Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

“Ever the gentleman, Erich. And no, it doesn’t matter to me in the slightest.”

“Then why come here? It only draws attention. As I said, not the best timing.”

“It might not be the best timing for many things.”

Silence. “Harris is already being touted as a martyr,” he continued. “He’s proving far more useful to us dead than alive. The ground swell is enormous. You made a very good choice there.”

“Did I?” She let the question sit. “I think we both know I didn’t have anything to do with that. At least not according to the late colonel. He wanted me to send on his congratulations, thank you for everything you’ve done.” She waited. “Was he meant to be some sort of distraction? Keep me preoccupied while you ascended the throne?”

“You have such a vivid imagination. I’ve always liked that about you.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have.” She watched as he placed his glass on the desk, slowly spinning it in a pool that was forming below it. “Was the fact that you had Arturo killed also part of my imagination?” Von Neurath looked up. “The distraction obviously worked. Blaney was much quicker on that than I was.”

He let go of the glass. “You two really have been spending entirely too much time together. John Joseph’s always been best when concentrating on his prayers. I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything else he has to say.”

“Why Stefan?”

“I don’t like betrayal.”

“To whom?”

Von Neurath started to answer, then stopped. “Did you enjoy the files he sent you?” The contessa remained silent. “I gave him the opportunity to make amends. He took it.” Again, she said nothing. “Blaney has the ‘Hodoporia.’ That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Turns out the priest was an old friend of his. It took us a bit too long to figure that one out.” He waited. “Surprises all around.”

His response caught her off guard. Not a pleasant experience for a woman who had spent a lifetime making sure she knew exactly what was going on. It slowly dawned on her what he was talking about. “This has all been about jockeying for position, hasn’t it?” Before von Neurath could answer, she said, “My apologies. I’m usually much smarter than that. Neither of you really cares what the ‘Hodoporia’ has to say, do you?”

“Actually, that’s not true. To be fair to the good Father, I think he truly believes he’s preserving the ‘purity of the Word.’” He shook his head. “How many times have I heard that phrase? Rather endearing, don’t you think, if you let yourself forget everything we’re trying to accomplish.”

She stood and took a glass of her own. “And what exactly is that, Erich?”

Again he laughed. “You’re even beginning to sound like him.”

“I can almost accept the bombings. I’m not quite the idealist John J. is,” she said, pouring out the water. “But Arturo, Harris, Stefan … it’s hard for me to believe that they were sacrificed just to create greater panic. You can see how their deaths might look to someone like me, can’t you?”

“Rather threatening, I would imagine.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Yes.”

“Said the spider to the fly.” She took a sip, then looked around the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. It has that cozy, insulated feel to it. One might even say … isolated.”

“We don’t have to do this, you know.”

“You never answered my question.” She looked back at him, placing her glass on the desk. “What is it, exactly, that we’re trying to accomplish here?”

“Why, our one true and holy church. Isn’t that right, Contessa?”

“Why does it sound so hollow when you say it, Erich?”

Von Neurath smiled. “More and more like John J. every minute.”

“He was right. The ‘Hodoporia’ means nothing to you.”

“That shows how little you understand.”

“No, I don’t think it does.”

For the first time, his composure seemed to dip. “What do you want?”

“Obviously, something you gave up a long time ago. I just never saw it until now.” She turned from him and reached up under her skirt. When she turned back, she was holding a revolver, barely the size of her palm.

Von Neurath didn’t flinch. “I won’t ask where you were keeping that toy.”

“Security’s rather tight for the Pope these days.” She waited. “It is a Manichaean Pope, isn’t it, Erich?”

“Don’t make this mistake.” He pressed a button on the side of the desk.

“Too many of them have already been made. I’m just here to clean up the mess.”

“You know we’ll never have an opportunity like this again.”

“No, you’ll never have an opportunity like this. The rest of us have always been very good at waiting for the right moment. It’s making sure we get beyond the surprises along the way. The loss of focus.” She paused. “And the sacrifices.”

The door to the room opened. A guard entered, his gun out.

The contessa aimed and fired.

“This way, Father.” A man stood waiting at the open car door. Pearse had no choice but to step out. Forty-five minutes in darkened silence to arrive inside a garage, five identical cars in a row, the smell of gasoline and oil. He glanced through what few windows there were-trees, a drive disappearing into the hillside-as he was led to a door at the far wall, a second escort now behind him. Neither said a word.

When they reached the door, the first man turned and started patting Pearse down, arms and legs, a flat palm across his back and chest. He then produced a small box from his jacket pocket, flipped a switch, and ran it the length of Pearse’s body. The box remained silent. He turned and opened the door. A staircase. They headed up.

Two minutes later, Pearse sat in a rather formal library, a fuller view of the countryside through two high oriel windows. Everywhere else, bookshelves and paintings climbed to the ceiling some two stories above, a narrow balcony extending along three of the four walls. Access to the books. Except for the somewhat modern desk situated between the two windows, the room might have passed for a Vatican gallery. The men waited by the door. Still, no word of explanation.

Pearse sat patiently. He was long past even a mild apprehension. It wasn’t quite resignation. He knew that. But the mechanism to shock had shorted out sometime in the last hour. In its place, he’d found a numbing fatigue, a kind of heaviness he couldn’t quite shake. But also a calm, a token gift from a psyche beyond the saturation point. It had been over thirty hours since he’d last slept, but he knew that wasn’t it, either. He placed his hands in his lap, his head against the soft cushion of the chair, and stared out at the trees. And waited.

When the door finally opened, he didn’t bother to look around. Only when Cardinal Peretti took a seat behind the desk did Pearse shift his focus.

Peretti looked much older than he had on television, older than Pearse recalled from the one or two times they had met over the past few years, large functions, little chance to remember a young priest. He was dressed in simple clericals, only the purple shirt beneath to distinguish his office. Pearse saw a kind face, gentle features, olive skin with a hint of a tan. The eyes alone betrayed the strain he was under.

“I’m sorry for all the precautions,” Peretti began, “but we had to make sure that you hadn’t been forced to wear a wire, that sort of thing. You understand. There’s so much going on right now.”

Pearse continued to stare at him.

Peretti nodded, then said, “Something to drink, Father? Or eat?”

Pearse shook his head slowly.

Peretti let out a long breath. “You’re wondering what’s going on.” He waited, then said, “Maybe I’m not the best person to do that.” He looked past Pearse to one of the men at the door. A quick nod. Pearse heard the door open, then close. Peretti tried a smile. “You’ve been put through a great deal in the last week. I know. I wish …” He seemed genuinely concerned. “I wish I could have stepped in earlier. But until I knew you had the scroll-”