by Sam Cabot
Thomas Kelly met Spencer’s stare. The bellicose set of his shoulders made it clear to Livia how very much he wanted to tell Spencer he knew everything he needed to know about anything and Spencer could go climb a tree, or whatever insult they’d use in Boston. Instead, after a frustrated breath, he said, “I’m told it’s an agreement between the Church and another group. I don’t know who the others are or what it binds each to do but Cardinal Cossa has impressed upon me that it’s secret and highly dangerous. That public knowledge of so much as its existence, never mind its details, could seriously damage the Church. Which, with all due respect to the Cardinal, strikes me as alarmist poppycock.”
Spencer’s only response was a small, amused smile.
Livia said, “No, Father. It’s true.”
Thomas Kelly gave her a hard look, and then shrugged. “If you say so. I have no way to judge and I’m close to not caring. My job was to find it, and I seem to have done that.” He stood. “Give me the notebook.”
“Sit down,” said Spencer. In all these years Livia had never heard Spencer raise his voice; but she also didn’t know anyone who didn’t obey without a second’s pause the granite tone he’d used just now.
Father Kelly, to her surprise, remained on his feet, gave Spencer a calm, wordless stare, then turned back to her. “Give me the notebook.”
“Father,” she said, “please, hear me out. The Concordat’s been found but I—we—don’t have it. None of us know where it is, except the man who discovered it.”
“Ah,” said Spencer, overriding whatever the priest might have been about to say. “And who is that? I assume there’s some reason the Conclave didn’t just ask the finder to gift wrap it and send it over. And some reason, Livia, why you were chosen.”
Spencer’s gaze was at once stern and sympathetic. Livia’s cheeks burned. She nodded to confirm his guess. “It’s Jonah.” From the corner of her eye she saw Thomas Kelly give her an odd look. He didn’t sit down, but he stayed silent.
“Oh,” said Spencer. “Oh, my. I’m beginning to understand. Your young man isn’t at all interested in placing it in the hands of the Conclave, is he? Nor of the Vatican. Let me guess. He’s threatening to make it public.”
“Yes.”
“But he hasn’t yet. So he’s making demands, in return for silence. What could he possibly be asking for?”
“What could he possibly want? It’s not about that. He’s just giving the Conclave a chance to do it formally. He says either they publish the contents or he will.”
“Really? Is he that militant? I had no idea.”
“It was one of the . . . reasons for our split. I tried to tell him the New often feel that way, but that over time he’d come to understand.”
“Apparently he hasn’t. And what does the Conclave expect of you? Surely they’re capable of searching out and dealing with a renegade on their own?”
Livia’s heart skipped at “dealing with.” “Of course. But they don’t just want Jonah. They want the Concordat. So this can’t happen again. They think I can find both him and it because I know him so well.”
“And because he’s your responsibility,” Spencer said, sounding severe. Spencer had his own opinions on some of the Laws, but the accountability of a Lord for a Disciple was one he believed in strongly. It was, she suspected, one reason he had never become anyone’s Lord.
“Yes,” she acknowledged. Her face flushed but she met Spencer’s gaze. “That’s right.”
“Are they correct? Can you call him up and have a nice chat, during which he’ll gladly disclose the location of his hidey-hole? Or skip over that step and go fetch the Concordat directly because you already know where that place might be?”
She shook her head. “For one thing, they think he’s not the one who hid it. He only says he knows where it is—it’s likely what’s happened is, he’s somehow found its hiding place. For another . . . It’s been a long time, Spencer. I don’t think I know him anymore.”
Spencer nodded. “Well. I must admit to feeling a certain amount of sympathy.”
Livia was about to thank him when she realized he didn’t mean, for her. “Spencer, you can’t agree? That the Concordat should be made public?”
“No,” Spencer sighed. “No, of course not. Though in a perfect world making it public would yield benefits all around. But in a perfect world we wouldn’t have needed it in the first place.”
“One of the benefits of making it public,” Thomas Kelly snapped, “is that some of the rest of us might have an idea what you’re talking about.”
Spencer turned to stare at the priest. “Livia,” he said, “why is he here?”
“The Conclave instructed me to . . . involve Father Kelly in the search. Because his search is the same.”
“Wait—they did?” Kelly said. “But we just met. Because you saw I had all those poetry books . . .”
She watched understanding dawn in his eyes. I’m sorry.”
“Let me understand something,” Spencer said. “You”—to Thomas Kelly—“were brought here just recently, by the new Librarian, to find the Vatican’s Concordat? Does the Cardinal know what the Conclave knows—that Jonah Richter has found it?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” the priest replied tightly, “because he wouldn’t have had me looking through the Archives then, would he?”
“Your tone aside, I think you’re correct. In which case, I have two questions. One, it’s an odd coincidence, don’t you think, that your search should come just when the Concordat has reappeared? But two, and more to the point, what possible help can you be to Livia? Livia, why not let me show him out? Without, of course, this stolen notebook. If you feel you need that to complete your task.”
“For one thing,” Livia replied, “he found the notebook.”
“And for another, he’s not leaving without it,” Thomas Kelly said. “I’ll call the Gendarmes if I have to.”
Spencer rolled his eyes.
Livia said, gently, “Spencer? There’s something else. The notebook is Mario Damiani’s.”
Color drained from Spencer’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Livia said. “I was told at the Conclave that it was he who stole the Concordat. When the Vatican Library was looted.”
After a long moment, her old friend slowly shook his head. “Well, well. Mario. There were always rumors that he’d done something big and bad, and had had to go to ground. I put them down to the fact that he was gone and therefore ripe to become the stuff of legend. I knew he wasn’t in hiding. He wouldn’t have vanished for all time without a word to me. Mario. I waited, you know. In the North. I really thought he’d come.” Spencer trailed off. Livia shot the priest a look to keep him quiet. At last Spencer roused himself. “The Conclave,” he said. “Have they known for long?”
“That Damiani stole it? Apparently since it happened. Back then, when it never turned up and a search didn’t find it, the Conclave was satisfied it had been destroyed. Or at least hidden too well to be found.”
“Did they tell you how he . . . What happened to him?”
“No.”
Spencer nodded and finished his coffee, gazing at nothing. A tiny smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “That explains, then, why you were called in, but I was not.”
Thomas Kelly now spoke, his scholar’s curiosity clearly overpowering, for the moment, his anger and confusion. “I was right, then. It was the Concordat that Damiani’s letter referred to.”
Livia looked up at him. “What letter?”
Abruptly, Thomas Kelly sat again. “You have your secrets, I have mine. What are we talking about?”
As if from far away, Spencer asked, “Livia? May I see the notebook?”
Livia slipped it from her bag. She was prepared to fend off the priest, but although he didn’t take his eyes from it once she produced it, he didn’t grab for i
t, either. Handing it to Spencer, she said, “I think it might tell us where the Concordat is.”
“How?” Spencer asked absently. He began slowly to turn the ragged pages.
“It’s a book of praise poems. To churches, piazzas, fountains—various places in Trastevere.”
“He was working on that, yes. This is it?” Spencer smiled. “Ah, yes. They’re all cinquini—he invented the form, you know. A-B-A-B-A. He had to be different.”
“Seven pages are missing. One of them might be a poem to the hiding place.” She watched Spencer as he read a page of faded handwriting. “Are you all right?”
“Something about this book . . . I don’t know what, but it’s oddly familiar.”
“You must have seen any number of Damiani’s notebooks.”
“No, it’s more than that.” Spencer fingered the paper. “But to what you were saying: if one of the missing poems identifies the Concordat’s location, what about the others? Why are seven missing?”
“They’re red herrings?”
“To mislead whom?” Spencer looked up skeptically. “And what’s your plan, then? To discover what landmarks are missing and go to each?”
“I can’t come up with anything better,” Livia admitted.
“I’m not sure how you would even make that determination,” Spencer said. “And the priest?”
“Is a Church historian. If any—or all—of these missing places are churches, he might—”
“All right!” Thomas Kelly exploded. “The priest is tired of being talked about in the third person and tired of feeling like he’s—like I’m in a play without a script! Who’s the Conclave? What’s the Concordat? What’s Mario Damiani to you? Who are you people?”
Livia and Spencer looked at each other.
“All right,” Kelly said again. “Tell me or I’m leaving. I’ll call the Gendarmerie and the Cardinal the minute I’m out the door. The Gendarmes will come for the book and the Cardinal will tell me what’s going on.”
He stood once more. Livia did, also, though she wasn’t sure what she was about to do. Stop him, certainly. The Conclave wanted him involved; the Conclave would have him. But how? She could keep him here, but she couldn’t force him to help her. He already knew this search was of great importance to his Church, yet he was ready to leave, so that argument wouldn’t persuade him. And though the damage to his Church was certain and irreparable if the Concordat was revealed, she didn’t have its interests at heart and he wouldn’t believe her if she said she did.
It was her Community who concerned her.
It was Jonah.
She still had hopes of saving Jonah from his sentence; but if she didn’t find the document, his death was certain.
And if he found a way to carry out his threat before the Conclave destroyed him, then the inevitable, unthinkable consequence would be the devastation of her people. The obliteration of six centuries of release from the terror and peril that had filled all the countless years before.
The priest still stood at the doorway, frustrated, furious, and ready to bolt. He’ll never understand what’s at stake, she finally admitted to herself, without the truth. She looked to Spencer for help, but he sat with the notebook, lost in its pages, as though she and Thomas Kelly weren’t there.
“Father,” Livia said, laying a hand on the priest’s arm. “Please. Sit down.”
15
Thomas Kelly charged down the stairs to the front door. He threw it open with such ferocity that the ring clanged against the lion’s mouth. Turning blindly right, he swept around the corner and ran on, stopping only when, another block later, he found himself half-hidden by the tables and umbrellas of an outdoor café. His heart still pounded wildly. He drew a deep breath and peered back past the patrons sipping their espressos, reading their papers, and talking on their cell phones.
No one. He wasn’t being followed.
In fact, he hadn’t been followed down the stairs, he realized, playing the scene back for himself. His crashing steps were the only footfalls. Livia Pietro, after her insane words and the historian’s calm, shocking display, hadn’t even stood when he ran off. Nor had her mad friend. They weren’t coming after him. He was safe.
Safe from what? What had just happened? What did any of this mean? Who were these people and why had they gone to all this trouble to terrify him? Which was obviously what it was about. These lunatics were playing with his mind. To distract him, that must be it. Yes, of course. To make him useless. To prevent him from finding the Concordat before they did. Why? Why did they want it? What was this document, that people would go to such elaborate lengths? Because it indisputably wasn’t the document they’d described to him.
His heart had just about come back to normal now. He took out his cell phone. Before he could make his call he saw on its screen that he had seven messages from the Cardinal. He thumbed the button and stood staring back through the umbrellas toward the House of Crazy People.
Lorenzo picked up at once. “Thomas! Where are you? What’s going on? Why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“I didn’t get them. I had my phone off. In the Library, so I wouldn’t disturb people, and then I—”
“Well, apparently you disturbed a lot of people. What on earth happened? The reports say a fight, a stolen book? Which hasn’t been recovered, though the thief’s in custody. Where are you? What happened? What book, and do you have it?”
“In Trastevere. No. It’s a little hard to explain. He’s not the thief. The clerk. She said he was trying to steal it but he was trying to stop her. She stole it. A notebook of Mario Damiani’s. She still has it but I know where it is. I—” You what, Thomas? Ran away? Because two mad people told you a crazy story? Out here in the sunny morning on this quiet, cobbled street, he found himself unable to admit anything so ridiculous. “A historian who lives in Trastevere. Across from Santa Maria della Scala. We took it to him. They’re up there now, the two of them. You can send the Gendarmes. The reason they think they have the thief—the Gendarmes think that, I mean—is because she stuffed the chip in his pocket. The clerk’s pocket. But make sure they’re armed, because they’re crazy. Not the Gendarmes are crazy. These people. They’re crazy.”
“Thomas?”
“I should’ve taken the book from her, but she was saying such insane things. Who they were, what the Concordat is. Insane. And then—what he did—still, I shouldn’t have left it. Maybe I should go back. Yes. I’ll go back. I—”
“Thomas.”
“There’s no—”
“Thomas.”
“I had—”
“Father Kelly!”
The last time Thomas had heard his name in those tones was during his second week in graduate school. A fellow student in his Augustinian Thought seminar had remarked that feeding the poor and fasting were two sides of the same coin, which set Thomas to wondering what the obligations of the poor really were on fast days. Apparently he’d been so deep in thought that he’d missed the next discussion question, and Lorenzo Cossa, not yet a cardinal but already a legend, had not been pleased.
“Father Kelly! Get hold of yourself!”
Thomas swallowed. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ve been babbling, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”
“Thomas. The people who have the book—have they left the house?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ll go back and get it.”
“You won’t. I’m sending the police.”
“For the book?”
“Stay until they get there to make sure those people don’t leave. If they do, don’t confront them. Just keep tabs on them and call me. If they don’t, then soon as the Carabinieri show up, come here.”
“The Carabinieri? Not the Gendarmerie?”
“Do you know where the nearest taxi stand is?”
“I—”
“If you’re near Sant
a Maria della Scala, there’s one in Piazza Trilussa. When the police arrive, get in a cab and come here. I’ll be waiting.”
The Cardinal clicked off.
16
Lorenzo Cardinal Cossa sat motionless behind his ornate desk. He’d already instructed Father Ateba to bring Father Kelly in the moment he arrived, and he’d called the Gendarmes and told them to release the hapless clerk. Before any of that he’d called his nephew, Raffaele Orsini. He’d found the young Carabiniere on duty but available to do a favor for his uncle. That meant Raffaele’s partner was probably not around, the anti-clerical detective whose name Lorenzo could never remember—Giulio Aventino, that was it. Julius Caesar of the Aventine Hill, Raffaele called him. How much clearer could it be that the man was from an old Rome family, one that predated possibly the founding, and at least the growth to power, of the Church? And, according to Raffaele, had a chip on his shoulder about it. Detective Julius Caesar; but Lorenzo, even as his lip curled with disgust, realized he was directing his bile at the absent detective in order to avoid focusing on his real and looming problem.
Even allowing for Rome traffic, Thomas would be here in fifteen minutes.
What then?
Lorenzo sighed. Was there really any question? Thomas had indeed been babbling, and Thomas Kelly didn’t babble. Something had badly shaken him up, frightened him—something he didn’t understand. The woman from the Library who’d stolen the book, and the historian who lived in Trastevere: they’d terrified Father Kelly. He’d said they were crazy, but Lorenzo had heard the tiny note of doubt in Thomas’s voice.
There was only one possibility.
They’d told him the truth.
17
Gendarme Vice Assistente Luigi Esposito slammed his fist on his desk and clenched his jaw shut. Back home in Naples he’d be cursing a blue streak but in the years since he’d come up to Rome to join the Gendarmerie he’d learned to keep his language clean. Well, no. He’d learned to keep his mouth completely closed on infuriating occasions like this, so he wouldn’t risk filling the security offices of the Holy See with the words the situation called for.
