Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

It was only now that Pearse was beginning to understand that.

“Baba Pearsic?” He looked down. A boy no more than ten was staring up at him, his eyes beginning to bulge from a lack of food and real shelter. Still, a hint of animation, a sparkle as he spoke. He seemed eager to talk with the priest. The change of clothing, however, was causing him some confusion. “Father?”

“It’s me. What’s wrong?”

“Some men. My grandfather told me. Men from the outside. They come to see you.” Pearse had trouble keeping up with the Serbo-Croatian; he heard more than enough, though, to recognize the fear in the boy’s voice.

“Did they say what they wanted?”

The boy continued to stare. He pointed in the direction of the western gate. “Some men. They come to see you.” And with that, he sped off through the maze of tents and rope lines.

Men from the outside . It was an odd way to describe anyone. Pearse knew that a boy that age would have had no trouble identifying the uniforms of every relief worker in the camp, likewise those of the KLA, NATO, and the Albanian police. The vague designation “men from the outside” told him the boy’s fears were warranted.

His first thought was the Austrian. It had been five days, ample time to grow impatient. Pearse had to believe that they still needed Angeli whether they’d pinpointed his location or not. Finding him-Men-dravic’s call to Rome, his search for a missing priest in a refugee camp, had seen to that-was only half the battle. They still needed something to keep him in line. He was praying that their hook remained Cecilia Angeli.

Then again, maybe the Greeks had gotten lucky? The discovery of Andrakos’s car, the connection between Blace and Kukes?

Whoever they were, Pearse knew he needed to get a good look at them before they him. Sizing up his options, he quickly crossed the mud path and slipped into a tent three down from his own. At once, a line of familiar faces peered up at him, four women ranging in age from eleven to sixty, a boy of four, a man in his seventies.

Before any of them could ask, Pearse brought a finger to his lips. Silence. They had learned to appreciate its power early on in the war, hiding in basements, attics, waiting for the Serb patrols to loot and move on. A single gesture was all they required. Pearse nodded, then turned to peek through the crack in the flap.

Less than a minute later, he spotted them, conspicuous by their clothes, more so by their attitudes, four men who, from their expressions, had only recently entered a war zone, each trying his best not to show too great an aversion to the filth and disarray. Dressed in field khakis, windbreakers, and mountain boots-a muted yellow, tied halfway up the calf-they could easily have passed for members of a weekend climbing club, save, of course, for their physiques. Each stood at least six two, rigidly straight posture, broad shoulders, thick, powerful forearms. Everything about them screamed military. And yet, unlike their comrades in Rome, these men from the Vatican displayed none of the swagger Pearse had witnessed the first time around. Instead, they seemed far more … humane. It was the only way he could think to describe them. Even as they split up to take positions around his original tent, they indulged in none of the commandolike gesticulating he expected. One at the rear, one ten yards to the south, one ten yards to the north. Coordinated and precise.

With a nod, the fourth man entered the tent.

He reemerged a minute later with one of Pearse’s former tent mates in tow: Achif Dema, the barber who had set up shop under a nearby tarp, the man who had accepted Pearse’s jacket as a farewell gift. The obvious choice for consultation. Dema shook his head several times, pointing off in the direction of the medical tents, hands waving in a series of convoluted gestures, all accepted with an easy smile from the Vatican man. He knew exactly what the refugee was doing, or at least trying to do. A wild-goose chase for an inquisitive stranger. It might have done the trick had Mendravic not chosen that moment to return.

Dema, no actor to begin with, could hardly contain his reaction; at once, Mendravic became everyone’s focus. Dressed as he was, he had no chance of passing for a fellow refugee, a fact not lost on the men. As one, they began to circle in-subtly, but again with a precision that bespoke a familiarity with such situations. Pearse was left to observe as the strange dance played itself out.

Luckily, Mendravic knew his way around the floor, as well. Pearse watched as his old friend moved along the path, his eyes aimed at the ground-seemingly oblivious-but with an intensity that indicated a plan of attack already in the making. As he drew to within earshot of Pearse’s hiding place, he began to scratch his cheek. At the same time, and without breaking stride, he whispered under his breath:

“Wait for them to follow me. Meet at the north gate.”

Pearse had no idea how Mendravic had known he was inside the tent. Nor did he have time to digest the information. Within seconds, Mendravic was springing to his left, a wild-bear version of the boy who had darted through the tents only minutes before. Instantly, the men from the Vatican raced after him.

Except for the one who stood by Dema. He remained perfectly still, only his head moving in a slow rotation, scanning the line of tents with great concentration.

His eyes came to rest on Pearse’s. And he began to walk.

If faith required confrontation, Pearse knew he was about to enter a state of grace. The man quickened his pace. Pearse felt his heart accelerate, a sudden pounding in his throat. He had no choice but to go. Pulling the flap back, he bolted out-an instant of recognition from the Vatican man, Pearse ducking to his right through the web of rope lines.

The sound of pursuit was immediate. Forcing it from his mind, he began to weave his way through the tents, his head still groggy, his body crouched so as to avoid the lines, more so to gain as much shielding from the low canvas walls as he could. His eyes swept along the ground, never more than two, three feet in front of him, hunting for stakes, ruts, anything that might trip him up. Wherever the path grew wide enough, small gatherings of people appeared, obstacles to be run over and through. Their curses trailed after him, each a sonar’s ping to trace his escape. A second wave always followed-the advent of his pursuer-the surest means of measuring the distance between them. The echoes were coming quicker and quicker.

Pearse did his best to keep himself moving northward in the hope of finding the gate. Several minutes in, he became acutely aware of a sudden shift in the air, a familiar sweetness, somehow lighter, the moment before deluge, when sky and earth darken under sooted clouds, a breathless hint of the coolness to come. He could almost taste the breeze as the sky began to open up, first gentle, then pail after pail of water, the sudden patter of clapping mud, Pearse drenched in seconds. The timpani of rain on canvas propelled him from tent to tent. All sound seemed to vanish, no sense for anything or anyone behind him, only his tiny bubble world shaped by the relentless barrage.

Underfoot, the ground grew slick with incredible speed, tiny inlets seeking out the low ground, rutted tracks from carts and trucks providing the network of conduits. Above, the clouds pressed farther down, a porous gray plummeting the afternoon into premature twilight. He had no idea how far he had ferreted his way into the confusion of tents, hardly willing to take his focus from the ground so as to gain his bearings. Instead, he continued to run, no chance at even a quick look back to see how close his assailant had drawn. The rope lines, once obstacles, now kept him upright, his hands sliding along the slick fiber in an attempt to maintain his balance, one narrow path to the next, improvised benches and chairs upended along the way as he raced by them.