“As I said, to a greater or lesser extent. But don’t forget, they never abandoned their commitment to faith. Or to Christ as the Messiah.”
“Right, right. But it was a pure, unfettered faith.” His eyes began to drift to a distant point.
“Yes.” She noticed his expression. “Father?” She waited until she had his attention. “I’m sure some of this offends you. I don’t mean to—”
“Not to worry.”
“You’re sure?”
“When I start humming and covering my ears, you’ll know I’ve had enough.”
“Anyway, you can see why orthodox Christianity needed to suppress it. It was their need for control. …” She stopped herself; best to leave the thought unfinished with a priest in the room, no matter what he might have said to the contrary. After several moments, she stood and turned back to the scroll. “None of that, however, helps to answer the question: Why put the Gnostic John at the beginning of a Manichaean prayer? Mani might have started out as a type of Gnostic, but he didn’t end there.” She turned to Pearse. “There are significant differences.”
“Maybe it had something to do with the oral tradition. Something the scribe’s own congregation said before chanting the prayer?”
A dismissive snort of air accompanied a quick shake of her head.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Unless he went counter to everything we know about liturgical transcription,” said Angeli, “of course not.”
“I preferred the snort.”
“I thought you might.” Within seconds, she was back with the parchment, her lips once again moving silently. “Here, you see, it goes off onto something entirely new.” Without warning, she suddenly stepped away from the desk and headed for one of the bookshelves. Pearse was left to watch as she began to scan row after row, her plump little finger moving anxiously through the air, until, with a jab, she turned to him. “You’re tall enough. It’s the green one on the fourth shelf, two in from the end.” Half a minute later, they had the book at the desk. She flipped through several pages, a little hum to accompany her wanderings; each time, she returned to the parchment with a short “No” before moving on. After six or seven such dismissals, the hum almost a constant, she closed the book and laid it distractedly on a pile behind her. “Odd,” she said, as she made her way back to the shelf; another retrieval by Pearse, another few minutes rejecting theories, one more on the growing pile of discarded texts. The next time at the shelf, she decided to take six books at once, with Pearse left to stand silently by while she hummed through each of them, her expression never drifting beyond the slightly intrigued. He guessed she would have made an excellent poker player. Finally, after nearly ten minutes, her eyes shot up. The look on her face was one of genuine shock. Pearse moved closer.
“The coffee!” she blurted out, and scurried along the central path and out of the room before he could respond. Only then did he fully recall what it was like to work with Cecilia Angeli. Always best to give her a wide berth. In fact, he’d begun to think it might be equally smart to let her spend some time alone with the parchment. There was very little he could add to her investigation, except as a distraction.
A day or so would also give him the chance to bone up on his Gnostic and Manichaean literature. A chance to feel more comfortable with the scroll before following its lead, whatever that might entail. A different image of Christ. Something so tempting in that.
More than that, it would give him time to try to find out what had happened to Dante.
Before she had returned with the coffee, Pearse decided he would leave the scroll with her, tell her nothing of Ruini or Dante, nothing of the monk’s warning, and ask her only to keep the scroll’s discovery to herself. He knew she wasn’t someone to weather a visit from Vatican security all that well. Best to keep her out of range.
He also knew it was an unnecessary request. Angeli was famous for keeping everything close to the chest until she had pieced together the details. Hers was a professional insecurity at its most charming, if extreme. She’d insisted he approach Ambrose that way; it would be no different here.
She reappeared at the door, a tray of coffee and biscotti in hand, an empty chair serving as surrogate table. She began to pour.
“Just a quick cup,” he said, “and then I should probably let you get some sleep.”
“Sleep?” She laughed. “You think I’m going to get any sleep tonight? Why do you think I made the coffee? No, Father, we both know that’s not the way I work. You’ve brought me a new toy; I want to play with it.”
“And we also know that I’d only be getting in the way.”
She handed him a cup, then took one of the cookies. With a little smile, she said, “Yes, that’s probably true.” After a healthy bite, she added, “Your friend won’t mind if I spend some time with it?”
“Absolutely not.” Pearse took a sip of the piping espresso. “Of course, if you find anything more than just odd—”
“I’ll get in touch with you at once. Of course.” She had taken her cup and another biscotti back to the desk, a tiny space between dome and edge all that was left for both. “You, after all, were the one to bring it to me.” Another bite of the cookie. “I suspect I’ll have something in the next few days. As you know, I like to work … alone, so I take a bit longer.”
“I’ll try and remember the access codes from last time,” he said with a smile.
“It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“The results are always worth it.”
“You’re such a nice priest. Still, it’s a shame. …”
Half a cup of espresso later, they stood at the door, Angeli clearly eager to get back to her “toy.” The good-byes were brief.
By quarter past twelve, he stood on the Ponte Garibaldi, a starry sky having all but swept away the mist and rain, a hint of cool air off the water a belated apology for the day. He let the breeze sift through his hair and clothes as he walked, the sound of the Tiber constant as his own pace. He stopped for a few moments at the apex of the bridge, lights from each bank streaming onto the edge of the water, never, though, infringing more than a few yards, a narrow strip of deep velvet at center. Pearse stared out at the abyss, caught up in its imagined emptiness.
Light and darkness, he thought. The simplicity in contrast somehow so comforting.
The vigilanza at the gate seemed surprised by his late return. Priests—even those without collars—were usually in bed at this hour. Pearse didn’t recognize a single face as the guards gave both him and his identification a thorough examination before letting him through. The unfamiliarity evidently mutual, they continued to watch him as he made his way to the archway.
The change in weather had somehow eluded the Vatican, a dusty drizzle pressing at him as he walked up to his entryway. With no Jesuit to evade this time around, he managed the door with ease, the light from the foyer slipping into dim haze as he mounted the steps; the third-floor corridor waited silently. Trying to mirror its stillness, he tiptoed toward his room, gingerly pulling the key from his pocket before easing it into the lock. Inside, he slowly pressed the door shut, then placed the key on a side table.
“Quarter to one,” came a voice from somewhere behind him. Pearse spun round, his eyes as yet unaccustomed to the dark, the striped shadows streaming in from the windows as he tried to pinpoint the unseen speaker. “That’s rather late, isn’t it?” His first inclination was to reach back for the door handle, but a figure suddenly appeared at his right, a large hand spread wide across the center of the door. Pearse turned back into the room, his eyes now clearer, the outline of a figure seated by the far window, another at its side. From his chair, the man flicked on a nearby table lamp. “Why don’t you have a seat, Father?”
One by one, Pearse stared at the men, all three in dark suits. “How did you get in here?” he asked.
Stefan Kleist, still seated, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small wallet. He flipped it open to reveal
an identification card. “Vatican security,” he answered.
The man in the chair was smaller than the others, far less overpowering, yet clearly more menacing. Or perhaps it was the accent, thought Pearse. The precision of an Austrian German as he articulated English; he couldn’t tell. “I wasn’t aware that gave you permission to enter a priest’s private apartments in the middle of the night.”
“Only under certain circumstances, Father.” Kleist seemed strangely deferential, far less snide than with his initial quip.
“And that usually entails waiting around for one of them to return?”
“Why don’t you have a seat?”
Pearse remained by the door, aware that the room had changed subtly since he’d last seen it. The books were back on the shelves, no longer on the floor by the sofa, the plate of cheese altogether gone. The ball was back in his glove. Someone had decided to clean up—perhaps too well—after what had no doubt been a painstaking overhaul of the apartment. He glanced once more at the man nearest to him—at least six foot seven, eyes vacant, no need to threaten, his frame imposing enough. Pearse slowly moved to the sofa and sat. A vicarious sense of déjà vu swept over him.
“Where’s the scroll, Father?” asked Kleist.
The man’s candor momentarily caught him off guard. Not that he had any idea what they thought they would find in it; still, given Dante’s experience, he had expected a bit more finesse. “Scroll?” he replied.
“Tonight’s not the night to play games.” Kleist’s expression remained unchanged, his tone enough to convey his impatience. “You saw the monk at Ruini’s funeral.”
“How did you know—”
“Do you often go out without your collar?” Kleist continued, producing the thin strip of white material from the tabletop. “Or is that only when you’re in a rush?” Pearse said nothing. “What were you in such a hurry to find?” He waited, then asked again. “The scroll, Father—where is it?”
Pearse kept his eyes locked on the small man, trying not to display any of the panic mounting in his chest. He became acutely aware of the silence, second after second slipping by, until he heard the sound of a distant voice break through. “Don’t you mean statuette?” Pearse was still staring, amazed that the words had come from his own mouth. He watched as a hint of uncertainty crept across the Austrian’s eyes.
“What?” asked Kleist.
“Dante said there was some question of provenance,” Pearse continued, no less stunned at the ease with which he let the words slip out. “That the monastery’s claim was prior to the Vatican’s.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The fertility god he found in the catacombs. The statuette.” He seemed to be gaining momentum. “He said you’d be eager to get your hands on it, although I’m not sure he thought you’d go to these lengths. Isn’t that what this is all about?”
Kleist said nothing for several seconds, his gaze fixed on Pearse. When he finally spoke, precision once again laced his words. “This is much simpler than you seem to understand, Father.” He paused, then continued. “We both know the monk never mentioned a statuette. Or any questions of provenance. He told you about a scroll.”
Again, Pearse said nothing, the Austrian evidently willing to wait.
After nearly a minute, however, his patience had grown thin. He began to nod. “All right,” he said, getting to his feet and buttoning his jacket, “then let’s go and see this statuette of yours.”
“What?” blurted out Pearse, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. “Now?”
“Yes, now, Father,” he replied, standing patiently in front of his chair. “If it’s where you say it is, then we’ve made a terrible mistake, and you have our apologies.” The delivery was devoid of any emotion. “If not, then we’ll have to start all over again.”
Nothing in the words approximated what Pearse saw in the eyes staring back at him. Eyes that made it abundantly clear why the smallest of the three was issuing the commands. And it had very little to do with the accent. Remember the monk; remember the terror in his voice. With only a glance, the man had said as much.
Pearse’s tone was far less controlled when he spoke. “Look, I’m a priest—”
“A Vatican priest,” Kleist reminded firmly, without raising his voice. “Which places you under our jurisdiction.”
“I’m also an American—”
“In an independent nation-state that houses no embassies.” He let the well-practiced words sink in. “Vatican City recognizes no claims by foreign states to infringe upon the sovereignty of His Holiness, the Pope. As representatives of that sovereignty, we are equally unrestricted in our handling of those who claim citizenship within its walls.” He waited, then continued. “The statuette, Father.”
A nervous courage surged to the fore. “And what if I refuse to show you where it is?”
“Why would you do that?” he asked, again with no trace of emotion. “As I said, we’re interested in a scroll. You show us this statuette of yours, and we’ll have nothing more to talk about.”
Pearse suddenly realized how well the man from security had played him. He tried to maintain his edge. “Except your apology.”
For some reason, Kleist allowed himself a grin. “Yes, Father. Except that.”
“This can’t wait?”
“No.” The grin was gone. “It can’t.”
With a nod from Kleist, the man across the room opened the door and stepped outside, waiting in the hall for the others to emerge. At the same time, the second man moved behind the sofa, again no need to threaten, his size more than enough to prompt Pearse to his feet. Kleist took a step closer to his quarry, then motioned for Pearse to join the man in the corridor.
No choice. No options. Whatever strands of reasoned argument Pearse had clung to now began to swirl in his head at a feverish pace. Vatican priest. The attribution had never sounded so threatening. He felt an overwhelming wave of panic sweep through him as he started for the door.
The closer he got to the corridor, however, the more his panic seemed to surrender to a feeling of supreme isolation, a sense that he was somehow removed, floating above it all, monitoring the entire episode from some distant point—its effect numbing. Under its ever-deepening sway, Pearse began to experience a kind of detached lucidity, his mind suddenly uncluttered by the frantic search for escape of only moments ago. His legs simply moved.
At the door, he watched himself as he calmly stopped and turned back to his captor. “I’ll need the map,” he said, the voice clearly his own. “Dante drew one up so I could find it.”
Kleist, growing impatient with the ongoing charade, seemed unaware of the almost mesmeric quality in Pearse’s voice and body. “So you could find the statuette?” he asked, the first tinge of anger in his voice.
“No,” answered Pearse. “The scroll.”
For an instant, Kleist didn’t know how to respond. He’d expected the priest to play it out, maintain the ruse until its futility prompted the all-too-familiar lapse into hysteria—more often than not, once inside the car. He’d seen that sort of captivity work wonders in the past. And yet, this priest had done neither. He had admitted the truth without the usual ranting. “A map of San Clemente?”
Pearse nodded, his eyes fixed on the far wall. “Yes.”
“Where?”
Pearse pointed to the bookshelf.
A twinge of frustration creased Kleist’s lips. “We didn’t find any map in there.” Pearse started toward the shelf, Kleist’s powerful hand quick to rein him in. “I told you, we didn’t find anything.”
The pressure on his chest seemed to release Pearse from his stupor. His mind, however, was still focused, rising above the panic. He kept absolutely still, his eyes trained on the far wall. Something was telling him he needed to piece together the last thirty seconds. Something in his subconscious. What aren’t I seeing? “It’s in a compartment in the back panel,” he said. “You wouldn’t have found it.”
Klei
st kept his arm on Pearse’s chest. Neither said a word. After several seconds, the smaller man slowly released him, motioning for Pearse to find the map. Doing as he was told, Pearse moved to the bookshelf, his eyes still fixed on the wall. As he stepped to the side of the shelf, reality and subconscious began to collide, image into image—a moment of perfect fusion. Not the wall … the window … the fire escape. … I’ve been looking at the fire escape. He knelt down, now between shelf and window, careful to keep his movements slow, even, as if he were searching for something. He could sense the panes of glass directly behind him, both slightly ajar, a hint of air through the gap at the center. Ten seconds into the phantom probe, he saw Kleist begin to step toward him.
On pure impulse, Pearse launched the shelf out into the room, the wooden case scraping along the floor before crashing to a stop at Kleist’s feet. An instant later, he swung his hand up against the lamp, it, too, tossed from its perch, wire plucked from socket, all light extinguished in a blinding instant. Pearse heard the movement, felt the rush of bodies within the room, amazed to feel his own back thrusting against the window, the two panes parting behind him as he tumbled out and onto the fire escape. A harsh glare hammered from above, a wild hand reaching after him, but he was already on his feet, hands grasping at the rails, rust grinding against his palms as he found the steps and began to hurtle his way down. No thought to the men above, to the sound of emphatic pursuit, only the stairs, the final row taken in a single vault, his feet landing on the ground, hands to the gravel so as to break his fall. The clatter from behind grew louder as he struggled to his feet, the alley far narrower than he had imagined from his third-floor roost.
He began to run, the path cutting to his left no more than twenty feet from the stairs, at once pitch-black as he continued on, hands now sliding along smooth stone, eyes squinting for any hint of a distance. He had no idea where he was, no sense of the buildings, only the need to keep moving. He was sure the Austrian was behind him, a pair of grasping hands ready to clamp down on his shoulder at any moment, throw him to the ground.
The Book of Q Page 10
