The Book of Q

five

“… during or after the election of the new Pontiff, unless explicit authorization is granted by the same Pontiff; and never to lend support or favor to any interference, opposition, or any other form of intervention, whereby secular authorities of whatever order and degree or any group of people or individuals might wish to intervene in the election of the Roman Pontiff.”

The cardinal dean finished reading and began to make his way around the Sistine Chapel. One by one, the cardinal electors rose to acknowledge the oath.

Von Neurath sat with his hands comfortably in his lap. The hard back of the bench seemed to suit his posture, less so the velvet cushion underneath. On his right sat an Englishman; on the other, a South American. Neither had said a word in the last twenty minutes, better that way, since von Neurath couldn’t remember if his Spanish colleague was Brazilian or Argentinian, Escobar de something, if memory served. Cardinal Daly, however, was another matter entirely, well known among the conclave as a papabile-a “good prospect”-according to the scuttlebutt that had been circulating over the last few days. Strange that they’d placed two of the prime candidates so close to each other. Or maybe it was simply geography, the Italians on one side of the chapel, the rest of the Catholic world on the other.

Usually brightened by the afternoon sun, the chapel lay under a glow of standing lamps, the gated windows above the Perugino frescoes draped behind thick cloth, a nod to both the solemnity and the secrecy of the conclave. Even in the half-light, the chapel lost none of its grandeur, the plaintive stares from above deepened by the shadows, thick, muscular tones-the pigment having been restored-once again fresh and alive.

Von Neurath stared at one or two of the faces above. He’d never been all that taken with the paintings, far too ornate for his tastes. He much preferred the line of a van Eyck, or a Breu the Elder, or a Lochner, or even a Fra Angelico, if pressed to name an Italian. Now there was the precision of faith. With Michelangelo, everything of value seemed to get lost-hulking, self-indulgent bodies twisting this way and that, no direction, no meaning. Perfect for the Italians, he thought, each of whom continued to gaze up, with self-satisfied grins, as if somehow they were reading a private message, the figures meant for them alone. Von Neurath brought his arms to his chest and waited.

Movement by the altar caught his eye. The Cardinal Camerlengo-his old friend Fabrizzi-began to set the chalice and paten in place, cue for the initiation of the first ballot. Von Neurath looked down at the paper in his hand, the printed Latin a simple reminder of what had brought them all together.

“Eligo in summum pontificem …”

“I elect as supreme Pontiff …”

And next to it, in his own hand, the words “Erich Cardinal von Neurath.”

It was an odd sensation to see the name in front of him. The Italians might have their art, but he would have their throne. Looking up, he had to suppress a smile.

The dean approached him. Von Neurath stood.

“And I, Erich Cardinal von Neurath, do so promise, pledge, and swear.” He placed his hand on the Gospels held out in front of him. “So help me God and these Holy Gospels which I touch with my hand.”

Twenty minutes later, each of the 109 had sworn their troth. The voting began.

As the first of the cardinals moved toward the altar-always one by one-von Neurath scanned the faces across from him. How many of them were thinking of grandnieces and grandnephews? he wondered. Kleist had made over sixty tapes. He’d sent out fewer than twenty of them, but it was more than enough to encourage the crucial swing votes necessary to take him past the two-thirds majority for election.

The procession continued, at last his own turn. With a deep breath, he folded the paper in his hand, stood, and slowly walked toward the altar. Reaching the table, he turned back to the conclave, raised his ballot high for all to see, then placed it on the paten. He watched as the Cardinal Camerlengo lifted the gold plate and slid the ballot into the chalice. As simple as that.

Forty minutes passed before all the votes had been cast, time spent in silence. Some prayed, some stared longingly at the pictures. After all, it was the Divine Spirit who chose a Pope, not men. They could take the time to enjoy their surroundings-God’s will, not theirs, managing this most pressing of matters.

Von Neurath thought of the “Hodoporia.” He’d heard nothing from Kleist in over five days, the last message from Athos, confirmation that the priest had yet to get hold of the actual parchment. Some sort of book. One more step removed. Assurances that everything was close at hand.

Without the “Hodoporia,” though, von Neurath knew the papacy would mean nothing, infallibility or not. Two hundred and fifty million Catholics at his disposal, and no way to convince them to follow a new path. No way to justify the shifts to come with a divine authority.

He had no choice but to trust Kleist, trust that he would deliver what he had promised.

“Peretti.”

The sound of a voice brought his focus back to the altar. One of Fabrizzi’s three assistants-the scrutineers-was reading out the first ballot. He then passed it to the next cardinal, who likewise read it aloud. So, too, the third, who then ran a needle and thread through the paper.

“Daly.”

Von Neurath exchanged a moment’s smile with the Englishman as his name was echoed twice more. No need to worry. Two votes. One hundred and seven to go.

Eighteen minutes later, von Neurath sat stunned. By his own count, he had fallen six short of the majority, Peretti having taken forty of the remaining forty-two.

Evidently, several of the swing votes had decided not to swing.

The cardinals sat silently as one of Fabrizzi’s assistants gathered the twined ballots and notes and retreated to the small stove whose chimney had become so famous over time.

Black smoke.

Two more votes tomorrow morning, one tomorrow afternoon, if need be. For as long as it took.

The cardinals rose. Filing out, von Neurath noticed that Peretti was staring at him. The hint of a smile. He did his best to return it.

Kleist would have to make certain he wasn’t put in so embarrassing a position again.

Pearse had slept on and off for over twelve hours, his body finally giving out after more than a week of neglect. They had arrived in the village sometime after two, twenty miles west of Novi-Pazar, less than an hour from the Kosovar border, somewhere up in the hills. That they’d crossed back into Yugoslavia hadn’t occurred to him until he’d seen the signs for Belgrade. No border post, no guards. Evidently, when he wanted to, Mendravic could avoid such inconveniences.

Pulling up along one more dirt road-a smattering of houses spread out along the surrounding hills-they’d stopped at the only hovel still showing some signs of life. Ivo had been quickly carted away to a bed while Mendravic had made the introductions.

Much as Pearse had expected, the men and women of the KLA proved to be none-too-distant cousins of the Irish Provisionals, less concerned with practical objectives than with the grand design. He’d talked with them for over an hour, stories of recent escapades, all dismissed with a fanatic’s rationale. As it turned out, these were a new breed of KLA, taking their fight “beyond the borders,” as they had explained. The rest of Serbia/Yugoslavia would learn to leave Kosovo alone.

By three, he’d had his fill, the brandy having taken its toll, as well. Hoisting himself up from the table, he’d found a bed and slept.

No dreams. Not even a hint of movement. Just sleep.

Now, at almost three in the afternoon, he emerged from his room to find Petra alone at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in her hands.

Pearse found a cup and joined her.

“So, he finally appears,” she said as he sat. “What time did you make it to bed?”

Small talk. He could manage that. “A little bit after you. Not much of a conversation. Where is everyone?”

“Gone by the time I got up.” She took a sip, then glanced around the room. “This seems strangely familiar, eight years removed.”

He nodded, memories of Slitna hard to ignore, especially during last night’s diatribes. Pearse wondered if he and Petra had sounded as rabid, all those years ago. Probably, although he hoped not. They’d certainly never had rolls like the ones now beckoning to him from a dish at the center of the table. Better bread, greater mania, he thought. It seemed a logical enough connection.

He took a roll and tore off a piece, dunking the wedge in his coffee and quickly tossing it down.

“That, too,” she added.

“Saves time on the digestion. You knew that.” The second piece received a healthy slathering of butter. “Is Salko up?”

“Ivo wanted to go exploring. Mommy wouldn’t do. He pulled him out of bed about an hour ago.”

Pearse nodded, another sip of the coffee. “This doesn’t faze him at all, does it?”

“Ivo? No. I’m sure it’s like a game for him.”

“That’s quite a game.”

“Not when you’ve played it before.”

Pearse hesitated, then asked, “Ivo?”

“We were in a village like this for about three months in ’97.” Seeing his confusion, she explained, “When NATO pulled out? The trouble in Mostar?” Still nothing. “You do have newspapers in the United States, don’t you?” she added.

Pearse grinned. “I think we have a couple. I suppose you have to remember to read them.”

“I suppose you do. Although,” she added more pointedly, “I’m sure we stopped being front-page news once Mr. Clinton got reelected.”

No bitterness in what she said, just pragmatism. The same way she could talk about a seven-year-old being trundled from his bed in the middle of the night as part of some familiar game.

“He really takes to Salko, doesn’t he?”

“Didn’t you?”

Pearse nodded to himself, then rolled a piece of the buttered roll into a ball and popped it into his mouth. “Do they get to see a lot of each other?”

“About once a month. Maybe more, if something comes up.”

“Something … like what?”

“I don’t know. Little-boy things that a father would be-” She stopped herself. “Not really that often.”

She was trying to be kind. Even if he’d known what to say, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to find the words. He’d make her laugh, or put her in a position where she’d have to tell him to stop, just as he had last night. For some reason, he thought of the Ribadeneyra entries. The alchemy so manageable there. Here, impossible. Then again, better to leave unsaid what he couldn’t say.

“It’s good Ivo has him,” he finally said.

“It’s good they have each other,” she echoed. “Salko probably needs the fix more than Ivo does.”

Another ball of bread for him as she stared into her cup.

After a time, she said, “There are days, you know, when they disappear for hours. Just the two of them. Their ‘little adventures.’” She was letting him in, if only for a moment. “It’s funny. Ivo always comes back with this adorable look in his eyes, as if they’ve got some great secret. Something just the two of them know. The men.” She smiled to herself. “I remember when Salko taught him how to whistle. The great event. And Ivo came running in, and he waited and waited while Salko told me where they’d been, the two of them passing each other little winks and nods. I pretended not to notice. And then, all of a sudden, he started to whistle. This sweet little chirpy thing through the giggles. And we all started laughing. He was so proud of himself.” It was as if she were looking directly at them. “You should have seen his face when I whistled back. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t say a thing. Somehow, I knew the magic secret.” She laughed. “That’s when he told me I had a girl’s whistle. It wasn’t like Salko’s or his.” She stopped, eyes even more distant. “I wasn’t Mom. I was just a girl.”

Pearse took a sip of the coffee, then said. “Did Salko tell you why I’m here?”

She turned back to her cup. “Some of it.” She reached for a piece of bread, something to keep her hands busy. “I don’t think he’s that clear on it himself.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Whoever it is, they’re very thorough. They knew where to find me.”

“Sorry about that.”

She shot him a quick glance. A mock upbraiding. “They would have come whether you and Salko had shown up or not. Probably better that you did.”

“You’re being mighty nice this morning.”

“Don’t get too used to it.”

Without thinking, he dipped the buttered piece into his coffee, the black liquid turning a pale brown. “That was clever.”

“If you’d wanted milk, all you had to do was ask,” she said.

“Yes, thank you very much.” He stood and walked to the sink, then dumped out the cup. “It was pretty horrible anyway.” Regardless, he poured himself a fresh cup.

“I guess … this must be a bit of a shock,” she said.

“The bad coffee?” She let the comment pass. “I can’t say it’s what I expected when I left Rome, no.”

“Right.” She hesitated. “What did you mean yesterday? About it not making sense to you.”

He was about to take a sip, but stopped. “I thought … you didn’t want to talk about that.”

“I guess I do.”

He leaned back against the counter.

“Or …” She suddenly stood and moved to the counter, eyes fixed on the kettle. “Maybe not. Maybe now’s not the best time.” She picked up the kettle and, facing away from him, began to pour.

He tried to find something to say, but all he could come up with was, “Okay.”

She placed the kettle down and stood there, staring, her hands on the counter.

“I don’t even know why I asked,” she said.

He turned to her, her face in profile. Once more, he reached out and took her hand. This time, she didn’t pull away.

“Maybe … we should let this wait until after Visegrad,” he said.

Her eyes still on the counter, she nodded slowly. “Maybe we should.”

No movement. Then, slowly, she looked up at him, her hand still in his. She said nothing. A moment later, she let go and headed to the table, cup in hand.

“So,” she asked as she sat, “what exactly are you looking for in Visegrad?”

It took him a moment to refocus. “Remember that parchment we found in the old church?”

“Of course I remember it.”

“I think it’s related to that.”

Her eyes went wide. “That’s … bizarre.”

For the first time since he’d made the connection, Pearse realized he hadn’t taken the time to admit how odd it really was. For the next twenty-five minutes, he did his best to explain what he himself was having trouble understanding.

“And you think they’ll kill this friend of yours?” she asked.

Pearse shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He was about to explain further, when the sound of cars and vans broke through from outside. Both of them moved to the window, Pearse’s initial assumption the boys from Kukes. When he recognized one of the men from last night’s conversation, however, he relaxed. That is, until he saw the makeshift stretcher, a body in tow, being pulled from the back of one of the vans. The place was at once alive with running figures, a woman walking by the side of the stretcher, her hands clutching something below the laid-out man’s shirt.

Petra was already out the door by the time Pearse could take it all in. He moved outside as well, two men pushing past him, no concern for their erstwhile guest.

“Some sort of raid that went wrong,” Petra said, drawing up to him. “Two of them are injured. I told them you’re a priest.”

“But they’re not Catholics.”

“They don’t seem to care. They’re taking them in there.”

Petra led him toward one of the houses, what passed for the village clinic. Not terribly sanitary, but certainly the cleanest room within a ten-mile radius. Inside, they’d already started on the man Pearse had seen through the window, the woman a doctor still at his side. The other lay on a second table, doing his best to hold back the screams, sudden bursts of air through his nose, a man who looked well into his forties but who was probably no more than twenty-five. Every few seconds, his back arched, the grimace on his face silencing whatever means of release he had found, the need for two others to hold him down. His leg was streaked red, a bandage drenched in blood around what remained of his right foot.

The other was at most nineteen, no screams, no movement, no need to hold him down. His eyes remained wide, a stare Pearse recalled all too well from another lifetime. This boy would be dead within minutes. Even so, the doctor was doing what she could. A small area of his shirt showed some blood, hardly enough, though, to prompt the distant stare. Only when he moved closer did Pearse realize that the front of the torso wasn’t the issue. From beneath the gurney, a small pool of blood had begun to gather on the table. The boy lay flat because to move would mean to leave a part of himself on the canvas. The doctor called Pearse over. They needed help with the shirt. Pearse did as he was told. Kukes revisited.

In a sudden movement, the boy grabbed his arm and began to speak in a rapid-fire whisper. Pearse turned to the doctor, expecting her to bark at him to get out of the way-but she was too busy to notice. Without thinking, Pearse leaned over, trying to make out even one or two of the words as they raced by. The boy spoke with such intensity that Pearse found himself nodding, as if he actually understood what the boy meant him to hear. The whisper gave way to a strange sort of laugh, the grasp on his arm loosening, until the boy drifted back to silence.

Pearse stared at the face.

The clarity of that moment. The purity of its language, even unheard.

Even as the gaze froze.

Pearse turned to the doctor. She, too, had watched the final moments; she reached over and shut the boy’s eyes. Not a word to Pearse as she moved to the second table. With everyone preoccupied, Pearse silently gave the boy the last rites, whichever God he prayed to.

Forty-five minutes later, he stood outside with Petra, the shock slowly wearing off.

As if heaven-sent, Ivo and Mendravic chose to appear at that moment, making their way up the road, the tinier of the two skipping, his hands filled with rocks and sticks, and who knows what-treasures only a seven-year-old could find. “Here’s to exploring,” Pearse said as he and Petra moved out to them. Ivo began to run toward his mother as soon as he saw her.

“We came back about twenty minutes ago,” said Mendravic as he drew up to Pearse.

“Did he see any of the-”

“No,” Mendravic answered, continuing to walk, leaving Ivo with his mother. “I thought it a good idea to find another adventure.”

Pearse nodded, continuing to walk. “One of them mentioned something about a raid gone wrong.”

“They picked the wrong day to go,” Mendravic replied.

Before he could explain, one of the KLA men had drawn up to them, now walking alongside. Youngish, mid-thirties, he’d been one of the more vocal around the table last night. Pearse couldn’t quite recall his name.

“It was as if they were waiting for us, Salko,” he began, ignoring Pearse altogether. “You wouldn’t have believed it. Armored vehicles, roadblocks, the whole works. We had no choice but to run. I still have no idea how they knew we were coming.”

“They didn’t,” answered Mendravic.

“I’m telling you-”

“You were an added bonus,” he explained. “They weren’t there for you.” Before the man could ask, Mendravic said, “They were there because of what happened two hours before you left.” Mendravic stopped. “Someone blew up a Catholic church around five this morning. I saw it on the news at that inn outside of Janca. The boy and I stopped for lunch. It was all over the television.”

“Serbs?” asked the man.

“They have no idea,” Mendravic answered. “No one killed. Just the building.”

“So why the roadblocks?” asked the man, a growing frustration in his voice. “You’d think they’d be happy that the Catholics got it. Happier if it had been a mosque.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Mendravic answered. “That’s why they were there. You were lucky to get away.”

“Because of some hysteria about a church, I lost a man?” Pearse could see the rage in his eyes, the utter disbelief. “They’ll blame it on us, won’t they? Catholic church. Muslim KLA. Probably did it themselves just for the excuse.” The man began to shake his head, all the while staring at Mendravic, Pearse evidently still invisible. When the words wouldn’t come, he finally looked at the priest, no hint of kindness in his eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if he might say something. Instead, he turned and headed back to the clinic.

“What weren’t you telling him?” asked Pearse when the man had moved out of earshot.

“It’s the stupidity that’ll make him want to kill them even more now,” Mendravic said, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure. When he realized Pearse had said something, he turned to him. “What?”

“There was something else you didn’t tell him, wasn’t there?”

Mendravic waited before answering. “When did you get to be so smart?”

“What didn’t you tell him?”

His eyes narrowed for just a moment. “It wasn’t only one church. There were three others. Two in Germany, another in Spain. Also this morning.”

“And they think they’re connected?”

“They? Yes, the TV people think that they’re connected.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was there any news on the election?”

“Election?”

“The Pope.”

“Oh. Black smoke. They’ll do it all again tomorrow. What does that have to do with-”

“That’s probably your answer.” Stopping Mendravic short, Pearse added, “What better time to strike? The church preoccupied. No single authority. Catch them with their pants down.”

“For what reason?”

“It might be more obvious than you think.”

Again, Mendravic paused. “You think it has to do with your little book.”

“So do you. That’s why you didn’t say anything to your KLA friend.”

Another pause. “All right,” he admitted. “Then what, exactly, is in that book that would explain all of this?”

It was now Pearse’s turn to wait. “I wish I knew, Salko. I wish I knew.”

Kleist glanced over his shoulder one last time. Highly unlikely that anyone had followed him down here, but best to be sure. An endless assortment of pipes-all wrapped in plaster-ran along the low ceiling, the hum of a generator and furnace somewhere off in the distance. Otherwise, the basement of the Domus Sanctae Marthae lay in silence.

Above him, a hundred cardinals waited in their rooms, relaxing or praying, or doing whatever it is that cardinals do between conclave votes and dinner. Tonight, he had no intention of disturbing them.

Except for one.

Checking the building schematic for perhaps the fifth time in the last minute, he came to a small door located low on one of the walls, the hatch no more than two feet square. Fixed into its lower left-hand corner waited a simple lock, brand-new from the shine. Kleist pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, slipped one into the slot, and pulled back the door. Dropping to his knees, he angled his flashlight up and peered through.

No more than four feet across, the opening extended up beyond the reach of the light, equally distant to both his left and right. It was as if a four-foot wedge had been yanked from the center of the building, leaving this hollow tucked deep within. The light caught on a group of pipes perhaps twelve feet above him, open space above that, then another set of pipes twelve feet above that, so on and so on, the crude demarcation of the floors of the building. Kleist slid himself through and stood, pulling the door shut. He then flattened himself against the cement-block wall and again checked the schematic. The flashlight found what he was looking for off to his left-the iron rungs of a ladder built directly into the wall. Not an easy climb, but certainly manageable.

When he reached the “fourth floor,” he stepped out from the ladder and onto the piping, using his hands along the walls to keep his balance. Flashlight in his mouth, he counted off four heating ducts before bringing out a razor knife from his pocket. At the fifth, he sliced an opening into the aluminum, then tossed both knife and flashlight into the vent and hoisted himself up.

Fifteen minutes later, he sliced a second hole for his exit. This one dropped him down into another narrow passage, Sheetrock having replaced cement. He aimed the light to his left and slowly traced it along the wall. About a third of the way back to him, the light flashed momentarily. It had caught on something. Quickly, he made his way to the spot. A hinge. Two feet below it, a second. He placed his flattened palm on the wall and pushed.

It gave way with surprising ease. Again on his knees, Kleist ducked his head under, then pulled the rest of himself through. He was met by a cushioning of wall-to-wall carpeting beneath him. To his left, a bed. He stood and shut the door.

“You’re late.”

Kleist turned to see Cardinal von Neurath seated in a chair across the room. It had been von Neurath who had discovered the approach to the room in the plans. Nothing easier than to install a door and arrange the room assignments.

“Yes, Eminence.”

“Keep your voice down. These walls are paper-thin.”

Kleist nodded and moved toward the cardinal. A chair waited for him; he sat.

“I want one of those children taken. And I want it on the news quickly.” Von Neurath saw the momentary confusion on Kleist’s face. “Doesn’t matter which one. Any of them will send the message to the rest. I need those six votes, and I need them tomorrow.”

“The news? How would that-”

“We’re sequestered, Stefan. We’re not sealed in a vacuum. We all managed to hear about this morning’s events in Bilbao and Gottingen, and whatever that place is called near the Yugoslav border. You take the child, we’ll hear about it.” He let the words sink in. “Those weren’t supposed to go off for another few days, were they?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“Miscommunication.”

Von Neurath waited before answering. “Get word to Harris. He has a tendency to overreact. Tell him, nothing changes.”

Kleist nodded.

“If for some reason the vote doesn’t come through tomorrow, I want you to leak the Syrian link to the bank. And keep Arturo’s name at the forefront.” Even more pointedly, he added, “And remember, nothing about this to the contessa or Blaney. You don’t have to understand why.”

Another nod.

“Now, where’s our priest?”

“Most recent contact was last night. He phoned.”

“That was good of him.” The irritation lasted less than a second. “Does he have the ‘Hodoporia’?”

“He will in a few days.”

“I see.” Von Neurath saw the moment’s hesitation in Kleist’s eyes. “What?”

“At the refugee camp-he says four men were tracking him.”

“What four men?”

“We don’t know.”

“You believe him.”

“Yes.”

“Do we know who they are?”

“No.”

“Excellent.” The word was laced with sarcasm. Another pause. “I want this cleared up by tomorrow. If he doesn’t have the ‘Hodoporia’ by then, find him, take the book from him, and find it yourself. No more distractions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Eminence.”

“Good.” Von Neurath stood. “Then unless you have something else …” Kleist shook his head. “They’ll be coming around to call us for dinner soon. They’re very keen that we all eat together in silence. Given the food, I can understand why.”

Kleist wasn’t sure if he was meant to smile or not. Instead, he simply nodded and stood.

“Oh, which reminds me,” added von Neurath. “Send Mr. Harris my congratulations on his recent approval rating. Make it an egg. A hard-boiled egg. He’ll understand.” He nodded Kleist toward the tiny door.

Two minutes later, Kleist was crawling his way back through the heating duct, a constant trickle of sweat dropping from face to aluminum.

Hard-boiled egg. He wondered if he’d somehow missed something. Or maybe it was simply the cardinal’s way of putting him in his place; it wouldn’t have been the first time. Whatever he had meant, though, Kleist was sure of one thing.

The priest would be dead within the day.

At least now there was no confusion on that front.

“Nige … you’re sure we can’t get you some dessert?”

Nigel Harris smiled to the man across the table from him. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Three others sat across from him, as well. A lunch meeting engineered by Steve Grimaldi’s office, very “developmental,” high on the “no turnaround time,” given Harris’s current “breakthrough” status. The colonel was beginning to understand the advertising industry’s lingo, although he couldn’t be sure if it was the industry or Grimaldi himself, the latter more than happy to toss whatever happened to be running through his mind into the conversation. That notwithstanding, the rest of his staff seemed to understand his every word-everyone “on the same page”-especially when they took their little breaks to “detox” the details.

The lunch meeting had started at eleven. It was now nearly one.

While the plates were being cleared, Harris glanced out the window. He’d never gotten his LA geography down, not sure if he was actually in what they considered downtown. From the thirty-eighth floor, it certainly looked like a downtown, though with conspicuously few people on the streets. Maybe the trendy restaurants weren’t in this neck of the woods, he mused. Or maybe in-house catering had just become too good across the board. From what he’d just had to suffer through-something “blackened” beyond hope-he was guessing the former.

“I think you’re going to like what we’ve put together, Nige. It’s very early-”

“Developmental.” Harris nodded.

“Exactly. So we’re not sure just exactly how we need to play with it. But we want to get them out there quick.” Grimaldi nodded to one of his associates; she pressed a button at the center of the table and a large TV screen lowered from the ceiling at the far end of the room. A second button, and the shades began to close. Harris turned to Grimaldi and raised his eyebrows as if duly impressed. The adman seemed to preen. The lights dimmed. “Your group’s getting a lot of press right now, Nige, and we thought it might be nice to pick up on that newsy quality. An election kind of thing. Get people in your camp. This is one possibility. And don’t be afraid to tell me exactly how it makes you feel.”

Grimaldi pressed yet one more button, and the screen came to life, black at first, a counter running in white numbers along the bottom edge, the words “Nigel Harris Promo 1” next to it. When the counter reached ten seconds, the center of the screen filled with one of the quotes from a recent article on the alliance. The now-familiar voice from every movie preview produced in the last five years began to read the text in slow, sonorous tones.

“Its vision is for our future…. Its message is clear…. It’s time we put our faith back into something we believe in….”

A classroom of children filled the screen, eleven- and twelve-year-olds, a perfect hodgepodge of ethnic and racial backgrounds, all smiling faces, the word Tolerance written in large letters on the board, the children clearly in the midst of a discussion. The screen darkened, another quote. The voice returned.

“Our children need to understand what ties them together, not what separates them. And faith is that answer.”

Next, an equally Stepfordesque scene appeared, people on a generic Main Street, again ample ethnic diversity, ideal families strolling along, stopping to chat with one another, three separate churches in the background-one seemingly a synagogue, the lines, though, too blurred to make it out with any detail. In some sort of high-tech special effect, the three buildings began to grow into one another, the happy little community watching the transformation. No quote this time. Just the voice.

“It’s time to build an alliance of faith, where religious differences fade in favor of a wider spiritual commitment.”

Images of Harris, several other notable members of the alliance, and an American flag peppered the screen, the final image that of a field somewhere in the Midwest.

“The Faith Alliance. It’s our bridge to the next millennium.”

The screen went black, the lights came up. Harris turned to Grimaldi, who was standing by the far window. Grimaldi was staring directly at him, a birthday-morning grin lining his face.

“I see,” said Harris, trying to find the words. “I’m not exactly sure that’s what we talked about. It was all rather … over-the-top.”

The smile dipped momentarily. “Sure it was. But there’s good over-the- top, and there’s bad over-the-top. Which one do you mean, Nige?”

“The one that says that that advertisement won’t be seen by anyone outside this office.” Harris sensed a slight elevation in the tension of the room. “Exactly how I feel, Mr. Grimaldi? What I just saw was insipid, mawkish, and says nothing about the alliance.”

“Don’t underestimate insipid and mawkish,” said Grimaldi, the first hint of something savvier beneath the veneer of the hip salesman. “They sell well.”

“I’m sure they do, but I don’t believe we’re selling anything. We want to inspire. There’s a considerable difference there. Might I ask what happened to the segments I filmed? I thought they made my position quite clear.”

“Fair enough.” Grimaldi nodded to one of his associates. “Let’s call that a first stab.” Again the lights dimmed. The second promo.

The image on the screen this time was far less polished, the angle of the camera slightly skewed. A young man, maybe in his mid-thirties, sat on a park bench, elbows on knees, chin propped on his hands. The camera shifted around him several times, close-up, then back, more odd angles, before it stopped on a medium shot. The man seemed to be looking at something in the distance, but the camera stayed on him. The voice-over began, this one without the husky pomp.

“Time was when I wasn’t sure what to expect for his future.”

A quick cut to a group of boys playing in the park, again choppy angles, long and short shots interspersed in rapid sequence.

“I thought about the usual stuff, high school, college. Get himself a job. And that one day he’d be out here, watching his boy, wondering the same things. The same endless cycle. And I had to ask myself, Is that all I can give him?”

The man stood and began to walk toward the boys. He stopped by a tree and watched as his son tore around with the ball, the other boys giving chase. The man smiled.

“Not by a long shot.”

The man moved out from under the tree, his son catching sight of him, tossing the ball back into the melee before racing up to his father’s side. As the man knelt down to straighten his son’s jacket, the voice-over continued.

“If you’ve got some of those same questions, think about the Faith Alliance. I did. It’s where we can make their future together.”

The shot traced up to the sky, then back down, now the vista a wide beach, a far shot of Harris walking, pants rolled up to the ankles, his own two boys scampering in the tide just ahead of him. The camera moved in.

“I’m Nigel Harris, director of the Faith Alliance. If you’re in need of something to put genuine meaning into your life, and the life of your family, consider joining us.”

The camera followed Harris’s glance to his boys.

“It’s their future. Don’t deny them a personal relationship with faith.”

The camera pulled back as Harris darted over to his sons and began to splash water at them; they, in turn, splashed back.

Fade to black and the words “The Faith Alliance. Our bridge to the next millennium.”

Fade-out.

The lights came up.

Grimaldi remained by the window. “I told you insipid and mawkish sell,” he said as he moved back to his chair. “It’s just how you package them.”

Harris turned to him as he sat. It was only then that he realized how clever Grimaldi had been. The whole morning had been a prelude to this moment, the mindless jargon bandied about at lunch, the first promo. All designed to let this moment have its full effect. Harris now understood why Grimaldi had the reputation he did.

“Yes, I can see that,” he answered.

“So this one’s more to your liking, Colonel Harris?”

“Call me Nige.” He smiled. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Good. Then you’re going to love this next one.”

Everything had quieted down by dinner. They had taken the body to a small house at the end of the village, the home of the local hohxa. There, it would be bathed and cleaned, prepared for burial according to strict Muslim custom, Pearse’s last rites washed away with the rest of the worldly taint on the boy’s soul. They had managed to keep Ivo preoccupied during the somber processional to the hohxa’s house, the other children of the village not so fortunate, essential participants in the ancient ritual. Pearse hadn’t asked; Mendravic wouldn’t have been able to explain.

The leader of the failed raid continued to ignore Pearse throughout the meal, no doubt silently blaming him for the morning’s debacle. Catholic priest. Catholic church. To him, they were one and the same. Skewed logic aside, he did manage to show a considerable warmth to Ivo and Petra, doing his best to keep the dinner conversation lively, the day’s tragedy left for another time. Pearse kept quiet, happy to watch the interaction.

What quickly became clear was just how smart a little boy Ivo really was. Polite to the end, he showed no hesitation in making his points, less patience for anyone who treated him like a child. And always with something of Petra’s swagger in the way he handled his confrontations. In fact, more often than not, it was Petra herself who was on the receiving end.

“That’s not true, Mommy,” he said. “Why should we care about the Serbs when they don’t care about us?” There was always a hint of the parrot in what he said, little phrases that he’d heard from Salko or his mother-mangled just a bit-but always injected at just the right moment. It wasn’t necessarily what he said, but how he said it that allowed his cleverness to shine through. Even when Petra was on the defensive, Pearse sensed her absolute pleasure in Ivo’s little jabs.

“Well, maybe that’s why we should worry about them even more,” she answered.

Somewhere along the way, he’d busied himself with a wedge of bread, rolling pieces of it into tiny balls. Preoccupied or not, Ivo managed to keep up. “No, because Salko said that’s what they want. And we’d be giving them what they want, and we can’t do that.”

“Like what?” she pressed, the rest of the table watching as the little boy kept his eyes fixed on his handiwork, every once in a while a bread ball popping into his mouth.

“Like letting them know we’re afraid. And we aren’t.” Another piece into his mouth.

“Never let them know,” chimed in the raid leader with a smile. “Even if you are, just a little.”

Ivo looked at the man, hesitated, then nodded, a very earnest nod for a little boy. And just as quickly, he was back to the bread.

“Is he always like this?” the man asked, his smile wider still.

“No,” answered Petra. “Sometimes he can get pretty serious.”

The entire table erupted in laughter, Ivo continuing with his very intricate bread work. When he realized that everyone was looking at him, he suddenly became embarrassed. Sensing the moment, Petra drew him in close, kissing the top of his head as he buried himself deep in her side.

“It’s just that they all think you’re as wonderful as I do, Ivi. Must be terribly hard having everyone think you’re so wonderful.”

That only made it worse. Except that perhaps Ivo was enjoying the attention more than he was letting on. And Pearse seemed to enjoy that just as much. The little showman, he thought. Why not? He was, after all, Petra’s boy.

Pearse wasn’t that surprised, then, when, an hour later, Ivo appeared at the door to his room, no less bold than at the table.

“Hello.”

Pearse looked up. He’d been alone on his bed with Ribadeneyra since dinner, the five-line entries no closer to unscrambling than when he’d started. He had managed to tease out some connection among the rest of the entries-even without the final piece to the puzzle-a pattern beginning to emerge, when the little voice broke through.

“Hello,” he answered, laying the pages on his pillow. Ivo remained by the door, his courage taking him only so far. “You can come in, if you want. I won’t bite.”

With a little nod, he pushed open the door, sized up the room, and slowly wandered in, not quite tall enough to see over the top of the chest of drawers. When he was satisfied, he turned to Pearse, one hand lazily running along the edge of the bed.

“Do you come from America?”

Pearse smiled. He’d expected a thousand other questions, not the one, though, most obvious to a seven-year-old boy. “Yup.”

“I knew it,” he said, as if having uncovered some great mystery. “I asked Mommy. She said I should ask you.”

Again, Petra was letting him in. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to merit it. “How’d you know?”

“The way you talk.” He started to roam again, his fingers lighting on the backpack. “What’s in here?”

“Nothing much.”

“Can I open it?”

“Sure.”

He watched as Ivo struggled with the zipper, a giddy anticipation of the unknown within. Or at least of something American. His disappointment on unearthing nothing more than a change of clothes and a few odds and ends was equally intense.

“Sorry,” said Pearse. “No chocolate.”

Ivo snapped his head up, the look now one of astonishment.

“Isn’t that what you were looking for?” asked Pearse.

A coy smile crept across the boy’s face. “How’d you know that?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” Pearse smiled.

For a moment, it looked as if Ivo might not let it go at that. Then, just as quickly, he was on to his next topic. “Did you come from America last night?”

“Actually, I haven’t been to America for a couple of years.” Another flash of disappointment. “Have you ever been to America?”

The look now turned to one of utter disbelief, less to do with the possibility than with the fact that Pearse had even thought to ask. “No! I know only one person who’s been to America. Except for you.”

“Really?” Pearse knew where he was going, but couldn’t hold himself back. “Who?”

“My father.”

It was said with such confidence, such an affinity, as if he had just spoken with him before coming into the room. The connection so clear. Again, he had to thank Petra for that.

“And where does he live?” asked Pearse. A look of confusion etched across the young face. “America. Like you.”

Pearse nodded. Obviously, his geography had its limits. Not wanting to lose him entirely, Pearse reached under the papers and pulled out his baseball. “Here.” He tossed it to him.

Ivo caught it, no hesitation.

“Nice catch,” said Pearse.

“I’m pretty good.” He examined the ball very closely. “What kind of ball is this?”

“It’s a baseball,” said Pearse.

Ivo’s eyes lit up. “A baseball! From America?”

From Rome, but close enough. “I know you were hoping for chocolate, but-”

“No, no. This is great. Can I play with it?”

“You can keep it, if you want.”

If possible, Ivo’s eyes grew wider still. “You mean … it’s mine?”

“Well, I might ask you to play catch with me sometime.”

“You can play anytime you want.”

“Thanks. Maybe sometime you could go to America with me and see a game.”

It was almost too much for him. “America?” A hint of hesitation crept in. “And Mommy, too?”

“Of course. And don’t forget Salko.”

Before Pearse had finished, Ivo was running back to the door, shouting to his mother. Within a minute, he was back, pulling Petra by the arm. Once again, her expression was far from what Pearse expected: not strictly a glower, but as close as she dared with Ivo looking directly at her.

“And Salko, too,” he bubbled.

“Yes, I heard you, sweetie,” answered Petra as she stared at Pearse.

“That’s very nice of him.”

Pearse smiled. “I just said-”

“Yes, I’m sure you did.”

Pearse wasn’t sure, but he suspected this was part of a family dynamic he’d never had occasion to experience until now. Something reserved for mommies and daddies. Even on the short end of things, it was awfully nice, more so to see Petra struggling with it as well.

Not sure what protocol demanded, he fell back on the slow nod.

“You have to go to sleep,” she said to forestall any further discussion. At once, Ivo launched into the ancient bargaining ritual, all of it to no avail. As he mopingly made his way to the door, he turned to Pearse and, instead of a simple “Good night,” shot a finger at him and winked. It was enough to provoke a moment’s giggle before a quick dash out the door.

Laughing, Pearse asked, “What was that?”

“Mel Gibson did it in a movie. He thinks it’s how all Americans say good night.” She remained by the door.

“Isn’t Mel Gibson Australian?”

At last a smile. “Don’t tell him that.”

A silence settled on the room. He thought she might go; instead, she moved toward him.

“So, have you figured out where this book of yours is in Visegrad?” she asked pointing to the papers.

“No clue.”

“So you have no idea where it is, you don’t really know what it is, and you have no clue who was chasing after us.”

“Right. But aside from that, I’m really close.”

She laughed and sat down next to him. “Maybe another set of eyes would help.”

“Sure. How’s your Latin?”

“Oh,” again more playful, “not so good.”

“Then maybe I’ll have to stick with the pair I have.”

“They’ve always been a pretty nice pair.”

For several seconds, neither of them said a word.

“Was I just flirting with a priest?” she finally said.

“I don’t know. Question is, Was the priest just flirting with you?”

She was about to answer, when Mendravic stepped into the doorway.

“Ian, have you-Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” they answered in unison.

A bit perplexed, Mendravic answered, “All right … I won’t be. But if you two-”

“We don’t,” they said again as one.

“Okay,” he replied, still not sure what he had just walked in on, though happy enough to let it go. “Did you tell him?” he asked Petra.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I was just about to-”

“Ian, have you seen any of the papers?” Mendravic asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I have them right here. What’s this all about?”

“No, the newspapers, the ones they drove up from Novi-Pazar.”

“I didn’t know they had any. No. Why?”

“And the last time you saw a paper was …”

“I don’t know, five, six days ago. Why?”

“Petra pointed it out to me. Maybe you should take a look.”

Two minutes later, the three of them stood at the kitchen table, eight to ten major European papers waiting on top. The KLA might have been provincial in their worldview, but at least they were more sophisticated when it came to the news they read. Evidently, they wanted to see what kind of an impact they were having outside their own little universe.

“I hadn’t seen one in almost a week, either, until Petra showed me these,” Mendravic said as he began to sift through them. “So I can’t tell you how long these have been running.” He pointed to the lower right-hand corner of the nearest paper, the Frankfurter Allgemeine. A small box was set off from the columns, the look of an advertisement, except, for some odd reason, the language inside was English. Before Pearse could read, Mendravic pulled over several other papers-French, Italian, Greek-noting the identical box in each, and always the same language: English. Pearse read:

Whatever was on Athos, you have friends, Father. In Rome.

Day or night: 39 69884728

Every paper the same. Pearse turned to Mendravic. His phone was at the ready; Pearse took it and dialed. Both men angled their ears to the receiver and listened.

It picked up on the second ring. “Pronto.”

Pearse wasn’t sure what to say. The line remained silent. He looked at Mendravic. Finally, in English, Pearse answered, “I saw your ad.”

“Yes.” The accent was Italian.

“And I’m calling.”

“We’ve had many calls. I need a name.”

A number in a newspaper. People with nothing better to do than to dial it. Pearse understood. Realizing why the man needed his name, however, was hardly a rationale for giving it to him.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing that.”

“Then we can’t help you. We already know the name we’re looking for.”

True, he thought. Even so. “I’m still not comfortable.”

“As I said, then we can’t help you.”

Pearse waited. Another glance at Mendravic. The Croat shrugged. “Photinus,” Pearse said.

There was a pause on the line. “The monastery on Athos.”

“The Vault of the Paraclete.”

Another pause, this one far longer than the others. A decision was being made. “Father Pearse?”

He didn’t know whether to feel relief or anxiety. He was about to answer, when Mendravic suddenly pulled the phone from his ear and hung up.

“What are you doing?” Pearse asked, stunned.

“Do you realize how stupid we both are? I can’t believe I only thought of it now.”

“Thought of what?”

“Think, Ian. What’s the simplest way to find out exactly where you are?”

Pearse shook his head.

“A trace. They were keeping you on the line to pinpoint your location Very easy to do, even with satellite hookups. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

“But they sounded as if they were trying to help.”

“I’m sure they did.”

Pearse stood there, not knowing what to think. Of course Salko was right, but then who would these people be?

The image of the four men from Kukes instantly fixed in his mind. Especially the one who had come after him, the look in his eyes just before Salko had attacked. No threat. No menace.

But if they knew about Athos, why go after him? Why not go after the Manichaeans directly? It didn’t make any sense.

“Do we need to get out of here?” he asked, unwilling, for the moment, to focus on anything but the immediate threat.

“I think we caught it in time,” Mendravic answered. “But I don’t know. We could go to Visegrad, if you want.”

“And sit there?” Pearse said, his mood souring. “I still have no idea where the ‘Hodoporia’ is.”

“The what?” asked Petra.

“The thing we’re looking for. The parchment.” The phone call had evidently taken more of a toll on him than he cared to admit. “I haven’t … gotten it. I haven’t broken the code. And I don’t know if I can. Look, there’s a woman in Rome-”

“All right,” said Mendravic, trying to keep Pearse from sinking deeper into frustration. “We stay here tonight. We go tomorrow. Maybe … I don’t know. I could take a look. You could show me how it works….”

“Oh, that would be good,” Petra piped in, also trying to lighten the mood. “I’m sure you’d be a lot of help.”

“I’m just suggesting-”

“He’s trying to move forward, Salko, not back.”

“Your confidence is overwhelming. I’m sure you-”

“I’ve already been dismissed,” she said. “I couldn’t pass the Latin test.”

“There’s a test?” he answered.

Listening to the two of them was enough to snap Pearse out of his funk. “I get it. You’ve made your point.”

“Good.” Mendravic nodded.

“Look, I’ll … figure it out. I have to figure it out.”

“I don’t think anyone was worried about that,” she said.

Mendravic put his hand to Pearse’s neck; he squeezed once. “My guess is, you get to Visegrad, and everything falls into place. Trust me. You’re friend will be fine.”

Pearse nodded. Why not? The alternative wasn’t worth thinking about.

The contessa had been right. The congregation seemed primed to hear him speak. Harris had spent the better part of the last hour listening to what many considered the preeminent Pentecostal preaching in the South. Archie Conroy and his Ministry of Peace. Five thousand strong had gathered in the largest amphitheater he had ever seen. Another 120,000 had tuned in for the early-morning services. That the contessa had set it all up on such short notice had astounded him. Thirty million on deposit was one thing. Having one of the most powerful ministries in the States at his beck and call was another. Conroy hadn’t flinched. If the contessa was involved, Harris had carte blanche. He was learning not to underestimate her.

“Now, before I hand you over to the colonel, who has been so kind to join us here this morning”-Conroy’s accent and demeanor reeked of southern hospitality, with a little medicine show thrown in just for fun-“I want him to know who is with him today, joining him in prayer.” Conroy paused. “I think I would be right in saying it’s a community of the faithful.” Amens from the crowd. “Which embraces anyone of faith.” He smiled and looked over at Harris. “Even an Anglican, Colonel. Even an Anglican.” A wave of laughter from the audience. Harris could see Conroy wasn’t quite ready to cede the stage.

“Because we are a community here, even though you may be sitting next to someone you don’t know, whose own brand of faith is unknown to you. Look around you. Does he call himself a Baptist? Does she call herself a Methodist? Another a Pentecostal?” Again he turned to Harris. “I think it’s a pretty safe bet you’ll be the only Anglican here, Colonel.” Harris nodded with a smile as the audience laughed. Conroy turned to his congregation. “But does any of it matter if we are a true community in faith? As Paul tells us in Romans, ‘Then let us no more pass judgment on one another, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of a brother.’ Or elsewhere, when he tells us, ‘With one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord.’ ‘One voice.’ For ‘if the dough offered as first fruitsis holy, so is the whole lump; and if the root is holy, so are the branches.’ Look around you at those branches. ‘One voice.’ Can you say that with me?”

The entire congregation echoed, “‘One voice.’”

“Again.”

“‘One voice,’” this time louder.

“Can you hear the power in that? Can you sense the power of that one indomitable spirit-unbroken, untarnished by personal desire, by personal lusts, by personal affectation. ‘One voice.’ Paul warns us in Philippians. He tells us that there are those who ‘preach Christ from envy and rivalry.’ ‘Envy and rivalry,’” he repeated. “How? How can they preach it that way? Because they ‘proclaim Christ out of partisanship.’ ‘Partisanship,’” each syllable given its due. “Those walls they build high, as if somehow they can keep the Word only for themselves, hold Christ within their churches? Can the Lord be so tethered? Can the Lord be kept for only one group, no matter what they call themselves? No. He alone flies free to all who would embrace Him. But to those who embrace ‘partisanship,’ He has only one answer: ‘Affliction and imprisonment.’ Choose to build those walls, choose to place those stumbling blocks between brothers, and you will not find Salvation in Him.

“It seems so obvious, doesn’t it? One God, one salvation, one faith, one voice. How else would He hear us? Even when He afflicted us with the Tower of Babel-that voice scattered throughout, altered, and divided-His message was clear. Those differences don’t matter. Language, culture, wealth”-he paused for emphasis-“denomination. Seek Him out, and you speak but one language. The language of God. The language of Christ.

“Now, I know there are plenty of preachers who think my views on inclusion only complicate things.” He began to pace, nodding, eyes staring straight ahead. “‘Leave things the way they are,’ they say to me. ‘Archie-Baptist with Baptist. Methodist with Methodist. We all have different needs,’ they tell me. And maybe they’re right. Who am I to argue with the status quo? Who am I to say we’re stronger than that, that the only thing that matters is our faith in Christ? What other needs do we have? I don’t know.” He stopped and turned to face the audience again. “When the Pharisees told Jesus that His ways were too dangerous, His message of love and inclusion too bold, He continued on. I don’t know if I have that strength. I can find it only through Him. But henever talked about different needs. He never talked about the status quo. He talked of love and salvation. He talked of ‘one voice.’”

Archie turned again to Harris. “It’s a kind of salvation itself, isn’t it, Colonel?” For all his homespun rhetoric, Conroy knew exactly how to lead a crowd. He was making Harris an essential part of the message-the dissolution of denominational differences, with its personification sitting up onstage with him. An English Anglican and a southern Pentecostal. What could be clearer? Harris was beginning to understand why the contessa had insisted on this venue.

“A kind of protection,” Conroy continued, addressing the audience. “But protection from what? It’s so hard to talk of inclusion when there are those whose very existence is bent on destroying that voice, whose sole aim is to maintain a ‘noisy gong or a clanging cymbal’-as Paul tells us in Corinthians 1:13-rather than to embrace the singular Truth that is Him.” He stopped. “And I’m not talking about my fellow preachers who say, ‘Archie, give it a break.’” A few titters from the audience.

“We’ve been doing it to ourselves for centuries, haven’t we? Allowing personal ends, political ends, commercial ends dictate the destruction of that ‘one voice.’ Within our own community of faithful.” He paused. “And outside it.” He waited for complete silence.

“How many of you think I’m talking about our friends in Rome?”

The response was minimal, the congregants having been too well prepped over the last few weeks of sermons not to know where he was going. “I’m sure I could find fault there. More so than with my fellow preachers. I could give you reasons for five centuries of animosities, bring in experts to explain why that conflict exists, justify the ongoing division. I’m sure the colonel here could tell you far more about that than I could.

“But I won’t ask him, because I believe in ‘one voice.’ Because I believe that maybe, just maybe, we can begin to recognize what binds us and not what separates us. Maybe there’s a chance that we can begin to see beyond our own history to our future. Maybe there’s something in the air that gives us hope, a new beginning”-he again looked to Harris-“a brave new dawn. You’ll forgive me, Colonel, but it is such a nice phrase.” Harris laughed along with the audience.

“Things are happening here that give us that hope, organizations, like the colonel’s, that are saying, ‘Haven’t we come to a point when we’re sick and tired of using our faith to differentiate rather than to incorporate? Disharmonize rather than harmonize? Rend apart rather than heal within?’ We must remember, ‘if two make peace with each other in a single house, they will say to the mountain, “Move from here!” and it will move.’ And there’s never been a better time to make peace in our house.” Another pause.

“Because there is something far more dangerous than our own bickering out there now that demands our attention. Those who want to talk about doctrines and rituals and five hundred years of contention might be too caught up in their own little worlds to recognize when something far more profound appears on the horizon. If we’re to find salvation, we must remember that ‘that day will not come, unless the rebellion comes first, and the man of lawlessness is revealed, the son of perdition.’ Thessalonians 2:3. He who encourages that ‘noisy gong,’ that ‘clanging cymbal’ revealed. He who delights in our own disunion. He who so desperately needs to keep our house divided. For if we were to unite, he would have no hope of defeating us.

“He’s an old foe in a new garb, still intent on his holy war. Who am I talking about?”

A murmur swept through the hall, all of those listening once again too well prepared not to understand whom Conroy meant.

“And he has the audacity to call us godless.” He paused once more. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. I think it’s time to let the colonel tell you all about that, and the wonderful work he and his Faith Alliance are planning.” Conroy turned to him. “It gives me great pleasure to introduce to you, Colonel Nigel Harris.”

The audience erupted as Harris stepped to the podium to shake Conroy’s hand. The man had set him up masterfully. The audience was primed. Harris only hoped that the other ministries the contessa had scheduled would make his job as easy.

Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.

Black smoke.

From his perch on a balcony above the Arco della Campane, Kleist watched as the mass of humanity let out a collective groan. The second vote of the morning. He could only imagine the cardinal’s mood right now.

They had taken the girl last night in Berlin, centrally located enough so that the story had hit most of the European papers and television shows by midmorning. Maybe not early enough. Kleist had to hope that the news would find its way to the appropriate ears by the afternoon vote, for his own sake, if not for von Neurath’s.

Even so, they’d already targeted a second child-in Sao Paulo, with enough traces left behind at the scene to point a finger at yet one more of the soon-to-be-infamous groups out of the Middle East. It would be sufficient to get the message across.

While he watched the horde pulse within St. Peter’s Square, Kleist pulled what looked to be a calculator from his jacket pocket, the device no bigger than his palm. He flipped open its lid, revealing a small screen with three or four buttons below. Using the tip of his pen, he began to tap out various instructions, file after file appearing then disappearing before he reached deep enough into the system to find what he wanted. He pressed one of the buttons; the hum of a phone line began to emanate from the device. Within a few seconds, it was dialing, the sound of a fax connection moments later. With another quick tap, the information on the screen began its cyberspace journey to the editors of Corriere della Sera in Milan. Von Neurath’s choice. Something about completing the circle. Kleist hadn’t bothered to ask.

When the transmission was complete, he pulled up a second file, more information linked to the Syrian involvement with the Vatican Bank, various holes from the first file filled in, others made more ambiguous. This time, La Repubblica in Rome the destination. A third file for La Stampa in Turin. Il Gazzetino in Venice was the last to receive the anonymous tip. Together, the four papers would be able to piece together enough to make the story front-page news. And always with the name Arturo Ludovisi at its center.

Sacrificing one of their own for the sins of the many.

At least that was how von Neurath had explained it-the choice of words, thought Kleist, a clear indication that perhaps thirty years within the fold had affected the cardinal more than he realized.

No matter. By tonight, the entire world would be privy to the latest mind-bending catastrophe out of the Institute of Religious Works, a mere trickle of the deluge to come. But the bloodhounds would have to wait for at least a few more days. Time enough to place von Neurath on the papal throne.

And by that time, there’d be much bigger stories holding their attention.

Pen at the ready, Kleist stared at the delete command flashing up at him. For some reason, he was having trouble following von Neurath’s instructions to erase the files. He stood alone on the balcony, the room behind him empty. Still, he felt the need to glance over his shoulder. No one. Kleist looked back at the tiny screen, his pen once again poised above.

With a gentle tap, he reengaged the phone line. Another connection, this one somewhere in Barcelona. A second tap.

All four files went at once.

Von Neurath had given him a direct order.

The contessa, however, had always given him far more.

And she would understand.

“No, no. That’s more than enough.” Mendravic placed what he thought was the last bag of food in the back of the van, the woman at his side insisting he take one more. “We’ll be able to pick up what we need along the way,” he tried to explain.

“Not if someone’s looking for you,” she answered, and pushed the bag into his arms.

The woman was somewhere in her late forties. She held her hands atop two full hips, broad shoulders below an equally wide, if almost square, head. Her face, though, was that of a much younger woman, lovely pale skin, with bright blue eyes that peered over at Mendravic. Pearse sensed there was something of a history between them. Funny that he’d never thought to ask about that part of Salko’s life. Or any part of his life, come to think of it. An affinity built on circumstance.

“All right,” said Mendravic, smiling, “but if I take it, I get to take you, as well.” He bent over and placed the bag alongside the others in the van.

“You’d be so lucky. You barely fit inside the car yourself.” She reached underneath and pinched the middle of his stomach. “You’d probably make me sit in the back with all the food.”

“Would I do that?” Mendravic answered, still fiddling with the bags. “I’d have Ian drive. Then I’d show you what the back of this van is really good for.”

A mighty wallop landed on his back, the woman looking over at Pearse, the paleness of her skin unable to hide the hint of a blush.

“He didn’t mean that, Father,” she said, the red growing on her face.

“Oh yes he did,” said Mendravic, head still buried inside the van.

Another slap on the back.

She smiled. “Well, maybe he did.” And with that, she turned, giving Mendravic a final swat before heading back to the house. “But not likely it’s going to happen.”

Mendravic emerged from the van just in time to see her step to the door. “Poor woman doesn’t know what she’s missing, Ian,” he said, loudly enough for her to hear.

“Oh yes she does,” she answered, not bothering to look back. A moment later, she was gone.

Mendravic laughed to himself, then turned to Pearse, handing him the keys. “Lady friend or not, you drive. I’m tired.”

“I wanted to say good-bye to Petra and Ivo.”

“Of course. So do I. You wouldn’t be needing the back of the van, would you?”

“I can hit a lot harder than your friend can.”

“Does Petra know that?”

Pearse started to answer, only to find he had nothing to say. “Do we know where she is?”

“I said quarter to. Give her another five minutes.”

As if on cue, Petra emerged from the house, a pack on her shoulder. “Is he in the front?” she asked, tossing the pack into the back of the van.

“What are you doing?” asked Mendravic as he retrieved the pack and handed it to her.

“Getting ready to leave,” she answered.

“I thought we discussed this.”

“No, you told me what you wanted me to do. I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided that we’re going with you.”

“I think that’s a mistake,” answered Mendravic.

“Yes, I know that’s what you think. And I think we’d be worse off staying here if they did get a trace on the place.” Again, she tried to toss the pack in; again, he stopped her.

“I told you this morning,” Mendravic’s tone more pointed, “they’d have been here by now.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Getting out of here is the only way to be sure.”

“She does have a point,” Pearse piped in.

The look from Mendravic was enough to stifle any other helpful comments.

“If it were just you, I’d understand,” Mendravic continued. “In fact, we’d be better off with you. But I’ve no interest in taking Ivo into God knows what. They might or might not show up here. Fine. But they’ll definitely be in Visegrad. That doesn’t seem like too difficult a choice to me.”

“Then you stay here.”

“You want me to …” His frustration was mounting. “Fine, then Ivo and I will stay here.”

“Ivo comes with me.”

Pearse had forgotten how the two of them approached “discussions.”

“You’re not making any sense here, Petra.”

“No. You’re just not understanding what I’m saying.”

“I understand perfectly well what-”

“No, you don’t.”

“Look, if you’re afraid of losing Ian again-” Mendravic stopped, realizing he’d overstepped the bounds. The ice in Petra’s eyes was all the confirmation he needed. “Try and understand,” he said, his tone less shrill. “My only concern here is Ivo.”

Petra held his gaze, the venom no less intense. She tossed her pack past him and into the van, then started for the front. “I’ll take him on my lap for the first part of the trip.” She opened the door, the cold stare replaced by a look of confusion. She turned to Mendravic. “Where is he?”

It took a moment for the question to register. “What?”

“Ivo. Where is he?”

“I thought he was in the house with you.”

An anxious look crossed her face. “I told you that he was coming out to help you with the car.”

Mendravic continued to stare at her, his eyes replaying an earlier conversation between them. “I thought-”

“He never came out?” she broke in, now looking past Mendravic to Pearse.

Pearse shook his head. “He must still be in the house.”

It was an obvious answer, but one that seemed to catch Petra completely by surprise. Without even so much as a nod, she raced back up the steps, shouting Ivo’s name as she went.

Clearly addled, Mendravic turned to Pearse. “I could have sworn she said-”

“I’m sure he’s just waiting for her.”

Mendravic nodded slowly.

“He’s not there,” she said when she reappeared. “I told you that he was coming outside-”

“I’m sure you did.” It was Pearse who spoke, trying to calm her. Strange, he thought, to have the roles reversed, Petra and Salko always so unflappable. Not that he didn’t understand their reaction, but somehow he trusted little Ivo, sensed that he was all right, no reason for panic to cloud the response.

“He’s probably just taken off on another adventure,” Pearse continued, waiting for Petra to turn and look at him. When she did, he said, “I’m sure he’s fine. We just have to find him.” Before she could answer, he added, “I’ll take the houses down this way, Salko can take the ones up that way, and you stay here in case he shows up.”

Petra listened, then nodded.

Mendravic was already halfway to the first house, shouting out a resonant “Ivo” every few steps; Pearse turned and began to do the same.

The streets were all but deserted, everyone either enjoying lunch or an early nap. The few who were out hadn’t seen the boy. Pearse was nearing the edge of the village, his faith in his own intuition dwindling, when he heard a voice from above.

“Little guy?” the voice said. Pearse looked up, to see a man sitting on his roof, various tools for repairing a leak scattered about. “Light brown hair, with a thousand questions?”

“That sounds like him,” said Pearse.

The man nodded. “He had to know what each one of these pieces was for,” he said, positioning a sheet of tin as he spoke. “Why I hadn’t made the roof better the first time. Why I was the only one who had to fix his roof. Turned out that all he really wanted to talk about was Pavle.” When Pearse continued to stare, the man said, “The boy who died yesterday.”

Pearse nodded. Evidently, their distraction hadn’t worked quite as well as they’d thought.

“You ask me, he was a little too curious. Things like that shouldn’t … Anyway. I finally told him to go find the hohxa if he was so interested. He went in maybe fifteen minutes ago.” The man nodded toward the holy man’s house.

Pearse thanked him and made his way to the edge of the village.

It was clear why the little hut stood off by itself. Smaller than the rest, it seemed overburdened by its own dilapidation, a rutted heap of veined stonework lumbering against the hillside, the right-hand side with a pronounced hump. The two windows on either side of the door seemed equally downtrodden, staring groggily out from behind a haze of dirt and dried rain, no indication as to when they’d last been cleaned. But it was the roof that looked most out of place, unlike anything he’d seen in the village, a misshapen dome atop four clumsy walls. A distant reminder of the church of San Bernardo, pious inelegance reduced here to a rural oafishness.

And yet, it retained an undeniable spirituality, a stillness amid a world trampling it underfoot.

Pearse stepped up to the small porch.

The door stood ajar, a faint light coming from inside, the odor of incense wafting out to greet him; he pushed through, uttering a hesitant “Hello.” The state of the windows made outside light an impossibility, a few candles here and there to bring the place to life-table, chairs, oaken chest lost to the shadows. Otherwise, the room slept in a kind of stasis, even the candlelight unwilling to flicker.

No response.

He moved farther in. He noticed a staircase along the left wall, uneven boards rammed into the stone, no railing, naked steps, barely wide enough for one. More light from above. He headed across the room and made his way up.

Reaching the second floor, he came upon the hohxa eating quietly in front of a flimsy wooden table, an equally ancient chair supporting what Pearse could only describe as one of the thinnest bodies he had ever seen. The man wore a brimless hat far back on his head, the panoply of colors having faded to a dull brown, a few threads of blue and red still visible at the crown. No less aged, a vest hung loose on his shoulders, a striped long-sleeved shirt-no collar-beneath. He kept his legs tucked neatly under the chair, his back and head stooped painfully over the bowl, a gnarled hand clutching at a wedge of bread that seemed more prop than meal. He squeezed at it repeatedly as he brought the spoon to his lips, always careful to scoop up the excess from his chin before plunging in for another helping. When the bowl was all but empty, he mopped the bread across the last few drops, then slowly began to gnaw at the soggy crust.

Only when Pearse had drawn to within a few feet of him did he look up.

“You’ve misplaced your boy,” he said.

“Yes,” Pearse answered, not exactly sure what protocol demanded.

“Nice little fellow,” said the hohxa. “Clever. You don’t seem too worried.”

Pearse realized he wasn’t. Again, no answer why. “I’m not.”

“Good. Do you want some soup? I have plenty.”

“Actually-”

“You want the boy.”

Pearse nodded. There was something oddly serene to the little man and his bread, much like his house, both broken beyond repair, yet somehow comfortable in their easy deterioration.

With significant effort, he pulled himself up, his back only marginally straighter, a quick adjustment of the hat as he shuffled to the far end of the room.

“You’re the priest, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m the priest.”

“Strange how it all comes together, isn’t it?”

Pearse had no idea what the man meant; he nodded.

“It’s important for children to see this. You could learn something.” He slowly pulled back the edge of a curtain to reveal a tiny alcove, the smell of incense and camphor oil at once stronger. “This isn’t something to protect them from.”

Inside, Pavle’s body lay on a bier, shrouded under three large white linen sheets. At his side sat Ivo, hands in his lap, baseball in hands, his back to the curtain.

“He wanted to know,” said the holy man in a whisper. “And when they’re curious, you have to tell them.”

Pearse started in, but the hohxa held his arm.

“We sat together for a while. He wanted to stay. I told him to come out and eat when he was ready.”

The hohxa released his arm; Pearse pulled the curtain farther to the side and stepped into the alcove as the man returned to the table. As quietly as he could, Pearse crouched by Ivo’s side.

For perhaps half a minute, he said nothing. Ivo seemed content to sit, as well. “Pretty brave coming here by yourself,” Pearse said at last.

Ivo nodded, his eyes still on the covered body.

He wasn’t sure exactly what was holding the boy’s fascination, beyond the obvious. He decided not to press it. Another few seconds, and Ivo finally turned to him. “It’s different from last time.”

Pearse nodded slowly.

“When you don’t know someone,” said Ivo, looking back at the body, “it’s different.”

Petra evidently hadn’t told him everything about their stay in the country during the Mostar bombings. Again he waited.

“It doesn’t make me as sad this time. Is that bad?”

“I don’t think so,” said Pearse. “It doesn’t make me as sad, either.”

Ivo turned to him. “You didn’t know Radisav.”

“You’re right. I didn’t. But I’ve known other people. When your Mommy and Salko and I fought in the war.”

Ivo thought about it, then nodded. “I guess so. But you didn’t know Radisav.”

Pearse shook his head. “No, I didn’t know him.”

“It makes me sad when I think of him.”

Very hesitantly, Pearse placed his hand on Ivo’s shoulder. The two sat for several minutes. Finally, Ivo stood up. “It’s just different,” he said, clutching the ball in his left hand. With the other, he reached out to the shrouded body, placing his hand on it, a little boy’s need to touch.

Pearse’s natural instinct was to say a prayer. He quietly stood and crossed himself. Probably best, though, not to say a paternoster with a Muslim holy man nearby, especially given the events surrounding the young man’s death. For some reason, the image of Ivo’s outstretched hand reminded Pearse of the five-line couplets, the Ribadeneyra verse never too far from his thoughts, even at a moment like this. Somehow, the prayer seemed strangely appropriate.

With his eyes on Ivo, and not quite knowing why, Pearse began to speak the Latin, words for a young man he had known only in final whispers: “‘So do I stretch out my two hands toward You, all to be formed in the orbit of light.’” Ivo turned back and smiled. He took Pearse’s hand, then looked again at the body.

Ivo began to sing the Latin: “‘When I am sent to the contest with darkness, knowing that You can assist me in sight.’”

Pearse stopped. Ivo stopped as well, again the smile as he looked up at Pearse.

“I know that song,” Ivo said. “Salko sings it with me. ‘The fragrance of life is always within me, O living water, O child of light….’”

Pearse stared down at the little face, his body suddenly numb. His mind frozen.

Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.