The Book of Q

by Jonathan Rabb

  What Pearse saw, however, astounded him. Half of the words in the triangle coincided exactly with the phrases from the Ribadeneyra entries. It was only their location that puzzled him.

  “Hand me my pack,” he said to Petra, his eyes still glued to the page. Ivo quickly leaned forward and picked up the pack; he wasn’t quite strong enough to lift it, Petra lending a hand as he brought it to Pearse’s lap. Staring a few moments longer at the page, Pearse then placed the open book on the dashboard and pulled the papers from inside the pack.

  It took him less than five minutes to write out the answers he had deciphered from the one-line through the four-line entries, along with the unsolved five-line verse as Ribadeneyra had written it. He lettered the five separate sections A through E, each with its corresponding line entry. Staring down at the finished copy, he began to see where the Spaniard had been leading him all along.

  1. Visegrad A-1

  2. Near the awakening A-2

  3. Rises A-3

  4. When light and darkness meet A-4

  5. So do I stretch out my two hands toward You A-5

  6. Esau B-1

  7. Near the sin of Jacob B-2

  8. Becoming B-3

  9. Noble bridge B-4

  10. All to be formed in the orbit of light B-5

  11. Wisdom and piety C-1

  12. Over the herbs C-2

  13. Opens C-3

  14. The Inn C-4

  15. When I am sent to the contest with darkness C-5

  16. Gnosis strikes wine D-1

  17. Floating above D-2

  18. Enoch D-3

  19. The hills make ascent D-4

  20. Knowing that You can assist me in sight D-5

  21. Treasure E-1

  22. Revealed E-2

  23. The enlightener speaks E-3

  24. To his disciples E-4

  25. The fragrance of life is always within me E-5

  The first series was clear enough. “Visegrad, near the awakening, rises when light and darkness meet.” The light and darkness were meeting in the triangle; the triangle was near “The Awakening” in the prayer book; and Visegrad was “rising” from it. Ergo: The triangle somehow represented Visegrad.

  Now to the geography of the town. Pearse noticed that the first two or three lines of each set pinpointed different areas in the triangle.

  “Esau near the sin of Jacob”—Esau, Peccatum, Jacobus: lower right.

  “Wisdom and piety over the herbs”—Sapientia, Pietas, Olera: middle and lower left.

  And finally, “Gnosis strikes wine floating above Enoch”—Gnosis, Vinum, Enoch: upper left and right.

  Three sides of the triangle.

  The last line of each set held the ultimate key. Esau on the lower right became the “noble bridge.” Wisdom on the middle left opened “the inn.” And Gnosis up top defined “the hills.” Three landmarks within Visegrad. Three points of a triangle.

  Even without reading the last set, Pearse knew exactly where the “Hodoporia” lay hidden on the map. Where else could it be but with Mani at its center? The treasure revealed in “the enlightener.”

  His disciple? The one to solve the mystery.

  Like all good Manichaeans, Ribadeneyra had chosen his landmarks well. The bridge, though bombed in the recent war, remained roughly intact. The hills were the hills. The only question was, Where was the inn? Without that third point in the triangle, it would be impossible to locate the center.

  “Where can I find an old map of Visegrad?” he asked, tracing the triangle from Ivo’s book onto a separate sheet.

  “How old?” Petra asked.

  “Sixteenth, seventeenth century.”

  She watched him as he continued to draw. “Now where did I leave my sixteenth-, seventeenth-century map of Visegrad?”

  Not bothering to look up, he said, “I’m serious.”

  “A four-hundred-year-old map? I have no idea. Maybe at the city hall. Why?”

  “Because I need to know where something called ‘the inn’ would have been in 1521.”

  “At the entry to the old marketplace,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Where the road to Mejdan starts to climb.”

  “I said I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  Now, he looked up.

  “I promise,” she said.

  “How do you know where—”

  “Because anyone who grew up in this part of the world knows the story of the old inn. It’s one of the first things you learn in school.”

  “In school?”

  She turned to Ivo and began to sing: “‘The boy from the hills, when he grew to a man—’”

  “‘Was known to the world as the Grand Mehmed Pasha,’” Ivo continued with a wide smile. “‘He gave us the bridge near the mighty Stone Han, from Rade the Mason of the great Turkish Empire.’”

  Pearse stared at both of them. “What are you talking about?”

  Ivo giggled; Petra smiled. She sang again: “‘So went the wood and the hay and stables, the inn tumbled down by the Grand Mehmed Pasha.’”

  “‘Say good-bye to the wood and the hay and the stables,’” sang Ivo. “‘Make way for the Han of the Grand Mehmed Pasha.’”

  “The Grand who?” Pearse asked.

  “Mehmed Pasha of Sokolovici,” she said in her best kindergarten-teacher voice. “He was one of Suleiman’s viziers.” When she saw no change in Pearse’s expression, she said, “A local boy who made good. Around 1570, he decided he wanted to bring civilization to Bosnia, so he built the bridge, and, with it, the Stone Han—‘the great caravanserai.’ Hence the song.”

  “And what does that have to do with the inn?”

  “The inn stood on the spot where they built the Stone Han,” she explained.

  Pearse began to nod slowly. “But first he tore down the wood and the hay—”

  “‘Tumbled down,’” said Ivo.

  “Right. ‘Tumbled down.’ Sorry, Ivi.” He waited for a nod. He then turned back to Petra. “And the old inn would have been there fifty years before this pasha decided to be so magnanimous?”

  “Well, no one’s really sure when the old inn was built,” she said, “but the legend goes back to at least the early 1400s. That’s why it was such a big deal when he ‘tumbled it down.’”

  “So anyone who came through Visegrad, say in 1521, would have known about the old inn?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Pearse thought to himself for a moment. “Would you be able to pick out the spot where the old inn would have been on a current map of the city?”

  “Sure.”

  He handed her the pages, the book, and the pack.

  Half a minute later, they were on the road to Visegrad.

  There was something distinctly non-Vatican about the rooms buried under the library, a coldness in gray steel to repel even a spiritual fire. Peretti had never been to the Gabbia before, the place an odd mixture of 1950s nuclear-provisioned and 1990s high-tech-obsessed. Doors several feet thick separated one room from the next, each fitted with an air-lock device, what he could only describe as an iron steering wheel wedged in at the center. They were archaic contrivances, however, when compared to the electronic gizmos that lined the walls, the oncespacious bunker now turned into very cramped quarters. Living areas had become computer rooms, open-atria communications centers.

  A base from which to maintain the faith, even in the face of Cold War annihilation.

  The only space that retained any link with the city above was the chapel, two stories high, squeezed in at the back of the complex: marble panels camouflaged the steel walls and floors; the flicker of chandeliers replaced the hum of fluorescent lights; paintings hung above the altar—Peretti recognized a Filippo Lippi—a gentle reminder of what they were here to protect; and, along the nave, twin rows of richly grained pews extended to the back wall.

  All of them empty save for the nine shaken cardinals sitting alone in silent prayer.

  Peretti glanced at t
he bent figures. They were, for the most part, i vecchii, “the old ones,” cardinals beyond eighty, who no longer voted in the conclave but whose spiritual presence remained essential. It was their age that had saved them, too slow to get back to the Sanctae Marthae in time for the explosions. Little consolation in that. The oldest was Virgilio Cardinal Dezza, long ago Archbishop of Ferrara, a tiny rail of a man with a full head of white hair. Peretti had talked with him just this morning, nothing about the vote (of course), but about the beauty of the Sistine. Dezza had admitted he had always had a certain soft spot for the pagan sibyls on the ceiling—a thought that perhaps Michelangelo had painted them with a little more care, just to get a jab in at old Julius II. It had made him laugh; Peretti had laughed, as well.

  Now, Dezza seemed a broken man.

  Peretti dipped his fingers in the holy water, crossed himself, and knelt in the aisle. He then made his way to Dezza’s side. The old man’s eyes were closed. Peretti closed his as well and began to pray.

  When he opened them, Dezza was looking up at him, a pained smile on his lips.

  “Peretti.” He placed a hand on his knee. “You weren’t …” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. “Thanks be to God. It’s a terrible thing. Terrible.”

  Peretti nodded.

  “And the rest of it,” the old man continued. “Is it a sign? Hail and fire, mixed with blood, falling to the earth. Is He coming?”

  Dezza had reached that point in life where tragedy could be understood only as omen. Not unusual for men so long devoted to the church. “Terrorists, Eminence,” Peretti said. He had known Dezza for too many years—first as bishop, then as cardinal—not to call him by anything but his title. “They were bound to find their way into the Vatican at some point.”

  The old man looked at him. “But it isn’t just here, Giacomo. It isn’t just the Vatican, is it?”

  Peretti wasn’t sure what to make of the expression—a genuine terror or a hint of senility—peering up at him. “The church is strong,” he said. “There are others who will take their places.”

  Confusion crossed the old man’s face. “Take their places?” he said. “Even if they’re rebuilt, who will have the courage to step inside one?”

  Peretti stared at him for several seconds. “What are you talking about, Eminence?”

  “The churches, Giacomo. The churches.”

  “What churches?”

  “The ones they destroyed,” he said. “Hundreds of them.”

  Again, Peretti stared at the old man. “What are you talking about?”

  “In the room with the screens,” Dezza said. “It’s all in the room with the screens. The church in flames. Hail and fire, mixed with blood. Hail and fire.” His focus was back on the altar, his hands clasped in prayer. He closed his eyes, the conversation all but forgotten.

  Peretti stood, a quick devotion, then back into the maze of corridors that made up the Gabbia. Three minutes later, he found his way into “the room with the screens.” Thirty or so televisions filled the far wall, each one tuned to a different channel. The pictures were all too similar. Destruction on a massive scale. Stepping farther into the room, he saw von Neurath sitting on a sofa, a group of young priests in chairs around him, each one either jotting furiously on a pad or talking on the phone. It was clear who was dictating their every move. Every so often, von Neurath looked up to catch a report on one of the news programs. Otherwise, his energy remained focused on his entourage. It was during one of his quick glances up that he noticed Peretti in the corner.

  He turned to him at once.

  “Cardinal Peretti,” he said. “They told me you were safe. Thank God you’re alive.”

  Peretti remained by the door. “Yes, Holiness.”

  “A terrible tragedy, Giacomo. You and I were very lucky.”

  When he spoke, Peretti’s words carried no emotion. “Then there must be a reason why He spared us, Holiness.”

  The two men continued to stare at each other. “Yes,” von Neurath said finally. “There must.” He turned to the screens. “And then this,” he said. “It’s all quite unbelievable.”

  “Yes, Holiness.”

  “I thought we had enough trouble with the bank,” von Neurath added, passing a few notes to one of his lackeys. “But I see I was wrong.”

  “Trouble at the bank?” Peretti asked, his tone more confirmation than surprise.

  “You haven’t heard?” Von Neurath looked up, waiting for a response. When Peretti shook his head, he continued. “Not surprising. I found out myself less than an hour ago.” He turned again to the notes. “It looks as if one of our analysts has placed the bank in a rather precarious position with a group of Syrian investors. It’s Ambrosiano all over again, except this time there’s talk of terrorist funding. I’m not really sure of the details.”

  “Remarkable timing, Holiness.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. And they say all of this might be only the beginning.”

  “They, Holiness?”

  Again von Neurath stopped and turned to Peretti. Pointing to the screens, he said, “They, my son. A thousand churches bombed, every continent, every denomination.”

  It was the last word that struck him. “Denomination?” Peretti asked.

  “It’s the Protestants as well, Giacomo. And the Greeks and the Russians.” He began to scribble something on a pad. “It seems as if it’s an all-out war on Christianity.”

  Peretti waited before responding. “Do they say from where, Holiness?”

  “An old enemy,” von Neurath replied, handing a sheet to the man seated across from him. “From the East. Given this new wave of fundamentalism, I suppose it was bound to happen at some point.”

  “I see.” Peretti stared up at the screens. It was more than just destruction he saw. Groups had already begun to rally, outraged men and women waiting to unleash their venom, not a pastor or priest in sight to calm them. Blood lust left to run wild. He turned to von Neurath. “Then we must do what we can to ensure that our church remains strong, Holiness.”

  Again, von Neurath looked over at him. “Yes. We must.”

  An explosion on one of the screens drew the attention of everyone in the room. Peretti took it as his cue to leave.

  He let himself stand in the corridor for a moment, the enormity of what he had just seen and heard quickly relegated to the back of his mind. An all-out war on Christianity. Orchestrated from within the Vatican? If so, it meant that the last place he should be was inside its walls. Peretti headed for the entrance.

  A pair of guards stood silently by the door, a third at a desk, all three with guns at the ready. Peretti approached the man at the desk. The guard recognized him at once and stood.

  “Is something wrong, Eminence?”

  Peretti shook his head quickly. “No, but I need to leave the Gabbia for a few minutes.”

  “That’s not possible, Eminence. It’s still not safe.”

  “Then when will it be safe?”

  The question seemed to fluster the man momentarily. “I … would imagine once the City has been secured, Eminence.”

  “And how long do we think that will take?”

  Again, the guard had no answer.

  Before he could respond, Peretti continued. “Because if it’s later than tonight’s first Mass, then we have a problem. His Holiness has asked me to retrieve a certain book from the library. For the Investiture of Office.” Peretti was making it up as he went. Von Neurath had become Pope the moment he’d answered the cardinal dean’s question, “Volo aut nolo?” with a resounding “Yes.” That he’d have to wait a few days to have the woollen pallium bestowed on him made no difference whatsoever. Chances were, though, that a young Vatican guard knew none of that. “His Holiness must be ordained as quickly as possible, especially given the situation. It’s a simple task, but we will need that book.”

  “Of course. I can send one of my men—”

  “Will he know where to find the Ritus Inaugurationis Feudalis Praedic
ationis?” Not that there was an actual Investiture Proclamation lying around the library—not that such a proclamation even existed—but it sounded reasonable enough.

  “Well … if someone tells him where it is.”

  “That wouldn’t make any difference. It can’t be handled by anyone but a cardinal. Am I now making myself clear?”

  “No. I mean, yes, of course, Eminence.” The man glanced at the two other guards. Both stared straight ahead. No help there. He looked back at Peretti. “You mean he isn’t Pope yet?”

  Peretti waited, then responded. “I can stand here and have this conversation with you for as long as you like. But at some point, you’re going to have to open that door and let me get the Ritus.”

  “But His Holiness—I mean His Eminence …” The guard leaned over the table; in a whisper, he said, “Cardinal von Neurath said that no one was to leave. He gave an express order.”

  Peretti leaned in, as well. “Well, until he’s Pope, that order carries no more weight than my own, now does it?”

  The guard needed a moment for that one. With a newfound resilience, he walked to the door, punched a few numbers into a keypad, and watched as the air lock released. “You,” he said to the man nearest him. “Go with His Eminence. Gun cocked at all times. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The guard turned back to Peretti. “And if you could, Eminence, come back as quickly as possible.”

  “Of course,” said Peretti. “I want to keep myself as safe as I can.”

  The bookshop had all the tourist trappings: picture books on the bridge, postcards, even a few coffee mugs. Ivo had been particularly interested in a scale model of the bridge, the dust on the box saying more about the region’s recent history than any number of news stories could have. The man at the cash register had virtually beamed at the sight of the three of them perusing the stacks, less enthusiastic when Petra had pulled a map from one of the shelves and moved them to the back of the store. No need to be by the windows. Not that she expected Salko’s friends to be prowling the outskirts of town—less so a bookstore—but she’d done too much to make their arrival as inconspicuous as possible to jeopardize those efforts now.