The Book of Q

PATER
one

Rome, August 2000

The smell of incense hung in the air, strong and sweet within the confines of the church of San Clemente. A summer rain had caught most of the gathering unawares, dank heat compacted within the stone and marble walls, hats and hands turned to fans so as to combat the humidity. Even the mosaics above, ochered reds and greens, seemed to glisten in the heat. Usually left open, the nave was set with row after row of chairs directly behind the schola cantorum, the choir seats filled with boys in white robes. On occasion, a small hand slowly lifted to brush away a pool of perspiration; otherwise, the boys remained perfectly still as they listened to the Latin Mass for Monsignor Sebastiano Ruini. A voice rose from the altar in doleful Latin, its singular cadence lulling the crowd to sleep.

Father Ian Pearse sat on the left-hand side in the second-to-last row. He was using his program to fend off the heat, his thoughts on the multiple strands of sweat racing down his back.

Truth to tell, he hadn’t really known Ruini, had seen him only once or twice at the Vatican Library-a man fascinated with fourth-century architecture, on a three-month dig somewhere in Turkey up until a few weeks ago-enough of an acquaintance, though, to merit an appearance at his funeral. It was the same with most of the congregation, fellow clergy whose time in Rome was spent less with matters of faith than with scholarship. Each might have been hard-pressed to distinguish between the two, but theirs was a different kind of service to God, one without the desire to tend a flock. It had been the perfect place to come for a young priest restless in his small Boston parish.

But perhaps restless was the wrong word. Uneasy. Uncertain. The questions in Bosnia had never really gone away. How could they have? Petra had stopped writing a couple of months after he’d gotten back-he’d made his decision; she was making hers. All ties cut. It only made the numbness more acute. Mom and Dad had told him that he needed to go back for her, figure it all out. No ulterior motive this time. They just wanted him happy.

Instead, he’d gone down to South Bend, played the young alum, worked out with the team, put on the ten pounds he’d lost. Best shape of his life.

Still, that same emptiness.

So he’d called Jack and Andy. Little brother in need of help. Jack had been studying for orals; Andy had been three weeks into a Harvard philosophy Ph.D. They’d both dropped everything and met him out on the Cape. A week at the old summer house. Nights on the beach with more cases of beer than any of them cared to remember. And, of course, the mandatory midnight swim their last night together.

“This is fucking freezing, Padre.” It was Jack’s little joke. The Padres had been the one team to show any real interest in Pearse during college. Jack liked the irony. Less so the cold water. “You get on a plane and you find her. Trust me. Situation solved.” Jack had a way of spelling things out for you. Ever since his two younger brothers had eclipsed his more than respectable six-foot-even, Jack had asserted his primacy in other ways. The words trust me were a favorite.

As ever, Pearse was trying to float on his back, his eyes locked on the stars. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the shriveled balls theory of resolution.”

Andy let out a laugh and immediately sucked in a mouthful of water. Blessed with an Adonis-like build-six foot four, 220 pounds-he didn’t have an ounce of athletic talent to go with it. He began to cough up water as he tried to stay afloat.

“You drowning on us, Lurch?” asked Pearse.

“I’ll let you know.”

“At least I’ve got some,” Jack piped in.

Pearse laughed. “And this from a man who’s getting a Ph.D.”

“Well, it is freezing.” Jack began to backstroke his way to shore. “You and Aquaman can figure it out. I’m going in.”

The sound of lapping water grew more distant as Pearse let his feet drop down, only his head now above water. He could just make out Andy about ten feet from him.

“You think I should go back?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“The philosopher speaks.” Pearse waited. “No, what do you really think?” He heard Andy take a few strokes to his left.

“I think it would make your life a whole lot easier if it was only about her.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, if it was just her, you would have stayed.”

Pearse didn’t answer.

“So it’s not just about her,” said Andy. They floated silently for several minutes before he spoke again. “You should read Descartes.”

“What?”

“Descartes. Cogito ergo sum. You should read him.”

“Okay?”

“Except that’s not really it. It’s not the thinking that tells him he exists; it’s the doubting. Because if he’s doubting, then he must be thinking. So it’s dubito ergo sum that leads him to cogito ergo sum.”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“You’re not listening, E. Look, I’m probably the closest thing we have to an atheist in this family, but even I know faith begins with doubt. If you don’t question it, what’s the point in having it? So things got a little rocked over there. That was the whole reason you went, wasn’t it? If you hadn’t come back a little disillusioned, then you’d have a problem. I might not get it, E, but I know you do. You always have. This is the first time something’s forced you to defend it. And that’s what’s making it so tough. Until you figure that out, she could be out here with us right now, and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.” Pearse heard Andy duck his head underwater, then come back up. “One thing is for certain. It’s fucking freezing out here.” Andy started in for shore.

Pearse stayed out a few minutes longer, always happiest giving in to the isolation, his utter insignificance within a seemingly empty sea.

“Thanks, Andy.”

And, somehow, the ball began to fall into his glove again.

All through seminary, he had managed to hold on to that feeling. That connection. That sense of absolute wonder. A life of cloistered contentment. The surest way to keep Petra at a distance.

And, for a time, the questions faded, even the doubt that Andy had said was so essential. Pearse preferred it that way. Pure reflection. A proximity to God felt in the shadowed recesses of an afternoon prayer.

But only for a time. Once on the outside, he began to run into even greater confusion, especially in the role of priest: too much responsibility ceded by a willing congregation; too easy a reliance on detached hierarchy. Church dogma had a way of clouding everything. And what had been so pure, so personal at the seminary came to resemble that arm’s-length quality he had seen with his parents. Genuine connection no longer made sense. There was too much standing between believer and Christ to allow for it.

Not surprisingly, the emptiness from Bosnia slipped back in, threatening everything he had built for himself. He knew he needed to find another venue for his devotion, one more isolated, safer, where church structure couldn’t undermine his ever-tenuous belief. And where he wouldn’t allow Petra to find her way back in as a different kind of answer.

Walking alone one afternoon near Copley Square, it had suddenly dawned on him where he might find it. Or at least how. Everything had become a little too dark; he needed to lighten things up. So he’d gone back to the games, the fun of fragments and puzzles. This time, though, it wasn’t Paul, whose approach had always seemed colored by a Pharisaic past, nor the writers of the Gospels, each too caught up in his own agenda, but Augustine, where the insights remained acutely personal and therefore somehow less limiting-the fun and wonder reclaimed all at once.

And so, in an act of self-salvation, he’d dived in. He found himself consumed by it, simple translations leading to the more complex world of liturgical analysis. Somewhere along the way, he even began to make a name for himself-conferences beyond the walls of the church, papers beyond the scope of personal faith-a scholar of language, everyone so surprised, no one more so than himself. Except, of course, for John J. He’d known all along. The onetime Bosnian freedom fighter caught up in a world of minutiae, intricacies of meanings-energy focused on the subtleties of belief rather than on belief itself.

So much easier to “take it and read” than to take it and know.

He was, after all, his parents’ son.

Unwilling to admit that he was falling into that same trap, he’d pressed on, back to Ambrose, Augustine’s mentor, inspiration for the most brilliant mind the church had ever known. The most reasoned faith it had ever known. Find clarity in that wisdom.

So, when the opportunity to sift through a sixth-century palimpsest of the letters of Saint Ambrose at the Vatican had presented itself, he’d jumped at the chance. Not just for the scholarship but also for the place itself. Maybe in Rome he’d be able to reconnect with the purity he’d somehow lost along the way. The certainty.

It had been two years since then. Two years in which to find other projects so as to keep himself busy, keep him in Rome, insulated in a world of abstract piety. The answers might not have been any easier, but at least the questions were once again more distant.

The congregation rose, Pearse with them. Communion. He moved out to take his place in the line, when he noticed a familiar face some thirty feet ahead of him, the man looking back, trying to catch his attention. Dante Cesare, brother of the monastery at San Clemente-and an avid digger in the church’s storied foundations-stood by one of the half dozen vaulted archways that stretched the length of both sides of the nave. One of its few non-Irishmen, Cesare stood almost six foot five. And at no more than 180 pounds, he virtually disappeared into his robes, all thoughts of a torso lost, only scaly hands and feet protruding from the outfit. His equally elongated head bobbed above, aquiline nose stretching the skin taut around his cheekbones. An El Greco come to life.

They’d met just over a year ago in the Villa Doria Pamphili, a park just south of the Vatican, and the best place to find a pickup game on weekends. Pearse had gotten into the habit of taking a handful of kids from the American school out on Saturdays, play a couple of innings, keep himself in shape. Cesare had appeared from behind a tree one afternoon, keeping his distance, but clearly fascinated by it all. When a stray ball had rolled past him, he’d gone after it with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old. The image of those skeletal arms and legs thrashing around still brought a smile to Pearse’s face. It turned out that what the monk lacked in physical ability, he more than made up for in his understanding of the game. Cesare had been a rabid Yankee fan for years, knew all the statistics, the stories. The kids loved him. Pearse handled the drills; Cesare handled everything else.

Once a week, priest and monk, two topics off-limits: Thomas Aquinas’s thoughts on eternal law and Bucky Dent’s affinity for the Green Monster.

The relationship had blossomed.

The Cesare who now waited beneath the archway was hardly the man Pearse had come to know over the last year. The chiseled face looked even more gaunt than usual, not all that surprising, given how close he had been to the late monsignor. Still, Pearse saw more apprehension than grief in the eyes as the monk nodded to his left-an open area just beyond the archway, frescoes and mosaics adorning the high walls. Cesare moved off, Pearse behind him.

No one seemed to notice as the two men slipped away.

“We’re missing the best part,” whispered Pearse.

Cesare ignored him and continued to walk. He came to a large wrought-iron gate, a key already in hand, the stairs to the lower levels of the church beyond. Without any explanation, he slid the key into the lock and pulled it open, the sound of squealing hinges drowned out by the Mass going on behind them. Cesare quickly glanced over his shoulder as he hurried Pearse through, no time for any questions. He pulled the gate shut and locked it, then moved past him to the stairs.

Pearse had ventured down only once before with his friend. Then, it had been to see a small statuette Cesare had unearthed: a fertility relic from the second-century temple of Mithras some two or three levels below-he couldn’t quite remember which-one more piece in the ever-growing celebrity of San Clemente. Like so many of its counterparts around the city, the church boasted a healthy cache of archaeological finds dating back to the ancient Romans. Unlike any other, though, its lineage could be traced by descending from one floor to the next, from one church to the next-the twelfth century, the fourth, the second, each preserved in almost perfect condition. It was what made it so popular with the tourists. And why Pearse had always felt somewhat unnerved by the place. Too similar to another church. Another time.

Never quite relegated to the past.

Cesare had chosen an entrance reserved only for those involved with the excavations. He picked up a small lantern, turned it on, and handed it to Pearse; he then took one for himself and began to make his way down, still without a word. At the first landing, he again looked over his shoulder. Not knowing why, Pearse did the same; the stairwell was empty. The two continued down. Twice, Pearse tried to ask what they were doing, and twice, Cesare rebuffed him with a hand to the air.

After maneuvering their way through a series of circuitous tunnels-the sound of running water all around them-they finally arrived at the sixth-century catacombs, ragged stones hovering over narrow passageways. Cesare stopped and bent over as he turned into a small enclosure, its ceiling no more than five feet high. Pearse followed.

“This is the one,” said the Italian, his words clipped. He stood hunched over in a room perhaps seven feet wide, ten feet long, the texture of the walls reminding Pearse of late-summer sandcastles on a Cape Cod beach, wet sand dripping from above, each drop threatening to undermine the entire structure. Even now, he couldn’t be sure how long they both had before the brittle walls would come crumbling down.

“Another fertility god?” he asked with a smile, making it a point to stay by the doorway.

Cesare turned to him, his thoughts evidently elsewhere. “What?” A moment’s recognition, and then, “No, no, nothing like that. Why are you standing at the door? Come in closer. Quickly.” Pearse did as he was told and moved to the far wall.

“Never really understood that anyway,” he said, the smile broader. “A monk with a fertility god.”

“What?” Cesare asked distractedly. He was stooped over a small pile of rocks, busy pulling one off after another. Not waiting for an answer, he continued:“You knew Sebastiano was digging behind the Rapiza frescoes.” He stopped for a moment. “What am I saying? Of course you knew he was working in the old church. It’s where they found the body.” He was clearly agitated; he went back to work. “Well, I don’t think he was there two nights ago.”

The image of the forty-five-year-old Ruini, his corpse lying in the fourth-century church-captured forever in vivid black and white by one of the local papers-flashed through Pearse’s mind. “You don’t think he was where they found him,” Pearse echoed, his attempt at sarcasm meant to focus Cesare.

“Exactly. And I don’t think our friend’s heart simply gave out, as we’ve all been told.”

Pearse kept his eyes on the Italian, nervous, jaunty movements from a man well known for his composure. “I see,” he said, the ploy obviously having had no effect. “And why is that?”

Cesare stopped and looked back. “Can you help me with some of these?” He inched over so as to leave room for Pearse to kneel down next to him; again, Pearse did as he was told. Together, they removed the last few heavy stones. When they had uncovered a small hole in the wall, Cesare flattened himself on the floor and reached his arm into the crevice. A moment later, he pulled out a cylindrical metal tube; he then flipped over and sat against the wall; Pearse did the same. “Because,” he continued, “three nights ago, he gave me this.” He clutched the tube in his lap.

“Which is?”

“He was in an unbelievable state,” Cesare continued, as if not having heard the question. “I’d never seen him like that before. He told me to hold on to it, just for a few days, and to tell no one.” Cesare seemed to lose his train of thought. “He was distracted. Very distracted.”

“It seems to be catching,” said Pearse, trying to lighten the mood.

The comment momentarily brought Cesare back. “What?”

“Nothing. Did he tell you why he gave it to you?” he asked. When Cesare continued to stare blankly, Pearse added, “Have you looked inside?”

Cesare’s eyes went wild. “Why? Why do you ask that?”

Pearse raised his hands in mock surrender, another attempt to calm his friend. “I’m just asking. I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no, of course, you’re just asking.” Cesare placed a hand on Pearse’s knee, his expression at once benign. “I’m sorry. It’s just …” Again, he seemed to lose focus. He took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Pearse waited until the monk was ready to speak again. “I took it, I put it in my rooms, and I didn’t think about it anymore. And then suddenly, he’s dead. Naturally I’ve looked inside.”

“And?”

Cesare turned the tube around until he found a small handle halfway down one side; he pulled up on the metal hasp and watched as the top of the canister hissed opened-the sound of a vacuum releasing. He gently took out what looked to be a scroll of rolled vellum. “He said it was something he’d found here, behind the frescoes.”

“And you have no idea what it is?” Pearse asked. Cesare shook his head quickly. “Do you know why he gave it to you?”

“To me?” It took a moment for the question to register. “No. He was frightened. We were both down here digging; he saw me … I don’t know. He said it would be just for a few days.”

Pearse nodded, more to reassure Cesare than himself. “So why did you bring the tube back here?”

The Italian let his head fall back against the stone. “Why … why did I bring it here?” Again, he needed a moment to collect himself. “Because the day after Sebastiano was … the day after he died, I went back to my rooms and discovered that someone had gone through the place.”

“What?” Pearse’s tone had lost all trace of humor.

“A few things were slightly out of place. I’m very particular about my things.” He nodded several times for emphasis. “Anyway, I knew someone had been there. Luckily, I have a space where I keep certain other things. They didn’t find it, whoever they were. But they were there. I know that. So to be safe, I brought the tube here.”

“Why not take it to the abbot, or the police?”

“You think I didn’t think of that? I was in a panic. When I realized what I should have done, they’d already decided to have the funeral here. All the preparations-it’s been impossible to sneak down without anyone seeing or asking. I couldn’t very well have gone to the abbot or the police without this,” he said, raising the scroll, then placing it back into the tube. He pulled down on the mechanism and sealed it.

“So why bring me?” It was the first time he’d thought to ask.

Cesare looked at him, his expression momentarily blank. He tried a weak smile. “I don’t know. I saw you. I thought it would be better to have someone with me.” He suddenly stopped, his gaze drifting to the floor. “Actually, that’s not entirely true.” Pearse waited for his friend to continue. “I knew you’d be here today.” Cesare kept his eyes on the ground. “I knew no one would take any notice of us during the administration of Communion.” He was clearly struggling with something.

Again, Pearse waited.

“Sebastiano said that the scroll … the writing …” Cesare looked up. “Well, it might have something to do with the Manichaeans.” When there was no response, he continued. “You’re familiar with the fourth-century heresies-Augustine’s response to Mani and his followers. I thought perhaps you’d know what to do with the scroll.” Now he paused. “And why someone might have been killed because of it.” The last thought forced Cesare to close his eyes, drop his head back against the wall.

“The Manichaeans?” The reference caught Pearse completely by surprise, its absurdity dispelling whatever apprehension he might have been feeling. “Dante”-he smiled, trying to find the appropriate words-“I’m hardly an expert, but I do know that no one would kill anyone because of what the Manichaeans had to say. That’s … ludicrous.” He couldn’t help a little laugh. “The sect died out over fifteen hundred years ago.” Pearse saw his effort to console coming to naught. “Look, if that’s what’s in the scroll, I can tell you, you have nothing to be worried about. Nothing. Maybe you misinterpreted what Sebastiano-”

“No.” The answer was tinged with anger. “I know what I saw. I know what he told me.” He turned to Pearse, no less adamant. “And I know who the Manichaeans are. Of course no one kills because of an ancient heresy. I’m not stupid, Ian.”

“I didn’t say-”

“Sebastiano thought there was something. I find it rather strange that he’s dead two days after he hands me a certain scroll, which, according to you, should give me nothing to worry about. My rooms are rummaged through. If you think it’s something funny-”

“All right.” Pearse was getting tired of sitting on the rock-hard floor. “We’ll take the scroll to the abbot, or the police, or whoever you think best. And we’ll see. How about that?”

Cesare waited before answering. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Pearse echoed. He rested his head against the wall. Sensing things were still a bit dicey, he added, “Then again, you might have reason to be worried.” He kept his eyes straight ahead. He waited for Cesare to turn to him. “The Sox did pull to within four games of the Yanks last night.”

It was several seconds before Cesare answered. “What?”

“The Sox. They’re within four. Might be time to be getting a little nervous.”

Cesare stared at Pearse. “What was the score?”

Pearse continued to gaze at the far wall. “They called it in the sixth. Ten-run rule.”

Cesare couldn’t hide the first hint of a smile. “I thought that was just for Little League?”

Pearse shrugged.

“Well, it’s as close as they’ll get,” said the monk.

Now Pearse smiled. He hoisted himself up, placed a hand on Cesare’s shoulder, and patted the weathered cloth. “Always the pessimist.”

“It’s just that you people never learn, that’s all.” For the first time in the last twenty minutes, he seemed to relax.

Cesare was just getting to his feet when the lights suddenly flicked on in the corridor. At once, panic, then a look of concentrated calculation fixed in his eyes. “The lights for the tourists,” he said as he moved to the door. “They can only be turned on from two floors above.” He scanned the corridor, then turned to Pearse, extending the tube to him. “It’ll take them a few minutes to get down here. Take this and put it back in the hole.”

“Dante, I’m sure-”

“Please, Ian, do as I ask. If this is nothing, you can laugh at me later. Just do this.” Pearse took the tube. “Put the stones back around it, keep your lantern off, and wait ten minutes before leaving. I’ll … try to distract them by going now. Meet me outside the Colosseum in an hour.”

Before Pearse could answer, the monk was through the door, the sound of his feet quickly receding down the corridor. Reluctantly, Pearse did as he was asked and turned off his lantern, the room at once pitch-black save for a tiny patch of light bleeding in through the doorway. The area by the stones, however, remained in complete darkness. He placed the lantern on the floor, then knelt so as to locate the hole. Feeling his way down the wall, he found the opening and slid the tube inside; then, one by one, he replaced the stones. He checked his watch: 4:40. Leaning his head back against the wall, he dropped his shoulders and closed his eyes.

The Manichaeans. Pearse couldn’t help but smile. Scourge of the true believers. Fifteen hundred years trapped in obscurity, and they were now forcing him to sit in a damp cave in the basement of a church waiting for the lights to go out. What could be more appropriate, he thought, from the “Brothers of the Light”?

Truth be told, even Augustine had been drawn in by the Manichaean mystique, a devoted member for a time, enticed by the sect’s response to the great question of the day: Whence comes evil? Pearse recalled how the subject had amounted to nothing less than a mania with the early Christians, all of whom had agreed, Not from a perfect God. But if not from God-source of all things-then from where? The Manichaeans, from the bits and pieces he remembered, had opted for a rather ingenious approach: the Persian dualism-the world torn between two combatant kingdoms of light and darkness, spirit and nature-forcing men to rely on reason to distinguish between the two. Suddenly, self-knowledge had held the key to salvation. Perhaps above even faith-a step the young Augustine had ultimately refused to take. How bitterly had he then turned on his onetime comrades, branded them heretics, forced them underground, a nascent sect destined for extinction. How vital it had been for him to stamp out the dangerous, if subtle, simplicity of their teaching.

And how dramatically, Pearse thought, had all that changed in the last fifteen hundred years. The Mass upstairs: still in the midst of Communion, now an everyday occurrence, no need to ponder its deeper meaning, the controversies long ago forgotten. No more battles to be won, no heresies to be put down, nothing that might provoke any real debate.

Faith at its most docile.

Shaking the more modern doubts from his mind, Pearse tried to concentrate on Cesare. As much as he wanted to dismiss the claim that Ruini’s death had been anything but natural, the intensity in the monk’s plea now forced him, if only for a moment, to consider the other, far more unsettling possibility. Even then, it didn’t make any sense. The newspapers had said heart failure. So, too, had the church. Why? To cover up a scroll? The Manichaeans? It was … absurd.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor brought his eyes open. Without thinking, he edged himself closer to the wall. It was an unnecessary precaution, as he sat shrouded in darkness, but the instinct to feel rock against his back won out over reason. He waited, certain that in a few moments a familiar face from the church above would peer through the doorway and ask him the embarrassing question: what exactly was he doing here? He tried to think of an answer as the steps drew closer, but there was something to them that stole his attention-too measured, too precise. Whoever was out there was coming slowly, as if looking for something.

Or someone.

For the first time since the strange jaunt had begun, Pearse felt uneasy. He pulled his knees into his chest and stared into the light coming from the corridor.

“He’s moving to the old church.” The sound of Italian echoed in the hall, the voice from a radio. “We have him.” All at once, a figure ran past the doorway, too fast for Pearse to catch any features. A man of average height. Dark hair. A raincoat. A few more seconds, and the sound of his steps faded to nothing.

Pearse didn’t move. The intrusion of the voice had been enough to jar him, but the words were what froze him to the ground.

We have him.

Anxiety became genuine fear, Cesare’s sense of urgency now his own as Pearse tried to conceive a logical explanation for the last half minute. But he couldn’t. The passionless voice over the radio coupled with the terror in the monk’s eyes discounted every choice but one. The old church.

Without thinking, he bolted upright, his head nearly knocking into the ceiling as he moved to the door, lantern once again in hand. He inched his face out and peered along the corridor. Nothing. Running out, he ducked low, only to realize some fifteen seconds later that he had no idea how to get to the old church. Rough walls had given way to smoother ones, the roof now affording a few inches above his head, but there was no indication of which was the right way to go. He had passed a stairwell a few yards back; now he stood at the crossroads of three separate paths, each extending into distant shadows. He stopped and tried to listen for any movement up ahead, but the sound of flowing water made that all but impossible.

He chose the central alley, careful to keep his movements as quiet as possible, all the while his ears perked up for the least bit of sound up ahead. Still nothing. He reached the end of the passageway and again had a choice of two. Trying to orient himself, he closed his eyes so as to visualize the twists and turns he had made, superimposing some vague map of the church over his various meanderings. It only confused him more. He opted for the left, again picking up the pace, soon aware that he had gone much too far not to have passed the underground church. But there had been no turnoff, no other possibilities other than straight ahead. He thought about turning back, but he knew that would be equally futile.

After a maddening few minutes, he finally came to a set of stairs. Taking them two at a time, he barreled his way up, first one level, then the next, his collar soaked with perspiration as he finally emerged at a large iron gate. For a panicked moment, he remembered the key Cesare had needed. Here, however, it was only a metal pole wedged into the stone floor, enough to lift it a few inches and slide the gate back. A sign reading PRIVATO hung on the other side. He pulled the gate shut behind him and walked into a small atrium, a door at the far end, the church’s cobblestoned courtyard visible through the glass.

At least now he knew where he was-the main sanctuary waited just off to his left. Better still, he remembered that the stairs to the fourthcentury church lay just across the way. As unobtrusively as he could, Pearse moved out into the courtyard, his gait casual, the lantern held tightly against his leg. He pushed open the second glass door, only to be met by the hum of the Mass to his left, its monotone drowning out the sound of his steps as he hurried along to the far atrium and the stairs leading down. A token chain hung across the stairway, another sign-CHIUSO in thick red ink, the excavations closed for the funeral-little more than a high step needed to hurdle it before making his way down.

For some reason, he checked his watch: 4:55. It had been over ten minutes since the voice on the radio had told him where to find Cesare. Ten minutes of inept fumbling. Images of the monk’s eyes flashed through his mind, their panic compounded by his own sense of helplessness. Reaching the bottom, he tried to steady his breathing, keep his strides silent as he neared the entryway to the subterranean church. Finding the Rapiza frescoes, he inched his way along the corridor, his back against the wall. Confounded by the absolute silence, he stopped at the archway, hoping for any sound, any hint of movement. Nothing. A moment later, he lunged out into the heart of the ancient church.

It stood completely empty. A series of columns lined the center of the open area, thick stone casting wide angular shadows from the overhead light. Pearse stepped farther in, his gaze moving from side to side, knowing full well he would find nothing, yet still hoping. Coming to the far end, he turned round and repeated the mindless inspection, a small cordoned-off area marking where Ruini’s body had been found, but there was no hint that anyone had been here since its discovery two days ago. He wanted to believe he had let his imagination run wild, that somehow the voice from the radio had been a bizarre coincidence, Cesare’s panic a product of wild speculation. The silent room, however, only intensified his misgivings.

An eerie quiet descended on the place, conjured by the glow of fluorescent light on ancient stone. The high-pitched hum of the bulbs seemed to taunt him, heighten his sense of isolation. He became acutely aware of each intake of breath, the sweat creasing his neck, now suddenly chilled by the airless space. It was impossible to think, only to move, back to the entryway, to the corridor.

He had made it halfway to the stairs when the lights suddenly flicked off. Instinct flattened him against the wall, his heart racing. He expected someone to come flying out of the darkness, something to confirm all that Cesare had said, but everything remained still. He slowly remembered that the switches for the lights lay one floor above. Whoever had given chase was now simply making sure to clean up after himself. There was nothing Pearse could do. He turned on his lantern and quickly started down the corridor.

Within a minute, he was once again at the top of the stairs, the sound of voices echoing nearby, people filing out of the church. The funeral was over. He placed the lantern on the second step and casually moved out into the atrium. Most were exiting by the far door, one or two opting for the courtyard, a nod here and there from a familiar face as he made his way back toward the main sanctuary. He scanned the flow of bodies, hoping to spot Cesare’s unmistakable shape, a head bobbing above the rest. As he looked, Pearse suddenly realized that someone else might be doing the very same thing. Perhaps Cesare had managed to elude them. Perhaps that was why the church below had been empty. Hope was a powerful elixir. He began to broaden his sweep. He had no idea what he was looking for, but the action itself seemed to calm him.

Several minutes later, he stood by the main door. He had seen no one, nothing to draw his attention. He stepped out into Via di San Giovanni in Laterano, the rain having turned to mist. Whatever momentary peace of mind he had managed in the church now gave way to the realization that Cesare was gone.

“… the Colosseum … an hour.” He had no choice but to trust the monk would be there.

The sound of his own footsteps trailed Stefan Kleist along the carpeted corridor. There was nothing much to distinguish him save for a pair of exceptionally broad shoulders, far wider than usual for a man his size. They gave him an unexpected power, a compact sturdiness that could very well have defined his entire personality. Elegant arms swayed at his side, muscular even through the fine material of his suit jacket, one hand now slipped casually into his pants pocket as a maid appeared from one of the rooms. She pulled the familiar cart behind her, the Bernini Bristol logo etched into the hotel’s towels. Kleist smiled, a gentle lifting of his lips, pale green eyes betraying nothing but absolute contentment. The young woman nodded once, then quickly moved along in the opposite direction. The moment she had passed, Kleist’s expression returned to its more accustomed steeliness, stone cold eyes, lips again a hardened flat line. Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned left and pushed through a pair of heavy leather doors toward the one remaining suite on the floor. He pressed the bell and waited.

Within a few seconds, a voice came from behind the thick double door. “Si?”

“Stefan.” A moment later, a bolt released and the door pulled back, revealing a foyer with living room beyond. Kleist stepped through, nodded to the man at the door, and proceeded into the larger room. Four others sat on various chairs and couches, each one looking over to acknowledge the recent arrival. Kleist said nothing and took a chair at the far wall, directly behind the man who was speaking.

“Probably tonight or tomorrow,” the man continued, ignoring the interruption. “The end of the week the latest.” Like Kleist, he was impeccably well dressed, a small handkerchief at the lapel pocket of his suit, long legs crossed delicately at the knee. Somewhere in his sixties, Erich Cardinal von Neurath had lost most of his hair, the thin ring lending his face a decided austerity. High cheekbones and sallow complexion accentuated an almost constant expression of indifference. In his usual clerical robes, it gave him an air of reflective piety. In the suit, it translated into an aristocrat’s sneer.

“And there’s no chance he’ll miraculously recover?” asked the one woman in the room. “No act of God?” Dona Marcella de Ortas Somalo, a Castilian contessa-the one true aristocrat among them-was somewhere in her mid-fifties, and had already buried four husbands, the last a man thirty years her senior. Not one for black, she wore an Armani suit, a deep green, the skirt cut to just below the knee so as to point up her best feature. Truth to tell, all her features were her best. Delicate nose and fine cheeks highlighted two dark brown eyes, always with a gaze that said she knew exactly what everyone was thinking. And, more often than not, she did. Even the dyed blond hair tied back in a bun-which, on another woman, might have seemed an affectation, or worse-was perfect for the tone and texture of her skin. It wasn’t as if she looked twenty years younger than she was. She didn’t. But there wasn’t a twenty-five-year-old who wouldn’t have given anything to have what the contessa had. And the contessa knew it.

“No,” answered von Neurath. “Even a Pope has his limitations. The doctors have no explanation for the disease’s sudden appearance, but they do agree it’s too far gone to help him now. As I said, the weekend the latest.”

The youngest member of the quartet edged out on his seat. “Would I then … that is to say, will I need to-”

“Spit it out, Arturo,” said von Neurath.

Arturo Ludovisi, senior analyst at the Vatican Bank, nodded once, a herky-jerky movement that made him look all the more uncomfortable. He was a little man, the crisp line of a comb etched perfectly into his well-oiled hair, shirt collar starched to the point of rigidity, a line of perspiration where neck met cloth. And yet he had a remarkably handsome face, lost in the uneasy expression that seemed always to line it. He took a breath and began again. “Do I … need to accelerate the number of deposits, then?”

Von Neurath looked at him. “Just manage the accounts, Arturo. No. No need to accelerate anything.”

Another quick nod, Ludovisi clearly regretting his little outburst.

“And I take it I won’t need to cancel any of the rites.” The last of the four shifted slightly at the end of the couch. Father John Joseph Blaney, the onetime parish priest, now special envoy to the Vatican, waited for an answer.

“Not at all,” answered von Neurath. “They’re even more important now.” He waited for the familiar Blaney nod, then continued. “So, if it’s in the next few days, that means we need a confirmation on votes, and we need it quickly. There have been rumors that Peretti and I will split the conclave, leaving the papacy open for who knows who to step in.”

“I can’t imagine it would be that hard to apply a little pressure in various circles,” said the contessa.

“Pressure, Dona, won’t be a problem,” interjected Kleist, still seated behind von Neurath. The two had developed a certain fondness for each other, something bordering on the maternal, without all the usual complications. A patroness for him. A confidant for her.

“It’s not applying it that’s the problem,” said Blaney, peering past the cardinal to his minion. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Herr Kleist, but physical intimidation-or worse-has to be a last resort. If that.”

“But it is an option,” said von Neurath.

Blaney hesitated. “This isn’t the fifteenth century, Erich. You’re no Medici prince.”

“The election won’t be the problem,” countered the contessa, trying to move on. “We have to think of the weeks after. I thought that was why we were meeting tonight.”

“Without the election,” answered von Neurath, “there are no weeks after.”

More silence. Finally, Blaney spoke. “We just need to iron out a few things.”

The foursome spoke for another half an hour before Ludovisi began to gather his things. “My flight. If I’m to make the transfers … well, I’ll need to go now.” He seemed to be waiting for permission.

“Good.” Von Neurath nodded. “I think we’re done here.”

Ludovisi stood, his relief all too apparent.

“You’ll be in touch with the various cells?” asked von Neurath. “Remind them that they need to maintain absolute security now?”

Another nod from Ludovisi.

Von Neurath stood, then turned to Blaney. “Oh, by the way. Any news on that San Clemente business? Have we figured out what exactly is happening there?”

Blaney waited, then shook his head. “I really don’t know. I believe Herr Kleist is looking into that.” Again, he peered past von Neurath. “Isn’t that right?”

The younger man was already standing. “Absolutely, Father,” he answered. “I’m taking care of it.”

Ludovisi headed for the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Arturo?” It was Blaney who spoke. “Aren’t we all forgetting something?”

The contessa was the first to nod; she knelt down. Von Neurath showed a mild irritation, then followed suit. The others in the room did the same. Blaney was the last. He began to pray: “It is from the perfect light, the true ascent that I am found in those who seek me. Acquainted with me, you come to yourselves, wrapped in the light to rise to the aeons….”

Five minutes later, the suite was empty.

A final surge of tourists hustled through the turnstiles, a last-minute visit before closing. Pearse sat on a bench some twenty yards from them, elbows on knees, chin on hands. He wondered why they even bothered; the light had given up on the day, too low in the sky to penetrate the thick wall of cloud, too early to be helped by the few surrounding lampposts, as yet unlit. Even so, the cameras were at the ready.

He had considered going to the police, but he knew Cesare had been right: What could he possibly say that wouldn’t sound far-fetched, if not a little paranoid? After all, the scroll remained tucked away in the underbelly of San Clemente. More than that, he still believed that there was a reasonable explanation, that Cesare would arrive-a sheepish smile, a gentle shrug-the two laughing their way to a nearby cafe. “The Manichaeans,” he would say. “What was I thinking?”

Still, the words from the catacombs continued to echo: We have him.

Pearse checked his watch: 6:15. He glanced around. Cesare should have been here half an hour ago. The echo grew stronger.

For perhaps the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes, he stood and stepped out into the pedestrian area, a wide swath of pavement extending some twenty yards in each direction. To his left, a small group waited at the bus stop on the Imperiali, one or two others by the coffee truck parked by the fence overlooking the Forum, but no Cesare. Another check of the watch.

It was difficult not to draw attention-a priest pacing alone, no doubt a look of concern on his face. One of the women at the coffee truck offered a nervous smile when their eyes met, Pearse awkwardly nodding, turning, hoping to see Cesare’s gangly features in the distance. Nothing. He walked back, past the bench, unable to make himself sit. Nearing a section of recently added scaffolding-three tiers rising high on the amphitheater-he heard a whispered voice.

“Ian.” It was Cesare, unseen, somewhere within the tangled mess of poles and boards. “Keep walking as if you’re waiting for someone.”

It was all Pearse could do not to spin round. He quickly checked his watch again, aware that the movement had been awkward, unconvincing.

“Move away,” Cesare pressed, his voice barely audible, though insistent enough to send Pearse back toward the coffee truck. A bus pulled up, the gathering at the stop quick to file on. The driver stared down at him.

“Padre?” he asked.

It took Pearse a moment to realize the man was talking to him. The question somehow demanded more of him than he could manage. When the driver asked again, Pearse slowly shook his head. The man nodded, shut the door, and took the bus out into traffic.

Pearse turned and headed for the scaffolding. As casually as he could, he moved toward a low stone wall-no more than two feet high-one side of a grass enclosure situated between the bus stop and the Colosseum, close enough to make conversation possible. He sat, elbows again on knees. And waited.

“This was the best way I could think of talking to you,” Cesare began, his voice tired, no less strained than that afternoon. Pearse nodded, his eyes now scanning the area around him, trying to be as inconspicuous as he could. “Do you have a handkerchief?” Cesare asked. Without answering, Pearse reached into his pocket and pulled one out. “If you need to answer, pretend to use it. I don’t think anyone’s followed me, but best to be safe.”

Pearse immediately placed the handkerchief to his mouth. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

“I needed to be sure you were alone.”

“I looked for you in the old church. I thought someone had … I don’t know.”

There was a pause before the monk spoke. When he did, accusation laced his words. “How did you know I went to the old church?”

“Because I heard one of them over a radio, Dante.” The answer firm, Pearse no longer willing to placate. He needed answers. “Who were those men?”

“A radio,” he repeated. The explanation seemed to satisfy. “You have to go back for the scroll.”

“What?” Confusion surged to the surface. “What are you … Why?”

“Because I would be followed.”

“That’s not what I meant.” When Cesare didn’t answer, Pearse prodded him. “By whom, Dante? Who were those men in the tunnels?”

“I told you. There’s a link to the Manichaeans.”

Pearse’s frustration was building. “That’s not an answer, and you know it.”

“Please, Ian. All you have to do is get the scroll and-”

“No.” The finality in his voice cut Cesare short. “Look,” he said, his tone now softer, “just tell me what’s going on. Why are you so afraid to be seen talking with me?”

For nearly half a minute, the Italian said nothing. When he did, his voice carried little of its usual insistence. “Believe me, it wasn’t my intention to involve you like this.”

“Involve me in what?” Pearse turned and looked directly into the scaffolding. “There’s no one out here, Dante. No one’s followed you.” Silence. “I’m telling you, it’s safe to come out.”

More silence. After nearly a minute, Cesare slowly emerged from the far corner, still hidden in shadow, eyes peering about the open expanse; when he was fully satisfied, he moved out and sat next to Pearse. He kept his arms crossed at his chest, his head low. “Does this make you happier?”

“Worlds happier. Now what’s going on?”

Again, the monk waited before speaking. “Two days ago, my rooms were rummaged through-”

“You’ve told me that,” Pearse cut in.

“Yes, well, it wasn’t while I was away. I walked in to find three men in the process.”

“What?” Pearse tried to stifle his disbelief. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

Cesare continued, ignoring the question. “It was during vespers. I’d felt a bit light-headed-perhaps because I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before working with Sebastiano. I thought it best to lie down. Evidently, they thought it the perfect time to go about their business. Naturally there was an awkward moment. When I told them I was going to get the abbot, they informed me that it was the abbot who had given them permission to look through my rooms.”

“The abbot-”

“Yes. That’s when one of them showed me his identification: Vatican security. We both know the police remain at a distance when the Vatican is involved.”

Pearse said nothing for several seconds. “So that’s why you put the scroll back.”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “The police would have been useless. And the abbot … he was the one who’d let them in.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“That, as far as I knew, my rooms weren’t part of the Vatican. They didn’t see any humor in that.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“They asked if Sebastiano had given me anything the previous night. I asked them how they knew we had met. They repeated the question. I asked them if something had happened to Sebastiano. They asked again if he had given me anything. So forth and so on. I don’t know why, but I told them no. There was something about them, something that told me to protect my friend. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have given them what they wanted.”

“I would have done the same thing,” said Pearse. “Did they say anything else?”

“They wanted to know if Sebastiano had told me about anything he’d recently found in the church.”

“Did they ever mention the scroll? Explain what it was?”

“No. I asked them what it was that could possibly bring Vatican security all the way out to San Clemente. They said it wasn’t my concern. So it went, each of them taking turns with questions. Each time, I told them I was sorry but that I didn’t know what they were looking for.”

“And they believed you?”

“I have no idea. Eventually, they decided to leave.”

“And that was it? Nothing else until the tunnels?”

“Nothing else?” asked Cesare somewhat surprised. “Well, not unless you consider Sebastiano’s death unimportant.”

Pearse turned to him. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He waited, then asked again. “And that’s all they said?”

“Yes.” Cesare started to nod, then stopped. “No.” He seemed to be trying to remember something. “There was one thing.” After a moment, he said, “It was when they were leaving. One of them”-his eyes were still hunting for the words-“he said, ‘We’re well aware of the perfect light.’” Cesare nodded to himself. “Yes, that was it, the ‘perfect light.’ He said, ‘Don’t be foolish to think you can keep it from us.’” He looked at Pearse. “That struck me as odd. Of course, I had no idea what he meant. I thought he might have been referring to the Holy Spirit or-”

“‘Perfect Light’?” asked Pearse, a sudden intensity in his tone. “You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“I think so,” Cesare replied, aware of the shift in the younger man’s voice. “Yes, now that I remember it. As I said, the words were unusual.” Pearse remained silent; Cesare continued. “I imagine he meant it as some sort of threat. Expected me to understand. Evidently, it was lost on me.”

“It wasn’t the Holy Spirit.” Pearse continued to stare out. Almost to himself, he said, “He was referring to the ‘Perfect Light.’”

“Yes …” answered the Italian, clearly puzzled by Pearse’s response. “I know. That’s what I just said.” He waited for a response.

“‘Perfect Light, True Ascent,’” Pearse added, his eyes rising to the Arch of Constantine. “Maybe it’s not so absurd.”

“What’s not so absurd?” asked the Italian. “Ian?”

It took Pearse a moment to focus; he turned to Cesare. “‘Perfect Light, True Ascent.’ It’s a prayer, Dante. A Manichaean prayer.” Again, his gaze drifted. “It’s supposed to be a collection of Jesus’ sayings.”

“A prayer?”

Pearse nodded. “Passed down orally. Never a written text. Or so says Augustine.” He turned to the monk. “You’re absolutely sure those were the words the man used?”

“Yes.” Cesare took a moment. “And that’s what the scroll is, this … ‘Perfect Light’?”

Pearse shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“You mean to tell me a prayer was the reason those men went through my rooms?” Cesare was suddenly more heated. “The reason they followed me to San Clemente, to the old church? A prayer is why Sebastiano was killed?” The last thought seemed to incite him further. “I don’t believe that, Ian. That is absurd. A prayer doesn’t explain what’s happened.”

“I realize that, but I don’t have an answer for you.” Cesare said nothing. “You wanted a link to the Manichaeans, well, here it is. For whatever it’s worth.” Restless, Pearse stood. “You’re sure they were the same men who were in the tunnel?”

“Yes. Who else would they be?”

A question suddenly crossed his mind; he turned to Cesare. “How do you know, if they never caught you?”

Cesare looked up, momentarily taken aback by the question. “How do I know?” Pearse heard the defensiveness in the monk’s voice. “There are plenty of ways to be seen and not be seen in those tunnels, Ian. It wasn’t that hard to let them find me, and just as easy to lose them. I’m sure that by the time they reached the old church, I was already making my way here. Why is this of any importance?”

“So if you knew you’d lost them, why were you afraid that you’d been followed?”

A tinge of anger flickered over Cesare’s face. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking?”

The two men stared at each other. Finally, Pearse shook his head, sat back down on the bench. “I don’t know … neither do I.”

The monk took a moment before responding. “Look, I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position. I understand. Naturally you’re suspicious. Maybe it’s better that way.”

Again silence before Pearse continued. “So what do you do now?”

“I have a few friends. They can put me up for tonight.”

“And then what?”

From under the top of his tunic, Cesare pulled a bag that hung around his neck. “Is there anyone who would understand these kinds of prayers more-how can I say it? — more-”

“Better than I do?” asked Pearse with a smile. “Of course.”

“Then I think that person needs to see the scroll.”

“And you want me to get it.”

Cesare opened the bag and pulled a piece of paper from inside. “I drew you a little map. How to get to the catacombs from the main sanctuary entrance. You could go tomorrow.” He held the paper out to Pearse.

“And once I have it, does this start all over again? Am I going to be talking to someone through scaffolding two days from now?”

Cesare said nothing; he laid the paper on Pearse’s lap.

“And if I say no?” Pearse asked.

“Sebastiano is dead. If I go back to San Clemente, maybe those men are there; maybe this time, it’s not questions. You’ve told me there’s a real link here to something that was supposed to have been rooted out centuries ago.”

“And if it wasn’t,” Pearse insisted, “what possible threat could it pose now anyway? We’re talking about ideology, Dante. The church has had fifteen hundred years to establish itself. I don’t think an ancient heresy has any hope of undermining that authority.”

“Fine. Then why have these men gone to such lengths for a prayer? Does that make any more sense to you?” Cesare waited before continuing. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that it’s Vatican security who have been the ones to take such an interest? Whatever this is, it’s clearly important to someone. Important enough to take a man’s life.”

Pearse stared into Cesare’s eyes. For several moments, neither said a word. Finally, he reached down and took the paper from his lap.

“Thank you,” said the monk. “And tomorrow, we’ll take it to this expert of yours.”

Pearse stared at the scrawled map. “You’re sure you’ll be okay tonight?” he asked.

“They’re old friends.” Cesare stood, placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, then turned and began to walk away. About ten yards from him, he turned back. “Go in peace.” The two exchanged a smile before Cesare turned again and headed off.

Sitting alone, Pearse watched as the monk made his way past the arch. Go in peace. If only it were that easy.

Stefan Kleist sat in a small sound studio, several television screens in front of him. One of the monitors pictured a girl, perhaps seven years old, playing on the grass, other children with her, an older woman on a park bench in the distance. A typical spring afternoon. The camera zoomed in on the older woman. She had nodded off, her head tilted back, one hand having fallen from her lap to the bench. The camera again panned to the girl. Kleist spoke into a microphone, a device placed at its base to distort his voice. “I could have taken her then while the old woman slept. Your sister should be more careful with her granddaughter.” The tape moved to another scene. The same girl, this time with a younger woman on a busy street, the woman staring into a shop window, unaware as the little girl ambled farther and farther off. The camera now zoomed in on the woman as she turned from the window. Panic rose on her face, her eyes scanning frantically as she realized the girl was gone. When she spotted the tiny figure two stores down, she ran after her, grabbed her arm, and berated her for wandering off. Again Kleist spoke into the microphone. “Or then, when your niece was preoccupied. So easy to have taken the girl then.” Once more, the screen faded to another shot, this one through an iron fence, the girl seated on a set of stairs, her small chin resting on tiny hands as she waited in front of a convent school. The camera whipped around and lighted on a young priest making his way through the far gate. “That could be me,” intoned Kleist. “Or there,” he added as the camera focused on a sister coming out from one of the entrances. “What child wouldn’t take the hand of a nun?” The screen now filled with myriad images of the girl-at school, with friends, the park-anywhere a seven-year-old might find herself. “So many choices. So difficult to guard against them all. And if you think the police could help you, don’t. I would know before you had hung up the phone. And the girl would be gone.”

The screen dissolved to black, then to an old newsreel clip. It was difficult at first to recognize the picture. The Vatican. Smoke from a chimney, thousands watching as the puffs lifted into the air. The 1920s by the look of things. White smoke. Cheering. A nondistorted voice broke through. “Pope Pius the Eleventh is elected in Rome. And the world celebrates. …” The voice faded, replaced by Kleist’s. “When it comes time for you to make your choice, Eminence, don’t forget the little girl. Don’t forget what can happen even to a cardinal’s grand-niece.” Another picture of the girl at play, then black.

Kleist rewound the tape, ran it through once more to make sure the sound was right, then pulled it from the machine. Rudimentary but effective. The election won’t be the problem. We have to think of the weeks after. How right the contessa had been. Still, the work now was important. Kleist checked the label-Madrid-and slid the tape into its cover. He then set it on a stack of perhaps twenty others that stood to his left: Buenos Aires, Sydney, St. Louis-just a few of the titles. Reaching to his right, he pulled another-New York, as yet without narration-and slid it into the video recorder. Sixty or so to go.

He knew it would be a long night.

Pearse had walked from the Colosseum, back to the Piazza Venezia, the Corso, the twin churches at the Piazza del Popolo, and finally the bridge out to the Vatican. Crossing at the Ponte Regina Margherita might have been a bit out of the way, but he’d always preferred the area just across the Tiber, the wide avenues and trees that reminded him so much of Paris. As much as he loved Rome, there always seemed to be a kind of heaviness to it. Maybe it was in his own mind. Paris just seemed a little lighter.

His thoughts, however, were not of Paris tonight. Perfect Light-the more he walked, the more it gnawed at him. Augustine had referred to it as a collection of Jesus’ sayings. By itself, Pearse knew that didn’t set the prayer apart from any number of fourth-century tracts. He’d heard of the various collections that had floated around, most inauthentic, each trying to assert some sort of connection to the Messiah, a way to validate one strain of a burgeoning religion over another. That the four Gospels had eventually won out had done little to diminish the quest for the true words of Christ. What so many believers didn’t realize-even now-and what Pearse himself all too often confronted in his own quest, was that the Gospels offered only a smattering of Jesus’ words, each of the books steeped in interpretation, colored by the historical necessities that had faced their authors. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, each essential to the task of shaping the church and its dogma, but each too far removed from the spoken Word not to fall prey to inconsistencies. Ever since his days in Chicago with John J., Pearse had believed that to read Christ’s genuine teachings, to come face-to-face with their simplicity would clarify everything, remove all doubt, all uncertainty. A Sola Scriptura of his own. Faith at its most essential.

Something Petra had never fully understood.

Arriving at the Piazza del Risorgimento-rush-hour trams swallowing and spewing passengers by the dozens-he allowed himself a momentary flight of fancy. What if the prayer did connect to those words? What if the real Christ lay hidden somewhere within it? Freed from the structure that had engulfed them over the centuries, those ideas couldbreathe new life into a faith growing ever more static, distant. Ignite a genuine passion based on the purity of the Word.

As he stepped from the curb, however, an equally powerful thought entered his mind, brought on more by the events of the last few hours than by anything else…. It’s clearly important to someone. Important enough to take a man’s life. He had done his best to dismiss the possibility twenty minutes ago; now, he found it far more difficult. Could a scroll like that be seen as a threat-a single voice, Christ’s teachings made plain at last? How might that be received? he wondered. Not as an answer to the complacency, but as a shock to its very core. Here would be something to strip away the layers of exegesis that sat atop the parables, the Beatitudes, all the dogma that had grown out of the myriad attributions of meaning. Could such clarity actually appear dangerous, even the hint of it prompt someone within the church to suppress it-better to maintain the current structure than to upend it, no matter how true to Christ’s own insights the source of that clarity might be?

The real paradox of faith: Truth versus Structure. Pearse had to believe that the church was beyond such fears.

And yet, a man was dead.

He cut across the road and sidestepped his way through traffic, one or two angry horns spiriting him on his way. Once on safer ground, he moved along the sidewalk, the Vatican wall-sixty feet of weathered brown-gray stone and turrets-lowering above him; twenty yards down, he turned into the Santa Anna gate, an equally imposing archway, vigilanza-dressed in the customary blue tunics and capes-manning the gate. A few cars were making their way out-never more than a glance from the guards for those leaving, far more care with those trying to get in. Even so, the man nodded Pearse through, a token look at the Vatican passaporto of a familiar priest.

He might have felt a bit cheated by the world beyond the gate, so little in the way of real grandeur, but he never did. The affectations were reserved for the more public areas-the museums, St. Peter’s. Here, it was a collection of administrative buildings, post offices, loggia, the only truly regal sight the fifty-foot archway leading off to the library and beyond. Even that was in need of a good cleaning. But, unlike anywhere else in Rome-perhaps the world-Pearse felt a genuine sense of security within its walls, a safekeeping that ostentation could only mar. And with it, that sense of lightness seemingly unavailable to him in the rest of Rome.

It was why he’d accepted the offer of rooms on his arrival, why he’d petitioned for Vatican citizenship a year after that. Spiritual refuge. Genuine connection to the heart of the church. A taste of the certainty he so desperately craved.

Unfortunately, his choice had dramatically changed things with his family, talks with Jack and Andy less frequent, a sense that the priest was somehow now even more off-limits. His parents hadn’t quite known how to take it either, the final realization that their son was truly the church’s and not their own. He’d tried to convince them otherwise, but there really wasn’t much hope of that. Nor of any of them understanding what had prompted the move-that maybe, just maybe after all this time, Petra wouldn’t be able to follow him inside the Vatican walls.

Then again, maybe not.

Managing his way along the cobbled drive-still slick from the rain-he thought about picking up a few pieces of fruit, something sweet at the market, but he couldn’t muster the appetite. He remembered some cheese in his rooms. It would have to suffice. Stepping through another, more commonplace archway, he hurried across a stone courtyard before arriving at the entrance to his building.

Three flights and a corridor later, he turned his key and stepped into the two rooms that had been his home for the past few years.

Sofa, chairs, desk-cum-table greeted him as he kicked his shoes across the floor, two small windows on the far wall, neither of which-as far as he knew-having ever seen the sun. But there was always hope. He kept a plant atop the waist-high bookshelf between them just on the off chance a ray or two might creep in.

It was his eighth plant in two years.

Only at night did the light venture in, harsh, from somewhere above, enough to cast shadowed bars across the room from the rusted fire escape. Tonight was no exception. The slanted black lines were instantly erased as he flicked on a standing lamp. At the same time, he pulled off his collar-always the most relaxing moment of the day-and, stretching his neck, moved across the linoleum floor to the books. He crouched down and pulled several volumes out, placing them in a pile on the table just behind him. Perfect Light. Time to see how much he had remembered.

He pulled a ball from his glove on the floor and moved to the table. Sitting, he began to toss it back and forth between his hands. Always the best way to concentrate.

The first book was one of the red-bound volumes of the Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, which contained Augustine’s anti-Manichaean works. Pearse recalled several references to the prayer appearing during Augustine’s own struggle with his faith. Long before he had decided to “take it and read,” the hero of Confessions had wondered just how high the “true ascent” might actually take him. Those were the questions Pearse now scanned for, that sense of possibility so clearly felt by the young Augustine.

Much of the writing, though, concentrated on the Manichaean “Kingdom of Darkness,” a realm for which Augustine had shown a particular fascination: evil let loose, as arbitrary as it was overwhelming. For a moment, Pearse wondered if perhaps he’d seen it for himself firsthand, the descriptions all too reminiscent of his days in Bosnia. Maybe the Manichaeans deserved more credit than Augustine had given them.

Forty minutes later, he shut the last of the books, no further along than when he had started, every reference too vague, too uncertain in its own understanding of the prayer. For Augustine, “Perfect Light” had remained a mystery. And for a man with perhaps the keenest mind in the long history of the church, such an admission only strengthened the case for its power, the unfathomable as somehow closer to the divine.

Pearse laid the book on the floor-he’d made his way to the sofa after picking up a wedge of cheese between books-and now stretched out his legs. He began to toss the ball in the air, hoping that something would click. But there was no use fighting it. Within a few minutes, his eyes shut, the sofa infamous for its nap-inducing allure.

It was an hour later when the sound of ringing woke him. At first, he thought it was his alarm, convinced for a moment it was morning. When he realized he was on the sofa, he began to orient himself, slowly aware that it was the phone. Trying to focus, he squinted across the room, the light from above verging on the painful; he forced himself up and moved to the table. On the way, he turned off the lights so as to make things easier.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy.

“Ian.” It was Cesare, the sound of traffic in the background. Pearse could barely hear him. “You have to find it, take it.” A sudden intake of breath, coughing.

“Dante? Where are you? What’s going on?”

“Somehow … they came. They knew.” More coughing, the words short of breath. “They will change everything. Everything.”

“Who will change-” The blood drained from his face. “Dante, where are you?”

“It’s still safe…. I didn’t tell them…. Still safe.”

A moment later, the line went dead.