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. “Sì?”
“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?” Doña 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, Doña, 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 café. “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 dr
iver 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.”
The Book of Q Page 6
