The Book of Q (8 page)

Blaney waited, then shook his head. “I really don’t know. I believe Herr Kleist is looking into that.” Again, he peered past von Neurath. “Isn’t that right?”

The younger man was already standing. “Absolutely, Father,” he answered. “I’m taking care of it.”

Ludovisi headed for the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Arturo?” It was Blaney who spoke. “Aren’t we all forgetting something?”

The contessa was the first to nod; she knelt down. Von Neurath showed a mild irritation, then followed suit. The others in the room did the same. Blaney was the last. He began to pray: “It is from the perfect light, the true ascent that I am found in those who seek me. Acquainted with me, you come to yourselves, wrapped in the light to rise to the aeons….”

Five minutes later, the suite was empty.

A final surge of tourists hustled through the turnstiles, a last-minute visit before closing. Pearse sat on a bench some twenty yards from them, elbows on knees, chin on hands. He wondered why they even bothered; the light had given up on the day, too low in the sky to penetrate the thick wall of cloud, too early to be helped by the few surrounding lampposts, as yet unlit. Even so, the cameras were at the ready.

He had considered going to the police, but he knew Cesare had been right: What could he possibly say that wouldn’t sound far-fetched, if not a little paranoid? After all, the scroll remained tucked away in the underbelly of San Clemente. More than that, he still believed that there was a reasonable explanation, that Cesare would arrive—a sheepish smile, a gentle shrug—the two laughing their way to a nearby café. “The Manichaeans,” he would say. “What was I thinking?”

Still, the words from the catacombs continued to echo:
We have him
.

Pearse checked his watch: 6:15. He glanced around. Cesare should have been here half an hour ago. The echo grew stronger.

For perhaps the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes, he stood and
stepped out into the pedestrian area, a wide swath of pavement extending some twenty yards in each direction. To his left, a small group waited at the bus stop on the Imperiali, one or two others by the coffee truck parked by the fence overlooking the Forum, but no Cesare. Another check of the watch.

It was difficult not to draw attention—a priest pacing alone, no doubt a look of concern on his face. One of the women at the coffee truck offered a nervous smile when their eyes met, Pearse awkwardly nodding, turning, hoping to see Cesare’s gangly features in the distance. Nothing. He walked back, past the bench, unable to make himself sit. Nearing a section of recently added scaffolding—three tiers rising high on the amphitheater—he heard a whispered voice.

“Ian.” It was Cesare, unseen, somewhere within the tangled mess of poles and boards. “Keep walking as if you’re waiting for someone.”

It was all Pearse could do not to spin round. He quickly checked his watch again, aware that the movement had been awkward, unconvincing.

“Move away,” Cesare pressed, his voice barely audible, though insistent enough to send Pearse back toward the coffee truck. A bus pulled up, the gathering at the stop quick to file on. The driver stared down at him.

“
Padre?
” he asked.

It took Pearse a moment to realize the man was talking to him. The question somehow demanded more of him than he could manage. When the driver asked again, Pearse slowly shook his head. The man nodded, shut the door, and took the bus out into traffic.

Pearse turned and headed for the scaffolding. As casually as he could, he moved toward a low stone wall—no more than two feet high—one side of a grass enclosure situated between the bus stop and the Colosseum, close enough to make conversation possible. He sat, elbows again on knees. And waited.

“This was the best way I could think of talking to you,” Cesare began, his voice tired, no less strained than that afternoon. Pearse nodded, his eyes now scanning the area around him, trying to be as inconspicuous as he could. “Do you have a handkerchief?” Cesare asked. Without answering, Pearse reached into his pocket and pulled one out. “If you need to answer, pretend to use it. I don’t think anyone’s followed me, but best to be safe.”

Pearse immediately placed the handkerchief to his mouth. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

“I needed to be sure you were alone.”

“I looked for you in the old church. I thought someone had … I don’t know.”

There was a pause before the monk spoke. When he did, accusation laced his words. “How did you know I went to the old church?”

“Because I heard one of them over a radio, Dante.” The answer firm, Pearse no longer willing to placate. He needed answers. “Who were those men?”

“A radio,” he repeated. The explanation seemed to satisfy. “You have to go back for the scroll.”

“What?” Confusion surged to the surface. “What are you … Why?”

“Because I would be followed.”

“That’s not what I meant.” When Cesare didn’t answer, Pearse prodded him. “By whom, Dante? Who were those men in the tunnels?”

“I told you. There’s a link to the Manichaeans.”

Pearse’s frustration was building. “That’s not an answer, and you know it.”

“Please, Ian. All you have to do is get the scroll and—”

“No.” The finality in his voice cut Cesare short. “Look,” he said, his tone now softer, “just tell me what’s going on. Why are you so afraid to be seen talking with me?”

For nearly half a minute, the Italian said nothing. When he did, his voice carried little of its usual insistence. “Believe me, it wasn’t my intention to involve you like this.”

“Involve me in what?” Pearse turned and looked directly into the scaffolding. “There’s no one out here, Dante. No one’s followed you.” Silence. “I’m telling you, it’s safe to come out.”

More silence. After nearly a minute, Cesare slowly emerged from the far corner, still hidden in shadow, eyes peering about the open expanse; when he was fully satisfied, he moved out and sat next to Pearse. He kept his arms crossed at his chest, his head low. “Does this make you happier?”

“Worlds happier. Now what’s going on?”

Again, the monk waited before speaking. “Two days ago, my rooms were rummaged through—”

“You’ve told me that,” Pearse cut in.

“Yes, well, it wasn’t while I was away. I walked in to find three men in the process.”

“What?”
Pearse tried to stifle his disbelief. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

Cesare continued, ignoring the question. “It was during vespers. I’d felt a bit light-headed—perhaps because I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before working with Sebastiano. I thought it best to lie down. Evidently, they thought it the perfect time to go about their business. Naturally there was an awkward moment. When I told them I was going to get the abbot, they informed me that it was the abbot who had given them permission to look through my rooms.”

“The abbot—”

“Yes. That’s when one of them showed me his identification: Vatican security. We both know the police remain at a distance when the Vatican is involved.”

Pearse said nothing for several seconds. “So that’s why you put the scroll back.”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “The police would have been useless. And the abbot … he was the one who’d let them in.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“That, as far as I knew, my rooms weren’t part of the Vatican. They didn’t see any humor in that.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“They asked if Sebastiano had given me anything the previous night. I asked them how they knew we had met. They repeated the question. I asked them if something had happened to Sebastiano. They asked again if he had given me anything. So forth and so on. I don’t know why, but I told them no. There was something about them, something that told me to protect my friend. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have given them what they wanted.”

“I would have done the same thing,” said Pearse. “Did they say anything else?”

“They wanted to know if Sebastiano had told me about anything he’d recently found in the church.”

“Did they ever mention the scroll? Explain what it was?”

“No. I asked them what it was that could possibly bring Vatican security all the way out to San Clemente. They said it wasn’t my concern. So it went, each of them taking turns with questions. Each time, I told them I was sorry but that I didn’t know what they were looking for.”

“And they believed you?”

“I have no idea. Eventually, they decided to leave.”

“And that was it? Nothing else until the tunnels?”

“Nothing else?” asked Cesare somewhat surprised. “Well, not unless you consider Sebastiano’s death unimportant.”

Pearse turned to him. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He waited, then asked again. “And that’s all they said?”

“Yes.” Cesare started to nod, then stopped. “No.” He seemed to be trying to remember something. “There was one thing.” After a moment, he said, “It was when they were leaving. One of them”—his eyes were still hunting for the words—“he said, ‘We’re well aware of the perfect light.’” Cesare nodded to himself. “Yes, that was it, the ‘perfect light.’ He said, ‘Don’t be foolish to think you can keep it from us.’” He looked at Pearse. “That struck me as odd. Of course, I had no idea what he meant. I thought he might have been referring to the Holy Spirit or—”

“‘Perfect Light’?” asked Pearse, a sudden intensity in his tone. “You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“I think so,” Cesare replied, aware of the shift in the younger man’s voice. “Yes, now that I remember it. As I said, the words were unusual.” Pearse remained silent; Cesare continued. “I imagine he meant it as some sort of threat. Expected me to understand. Evidently, it was lost on me.”

“It wasn’t the Holy Spirit.” Pearse continued to stare out. Almost to himself, he said, “He was referring to the ‘Perfect Light.’”

“Yes …” answered the Italian, clearly puzzled by Pearse’s response. “I know. That’s what I just said.” He waited for a response.

“‘Perfect Light, True Ascent,’” Pearse added, his eyes rising to the Arch of Constantine. “Maybe it’s not so absurd.”

“What’s not so absurd?” asked the Italian. “Ian?”

It took Pearse a moment to focus; he turned to Cesare. “‘Perfect Light, True Ascent.’ It’s a prayer, Dante. A Manichaean prayer.” Again, his gaze drifted. “It’s supposed to be a collection of Jesus’ sayings.”

“A prayer?”

Pearse nodded. “Passed down orally. Never a written text. Or so says Augustine.” He turned to the monk. “You’re absolutely sure those were the words the man used?”

“Yes.” Cesare took a moment. “And that’s what the scroll is, this … ‘Perfect Light’?”

Pearse shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“You mean to tell me a prayer was the reason those men went through
my rooms?” Cesare was suddenly more heated. “The reason they followed me to San Clemente, to the old church? A prayer is why Sebastiano was killed?” The last thought seemed to incite him further. “I don’t believe that, Ian.
That
is absurd. A prayer doesn’t explain what’s happened.”

“I realize that, but I don’t have an answer for you.” Cesare said nothing. “You wanted a link to the Manichaeans, well, here it is. For whatever it’s worth.” Restless, Pearse stood. “You’re sure they were the same men who were in the tunnel?”

“Yes. Who else would they be?”

A question suddenly crossed his mind; he turned to Cesare. “How do you know, if they never caught you?”

Cesare looked up, momentarily taken aback by the question. “How do I know?” Pearse heard the defensiveness in the monk’s voice. “There are plenty of ways to be seen and not be seen in those tunnels, Ian. It wasn’t that hard to let them find me, and just as easy to lose them. I’m sure that by the time they reached the old church, I was already making my way here. Why is this of any importance?”

“So if you knew you’d lost them, why were you afraid that you’d been followed?”

A tinge of anger flickered over Cesare’s face. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking?”

The two men stared at each other. Finally, Pearse shook his head, sat back down on the bench. “I don’t know … neither do I.”

The monk took a moment before responding. “Look, I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position. I understand. Naturally you’re suspicious. Maybe it’s better that way.”

Again silence before Pearse continued. “So what do you do now?”

“I have a few friends. They can put me up for tonight.”

“And then what?”

From under the top of his tunic, Cesare pulled a bag that hung around his neck. “Is there anyone who would understand these kinds of prayers more—how can I say it?—more—”

“Better than I do?” asked Pearse with a smile. “Of course.”

“Then I think that person needs to see the scroll.”

“And you want me to get it.”

Cesare opened the bag and pulled a piece of paper from inside. “I drew you a little map. How to get to the catacombs from the main sanctuary entrance. You could go tomorrow.” He held the paper out to Pearse.

“And once I have it, does this start all over again? Am I going to be talking to someone through scaffolding two days from now?”