The Book of Q (40 page)

He stared at her for several seconds. “Thank you,” he said.

“I’m not going to lie to my son.”

“Except for that bit about the priest.”

“Right. Except for that.”

He waited. “Look, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t do that, okay?”

Again he waited. “Okay.” He took a sip, then said, “He must wonder why I haven’t visited him.”

“You’re an American. That makes up for a lot of things to a boy here. You brought peace and chocolates and video games.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She was about to say something, but instead began to cradle the glass in her hands. Staring down into it, she said, “He has Salko, who’s been wonderful. And he has an image of a father that makes him feel different from all the other kids. What more could he want?”

“So right now, I’m some generic American who’s made of chocolate and designed in Japan.”

“You’re everything that’s possible to him. Everything that’s beyond here.” She took another sip, her eyes again on the glass. “Most fathers dream of being that to their sons.”

For the first time, Pearse realized he’d been missing something entirely. From his first moments with her tonight, he’d been focusing on Ivo. Everything they’d talked about had been the boy. Strange that in the car he’d been so concerned with how he would react to her. And yet it had all slipped from his mind the instant he’d seen her.

And now he’d needed her to remind him.

“So what about you?” he asked.

A nervous laughter erupted in her throat. Again, it caught him completely by surprise. “You really were never very good at this, were you?”

For some reason, he laughed, as well. “I guess not,” he said.

“I’m telling you,” said Mendravic, who chose that moment to reappear, “it’s not that funny. Ivo, Ian. They’re just names.” It was clear from his expression that he knew exactly what they’d been talking about. Pearse couldn’t be sure just which one of them Mendravic thought he was rescuing, or, more to the point, which of them he thought needed the rescuing.

Whichever it was, Mendravic was clearly eager to go, hovering by the chair, his eyes scanning the area by the door. He’d had his food. He needed a bed. Same old Salko. Pearse turned back to Petra, who was also peering up at Mendravic. “Well, we can’t keep you waiting,” she said, “now can we?”

She slid back her chair and was about to stand, when Mendravic said, “Wait here.” His tone was direct, none of the charm of only seconds ago. Before she could answer, he was making his way to the door. She looked at Pearse.

His expression told her everything. “You didn’t come just to see us, did you?”

She had been trained too well not to recognize an order. And she was too smart not to understand the implications.

Pearse stared blankly, then turned to watch Mendravic leave the restaurant.

Twenty seconds later, he returned. By his side stood Petra’s next-door neighbor. In his arms, he held the boy, Ivo peering down from the height, his cheeks that puffy red from recent rousing. Even half-asleep, his eyes lit up at the sight of Petra. She was already to him by the time Mendravic spoke.

“We should move to the back,” he said, releasing the boy into his mother’s arms. With Mendravic, Ivo had fit perfectly; with Petra, he seemed to overwhelm her smaller frame. Still, she held him tightly to
her shoulders, his head lost in her neck, legs dangling awkwardly below. The expression on her face betrayed none of the unwieldiness, her cheek pressed to his, whispering something into his tiny ear. Pearse watched as the two women headed back, the boy’s eyes drifting into sleep, his hands lost in his mother’s hair. At the same time, Mendravic stepped over to the waiter; they exchanged a few words, the man nodding. As Mendravic returned, Pearse saw the waiter move to the door and lock it.

“How did you—”

“I saw them across the street, through the window,” Mendravic explained.

Now on his feet, Pearse realized the corner lamp illuminated much of the area outside. Not too difficult to pick up two figures on an empty street.

Once all four adults were settled into a booth—Ivo’s head now on Petra’s lap—Mendravic explained:

“She says a man came to the apartment.”

“How he got into the building,” the woman piped in, “I don’t know, but there he was, five, maybe ten minutes after you left.”

“At eleven o’clock at night?” asked Petra. She turned to Pearse, then Mendravic. “What haven’t you told me?”

Mendravic shook his head once, then asked, “Did he say what he wanted?”

“You,” the woman answered, nodding toward Petra.

Mendravic hesitated, then said, “Naturally. It’s her apartment. Did he say why he wanted to see her?”

“No.” The woman looked at Mendravic. “A police badge, or something like it. You learn to look at the eyes, not the badge. I’d seen that same stare plenty of times during the war. Men appearing in the middle of the night. I kept the chain on the whole time.” She turned back to Petra. “I told him you didn’t live there anymore, that it was my place. When he asked me where you lived now, I shrugged”—she demonstrated for the table—“said it wasn’t my business. I waited by the window until I saw him leave. He got into a car with someone else. Ten minutes after that, I brought Ivo here.”

“You walked here?” It was the first time Pearse had said anything.

“Don’t worry,” said the woman as she turned to Mendravic. “The basements of all the buildings on the block are connected. We went down, then came out on the street behind. They wouldn’t have seen us.” She
turned and handed Petra a small bag she had been holding on her lap. “Some clothes for you and Ivo. I thought it might be a good idea.” She then turned back to Mendravic, the smile almost coquettish. “I also fought in the war.”

Mendravic nodded. “I can see that. Excellent work.”

The woman seemed well pleased and sat back.

“What was the man wearing?” asked Pearse.

The woman’s expression made it clear that she felt she had said all that was necessary. “Wearing?” She shrugged again. “I don’t know. A jacket. Some pants. Oh … and some of those high boots. Tied outside the pants. The sort you take into the mountains.” Again, she turned to Mendravic for approval. Again, he smiled with a nod.

“High boots,” echoed Pearse, also peering over at Mendravic. He could see the gears working behind the Croat’s eyes.

“All right,” Mendravic said. “You need to stay with friends for the next few days.” The woman’s reaction told him she’d already taken the precaution. “And we have to get out of here now.”

“We
all
have to get out of here now.” Petra was staring directly at Mendravic.

Again, the gears cranked before he answered. “Right.”

“We can’t take them to—”

The woman cut Pearse off. “I don’t want to know where you can’t take them. I don’t want to know where you
can
take them.” She was clearly enjoying her return to Mendravic’s world, the posturing far more compelling than any possible danger. She stood. “I’ll wait to go back to the apartment for three days. You can contact me then.” She turned to Petra, offered a smile, a kiss on both cheeks for Mendravic, and then headed for the front.

As he watched her go, Mendravic spoke under his breath,
“Vive la résistance.”

“Behave,” chided Petra. “She saw more than you and I ever did during the war. And she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s just a little lonely now. Without her, your friends in high boots would be standing here with us right now.”

“We can’t take them to Visegrad,” said Pearse, picking up where he had left off.

“And we can’t leave them here,” answered Mendravic.

“Before we make any decisions,” Petra said, “we all have to know exactly whom and what we’re running away from.”

“No, we don’t.” The tone in Mendravic’s voice was one neither of them had heard in years. He stood, stepped around, and picked up Ivo before Petra could respond. The boy, who had fallen back to sleep, was now stirring, one eye lazily opening. Mendravic quickly whispered something to him, his massive hand rubbing gently along the boy’s slender back. In a hushed voice, he continued. “We get in the car and we drive. And then we fill in the gaps.”

He turned and headed toward the kitchen. Pearse and Petra had no choice but to follow.

The coolness in the air surprised him, more than a hint of the coming autumn. He was glad he had brought a sweater, the walk to the church nearly a mile from the inn he had chosen on the edge of town. He’d had time enough to acclimate himself—two days since his flight into Heathrow—ample opportunity to monitor the comings and goings of Bibury’s inhabitants, a typical Cotswold village, replete with teahouses, ancient Tudor shops, long barrow walks, and the usual infestation of summer renters up from the city. He’d opted for one of the more prominent villages, easier to go unnoticed, another tourist taking in the pleasant English summer. Even so, quarter to twelve, and only the central streets showed any signs of life. And what life there was kept itself to a minimum. The pubs and restaurants had closed over an hour ago—coming from the south of Spain, he’d never understood how the English could abide the early closings—leaving little else to do but head back home for the down quilts and goose-feather pillows.

A more and more inviting prospect the farther on he walked.

That there was hardly any light didn’t seem to bother him in the least. The lamps were for town; out here, they would have been an intrusion.

He had walked the route perhaps fifteen times in the last day, committing to memory the exact number of paces required along each lane, the placement of each turn, the points when the road would rise and fall—but nothing visual. Too much conspired at night to make anything but the most precise measurements a reliable guide. The countryside could play tricks, tease with the appearance of a hedge, the outline of a house. He might as well have been blindfolded, for the attention he gave to his surroundings.

Concentrating on the numbers also allowed him to focus on the sound of his steps, barely audible even within the crisp stillness of the late
evening. The last of the houses had come and gone some ten minutes back, his only indication a sudden quickening in the roll of the road, the undulation more and more aggressive during the last quarter mile of the walk.

As he reached the end of the count, he looked up and saw the small church in front of him, its outline cutting into the sky, its Norman lines lost to the blackness. He scanned the area to his right; the manse, a small cottage by day, was now little more than an amorphous hump on the horizon. He headed for the side of the church farthest from it, a window he had left unlatched during his visit that afternoon. Truth be told, he’d removed the latch entirely. No reason to leave anything to chance.

Hoisting himself up to the sill, he lifted the window, a momentary screech of metal on wood, nothing, though, to cause concern. He then pivoted himself through, slid down to the stone floor, and removed the pack from his back. Retrieving a laser-line flashlight from one of the compartments, he twisted its head and pointed the fine beam at the ground.

It would take him almost an hour to plant the explosives, most of the time devoted to positioning them so that enough of the fragments could be found and traced. That took some expertise. It was why he had been chosen.

Why others had been chosen.

Vienna. Ankara. Bilbao. Montana. Over a thousand names. Over a thousand churches.

One result.

Éeema, Éeema, Ayo.

The humidity had returned, even in the short amount of time they had spent in the restaurant. Added to that, the alley outside smelled like three-day-old garbage, the neighborhood cats having made easy work of the cans and bags placed along the walls. One or two were still busy, unconcerned with the arrival of the odd quartet. A quick glance over, then back to the hunt.

As the four of them neared the alley’s edge, Mendravic turned to Pearse. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll bring the car around.” He then handed him the boy and moved off down the street.

For just a moment, Ivo lifted his head, eyes half-asleep; just as quickly, he dropped his head down, nuzzling into the soft of Pearse’s neck.