The Book of Q

by Jonathan Rabb

  And yet, the actual horror of what they were planning troubled Kleist far less than the cardinal’s explicit instructions that he discuss the preparations with no one but him. Usual protocol required Blaney, Ludovisi, and the contessa to be kept apprised of every detail. Von Neurath had explained that the lines of communication needed to be restricted at this point. Why was not his concern. Still, it seemed odd.

  Reaching the fifth floor, he pulled a collection of brackets from the package, along with a section of blueprint, and moved down the corridor. The schematic was surprisingly clear. Inside several heating vents and ceiling ducts along the hall, he attached two sets of the metal supports, less than a minute for the epoxy to harden at each stop. It had been the same that afternoon on the third floor. One or two more trips, and everything would be in place.

  Back on the ground floor, he nodded to the guard on his way out. “Everything looks fine.” Kleist smiled.

  “Wouldn’t have expected anything else,” answered the man.

  Good to hear, thought Kleist as he stepped out into the night.

  The university’s junior faculty housing made Pearse’s Vatican rooms seem lush by comparison. Andrakos insisted on a glass of something before they headed out; given the last day and a half, Pearse readily accepted. They toasted over a tiny wooden table in what passed for the kitchen, both men downing the liqueur in a single swig.

  “Hooo.” Pearse coughed several times, his eyes filling with tears. He’d had ouzo before. This was definitely not ouzo.

  “Yamass,” said the young Greek. “You won’t get this quality booze for a couple of days.”

  “That might be a blessing in disguise.”

  Andrakos smiled and tilted back his glass, refilling both before Pearse could say no. “They water down everything on the mountain.”

  “I can understand why.” If he’d had any concerns about Andrakos’s driving before, he couldn’t wait to see him on the road after two of these.

  Surprisingly, the alcohol changed very little. In fact, it seemed to heighten his skills. While Pearse replanted his hand firmly on the dashboard, Andrakos took the car in and out of alleys, crisscrossing and circumventing the afternoon traffic with extraordinary ease. Amid the whirlwind, he even managed to throw in a few more sights—a fleeting view of the Arch of Galerius, sixty feet of weathered stone and marble, its side piers lopped off, leaving only a gated torso, several bands of reliefs chiseled below, a glimpse into the city’s Roman past.

  “A little reminder of home for you,” said Andrakos.

  “Doesn’t look like Boston,” said Pearse.

  “Ah,” said Andrakos. “I meant your current home.”

  “You’d love Boston. Just remember to take the car.”

  Pearse was permitted only a few seconds to take it all in before they were zipping past mosques and minarets, a quick glance at Atatürk’s birthplace, confirmation of Salonika’s role as meeting place between East and West. An equal-opportunity guide, Andrakos enjoyed recalling his city’s tug-of-war history, secure in the fact that whatever her conquerors had tried to impose, they had never escaped her singular imprint. Salonika was forever Greek, its relics—Roman, Turkish, Armenian—infused with the image of that Hellenic past.

  It was only when he realized they were making their way deeper into town, rather than out to the mountain, that Pearse spoke up.

  “Travel visas,” Andrakos explained. “No documents, no monks.”

  Less than five minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Ministry of Macedonia and Thrace, which, as far as Pearse could see, was Agiou Dimitriou Street’s answer to Rome’s Palazzo Borghese, though on a far less opulent scale. The ash gray building stood back from the street, a pebble garden leading to the entrance steps, with arched columns beyond. Inside, the fantasy quickly faded, stark walls amid a bureaucrat’s maze of offices, along with two bizarre modern sculptures standing sentry at the door. A far cry from the Berninis he had hoped for.

  Andrakos hurried them through the main hall, hellos and nods to just about everyone they passed. The same held true on the second floor, first names for most, smiles and waves following him down the corridor. Clearly, Angeli had chosen her contact well.

  He headed for the office at the far end, not bothering to knock before venturing in.

  “Yasu, Stanto,” he said, moving straight for the desk.

  The man in the chair looked up, a slightly older version of Dominic, a brother’s glare in his eye. “Don’t you even bother to knock, Nikki? I could have had someone—”

  “I told you I was coming. We need the papers.”

  It was then that the older Andrakos noticed Pearse at the door. “Oh, yes. Hello,” he said in English. “Please come in.”

  Pearse stepped inside, at once taken by the view through the window—picturesque church, several bubble domes atop a ceramic roof, clear indication of Stanto’s favored position at the ministry. A view like that took years to acquire.

  Dominic was already busy with various piles on the desk.

  “They’re not in there.” Trying his best to curb his annoyance, Stanto smiled at his guest, then pulled the pages from his brother’s hands, continuing in a hushed Greek. “Look, Nikki, I can’t keep making last-minute arrangements for you. This is a serious office, not your private travel agency. The boys on the mountain can get very upset.”

  “They love me out there,” replied Dominic, a wink to Pearse as his brother pulled a second set of pages from his hands.

  “They love God, Nikki. They tolerate you.”

  “Barely tolerate.” Dominic laughed. “By the way, the professor speaks Greek.”

  The older Andrakos hesitated before turning to Pearse. “Oh. Of course,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m sorry. Constantine Andrakos. I’m not usually this—”

  “No need to apologize,” said Pearse, shaking his hand. “Peter Seldon. I’m the one you should be taking to task. It’s my fault that this has all been so last minute.”

  “You’re nice to say so, Professor, but you don’t know Dominic. It isn’t the first time.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out two rather impressive-looking envelopes. Pearse noticed they were both addressed to the Holy Community of Mount Athos, the great imperial crest—the double-headed eagle of Byzantium—at the top. “They delivered the diamonitirio fifteen minutes ago. The ink is probably still wet.”

  Dominic took the passports and, trying his best at a pose of servility, asked, “And the boat? Did you get the boat, Stanto?”

  “Yes, I got the boat,” he replied, as if to a child. “It’ll be waiting for you at Ouranopolis. Brother Gennadios will meet you at Daphne. He said he’s looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I told you they loved me.”

  “I think he meant the professor.” He turned to Pearse. “Gennadios mentioned he once did some work on Ambrose.”

  “Really.” Pearse smiled. “I … can’t wait to talk with him.”

  Dominic was already at the door. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to do. Wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

  “No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” said the older Andrakos. “Just try and get there in one piece.”

  The eighty miles to Ouranopolis—the Gate of Heaven, little more than a village at the base of the Athos Peninsula—took just over two hours, remarkable, given the condition of the roads.

  “I once did it in an hour and forty-five.” Andrakos beamed as they parked on a street barely wide enough for the car doors to open. “A friend of mine claims an hour and a half, but he did it alone. Mine still stands.” He pulled out a piece of paper, scribbled something on it, then placed it under the wiper. “It’s for the fellow who lives here,” he explained. “Just telling him when we’ll be back, and to move the car if he needs to.” Pearse noticed the keys still in the ignition. A different way of life in Ouranopolis.

  They emerged onto another street, this one slightly wider, a few patches of cobblestone in need of repair. It wended
its way down through the village, the small houses on either side like giant sandstone steps leading to the shore.

  “The place seems empty,” said Pearse.

  “Most of the boats are still out on the water. But it’ll be loud enough in about an hour. Once they get back and start drinking.”

  “More of the stuff we had at your place?”

  Andrakos laughed. “That’s rice water compared to this. I won’t tell you how many times I’ve come out here and not quite made it out to the mountain.”

  “Different kind of research.” Pearse smiled.

  They neared an ancient tower hovering by the water. One or two windows pockmarked its upper reaches, stucco unevenly slathered along its face, scars of brick peeking through. It peered down, superior only in its height, the one sign of real civilization against the timeless backdrop.

  “From what I’ve heard,” said Pearse, “you’d probably need something a little stronger than ouzo if you had to take care of these monks. They tell me they’re a pretty austere bunch.”

  “Austere? These boys take it so seriously, they don’t allow anything female on the mountain at all. Anything. No sow, no cow, no hen. And all because a couple of them got a little friendly with some of the shepherds’ daughters about a thousand years ago…. Probably why they call it the Garden of the Virgin.”

  Pearse laughed. “I’m not sure the Holy Mother would agree.”

  “Why? Even she wouldn’t be allowed out there.”

  Arriving at the shore, they headed out along a narrow jetty, its wood and spikes groaning under the weight. A small cabin stood at the end of the pier, a single light inside. Andrakos stepped toward it. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The door smacked shut, followed by the din of conversation. It quickly faded as Pearse moved to the edge of the landing. For the first time in days, he stood alone.

  It would have been enough to close his eyes, trace the lapping of the waves, once again less frantic than those he had known on the Cape; or to breathe in, the taste of tangerines mixed with hewn grass on his tongue; or to shut them all out and simply gaze at a sun already dipping to the Aegean, clouds streaked a beet red against the thickening blue of a summer sky. Instead, he had them all, a barrage of pure radiance, somehow releasing him from all thought. His eyes fixed on a point perhaps a hundred yards out, a patch of perfect stillness. Weightless. And for a few moments, he was there, freed from everything around him, floating, adrift. He could feel the water rise about him, cup his head and arms, effortless.

  “Now you know why the monks come.” Andrakos was by his side, silently staring out. “And why the mountain is theirs.”

  Pearse continued to hold it in his grasp, unwilling to let go until Andrakos had moved off. He then turned, the image almost too perfect—a small fishing boat tied up some ten yards back, squat captain, tangled gray beard.

  Greece was making good on all its promises.

  Andrakos remained by the wheel, chatting with the captain for the length of the trip, leaving Pearse alone to take in the full measure of Athos from the sea. He stood at the prow, hands clasped to the rusted metal rail, an ever-increasing sense of insignificance as the mountain opened up in front of him.

  What began as a rise of grass and trees soon gave way to the surge of ragged stone, slopes crumbling toward the sea, rock clusters strafing the ground, green-and-white embers shimmering against a dusking sky. And wherever the blanketing of oak and brush tried to assert its will, wide scarps of serrated wall rose up to thwart all but the most vigorous attempts. Even the scattered tufts of misted cloud that floated above offered little more than false hope against the unforgiving and relentless terrain.

  The God of Athos was a vengeful God, testing his faithful, unwilling to grant them an easy piety.

  And yet, the mountain’s beauty was undeniable, not simply for its fierce grandeur but for the totality of the place, a finite depiction of the rift between sea and sky. Unpeopled, it held a kind of primal wonder.

  Pearse stood breathless, awed by its majesty, more by its carnality, a living, breathing earth. The mountain was holy, less for the men who chose it as their refuge as for the touch of the divine in its every aspect. A sanctity conferred by the brutality of nature.

  That truth gained even-greater clarity as the first of the monasteries emerged, perfect linear form rising from the rugged chaos of the mountain face. Neat rows of balconies and roofs hovered above the slopes, a bell tower with fattened Byzantine dome peeking out from the tidy angularity. The sun lay too low to permit any real detail, lights from within shimmering a constellation’s outline of the tiny city above. The pattern ducked and turned at odd moments, projecting wild limbs from the main body. Too soon, though, it slipped from sight, another configuration appearing in the distance, the mountain’s zodiac taking shape against the now-darkened sky. Some of the monasteries had dared to climb high, blurring the distinction between earth and stars; others had pitched low in tapered valleys, their shape like the flow of untamed water. Each a pocket of perfect order, a thousand years of strict devotion.

  And one, he knew, the guardian of a parchment whose truth transcended even the splendor of the mountain itself. Staring up into the sky, Pearse understood—perhaps for the first time—what it was that had brought him here. And what it was to be so close.

  As the boat bobbed along the shore, his gaze fixed on the tip of the mountain, its peak lost in a crown of cloud. Even at night, though, one could make it out, the glow from the single monastery at its base bathing the nimbus in a golden hue.

  St. Phôtinus stood alone at the edge of the peninsula, the most sacred of sites reserved for the holiest of the monasteries.

  The captain slowed the engine and let the boat drift toward the piers of Daphne, the village—halfway down the peninsula—as far as he could take them. From here, they would go by mule or truck, depending on the severity of Phôtinus’s approach.

  Grinding the engine into reverse, he angled the boat in between the others moored at the dock, the sound jarring against the quiet of the place. Pearse saw Andrakos slip the man a few bills before grabbing his pack and joining him on the pier.

  The place lay deserted, a few muffled sounds from the town above, nothing to compete with the boat as it pulled away. Andrakos headed up the stairs, surprisingly silent, Pearse behind. When they reached the road, they found it empty, as well. Andrakos dropped his bag and sat; Pearse did the same. Still, not a word. Obviously, there were new rules on the mountain. The only sound was the clink of glasses from some unseen tavern, a few drinks before the last of the boats headed back to Ouranopolis.

  They didn’t have long to wait before the sight of two bouncing lights appeared off to the right, Andrakos quickly getting to his feet. As the truck pulled up, he swung the pack onto his shoulder and placed his hands at his back. The sham supplicant from his brother’s office now transformed into the real thing. Pearse followed his lead, a pose of quiet respect as the monk stepped out to greet them.

  “Who are you fooling, Dominic?” Brother Gennadios laughed as he approached, rapping the younger man on the arm as he drew up. He wore the classic black robe of Greek Orthodoxy, the bonnet on his head tilted at a somewhat daring angle. His forearms, now around Andrakos’s back, were thick and muscular, a rug of hair extending as far as his knuckles. Pearse noticed the impish smile on the younger man’s face as Andrakos looked up.

  “I had him going,” he answered, nodding to Pearse, the familiar twinkle back in his eyes.

  Gennadios turned to Pearse, eyes wider still as he grabbed both of his shoulders and pulled him in close, a kiss on each cheek. His grip was exceedingly powerful, the two men roughly the same height, the monk a good hundred pounds heavier. The softness of his beard surprised Pearse.

  “Professor Seldon. What a pleasure. I’m Gennadios. I apologize for the time you’ve had to spend with this one, but life is filled with tests, none more trying than young Andrakos here.”

  “He’s not so ba
d if you’ve had a few drinks.”

  Gennadios erupted in laughter, then cupped Andrakos’s neck in his hand. “Like an open book, Dominic. Like an open book.” He turned again to Pearse. “You didn’t let him drive, did you?”

  Before Pearse could answer, the monk was shuttling them into the truck, packs tossed in the back, the front seat a patchwork quilt of vinyl and duct tape. Squeezed inside the cab, Pearse guessed that the white Ford had been around longer than Gennadios himself, the crunch from the gearbox confirmation as they set off.

  The drive at night was far less compelling than the view from the water, intermittent shots of the mountain quickly obscured under a tangle of leaves and thickets. What few openings they came to offered only momentary bursts of stars. Without someone familiar at the wheel, Pearse realized, the road would have been impossible to traverse, hardly a light to warn of the sudden twists and turns, at one point the monk forced to take the truck down to a virtual stop so as to manage one of the hairpins. Even at ten miles an hour, the constant bouncing from the combination of rutted road and shockless wheels made communication all but impossible. It was something of a lifesaver. Gennadios was pouring forth with what seemed to be everything he knew about Ambrose. Pearse smiled and nodded, happily unable to catch more than a word or two here and there.

  Fifteen minutes into the lecture, the monk pulled the truck over.

  “… which might have changed Augustine’s entire outlook. Anyway,” he said, shouldering his door open and tossing the keys onto the dashboard, “you should come out my side. We wouldn’t want to lose you over the edge on your first night.”

  Pearse peered out at the sudden drop off to his right, then slid across and joined the other two at the front of the truck. Gennadios handed him a lantern.

  “The rest, we do by foot.”

  The climb did little to help conversation, a rigorous pace through the interior of the mountain. The trees and brush sprang up far thicker here, paths just wide enough for a mule laden with supplies, gnarled undergrowth making for precarious footing. The lanterns were more to keep Gennadios in sight than to give any sense of the tip of the peninsula. Even with a breeze off the water, Pearse felt the sweat mount under his shirt, a balmy midsummer evening moistening the air. It felt good, something his body had been craving. If not for Gennadios wheezing his way up, Pearse would have pushed the pace, happy to lose himself in the physical exertion.