Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

“My father.”

It was said with such confidence, such an affinity, as if he had just spoken with him before coming into the room. The connection so clear. Again, he had to thank Petra for that.

“And where does he live?” asked Pearse. A look of confusion etched across the young face. “America. Like you.”

Pearse nodded. Obviously, his geography had its limits. Not wanting to lose him entirely, Pearse reached under the papers and pulled out his baseball. “Here.” He tossed it to him.

Ivo caught it, no hesitation.

“Nice catch,” said Pearse.

“I’m pretty good.” He examined the ball very closely. “What kind of ball is this?”

“It’s a baseball,” said Pearse.

Ivo’s eyes lit up. “A baseball! From America?”

From Rome, but close enough. “I know you were hoping for chocolate, but-”

“No, no. This is great. Can I play with it?”

“You can keep it, if you want.”

If possible, Ivo’s eyes grew wider still. “You mean … it’s mine?”

“Well, I might ask you to play catch with me sometime.”

“You can play anytime you want.”

“Thanks. Maybe sometime you could go to America with me and see a game.”

It was almost too much for him. “America?” A hint of hesitation crept in. “And Mommy, too?”

“Of course. And don’t forget Salko.”

Before Pearse had finished, Ivo was running back to the door, shouting to his mother. Within a minute, he was back, pulling Petra by the arm. Once again, her expression was far from what Pearse expected: not strictly a glower, but as close as she dared with Ivo looking directly at her.

“And Salko, too,” he bubbled.

“Yes, I heard you, sweetie,” answered Petra as she stared at Pearse.

“That’s very nice of him.”

Pearse smiled. “I just said-”

“Yes, I’m sure you did.”

Pearse wasn’t sure, but he suspected this was part of a family dynamic he’d never had occasion to experience until now. Something reserved for mommies and daddies. Even on the short end of things, it was awfully nice, more so to see Petra struggling with it as well.

Not sure what protocol demanded, he fell back on the slow nod.

“You have to go to sleep,” she said to forestall any further discussion. At once, Ivo launched into the ancient bargaining ritual, all of it to no avail. As he mopingly made his way to the door, he turned to Pearse and, instead of a simple “Good night,” shot a finger at him and winked. It was enough to provoke a moment’s giggle before a quick dash out the door.

Laughing, Pearse asked, “What was that?”

“Mel Gibson did it in a movie. He thinks it’s how all Americans say good night.” She remained by the door.

“Isn’t Mel Gibson Australian?”

At last a smile. “Don’t tell him that.”

A silence settled on the room. He thought she might go; instead, she moved toward him.

“So, have you figured out where this book of yours is in Visegrad?” she asked pointing to the papers.

“No clue.”

“So you have no idea where it is, you don’t really know what it is, and you have no clue who was chasing after us.”

“Right. But aside from that, I’m really close.”

She laughed and sat down next to him. “Maybe another set of eyes would help.”

“Sure. How’s your Latin?”

“Oh,” again more playful, “not so good.”

“Then maybe I’ll have to stick with the pair I have.”

“They’ve always been a pretty nice pair.”

For several seconds, neither of them said a word.

“Was I just flirting with a priest?” she finally said.

“I don’t know. Question is, Was the priest just flirting with you?”

She was about to answer, when Mendravic stepped into the doorway.

“Ian, have you-Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” they answered in unison.

A bit perplexed, Mendravic answered, “All right … I won’t be. But if you two-”

“We don’t,” they said again as one.

“Okay,” he replied, still not sure what he had just walked in on, though happy enough to let it go. “Did you tell him?” he asked Petra.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I was just about to-”

“Ian, have you seen any of the papers?” Mendravic asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I have them right here. What’s this all about?”

“No, the newspapers, the ones they drove up from Novi-Pazar.”

“I didn’t know they had any. No. Why?”

“And the last time you saw a paper was …”

“I don’t know, five, six days ago. Why?”

“Petra pointed it out to me. Maybe you should take a look.”

Two minutes later, the three of them stood at the kitchen table, eight to ten major European papers waiting on top. The KLA might have been provincial in their worldview, but at least they were more sophisticated when it came to the news they read. Evidently, they wanted to see what kind of an impact they were having outside their own little universe.

“I hadn’t seen one in almost a week, either, until Petra showed me these,” Mendravic said as he began to sift through them. “So I can’t tell you how long these have been running.” He pointed to the lower right-hand corner of the nearest paper, the Frankfurter Allgemeine . A small box was set off from the columns, the look of an advertisement, except, for some odd reason, the language inside was English. Before Pearse could read, Mendravic pulled over several other papers-French, Italian, Greek-noting the identical box in each, and always the same language: English. Pearse read:

Whatever was on Athos, you have friends, Father. In Rome.

Day or night: 39 69884728

Every paper the same. Pearse turned to Mendravic. His phone was at the ready; Pearse took it and dialed. Both men angled their ears to the receiver and listened.

It picked up on the second ring. “ Pronto .”

Pearse wasn’t sure what to say. The line remained silent. He looked at Mendravic. Finally, in English, Pearse answered, “I saw your ad.”

“Yes.” The accent was Italian.

“And I’m calling.”

“We’ve had many calls. I need a name.”

A number in a newspaper. People with nothing better to do than to dial it. Pearse understood. Realizing why the man needed his name, however, was hardly a rationale for giving it to him.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing that.”

“Then we can’t help you. We already know the name we’re looking for.”

True, he thought. Even so. “I’m still not comfortable.”

“As I said, then we can’t help you.”

Pearse waited. Another glance at Mendravic. The Croat shrugged. “Photinus,” Pearse said.

There was a pause on the line. “The monastery on Athos.”

“The Vault of the Paraclete.”

Another pause, this one far longer than the others. A decision was being made. “Father Pearse?”

He didn’t know whether to feel relief or anxiety. He was about to answer, when Mendravic suddenly pulled the phone from his ear and hung up.

“What are you doing?” Pearse asked, stunned.

“Do you realize how stupid we both are? I can’t believe I only thought of it now.”

“Thought of what?”

“Think, Ian. What’s the simplest way to find out exactly where you are?”

Pearse shook his head.

“A trace. They were keeping you on the line to pinpoint your location Very easy to do, even with satellite hookups. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

“But they sounded as if they were trying to help.”

“I’m sure they did.”

Pearse stood there, not knowing what to think. Of course Salko was right, but then who would these people be?