The Book of Q

by Jonathan Rabb

  Von Neurath—perhaps naïvely (although Ludovisi would never have been the one to point it out to him)—assumed that eventually one of the myriad international crime-fighting organizations would step in and put an end to it all. Not so. In fact, Gelli’s influence began to match the reputation von Neurath had concocted for him. Myth had turned to reality. The Vatican and Mafia were now two of P2’s leading contributors. Evidently, subtlety wasn’t doing the trick.

  As much as von Neurath enjoyed having P2 as a diversion for any prying eyes, he realized Gelli had become a genuine threat. With the Lodge ever more active, he knew his old rival would need a place to launder the money he was receiving from his more unsavory connections, thereby protecting his association with the IOR. Enter Roberto Calvi and the Milan-based Banco Ambrosiano. Calvi had been in von Neurath’s pocket since the mid-1960s, when the bank had gone through several lean years. Under the guise of private investment, the Manichaeans had been more than happy to bail him out. Those investors now called in the favor. Calvi became Gelli’s middleman. Ambrosiano started funneling the dirty money. And the Vatican was kept clean.

  Until von Neurath told Calvi to muck up the works.

  The scandal surrounding Calvi, Gelli, the shortfall of nearly $1.3 billion at Banco Ambrosiano and its link to the laundering of reputed Mafia money through the IOR became front-page news in 1982 and set the ball rolling. Calvi’s “suicide” forced the Vatican to establish an independent commission, introducing one of its junior members—a young investment analyst named Arturo Ludovisi—to the inner circles of Vatican finance. An added boon. The final results: a tremor through the very heart of the papacy, the imprisonment of Gelli—reported to have escaped Swiss jailers in 1986, his body delivered to von Neurath two days later—and the dismantling of Propaganda Due. For those seeking out secret organizations and the like, victory had been won. No reason to look elsewhere.

  And all neatly orchestrated by von Neurath.

  For the Manichaeans, the payoff proved even more beneficial. They easily incorporated the P2 cells into their own network—all of which came to believe they were still working for Gelli through his successor, one Arturo Ludovisi. They, of course, had been a bit surprised by the nervous little man the first time they had met him. Ludovisi’s genius for numbers had more than won them over. After all, who would believe someone like that to be the head of P2? The cells had given him their full endorsement. As a result, the first seeds of Pentecostal, Baptist, and Methodist Manichaeanism had taken root in the States. And, to top it all off, Ludovisi was asked to stay on as senior analyst at the Vatican Bank—on special recommendation from the Cardinal Camerlengo—a position of considerable autonomy. Not bad for what had started out as nothing more than a bit of housecleaning.

  In fact, it was Ludovisi’s relationship with the old P2 cells that had made his recent trip so easy. Eighteen cities in nine days, another $30 million deposited with over six hundred cells. If the “great awakening” was on the horizon—as von Neurath had promised—the financials were more than in place. It was just a matter of making sure the ledgers he had taken with him remained consistent with the numbers on the Vatican database.

  Hence the need for the quick trip to 201 Via Condotti.

  Reaching the second floor, he headed for the back office, little more than a six-by-six square, room enough for a weathered desk and chair, the former bolted to the floor. An odd touch for anyone not in the know. A single window overlooked the alley below, little light, less air. Ludovisi liked it here. No one to bother him. No one to answer to. He turned on the table lamp, then pulled the cord for the overhead fan. Sitting, he retrieved a small card from his jacket pocket and began to glide his fingers along the underside of the desktop. Locating a narrow slot on the left-hand side, he slid the card in. A moment later, a keypad—far more sophisticated than one would have expected—slid out from one of the drawers. He punched in a series of numbers, then watched as a panel opened at the center of the desk. Beneath it, a computer screen. Hence the need for the bolts.

  As much as he recognized its technical wizardry, he’d never learned to trust the thing. Too great a chance that someone from the outside might hack his way into the files. It was why Ludovisi continued to use the written ledgers for the Manichaean accounts. One copy, safely stored. That the Vatican had switched over to the more modern system five years ago meant that he had no choice but to play with the gizmo from time to time.

  He opened a file and began to type.

  Twenty minutes later, the IOR database reflected the recent outlays—funds for relief projects, schools throughout Latin America, pro-democracy movements in the Far East. Nothing that could be traced with any real precision. That over half the $30 million had gone to finance the Faith Alliance was nowhere in evidence.

  He pulled a second card from his pocket, and spent another few moments hunting for a slot. Finding it, he slid the card in—another keypad, another combination. This one released the door to a safe located within the two bottom right-hand drawers. Ludovisi placed the ledgers inside and closed the safe. Scanning the desk for anything he might have missed, he reached underneath and pulled out the two cards. The computer and keypads disappeared—the ancient desk restored. He then cracked the cards in half and tossed them out the window.

  A minute later, he stepped out onto Via Condotti and began to make his way to the Corso. Almost at once, he felt someone grab his arm. Instinctively, he turned, a twinge of pain in his shoulder, as he saw a man directly at his right, the grip extraordinary.

  “What … what are you doing?”

  Another subtle twist of the arm. “Don’t scream.” They crossed the Corso, the rear door of a waiting limousine opening as they approached. The man helped Ludovisi inside, then closed the door behind him. The lock bolted shut.

  Staring across at him sat Stefan Kleist.

  Pearse emerged through the canvas flap in a clean, if wrinkled, pair of pants and shirt, the priest’s attire having been divvied up among his various tent mates. At first, they had hesitated. Priest’s clothes. Not that any of them were Catholics, but, given their current situation, no one seemed all that eager to tempt the fates, no matter whose God was involved. Then again, an extra pair of pants and coat would certainly come in handy when the weather changed. It hadn’t taken Pearse long to convince them that the clothes would be far more useful to them than to him, for more reasons than perhaps he cared to admit.

  It had been forty minutes since Mendravic had gone off to rustle up whatever he could—water, food, and, more important, a ride west. Podgorica if possible. Not the most traveled route, but certainly the fastest. And with the sky promising imminent downpour, they both knew it was best to get going before everything turned to slop. That Mendravic had headed out without pressing Pearse for a more detailed explanation for the change in plans—the Croat more concerned that each of the men in the tent had enjoyed several swigs of the brandy he had brought—reminded the young priest just how comforting it was to have his friend looking out for him. Again.

  Another nod from on high.

  But it wasn’t Mendravic’s calming influence that confirmed a divine will at work. Nor his sudden appearance as ideal guide for the trip to come. Those would have made for too easy an affirmation of faith. It was the turmoil he brought—the news of Petra and the boy—the jarring intrusion of reality into Pearse’s life. What confirmed the Divine here, as it had done on Athos, was a kind of brutality, there within nature, here within a single truth. One not to test faith, but to define its very essence: harsh, jolting, perhaps even gnawing, but ultimately human. A living faith in its fullest sense, a Teresian ecstasy born of genuine struggle, the human condition painted in raw, jagged lines. Gone was the notion of serenity nurtured in cloistered retreat. That brand of contentment could only dull clarity, cushion it under a haze of self-serving bliss. Faith required confrontation. Clarity demanded such vigor.

  It was only now that Pearse was beginning to understand that.
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br />   “Baba Pearsic?” He looked down. A boy no more than ten was staring up at him, his eyes beginning to bulge from a lack of food and real shelter. Still, a hint of animation, a sparkle as he spoke. He seemed eager to talk with the priest. The change of clothing, however, was causing him some confusion. “Father?”

  “It’s me. What’s wrong?”

  “Some men. My grandfather told me. Men from the outside. They come to see you.” Pearse had trouble keeping up with the Serbo-Croatian; he heard more than enough, though, to recognize the fear in the boy’s voice.

  “Did they say what they wanted?”

  The boy continued to stare. He pointed in the direction of the western gate. “Some men. They come to see you.” And with that, he sped off through the maze of tents and rope lines.

  Men from the outside. It was an odd way to describe anyone. Pearse knew that a boy that age would have had no trouble identifying the uniforms of every relief worker in the camp, likewise those of the KLA, NATO, and the Albanian police. The vague designation “men from the outside” told him the boy’s fears were warranted.

  His first thought was the Austrian. It had been five days, ample time to grow impatient. Pearse had to believe that they still needed Angeli whether they’d pinpointed his location or not. Finding him—Men-dravic’s call to Rome, his search for a missing priest in a refugee camp, had seen to that—was only half the battle. They still needed something to keep him in line. He was praying that their hook remained Cecilia Angeli.

  Then again, maybe the Greeks had gotten lucky? The discovery of Andrakos’s car, the connection between Blace and Kukes?

  Whoever they were, Pearse knew he needed to get a good look at them before they him. Sizing up his options, he quickly crossed the mud path and slipped into a tent three down from his own. At once, a line of familiar faces peered up at him, four women ranging in age from eleven to sixty, a boy of four, a man in his seventies.

  Before any of them could ask, Pearse brought a finger to his lips. Silence. They had learned to appreciate its power early on in the war, hiding in basements, attics, waiting for the Serb patrols to loot and move on. A single gesture was all they required. Pearse nodded, then turned to peek through the crack in the flap.

  Less than a minute later, he spotted them, conspicuous by their clothes, more so by their attitudes, four men who, from their expressions, had only recently entered a war zone, each trying his best not to show too great an aversion to the filth and disarray. Dressed in field khakis, windbreakers, and mountain boots—a muted yellow, tied halfway up the calf—they could easily have passed for members of a weekend climbing club, save, of course, for their physiques. Each stood at least six two, rigidly straight posture, broad shoulders, thick, powerful forearms. Everything about them screamed military. And yet, unlike their comrades in Rome, these men from the Vatican displayed none of the swagger Pearse had witnessed the first time around. Instead, they seemed far more … humane. It was the only way he could think to describe them. Even as they split up to take positions around his original tent, they indulged in none of the commandolike gesticulating he expected. One at the rear, one ten yards to the south, one ten yards to the north. Coordinated and precise.

  With a nod, the fourth man entered the tent.

  He reemerged a minute later with one of Pearse’s former tent mates in tow: Achif Dema, the barber who had set up shop under a nearby tarp, the man who had accepted Pearse’s jacket as a farewell gift. The obvious choice for consultation. Dema shook his head several times, pointing off in the direction of the medical tents, hands waving in a series of convoluted gestures, all accepted with an easy smile from the Vatican man. He knew exactly what the refugee was doing, or at least trying to do. A wild-goose chase for an inquisitive stranger. It might have done the trick had Mendravic not chosen that moment to return.

  Dema, no actor to begin with, could hardly contain his reaction; at once, Mendravic became everyone’s focus. Dressed as he was, he had no chance of passing for a fellow refugee, a fact not lost on the men. As one, they began to circle in—subtly, but again with a precision that bespoke a familiarity with such situations. Pearse was left to observe as the strange dance played itself out.

  Luckily, Mendravic knew his way around the floor, as well. Pearse watched as his old friend moved along the path, his eyes aimed at the ground—seemingly oblivious—but with an intensity that indicated a plan of attack already in the making. As he drew to within earshot of Pearse’s hiding place, he began to scratch his cheek. At the same time, and without breaking stride, he whispered under his breath:

  “Wait for them to follow me. Meet at the north gate.”

  Pearse had no idea how Mendravic had known he was inside the tent. Nor did he have time to digest the information. Within seconds, Mendravic was springing to his left, a wild-bear version of the boy who had darted through the tents only minutes before. Instantly, the men from the Vatican raced after him.

  Except for the one who stood by Dema. He remained perfectly still, only his head moving in a slow rotation, scanning the line of tents with great concentration.

  His eyes came to rest on Pearse’s. And he began to walk.

  If faith required confrontation, Pearse knew he was about to enter a state of grace. The man quickened his pace. Pearse felt his heart accelerate, a sudden pounding in his throat. He had no choice but to go. Pulling the flap back, he bolted out—an instant of recognition from the Vatican man, Pearse ducking to his right through the web of rope lines.

  The sound of pursuit was immediate. Forcing it from his mind, he began to weave his way through the tents, his head still groggy, his body crouched so as to avoid the lines, more so to gain as much shielding from the low canvas walls as he could. His eyes swept along the ground, never more than two, three feet in front of him, hunting for stakes, ruts, anything that might trip him up. Wherever the path grew wide enough, small gatherings of people appeared, obstacles to be run over and through. Their curses trailed after him, each a sonar’s ping to trace his escape. A second wave always followed—the advent of his pursuer—the surest means of measuring the distance between them. The echoes were coming quicker and quicker.

  Pearse did his best to keep himself moving northward in the hope of finding the gate. Several minutes in, he became acutely aware of a sudden shift in the air, a familiar sweetness, somehow lighter, the moment before deluge, when sky and earth darken under sooted clouds, a breathless hint of the coolness to come. He could almost taste the breeze as the sky began to open up, first gentle, then pail after pail of water, the sudden patter of clapping mud, Pearse drenched in seconds. The timpani of rain on canvas propelled him from tent to tent. All sound seemed to vanish, no sense for anything or anyone behind him, only his tiny bubble world shaped by the relentless barrage.

  Underfoot, the ground grew slick with incredible speed, tiny inlets seeking out the low ground, rutted tracks from carts and trucks providing the network of conduits. Above, the clouds pressed farther down, a porous gray plummeting the afternoon into premature twilight. He had no idea how far he had ferreted his way into the confusion of tents, hardly willing to take his focus from the ground so as to gain his bearings. Instead, he continued to run, no chance at even a quick look back to see how close his assailant had drawn. The rope lines, once obstacles, now kept him upright, his hands sliding along the slick fiber in an attempt to maintain his balance, one narrow path to the next, improvised benches and chairs upended along the way as he raced by them.

  Minute passed into minute—the gate nowhere in sight—his lungs and muscles starting to give out, his head beginning to pound, a burning in his throat, no amount of adrenaline able to stifle its hold. He tried to push himself on, but his chest began to constrict, his sides cramping. Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he fully expected to see the large man barreling toward him.

  The path stood empty.

  Amazed, Pearse slowed, then stopped. Slouched over, hands on his knees, he sucked in air, rain cascading t
hrough his hair, thick drops streaking down his face. He wiped them away. Again he turned, certain that the rain had somehow distorted his vision, the man only feet from him. Nothing. A flare of lightning illuminating the area, confirmation that he was alone. Not quite believing his luck, he stood upright, still breathing heavily, the pain subsiding, an uncontrollable grin spreading across his lips. He had lost him. With a sudden surge of confidence, he turned around, hoping to get a better sense of where he had brought himself.

  His legs nearly buckled when, no more than thirty yards in front of him, he saw the man now propelling himself forward from rope line to rope line, knees brought high with each powerful thrust, the mud below no deterrent to the strangely mechanical leaping. Somehow, he had made his way around, anticipating Pearse’s movements and positioning himself to cut him off. To the peal of thunder, Pearse swung around, too quick for his own footing, a hand to the ground as he began to tumble headfirst, trying to push himself forward, the boy’s shoes no match for the sludge. He looked back for only an instant, a nightmare sensation, his own legs unable to move, his body in the grasp of the mud, his hands clawing to get himself to his feet. He lunged for the nearest line, hoisting himself up, the first hint of racing steps behind beginning to break through the rain’s compulsive beat.