Forbidden Sanctuary (21 page)

"Mr. Fitzgerald, I'm with Albert Bernardi's mother in her apartment. I have just been assuring her that the government will take no action against Father Bernardi should he be found as a result of information supplied by her. Can you confirm that this will be our policy?"

"I certainly can. Is Mrs. Bernardi listening?"

"Yes sir, yes I am," Mrs. Bernardi replied.

"Good. Mrs. Bernardi, I am the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I want to assure you that we have no interest in prosecuting your son for anything he may have done. We just want to hand this alien over to his people and get the world back to normal again. You know, I'm a staunch Catholic, and like a lot of Catholics I've been disappointed with the Pope's attitude in all of this. I've got to admire your son, and I respect his sense of obedience to the Pope, but you have to admit that things have gotten out of hand."

"Yes, you're right, they have."

"Well, is there any other assurance I can give you?"

"No, uh, thank you. Thank you, sir."

"Well, great. I hope you make the right decision. Madeleine, you keep in touch. You're doing a fine job."

West put away her phone.

Mrs. Bernardi looked solemn and impressed, but still unhappy. "Why did this ever have to happen?" she whispered.

West reached out and covered Mrs. Bernardi's hand with her own. "I know it's hard," she said.

Mrs. Bernardi looked down at the floor. "He called me when he got into town the other day. Said he didn't want me to be worried, but people might be looking for him. I didn't know what he meant, of course, but I asked him where he would be. He was a bit reluctant at first, but finally he told me."

She took a deep breath. "He had a girl friend in high school. Her name's Jenny Salieri. She has a place somewhere out on Long Island. She's an artist. He said he'd be staying there. It's a cottage. I was a little shocked, you know, but he said it would be all right, she wasn't using it. I don't know. Things are so confusing. I don't know what—"

"Do you happen to have the address, Mrs. Bernardi?"

She shook her head, and as she did the tears came pouring out. "He'll never forgive me," she sobbed.

"Of course he will," West said. "Don't worry about a thing," she added as she headed for the door.

* * *

"Salieri?" Dewey said. "Hold on. Yeah. Here it is. Jennifer Salieri. We talked to her. Has a Manhattan address listed. Must be a summer cottage. She said she corresponded a bit with Bernardi since he went into the Jesuits, but hasn't seen him in ten years. Nothing suspicious. She's a fashionable artist, it says here. Into holography and that sort of thing. Don't understand any of it myself."

"Get the address of the cottage," West said. "And make sure Mrs. Bernardi's apartment is covered."

* * *

It took them fifteen minutes to track the address down, and West was on her way, with two carloads of agents following. They got explicit directions over the phone from the local police, and within the hour they were around the corner from the cottage.

"Surround it," West ordered. "Stay out of sight. I'll go in."

It was twilight as they advanced toward the cottage. The neighborhood was poshly rural.
Bernardi has rich friends,
West thought. They could hear the roar of the ocean, but it was just out of sight beyond the dunes. The evening was clear and cold.

There was a light on in the cottage. Excellent. The agents fanned out expertly. West looked around. No car. No way of escaping. She walked up to the door and knocked.

No answer. She stood and listened. No sounds. She tried the knob. The door was open. She entered.

Fancy, she thought. Dark-stained wood and expensive orientals. A large picture window looking out on the ocean. Strange, free-standing art objects, all curves and colors. For once she agreed with Dewey: she couldn't make sense out of any of that stuff, either. She closed the door behind her.

A quick search showed that the place was empty, but that someone had been there quite recently. The ashes in the fireplace were still giving off heat; a dirty frying pan in the sink was half filled beneath a dripping faucet.

There was no trace of men's clothing in the closet, though; nothing to suggest it was Bernardi who had lived here. Had his mother lied to her? Not likely. Had she changed her mind and called her son to let him know they were on their way? But the phone was tapped: if her agents had fouled up...

Her phone rang. "Yeah," she barked into it.

"Someone's walking up the beach. Looks like he's heading for the house."

"Keep your positions. Let him enter."

She stood by the fireplace, out of sight of the back door. After a few moments she heard the familiar sequence of sounds: feet on steps, key being inserted, creak of door opening, bang of it shutting. The light went on in the kitchen, and a dark figure moved back and forth. There was the sound of running water. Doing the dishes. West moved forward.

She took out her identification and her revolver. She walked into the kitchen. "FBI. Don't move, please."

The figure didn't move.

"Turn around."

The figure turned. It was a woman. She was smiling. "May I at least put the frying pan down?" she inquired.

West nodded. She felt depressed and frustrated. "Jennifer Salieri?"

"Yes, of course. And who are you?"

She felt something more than frustration. Envy. Yes, stupid envy. Jenny Salieri must have been—what?—fortyish, but she was still darkly beautiful. And elegant, even in the casual slacks and sweater. West thought of the diet she had long ago given up on, the clothes she didn't have the time to coordinate. Damn, this case was really getting on her nerves. "My name is Madeleine West. We received information that people we are looking for might be in this house."

"Al Bernardi and friend, right? Let's sit down, shall we? Can I get you a drink?"

Feeling foolish, West lowered the revolver, but ignored the pleasantries. "Would you tell me what you know about this matter?"

"Well, as you can see, they're not here. And I honestly have no idea where they are."

"But you know more than you told the agent who spoke to you earlier."

Salieri leaned back against the sink. "Oh, I suppose I should be brutally frank, although it won't get you anywhere. Al called me a few days ago—just before this business broke in the papers—and asked for a favor. Well, I could never refuse Al anything, although he refused me often enough. It was really nothing. He said that people were going to be looking for him, and there was a good chance they would think he was at this cottage. Did I mind, was all he wanted to know. Well, of course not. I invited him to use the place if he wanted to, but he said no, he had other plans."

"He didn't mention what those plans were, did he?"

She smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid not. And if he had I'm sure it would have been a lie that'd take you another day or two to unravel. He'll end up confusing you so much that when you actually do find him you won't be sure it's for real. He's just about the cleverest man I know. What a waste. Are you sure you won't have that drink?"

West pondered the information. She could be lying. They could actually have been here and she was covering for them. It wouldn't hurt to run a check on the area. They wouldn't turn up, though. West knew in her bones that the woman was telling the truth. And that bastard had lied to his mother. West was getting a headache. "I'm sorry. I don't have the time. If you think of anything that might help us, please give us a call. We're not interested in Bernardi. We just want the alien back."

The woman shrugged. "Sure. If you find Al—which I doubt—say hi from me, will you?"

West nodded. Now she was carrying messages to him. Outside, in the darkness, a wave of anger swept over her—at him, at the woman, but mostly at herself, for feeling that stab of envy, for letting the case affect her emotions.

It occurred to her that she had little reason to envy Jenny Salieri, who had obviously spent her life longing for a man who preferred to be celibate. That must be a pretty tough thing to live with.

Enough. She gave her orders and headed home.

Chapter 21

Clement sat in his office reading Cardinal Newman. He had made a few calls, but they had been depressing; he had tried to do some mundane paperwork, but had been unable to concentrate. Now it was evening, his back was aching, all deadlines had passed, and he was alone.

At the best of times his job was lonely; at the worst it was as if he inhabited his own planet, and his only human contacts were the flickering shadows of a TV screen, portraying an existence so far removed from his own that it could hardly be considered real.
I did not ask to live on this planet,
he thought (not for the first time), but that was self-pity. When Pusateri had hobbled up to him after the balloting in the Conclave and put the question to him, he had whispered
"Accepto"
—and he had known what he was accepting. He had chosen, and this was the fruit of his choice.

There was a knock on the door. Clement smiled. His isolation, after all, was mental and emotional; hardly physical. "Yes?" he murmured.

It was Collingwood. He had been expecting him, really. There was something to be worked out between them. "Come in, Anthony."

Collingwood walked across the room and sat down in silence. He didn't know where to start, clearly. How often had he been at a loss for words in his life? In a way Clement pitied him. It was an awkward position for an ambitious man like him to be in. Still, it was all his own doing, and Clement had more important things to worry about.

The problem was, Clement realized, that he didn't much like Collingwood. The man was brilliant; he had made himself indispensable, really. He was, for all Clement could tell, a good man, a good priest; his motives always seemed to be worthy, his positions were always Christian. And yet he seemed cold and manipulative; one could not laugh with him, for example. His laughter had to have a point, had to accomplish something. He lacked the fire of the Holy Spirit. He made Clement uncomfortable.

Such reactions were not sinful perhaps, but they were certainly not laudable. If Collingwood caught any hint of them, it was not from lack of effort on Clement's part to suppress them. Anthony was a child of God, one of his flock. Also, Clement needed him (just as he needed Clement). All other considerations were superfluous.

"You look worried, Anthony."

"I've been watching the news," Collingwood replied pointedly.

"Yes. Riots in Mexico City. Nuns attacked in Bangkok. A stony silence from the Vatican."

"Matters will only get worse if the silence continues."

"The Church has suffered before. It has sometimes done her good."

"Surely it suffered to more purpose than this."

"You seemed to feel before that this was rather important." Clement raised his hand to stop Collingwood's reply. "No, let me see if I can say it for you. Circumstances have changed. What may have deserved our support before no longer outweighs other considerations. The stakes have been raised. Our bluff has been called. Is that about right?"

"I didn't know your Holiness was acquainted with gambling terminology."

Clement smiled. "I am perhaps acquainted with more than you give me credit for, Anthony."

"Well, your analysis is correct, of course. I simply don't see why you won't accept it. Cardinal Capelli is obnoxious—I suppose
I'm
obnoxious—but that shouldn't obscure the truth of what we say."

"You are owed an explanation, I suppose," Clement responded. "I doubt that any I give will satisfy you, though. I see this, purely and simply, as a moral issue. Ultimately political concerns—and all other concerns—must yield to morality. I am willing to accept the burden of these other concerns."

"But the creature isn't human! It will take the theologians years to sort out the moral issues involved, and of course they'll never end up agreeing. Why risk so much on an unproved case?"

"To me it is not unproved. Let the theologians ponder as long as they want. I feel the obligation."

Collingwood half rose from his chair, then slumped back down in it. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.