Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

“They’re a bunch of thugs, Irish Provisionals, Kosovo-style. Except maybe a little more brutal.”

“I see.” Mendravic nodded to himself. “I’ve always had trouble distinguishing Milosevic from Tony Blair.” Before Pearse could respond, he said, “A year after a peace accord, and the Serbs are still ‘encouraging’ people not to return home. I don’t say I agree with everything the KLA does, but at least they’re doing something.”

“Like killing Serbs?”

“Yes. Like killing Serbs.” He waited, then looked over at Pearse. “Not all that enlightened, I know. But there it is.” Focusing again on the road, the hint of a grin now on his face, he added, “We’re a sort of an eye-for-an-eye kind of people. Never really been that much room in this part of the world for turning the other cheek.”

Pearse smiled to himself. “I wasn’t aware the KLA set its policy based on scriptural debate.”

“Just the overall strategy,” Mendravic said. “Too many different kinds of scripture floating around these parts to map out the day-to-day game plan.”

It was remarkable how easily they slipped into the familiar sparring, even after eight years. Pearse was about to let loose with his next jab, when he suddenly stopped.

Instead, he flicked on the flashlight and looked down at the pages on his lap. Something in what Mendravic had just said. Scriptural mapping.

“What?” prodded the Croat.

Lost in the pages, Pearse slowly realized that each of the five-line entries had a peculiar quality to it, something he would never have seen had he continued to attack each one as an individual cryptogram. Reading them as continuous phrases, he saw that each of them produced a kind of singsong cadence, almost a lilting meter, as if it was meant to be spoken aloud.

So do I stretch out my two hands toward You,

All to be formed in the orbit of light.

When I am sent to the contest with darkness,

Knowing that You can assist me in sight.

The fragrance of life is always within me.

Like a piece of Scripture. Like the verse of a prayer.

He felt a swell of satisfaction, quickly doused by the realization that he had no idea what it meant. This was no verse he recognized. Pieces of Scripture or not, the five-line entries remained a mystery.

He was about to tell Mendravic, when he noticed a sign indicating a split in the road just ahead: east to Visegrad, west to Rogatica and Sarajevo. From there, another twenty minutes to the “town on the Drina.”

When Mendravic opted for the Rogatica turnoff, Pearse shot up in his seat. He began to point in the other direction.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“It’s after ten,” said Mendravic. “Visegrad’s not exactly a tourist spot since the war. Much better chance of finding a hotel nearer the city.”

Watching the Visegrad road disappear, Pearse knew Mendravic was right. After all, what could they accomplish tonight? He was too tired to make sense of the recent discovery. He needed sleep to clear his mind.

They drove for another half an hour, Mendravic intent on the roads, Pearse with his head in the book. Surprisingly, Mendravic was rather familiar with Rogatica and its surroundings. Mumbling street names to himself, he seemed to be in search of a specific hotel. After several miscues, they finally arrived at what looked like an apartment house, six stories of dull gray brick.

“This doesn’t look like a hotel,” said Pearse.

Maybe it was his preoccupation with the final set of entries, or the cumulative effects of the last week, but it wasn’t until he saw Mendravic smiling back at him that Pearse realized where he had been taken.

“You’re not very bright, are you?” asked Mendravic.

The Croat leaned forward in his seat and peered up at the building through the windshield. “Fifth floor. Second in from the right.”

Pearse couldn’t bring himself to lean forward.

“This was your second request, wasn’t it?” Mendravic sat back, the grin once again in evidence. “Shall we see if the two of them have room for us tonight?”

Dona Marcella pulled the half glasses from her face and placed the papers on the coffee table in front of her. She waited for Blaney to finish reading.

She hadn’t been to his rooms off the Giardini del Quirinale in years, the priest, by the look of them, well taken care of by his Chicago archdiocese. Thick velvet drapes hung across the twelve-foot windows, the furniture distinctly Edwardian, a bulky mahogany roughness befitting the man seated across from her. Browns on browns, with a hint of maroon here and there. What few splashes of color he permitted came from a pair of large vases standing on either side of a rather dour sideboard.

“Am I actually supposed to believe this?” she asked when he finally looked up.

“I don’t think you’re the one they’re trying to convince,” Blaney answered.

“It’s all tabloid.” She reached for the paper nearest to her. “ ‘Gelli’s Ghost Returns,’” she read. “Complete nonsense.” She tossed it back onto the table. “The morning papers won’t be so quick to swallow all of this. Who’s going to believe Arturo capable of such things?”

“He was found with the papers, the discs.”

She waited before answering. “If what they say is true, this will make the whole Calvi business look like a minor inconvenience. This isn’t going to be the usual mop-up. I’m going to need time, and I’m not sure I have it.”

“That’s not what worries me,” said Blaney. “Weakening the bank only makes the church more vulnerable, raises the specter of corruption. Which makes the job of the ‘Hodoporia’ all the easier. The question is, did he leave anything on those discs to link us with the bank?”

“That’s exactly my point; the church isn’t the issue.” Frustration forced her up from her chair. “Tell me he wouldn’t have been that stupid, John?” Blaney started to answer. She cut him off. “What does Erich say?”

He shook his head dismissively. “No idea. He’s unreachable. The novemdieles concludes tomorrow morning. They’ve already started to convene the conclave.”

“Not the best timing.”

Blaney nodded. “Unless it’s what he was planning all along.”

It took her a moment to respond. “And what is that supposed to mean?” When he didn’t answer, she pressed him. “You can’t be serious? Why would Erich have had any part in this?”

“Let’s just say I’m not so sure his faith in the ‘Hodoporia’ is what it once was.” He let the words sit for a moment. “He’s very fond of reminding me that it’s a ‘complicated world.’ And a complicated world demands complicated answers.” Again, he shook his head. “There’s very little I’d put past Erich now. Despite all of Arturo’s fidgeting, he was a remarkably fit man. Prided himself on it. He was also something of a hypochondriac. A man like that doesn’t suddenly collapse in the Piazza di Spagna for no apparent reason.”

“And you think Erich would have …” She couldn’t finish the thought. “Why?”

Blaney sat back and let his eyes wander. For some reason, they stopped on a small crystal lamb nestled within a group of pictures-a gift from his very first parish. Something long forgotten. He stared at it, then turned to the contessa. “Because the thought of anyone else having something to do with this is even more unsettling.”

She had sounded excited over the intercom, Mendravic announcing only himself, the real surprise left for upstairs. It had taken a good ten minutes for Pearse to get out of the car, the prospect of meeting his son somehow less daunting than seeing her again. He had no idea what to expect from the boy. With Petra, though, he knew what he wanted to hear, what had been running through his head since this afternoon. Nothing to assuage. No attempts to let him off the hook, tell him it had been for the best. He had outgrown that kind of coddling.