Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

It was only then that Pearse saw the blood on his arm.

“Salko, what-”

“Get in the car,” he barked, racing to the driver’s side. Pearse leapt around to the other. He’d barely pulled the door shut before the car bolted out into the road.

Mendravic reached behind him and slid open a small glass partition to the back.

“Are you all right back there?” he asked.

“We’ll be fine,” Petra answered. “He’s up, though.” A small face suddenly appeared in the opening, eyes wide, a smile equally electric.

“Hello, Salko.”

“Well, look who’s up.” Mendravic continued to glance at his side mirror, his attention more on what lay behind them than on the road ahead. “Hello, little man,” he said. A hand now appeared and tugged at Mendravic’s ear, evidently a game between them. Removing the tiny fingers, Mendravic said, “Can you do me a favor, Ivo? Can you sit back there with Mommy and not make a sound? Can you do that for me?”

“Can I come sit with you?”

“Can you sit with Mommy?”

It was then that Ivo noticed Pearse. “Hello,” he said, his tone no less forthright.

“Hello.” Pearse smiled.

“I really need you to sit with Mommy,” said Mendravic, eyes still on the mirror. “Okay?”

The boy stared for another moment at the stranger, then back to Mendravic. Another quick squeeze, and then gone.

Mendravic slid the glass partition shut.

“He takes it all in stride, doesn’t he?” said Pearse.

“What?” Mendravic was concentrating on the road.

“Nothing.” Seeing the blood on Mendravic’s arm, he asked, “What happened?”

“Obviously, our friend in the resistance wasn’t as good as she thought she was.”

“They found you?”

“No. I found them. At the car. Good news, it was only two of them this time. Bad news, I wasn’t as effective.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we could have company.” He pulled the car around a corner, forcing Pearse up against the door.

“And your arm?”

“Is in pain.”

Pearse said nothing, watching as Mendravic took the road heading up into the mountains. Evidently, Visegrad would have to wait.

After nearly twenty minutes of silence, Mendravic finally seemed to relax behind the wheel.

“We’re not going to Visegrad,” said Pearse.

“Not tonight we’re not.” Mendravic took the car to seventy. “And we’re not taking Ivo anywhere near there.”

Pearse nodded, suddenly angry with himself. It was something he shouldn’t have needed to be told.

“Why did you leave them in the alley?” asked Mendravic.

The question felt like a slap to the face. “I … thought-”

“Next time, don’t. If I tell you to stay someplace, stay there. Do you understand?”

Pearse didn’t need to answer.

“I’ve got some friends,” Mendravic continued. “We’ll stay with them for a day or so until the boys with the boots move on.”

Pearse nodded.

“Just like old times,” said Mendravic, his attempt to lighten the mood ringing hollow.

Pearse looked back through the glass. Ivo was once again asleep in Petra’s lap. Her eyes were shut, as well.

Just like old times . It was a nostalgia he could have done without.

“… during or after the election of the new Pontiff, unless explicit authorization is granted by the same Pontiff; and never to lend support or favor to any interference, opposition, or any other form of intervention, whereby secular authorities of whatever order and degree or any group of people or individuals might wish to intervene in the election of the Roman Pontiff.”

The cardinal dean finished reading and began to make his way around the Sistine Chapel. One by one, the cardinal electors rose to acknowledge the oath.

Von Neurath sat with his hands comfortably in his lap. The hard back of the bench seemed to suit his posture, less so the velvet cushion underneath. On his right sat an Englishman; on the other, a South American. Neither had said a word in the last twenty minutes, better that way, since von Neurath couldn’t remember if his Spanish colleague was Brazilian or Argentinian, Escobar de something, if memory served. Cardinal Daly, however, was another matter entirely, well known among the conclave as a papabile -a “good prospect”-according to the scuttlebutt that had been circulating over the last few days. Strange that they’d placed two of the prime candidates so close to each other. Or maybe it was simply geography, the Italians on one side of the chapel, the rest of the Catholic world on the other.

Usually brightened by the afternoon sun, the chapel lay under a glow of standing lamps, the gated windows above the Perugino frescoes draped behind thick cloth, a nod to both the solemnity and the secrecy of the conclave. Even in the half-light, the chapel lost none of its grandeur, the plaintive stares from above deepened by the shadows, thick, muscular tones-the pigment having been restored-once again fresh and alive.

Von Neurath stared at one or two of the faces above. He’d never been all that taken with the paintings, far too ornate for his tastes. He much preferred the line of a van Eyck, or a Breu the Elder, or a Lochner, or even a Fra Angelico, if pressed to name an Italian. Now there was the precision of faith. With Michelangelo, everything of value seemed to get lost-hulking, self-indulgent bodies twisting this way and that, no direction, no meaning. Perfect for the Italians, he thought, each of whom continued to gaze up, with self-satisfied grins, as if somehow they were reading a private message, the figures meant for them alone. Von Neurath brought his arms to his chest and waited.

Movement by the altar caught his eye. The Cardinal Camerlengo-his old friend Fabrizzi-began to set the chalice and paten in place, cue for the initiation of the first ballot. Von Neurath looked down at the paper in his hand, the printed Latin a simple reminder of what had brought them all together.

“Eligo in summum pontificem …”

“I elect as supreme Pontiff …”

And next to it, in his own hand, the words “Erich Cardinal von Neurath.”

It was an odd sensation to see the name in front of him. The Italians might have their art, but he would have their throne. Looking up, he had to suppress a smile.

The dean approached him. Von Neurath stood.

“And I, Erich Cardinal von Neurath, do so promise, pledge, and swear.” He placed his hand on the Gospels held out in front of him. “So help me God and these Holy Gospels which I touch with my hand.”

Twenty minutes later, each of the 109 had sworn their troth. The voting began.

As the first of the cardinals moved toward the altar-always one by one-von Neurath scanned the faces across from him. How many of them were thinking of grandnieces and grandnephews? he wondered. Kleist had made over sixty tapes. He’d sent out fewer than twenty of them, but it was more than enough to encourage the crucial swing votes necessary to take him past the two-thirds majority for election.

The procession continued, at last his own turn. With a deep breath, he folded the paper in his hand, stood, and slowly walked toward the altar. Reaching the table, he turned back to the conclave, raised his ballot high for all to see, then placed it on the paten. He watched as the Cardinal Camerlengo lifted the gold plate and slid the ballot into the chalice. As simple as that.

Forty minutes passed before all the votes had been cast, time spent in silence. Some prayed, some stared longingly at the pictures. After all, it was the Divine Spirit who chose a Pope, not men. They could take the time to enjoy their surroundings-God’s will, not theirs, managing this most pressing of matters.