hold Peretti’s gaze. Finally, he spoke. “I can’t give you the scroll.”
The cardinal leaned forward. “You have to believe me that we’re not involved-”
“That’s not the reason,” said Pearse.
“Then it’s the scroll itself, isn’t it?” said Angeli. Pearse started to shake his head, but she was already taking off. “I knew it. What’s in there, Ian?” The glint was back. “Why all the fuss?”
He started to explain; again she pressed.
“What have they been hiding all these years?”
Pearse saw the anticipation in her eyes. He knew she wouldn’t let it go. Very quietly, he finally said, “Q.”
“Q!” Her knees nearly buckled. “You mean to say it’s … Of course.”
Ten minutes later, she was pacing the middle of the room, a cigarette in one hand, waving wildly as she spoke. “That’s remarkable. Unbelievable. The Resurrection bits alone …” She stopped and looked at the two of them. “No wonder the Manichaeans wanted to get their hands on it. Out with the old church, in with the new. It’s perfect. This whole Islam business finally makes sense.”
Angeli’s enthusiasm was having a very different effect on Peretti. The lines on his face seemed to deepen as he spoke. “Something like that would be dangerous in anyone’s hands. I can understand your hesitation.”
“No, you can’t,” said Pearse, now seated in the lip of the desk. Again, with no emotion in his voice, he said, “I’m giving it to Blaney.”
“What?” Angeli blurted out. “Giving it to … If those passages are in there-”
“I know,” said Pearse. “I don’t have a choice.”
“I’m afraid it’s not your choice to make,” said Peretti.
“I think it is.” Pearse waited before continuing. “My son’s life depends on it.”
The room fell silent.
After several uncomfortable moments Angeli said, “I … had no idea.”
“Neither did I,” said Pearse, again no emotion.
“How did-”
“In Bosnia, during the war. Before I took the cloth.”
After a long silence, Peretti finally spoke. “So you never knew about the boy?”
Pearse shook his head.
“But why would Blaney have him?”
“Because he’s known about him from the beginning. He made sure that he was raised as a Manichaean. And then made equally certain that I never found out. Probably with this very moment in mind.” Pearse waited, then said, “He has the mother, as well.” He saw the look in Peretti’s eyes. “No. She’s not one of them. She was as much in the dark as I was.”
“You’re certain of that?” he asked. Pearse continued to stare at him. Peretti nodded. “I’m not sure that changes anything.”
“I think it does,” said Pearse. “I have the scroll.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Peretti.
Pearse stared back at him.
“Actually … I think he can,” said Angeli. It was clear her wheels were spinning. “You say the scroll is unambiguous about the Resurrection business?” Pearse nodded. “But you also say it’s equally clear on individual responsibility, autonomy, and women?” Again, he nodded. She looked at Peretti. “That could be very helpful to the church right now, Eminence.”
“Where are you going with this, Professor?”
“I think that’s pretty clear, isn’t it?”
Peretti shook his head. “No. You can’t have one without the other.”
“Why not?” she said.
“You can’t simply write out the things you don’t like.”
“Why?” It was Pearse who now asked.
“‘Why?’” Peretti seemed surprised that it was Pearse who had asked. “Because, Father, we’re talking about the Holy Word of Christ. You can’t overlook that.”
“The Gospel writers did,” said Pearse. “They had Q and chose to take what they wanted from it.” He waited. “Maybe that’s what the church needs now in order to survive in the next millennium. Another dose of selective editing.”
Peretti stared at him for a moment. “From what the professor tells me, Father, you’re the last person I would have expected to hear that from.”
“Things change.” Pearse waited. “Look, my own reasons for you to do this aside, without those forty lines of Resurrection text, you’d have a very powerful document, something to take us beyond the brick wall we’ve all been running into since Vatican Two. Modernize the church without losing touch with the Christ we’ve always known. Q might just be the answer.”
“It’s the Word of Christ.” Peretti let the phrase settle. “I can’t permit that. And neither can you. You know that.”
Angeli jumped in. “I’ve worked with hundreds of scrolls, Eminence. None I’ve seen has ever come close to the one he’s describing. We’re lucky if we find a few strands of parchment here and there. The fact that this one hasn’t disintegrated makes it seem almost … unreal. You might have to lose a few bits just to make sure it looks authentic.” She stopped him before he could respond. “All right, I’m being a little facetious, but you do understand the point. It might be the one time when you can have your liturgical cake and eat it, too.”
Peretti slowly began to shake his head. “It would raise too many problems with the canon, even from the little you’ve said. The Eucharist is the liturgy. A document like that would have to confirm its pivotal role.”
“Not if those were the sections that were missing,” she answered. “I have a rather nice reputation when it comes to filling in gaps in scrolls like this. As long as the incisions are made with a bit of finesse, I don’t think it would be all that difficult to leave the right sorts of holes, ones that would clearly imply the existence of whatever liturgy you felt was essential.”
Peretti thought for a moment; again he shook his head. “What you’re asking-”
“What other options do you have?” said Pearse. “Keep it hidden? Who would be overlooking the Word of Christ, then?”
From Peretti’s expression, Pearse had hit a nerve.
“You’re both missing the point,” said Angeli. “Without the Resurrection passages, Q would be the very thing to pull the rug out from under the Manichaeans.” She had retrieved her cigarette and was taking two quick puffs before crushing it out in the ashtray. “Q is their grail, correct? It’s at the core of everything they believe in. I assume Blaney and this monk believe in it that strongly, too?”
Pearse thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Well, here you have a chance to tarnish the grail and place it in their hands. Show them that it’s no threat to the church, that it would actually strengthen her. A thousand years searching for it, and their one great hope turns out to be an empty promise. Whose foundations would be shaken then?”
“Somehow, I don’t think Erich von Neurath needs a grail to sate his ambition,” said Peretti.
“Fine,” said Pearse, an ultimatum in his tone. “Then it goes to Blaney, as is.”
Again, Peretti waited before answering. “You know I can’t let you do that.”
Pearse looked directly into his eyes. “Then you have a problem. Because if I don’t pick it up by tonight, it goes to Blaney anyway. Instructions in the package. It seemed the logical choice at the time.”
Peretti continued to stare at Pearse. “You really think Blaney would make that exchange and then let you go?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “He owes me that much. And he knows it.”
Peretti was about to answer, when the phone rang. He picked up.
“Yes.” For several seconds, he listened intently, unable to mask a moment of surprise. “We’re sure on this?” Several nods. “Do we know who she is? … All right, fine … good.” Still listening, he looked across at Pearse as he spoke into the phone. “No, I think we can do better than that. Wait for my call.” He hung up. Finally, he said, “Von Neurath is dead.” Slowly, he shifted his gaze to Angeli. “How long would you need to … revise the scroll?”
She thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know. Two, three hours. It depends on the-”
“Then do it.” He looked at Pearse. “When you’re done, you’ll call Blaney. By then, I’ll know where I want you to make the exchange. Acceptable, Father?”
Pearse simply nodded.
The Villa Borghese at dusk has an almost ethereal quality to it, especially in the Pincio Gardens, the area just above Piazza del Popolo, where the long promenades-most named for saints and Popes-lie under vaulted rows of pine and oak, each dotted with benches and lampposts. The sounds of Rome disappear, replaced by the occasional footstep on gravel, fewer and fewer of them as the sun dips down and the glow of lamplight begins to make itself known.
Pearse listened to his own footfall as he made his way along one of the wider walkways, Viale Leone IX his destination. As ever, Angeli had been spot-on-two and a half hours to alter the scroll, the offending passages removed with expert precision. It was only when it had come to disposing of the unwanted pieces that her hand had hesitated. Both of them had looked at the strands lying in the small bowl on the table. It was Pearse who had produced the box of matches.
The conversation with Peretti had been short. The location and time. The call to Blaney hadn’t been as easy, although it was clear he’d been expecting it. Pearse would be coming alone? Yes. Who had helped him? All he wanted was the boy and the woman. Blaney had to trust him on that. An hour.
He had then spoken with Petra and Ivo. She had promised she was up to it. Ivo had just liked the idea of another adventure.
He saw Blaney seated on a bench halfway down the path as he turned onto Leone IX. Another fifteen yards on stood Mendravic, Ivo by his side, Petra in a wheelchair. No one else. Pearse continued to approach. Five yards from Blaney, he stopped.
“Can she walk?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Blaney.
“Then tell them to come over to me.”
“Let me see the ‘Hodoporia.’”
Pearse opened the box in his hands. He tilted it toward Blaney so he could see the scroll inside.
“How do I know it’s the ‘Hodoporia’?”
“Send them over.”
Blaney waited. “Hand me the box.”
Pearse remained where he was, box in hand. “You know, von Neurath’s dead.”
Blaney showed no reaction. “Yes. And no, it wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Send them over,” said Pearse.
Blaney waited, then looked at Mendravic. He nodded. At once, the Croat moved out to help Petra from her chair. She refused. Very slowly, she stood. She took Ivo’s hand.
“All right,” said Blaney. “Now give me the box.”
“We’ll wait until they’re past me.” Blaney looked as if he might say something. Instead, he took in a deep breath, then nodded again to Mendravic. Petra and Ivo slowly started out. Both men watched as the pair drew nearer.
“Am I right in thinking it was Daly who was trying to help you?” asked Blaney. “Kukes, this afternoon?”
“Peretti,” answered Pearse. “Cesare sends his regards.”
Again, no reaction. “A little more obvious, but it had to be one or the other. One of them will no doubt be the next Pope.” Pearse had never heard Blaney’s smug side. “I assume he has men scattered about the park.”
“I said I’d come alone.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
Pearse remained silent.
Petra and Ivo moved past Blaney and drew up to Pearse. She grabbed ahold of his arm. He immediately held her at his side. Ivo gave him a quick wave.
“Hi, Ian.”
“Hey, Ivi.”
Under his breath, Pearse said to Petra, “I need you to keep going. The bench across from us. Can you make that?”
She nodded once and took Ivo’s hand.
When they were far enough off, Pearse turned back to Blaney. Without any prompting, he moved to the bench and sat. “There’s no one else here, John. I took you at your word.”
“Then you’re more naive than I thought.”
“Maybe,” said Pearse. “Maybe not.” He handed him the box.
“You should go,” said Blaney, his fingers busy with the straps. “You have the woman and the boy.”
“Still protecting me?”
“More than you realize.”
“And how’s that, John?”
Old fingers were having trouble with the knot. “Several of von Neurath’s men are here,” he said. “Not my choice. They’ve been at a loss for what to do for the last few hours. They weren’t that keen on this exchange.”
Pearse let his eyes wander casually to the surrounding trees, seemingly unaffected by the news. “So why the charade?” he asked. “Why didn’t they just take it from me when I got here?”
“Because I’m sure several of Peretti’s men are also here. No reason for anyone to do something foolish. I’m not sure, however, how long they’ll wait. I don’t have quite the same sway over them as Erich did. You should go. Now.”
“No,” said Pearse, eyes still on the trees, “I think I’d like to see you read through some of it.”
“And why is that?”
“It might not be everything you thought it was.”
“I see.” Blaney nodded. He was finally making progress with the knot. “Then you obviously didn’t know how to read it.”
For the briefest of moments, Pearse thought that perhaps he’d let himself forget the fundamental rule with the Manichaeans. Hidden knowledge. Had he missed something in the verses, something even more profound than the Resurrection segments? Was there a final word game that he had somehow overlooked? He quickly remembered that there couldn’t be. Q had been written by Menippus, a first-century Greek Cynic, two hundred years before Mani’s birth. Even the Manichaeans didn’t reach that far back.
“There are breaks in the text,” said Pearse. “I can tell you what’s no longer there.”
Blaney was starting to roll back the parchment. He stopped and looked over at Pearse. “What?”
“The missing text. The stuff to threaten the church. It isn’t there anymore.”
Blaney started to answer, then stopped. He went back to the scroll. “You wouldn’t have done that. I know you, Ian.” Blaney had reached the first gap in the text.
“That doesn’t look like natural decay, does it, John?”
Blaney scanned the sheet of parchment, his expression more and more uncertain.
“Don’t worry,” added Pearse. “Angeli tells me she’ll have it looking authentic enough by the time Peretti presents it to the Biblical Commission.”
Blaney rolled deeper into the scroll. He found another gap. Again, he stared down at it. Almost in a whisper, he said. “Why?” His face was etched with confusion. “Why would you do this?” He slowly turned to Pearse. “You always believed in the sanctity of the Word. I taught you to believe in the sanctity of the Word. How could you have done this?”
Pearse continued to gaze out. “If you had time to read the entire scroll, you’d see it’s not a threat at all. In fact, it’s-what did Dante call it? — a rebirth. It’s all in there. Except it’s the Catholic church that will be using it now. Peretti wanted me to pass on his thanks.”
Blaney stared at Pearse a moment longer, then looked back at the scroll. His fingers began to trace over the gaps. It was as if he were caressing a wound. “It’s the Word of Christ. Who are you to say what can be taken out? I chose you because of your faith in the Word. In the Word.”
“It’s the denial of the bodily Resurrection,” Pearse said offhandedly. “That’s what’s missing.” He turned to Blaney. “Dangerous stuff.” He watched as Blaney stared at the scroll, only a slight shaking of his head. The rest of him seemed frozen. “It looks like you have a choice, John. You can either let Peretti get his hands on the scroll and use it to inject new life into the church. Or, you can destroy it, and hope that the church eventually runs itself into the ground. The problem is, if you do destroy it now, you won’t have the ‘Hodoporia’ to guide you at that point. You won’t have the one piece of scripture that every good Manichaean looks to as his ultimate guide.” He waited. “I guess that’s not really much of a choice, is it?”
Blaney began to roll the scroll again, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for something to tell him Pearse was wrong.
“You won’t find anything,” said Pearse. “We made sure of that. Trust me.”
Blaney’s arm began to shake, his grip on the scroll weakening. His head suddenly spasmed, a jolt that forced Pearse to reach over and take the scroll from him.
“John?” Blaney’s entire body began to shake. “John-”
He started to gag violently. Pearse had wanted a reaction, needed it, but not this.
At once, Salko was moving toward them. Pearse dropped the scroll and reached out for Blaney. Instantly, six men appeared from the trees some twenty yards off, one of them the titan Pearse remembered from his escape from the Vatican, all of them descending on the bench, guns drawn. The first shot rang out.
But not from the men racing at him.
Utterly confused, Pearse spun around. It was then that he saw Peretti’s men emerging from another group of trees, guns firing, the clipped sounds of volley and return. Pearse dropped to the gravel, pulling Blaney down with him. The old priest had stopped shaking. In fact, he had stopped moving entirely. Pearse lifted the head and looked into his eyes. Blaney was gone.
Only then did he hear Petra’s scream.
“Ivo! No!”
Pearse spun around. She was forcing herself up from the bench, trying to pull Ivo back. But he was too well trained, too intent, the sound of the shots telling him to find an open space, lie facedown. Pearse watched as his little arms pumped in the air.
Everything seemed to slow, Pearse dropping Blaney to the ground, grabbing at the gravel to force himself up, Ivo too far from him, endless shots ringing out. All around him, men were falling, and still Ivo ran. From the corner of his eye, Pearse saw the last of von Neurath’s men nearing, firing wildly, the gun aimed directly at the boy. Pearse leapt out, a sudden tearing pain in his own leg forcing him to the ground. For an instant, he couldn’t see a thing. Only the gravel, images of Ivo, his son, once again unable to protect him, the chance to lose him now. Again.
A final shot. Ivo screamed.
Pearse looked up.
There, lying in front of the boy, was Mendravic, his chest covered in blood. Ivo was crying wildly as he pulled at Mendravic’s arm.
“Get up, Salko! Get up!”
Unscathed. Perfect. Pearse breathed again as he saw his little man standing over Mendravic’s shattered body.
Even so, the Croat was doing all he could to calm the boy. Pearse pulled himself to his feet and hobbled over. Petra already held Ivo close to her chest as he continued to scream. Now at her side, Pearse took them both in his arms for several moments before turning and dropping to Mendravic’s side.
The sound of Ivo’s cries seemed to vanish as Pearse took Mendravic’s head in his hands. Barely focusing, Mendravic looked up at him.
His breathing was erratic as he spoke: “I taught him how to run out like that.” He coughed several times. “‘Out in the open, Ivi. Out in the open.’” His neck arched for a moment. “He’s all right, yes?”
Pearse nodded. “Yes.”
“Good … that’s good.” He tried to swallow. “I never meant to …” He squeezed Pearse’s arm, the grip powerful. “You have to know that, Ian.”
Pearse nodded, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. A final act of redemption. “I do.”
Mendravic tried to nod, but his back suddenly constricted. He stared up at Pearse, an instant of clarity in the eyes. His grip then released. And he became still.
Pearse held him there, gently pressing Mendravic’s head to his own, unwilling, for the moment, to let go. His body began to shake, tears flowing for the man he had known. The man he would always know.
Slowly, he laid Mendravic’s head on the gravel. He brushed away his own tears, shut the Croat’s eyes, and made the sign of the cross. Then, as best he could, he made his way back to Petra and Ivo.
Four men lay dead, the rest in the hands of Peretti’s men. The scroll was where it had fallen, Blaney’s arm cast awkwardly over it.
None of it mattered, though. Not as he reached Petra and Ivo and wrapped his arms around them. Again he cried. They pressed into him, all three quietly cocooned within themselves.
Two hours later, Pearse was still holding Petra’s hand, Ivo on her lap, the three of them seated across from Peretti in his library. The stars outside the oriel windows were holding Ivo’s gaze, the first time since the Pincio that he’d stopped shaking. Angeli sat as well, the scroll in its box at her feet.
The doctor had left twenty minutes ago, Pearse’s flesh wound handled easily, more attention for Petra’s side. She was doing fine. A little less activity would be good. She had refused the sedative for Ivo.
“And I can’t convince you otherwise?” said Peretti.
“I don’t think so, Eminence,” Pearse answered.
“It’s an extraordinary opportunity, Ian,” said Angeli, no small degree of hope in her voice. “And I could use the help.”
Pearse shook his head.
“It’s not because you’re worried about the instability in the church, is it?” asked Peretti. “Because if that’s it, you might want to know that we’ve decided to make von Neurath a martyr in all of this.” He saw Pearse’s reaction. “Oh, yes. The woman who killed him has an interesting enough background to make her and Blaney the perfect models for a fanatical movement within the church.”
“Hard to believe,” said Angeli somewhat playfully, “but they were actually going to destroy a recently discovered parchment, a very sacred scroll that, some say, may shed light on a whole new, liberalized church. Can you imagine that?” She smiled. “Luckily, we caught them in time.”
“Sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it?” asked Peretti.
“So no Manichaeans,” said Pearse.
“No,” answered Peretti. “Something that well entrenched wouldn’t blow over so quickly. This way, we defuse the current situation much more effectively.”
“And then?” asked Pearse.
“Then …” Peretti bobbed his head from side to side. “Then we publish Q and tell the world that it’s actually something called the ‘Hagia Hodoporia.’ That should send a shock wave through the Manichaean cells. Impotence has a tendency to undermine even the most powerful of heresies. I imagine it might even make your friend Cesare a little more talkative.”
Pearse nodded.
Peretti continued to stare at him. “But it’s not the instability, is it?”
Pearse waited. “No, Eminence, it’s not.”
“Then why?” When Pearse didn’t answer, he continued. “I realize the priesthood might not be what you want now”-he glanced momentarily at Petra and Ivo-“and I would certainly understand that, but you have the chance to take the church someplace it’s never been.”
“But built on what, Eminence?” Again, Pearse waited. “A few hours ago, we had the Word at its purest, and we decided to alter it to protect the church.”
“True,” countered Peretti, “and if I remember, you were the one who said we had no other choice.”
“Fair enough. But that’s always the argument, isn’t it? Protect the church, keep it strong, no matter how much we might need to change the message.”
“It’s still a very powerful message.”
“To a point, Eminence. I suppose taking a match to the ‘Hodoporia’ helped me to see that.”
Peretti’s tone was slightly less inviting “And how is that?”
Pearse waited. “I always thought that if I found something pure enough, everything would fall into place, no matter what the expectations surrounding it. But that just isn’t the case. Nothing stays that pure when it has to fit into a man-made structure. And Christ knew that. That’s why He designed the message with each singular spirit in mind. That’s His infallibility, His power. To know that everyone brings his or her own faith to the table, purely individuated, purely isolated, and yet, it’s in that perfect singularity that the message makes sense. It defines a relationship built on one brutal truth: that it’s our responsibility to find connection with the world outside us. No one else’s. And certainly no church’s. In a strange way, the Manichaeans brought that home to me.” Not even aware of it, Pearse pulled Petra’s hand closer to him. “It’s that connection that lies at the heart of purity, and makes clarity possible.”
Peretti continued to stare at Pearse. “You realize, of course, that it’s the church’s sole purpose to enhance that connection.”
“I’m not sure I agree anymore.”
Peretti was about to answer. Instead, he held back. “Well,” he said, nodding, “then we’ll be sorry not to have you.”
“So,” said Angeli, clapping her hands together and standing, an attempt to diffuse the moment, “you’re leaving me with His Eminence.” She laughed to herself as she looked at Peretti. “I’ll tell you, I’m not easy to work with.”
Peretti smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Ashtrays,” said Pearse. “I’d recommend them as a peace offering.”
“Very funny,” said Angeli. “So, now it’s back to the States, then?”
Pearse looked at Petra. “We’ll see.”
“I have some very good friends at the Biblical Institute in Boston. They’d love to get their hands on you.”
He smiled at Angeli, then turned again to Petra. “I think the first order of business is to get this little one to sleep.”
“Of course,” said Peretti, immediately on his feet. “We have rooms for you upstairs. And please, the villa is yours for as long as you need it.”
Pearse stood as well, then Petra, as Ivo hopped down to the floor. Pearse waited until he had Peretti’s gaze, then said, “Thank you, Eminence.”
“No,” said the cardinal, “thank you … Father.”
Pearse turned and picked Ivo up. He then took Petra’s hand.
Before they had taken a step, Angeli was on the move. “Wait, wait.” She darted in and kissed Pearse on the cheek. “I’ve always liked doing that. I suppose I’ll miss it.” She smiled at Petra and Ivo, then looked back at Pearse. Before he could reply, she was already bearing down on Peretti. “Now, the way I see it, Eminence, we have two choices. Well, one, really, if you understand how the …”
Her voice trailed off as the three of them stepped out into the corridor.
“She speaks very fast,” said Ivo.
Pearse and Petra both laughed softly. “Yes, she does, Ivi,” said Petra. “Yes, she does.”