Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

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.”

Kleist 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.

Without warning, the alley suddenly opened to a small courtyard, a single lamp at the far corner its only source of light. Delivery vans stood in a row by what looked to be a loading dock, beyond them a small entrance arch. To his right, a wedge of shadow clung to the walls. Pearse darted under its mantle, his eyes fixed on the entryway no more than thirty yards from him. The place was deserted, lights glowing in one or two windows from the adjoining buildings, the vans a desolate collection of black-visored sentries asleep at their posts. As he neared the arch, the sound of footsteps began to echo in the courtyard. Pearse froze. He planted himself against the wall and vainly tried to stifle his breath.

The small man appeared, a powerful physique in clear evidence as he ran out into the courtyard, stride compact, arms pumping in fluid motion, his chest straining against the confines of his suit. He stopped and began to scan the open space, no indication that he was even mildly winded. For an instant, Pearse thought the man had spotted him, his eyes pausing on the area of shadow now shrouding the priest. But just as quickly, he moved on, locating the arch and bolting toward it at full stride. Pearse held his breath as the sound of footsteps raced past him, no sign that the Austrian had sensed the figure no more than fifteen feet from him. In a matter of seconds, Pearse stood alone.

He was unable to move, certain that at least one more of the security men would appear at any second to drag him away. But the courtyard remained empty.

They weren’t coming.

For a brief moment, he thought about returning to his rooms-the alley, the fire escape-the last place they would look for him. But the Austrian’s words flooded back: A Vatican priest … under our jurisdiction . Again, no choice. No options. He had to get out of the City, easy prey within its walls. Prey? Another piece of absurdity, this one, though, all too real.

He pulled himself from the wall and, still in shadow, moved to the archway, its squat arc amplifying the echo of his footsteps. Beyond it, he came to a second courtyard-this one larger, mercifully empty-a partial view of the museum’s rooftops in the distance. Again, he tried to orient himself. The trouble was, the two exits out of the square led away from the Santa Anna Gate, which, as he now thought about it, might not be such a bad idea. If security meant to keep him within its “jurisdiction,” the guards would have been told to keep an eye out for a collarless priest. Hold him inside. Gates designed to ward off the overly eager tourist now called on to restrain a priest.

More absurdity. He had to find another way out.

Ducking through the closer of the two exits, he emerged to a part of the Vatican where the alleys snake from courtyard to courtyard, clinging to the sides of St. Peter’s and the Sistine Chapel. Somewhere beyond, an expanse of gardens waited-the Governor’s Palace, the Church of Santa Marta, the fountain of the Virgin-until tonight sacrosanct in his mind, now nothing more than a cage. It was an odd sensation, losing touch with the one place in Rome he had always felt most secure, protected. A stiff price to pay for something he still knew so little about.

Seeking out shadows wherever he could, Pearse edged his way along the narrow lanes, choosing what he thought were the most arbitrary routes, hoping in so doing to avoid any further confrontation. He knew that the Austrian would have a small legion at his disposal. It wouldn’t be long before illogic met its match in sheer numbers. Which meant he had to find his means of escape now.

At every turn, though, the outer walls seemed to find him, endless sheets of brick and stone disappearing into a slate sky. No way through, no way over . The thought battered at him as he slipped from one courtyard to the next, alleys spinning him deeper and deeper into the private world of the Vatican, until, with a sudden upsweep of air, he sped out into the grasp of trees, several lamps casting insignificant beams on a carpet of cobblestone. Pausing to catch his breath, he realized he had arrived at the Governor’s Palace gardens, the dome of St. Peter’s hovering above him to his left.