Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

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, Dona, 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 cafe. “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 driver 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?”