Comes a Horseman (45 page)

“Brady!” She shook his shoulder.

He looked at her, surprised.

“This might be your turn to vent,” she said, “but I'm not going to let you sit there and flog yourself. Even if this is Rome.” She smiled. “I hear what you're saying, okay? You think you're damaged goods and you're not pulling your weight. You . . .”

She was angry, unsure what to say. She punched him in the arm.

“Are you dead? Is Zach dead? You didn't freeze when a monster—a monster and his hellhounds!—came after you. You protected yourself and your son. Look at your hand. You grabbed an ax! You held on! And you would have fought if he hadn't run away.
He
ran away, not you.”

She shook her head. More quietly, she said, “Am
I
dead? You didn't freeze when I went out that window. You saved me.” Her voice cracked on the word
saved
. She took a deep breath. “All right, I wanted to continue the investigation and you wanted to go home. That's because you have somebody to go home to. You have someone who loves you and needs you, and you're determined to live up to your responsibilities to Zach. That's honorable. That's noble.

“I have my work. Brady,
this
is my life. I've dedicated myself to it the way you have to your family. Of course I want to stay on an investigation. Of course I'm a little more decisive about the direction of a case, about a course of action to get to the end. This is all I've done for years, while you were pursuing a different field of study and making a home and having a family. Does that make you deadweight now? No, Brady, it doesn't!”

She had worked herself up. He thought she might hit him again.

Slowly, a smile bent his lips.

“With a little Wite-Out, we can take my name off my degree and write in yours.”

“If that's another way of putting yourself down, I won't have it.”

“No, I just mean you have an incredible way of cutting through the crap. A shrink would have required a dozen sessions to do what you did in two minutes.”

“Did I lance your emotional boil?”

He cringed. “See? And yes, I do feel better. But there is one other thing.” He lowered his eyes. “You and I. I mean, it's obvious . . .”

The driver's door opened. “We go now, yes?” the cabbie said, starting to get in.

Alicia shot up to the back of his seat and pushed him back out.

“No! Go count your money!” she yelled, then leaned over the seat, gripped the door, and yanked it shut. She fell back onto the rear cushion with a smile. “What's obvious?”

“I think . . .” He gave her a hard look. “Do you have feelings for me? Feelings that maybe go beyond . . . partners . . . I mean . . . ?”

“I do. But that's okay. I understand you aren't—”

“I feel the same,” he said, cutting her off. “I think. I've caught myself comparing you to Karen. That's unfair, I know, but that I was doing it at all made me realize I had some feelings . . . you know?”

Man, why did he make everything so difficult?

She gripped his hand and squeezed.

“It's good you mentioned this,” she said. “Now we can let it go. Let's not think about it or worry about it or play games while we take care of this Father-Randall-Pelletier-near- death-experience thing. Whatever happens, happens. Okay?”

Now
that
was like Karen, he realized. Decisive but accepting of the world the way it was. Karen's strength had come from knowing there was a God in control. Conversely, Alicia was one of those people who had a well of strength that came up from somewhere they didn't examine very closely; it didn't matter to them where it came from, as long as it was there when they needed it.

Keeping her eyes on him, she rapped her knuckles against the window glass. When the cabbie opened the door and plopped down on his seat, she said, “Where've you been? Let's go!”

59

F
orty minutes later, the cab pulled to the curb on Via della Conciliazione. Brady didn't see much, except what looked to him like ancient apartment buildings, scrupulously maintained. Then he climbed out and looked over the roof of the cab. Across the boulevard and beyond two ornately decorated buildings opened a massive courtyard—the Piazza San Pietro. From its center rose an Egyptian obelisk at least a hundred feet high, originally moved there to commemorate the Circus of Nero. Past it, on the opposite side of the plaza, was St. Peter's Basilica, fronted by columns, its facade topped by statues of saints and its famous dome, designed by Michelangelo, rising behind them.

“Signore!”

The cabbie's call made him realize he had been standing in the open door, transfixed by the sight. He closed the door, freeing the cab to roar away. Alicia was already jogging across the boulevard, as if responding to a siren's call. Brady followed.

The court was elliptical. Colonnades extended from the cathedral steps, then swooped around like arms embracing the souls in the plaza. There were perhaps a few hundred people milling in it now, but it felt vacant, able to accommodate thousands more.

Alicia tapped him on the arm.

“There's an office or something marked
L'ufficio informazioni.
” She pointed beyond the southern colonnade at what could have been storefronts but whose signage indicated Vatican offices and assistance stations. They entered the information office and waited while a man behind a counter explained details about tours through the Vatican Gardens to a group of elderly and extremely hard-of-hearing American tourists. After the last loud “What?” had been answered and the group shuffled out, Brady approached the man.

“We're here to see a priest who works in the Archives.”

“The Archives or the library?” the man asked, using the volume he had adopted for his previous inquisitors.

“Is there a difference?”

“Sì.”

Brady raised his eyebrows at Alicia.

She said, “Father McAfee said ‘Secret Archives.'”

Brady returned his attention to the man. “The priest we're here to see is—”

“Two doors down,” the man said, turning away from them.

“I'm sorry?”

“The business office.” He pointed east.

The business office looked like a low-budget travel agency, with a couple of old desks and chairs for waiting visitors. Only one desk was occupied, by a kid Brady would card if he tried to buy alcohol. He wore a cleric's collar over a black short-sleeved shirt. There was an LCD monitor and keyboard on his desk, but his head was bent over a ledger. He was scrutinizing columns of tiny numbers, pencil in hand. His hair was black, cut short, and parted on one side. Gelled into place. He looked up with a bright smile.

“Mi dica?”

“Do you speak English?” Brady asked.

“Of course. What may I do for you?” His English was flawless.

Brady asked to see Father Randall.

“What is the nature of your business?”

He and Alicia had already decided to be as honest as possible—up to a point. Mentioning a murder investigation might create more walls than doors. He explained that they were following up on a burglary at a Catholic church in the States and needed to speak with Father Randall about it.

“You traveled to Italy, investigating a burglary?” The young priest was as baffled as anyone would be at hearing Brady's ludicrous story.

“There may be some ties to other crimes,” Brady said.

“What agency did you say you're with?”

“We're not here in an official capacity. The priest at the burglarized church is a friend.”

The priest nodded, as if this information put everything into perfect sense. He turned to the screen and keyboard on his desk.

“The father's name again?”

He hesitated. He didn't want to get Father McAfee in trouble.

The priest looked up. “Who is the man you wish to see?”

“Oh. Father Randall. Adalberto Randall.”

He typed the name on the keyboard and watched the screen. Brady thought he saw a flash of concern tighten the priest's face, then it was gone. Brady leaned forward casually to get a peek at the screen. The young man pushed a key, and Brady had time to see the words disappear. After a second of gray, a photograph of St. Peter's filled the screen. Just as well. He couldn't read Italian.

The priest opened a drawer and withdrew a yellow form the size of an index card. Across the top, in a large scrawl, he wrote the date. More writing under that, smaller, sloppier. He retrieved a small key from his pants pocket, unlocked the center drawer of his desk, and pulled out an embosser. Placing the form in the jaws of the embosser, the young man squeezed tightly. After the drawer was locked again and the key back in his pocket, he held the form out to Brady.

“This pass will get you to the secretary of the Archives. He can help you further.”

“Can't we go directly to Father Randall?”

The priest whipped a colorful map onto the counter and pointed at it with a pen. “Let me show you. Go past the Leonine walls, here, and through the Gate of Saint Anne. You will see an arched road. Take it past the
Osservatore Romano
building to the Court of the Belvedere. On your left, you will see a stairway. Take it to the top.” He tapped the tip of his pen against the map and pushed it across the desk. “And so.”

“And so,” Brady repeated. “Thank you.”

Before they reached the door, the priest called to them.

“You will have to show the pass to several guards on your way. Do not deviate from the route and you will be fine. God bless you both.”

Outside, Alicia turned to Brady. “What happens if we deviate?”

“We won't be fine, I guess.”

60

B
rady had been to Las Vegas three times on Bureau business. Each time, he had marveled at the scale of the hotels. They were, as Zach would say,
gi-normous
. One could walk for five minutes through a single game room without stopping or moving circuitously. They housed Olympic-sized pools, Broadway-sized theaters, Disney-sized rides. The gold lion in front of the MGM Grand gave Brady a kinked neck. He could never decide whether the town was a monument to greed and gaudiness or the result of men remembering what it was like to build sand castles and Lego structures.

Walking through Vatican City, he realized the vision of the Vegas architects was too small. And too austere. He felt dwarfed by the statues, columns, fountains. The buildings cast a false twilight, as the mountains did in Vail. Every building he saw boasted museum-quality ornamentation: statuary, relievos of great moments in history, stained glass, and towers. It gave him a headache just imagining the treasures stored behind their walls.

Three pairs of Swiss Guards stopped them on their way to the Secret Archives. After the last pair had inspected their pass and let them continue, Brady said, “If I had a fifth of the masterpieces they have here, I'd have SWAT teams protecting it, not rent-a-cops.”

“Don't let the dandy uniforms fool you,” Alicia said. “I know a guy on the Bureau's Hostage Rescue Team.”

He nodded. “Best SWAT team in the country.”

“They are. Anyway, this guy says a few of them are heading to Switzerland to train with the Swiss Guard. And I say, ‘What made the Swiss ask for help?' thinking some major hostage crisis opened their eyes to the need for better training, you know? He says, no, the Bureau guys were going to be
trained by them
. Apparently, they're the best in the world, every one of them. Mossad and SEALs and . . .
Samurais
all rolled into one.”

Brady looked back at one of the guards, dressed in the traditional uniform of bright orange and blue bloomers, matching shirt with puffy arms, and a blue beret. He gave her a half smile. “Tell me you're joking.”

“Dead serious,” she said. “As you said, think of the priceless masterpieces they have here. And the pope. What a target he is.” A few dozen steps farther, she said, “'Course you can give them a hard time, see what happens. Don't take my word for it.”

They were heading across a cobblestone court toward an intersection of pathways, where a sole Swiss Guard stood with a halberd. Brady imagined the damage a weapon like that could wreak in proficient hands.

“I've always appreciated the tranquillity of sleeping dogs,” he said.

“Exactly.” She slapped his arm with the back of her hand and pointed. “I think that's it.”

On their left, a wide flight of stone steps rose past an oversized marble statue to a second-floor landing and heavy wood doors. Alicia charged up the stairs, but Brady paused long enough to learn that the statue was of a guy named Hippolytus. The rest of the inscription was in Italian or Latin or Shelta, for all he knew. He wondered if Hippolytus was as wise as he looked here, gazing into the distance, a book in one hand.

Brady caught up with Alicia just inside the doors, where yet another Swiss ninja had stopped her. Brady presented the pass, and he let them by. They were in an anteroom. Above another set of double doors, a marble sign spelled out
Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana
in relieved letters. A single door on a different wall bore a wood sign:
L'Archivio Segreto Vaticano.

Even Brady understood that. He held the door open for Alicia, saying, “It says ‘secret' on the door. How secret is that?”

They moved down a corridor toward a man sitting at a desk. The corridor was wide, arched, and constructed entirely of stone, except for large windows in one wall, overlooking the courtyard they had crossed to get to the library stairway.

Alicia leaned toward Brady. In a hushed tone she said, “For a thousand years, all the records stored here were off-limits to anyone except the pope and a handful of scholars, researchers, and archivists, all in the employ of the pope. It wasn't until 1881 that Pope Leo XIII opened about half of them to a limited number of serious scholars and theologians. Even today there's what's called the ‘Hundred Year Rule,' which mandates that most new documents may not be examined by outsiders for a century.” She showed him her teeth. “You need to read more, Brady.”