The Book of Q

by Jonathan Rabb

  Laughing, Pearse asked, “What was that?”

  “Mel Gibson did it in a movie. He thinks it’s how all Americans say good night.” She remained by the door.

  “Isn’t Mel Gibson Australian?”

  At last a smile. “Don’t tell him that.”

  A silence settled on the room. He thought she might go; instead, she moved toward him.

  “So, have you figured out where this book of yours is in Visegrad?” she asked pointing to the papers.

  “No clue.”

  “So you have no idea where it is, you don’t really know what it is, and you have no clue who was chasing after us.”

  “Right. But aside from that, I’m really close.”

  She laughed and sat down next to him. “Maybe another set of eyes would help.”

  “Sure. How’s your Latin?”

  “Oh,” again more playful, “not so good.”

  “Then maybe I’ll have to stick with the pair I have.”

  “They’ve always been a pretty nice pair.”

  For several seconds, neither of them said a word.

  “Was I just flirting with a priest?” she finally said.

  “I don’t know. Question is, Was the priest just flirting with you?”

  She was about to answer, when Mendravic stepped into the doorway.

  “Ian, have you—Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” they answered in unison.

  A bit perplexed, Mendravic answered, “All right … I won’t be. But if you two—”

  “We don’t,” they said again as one.

  “Okay,” he replied, still not sure what he had just walked in on, though happy enough to let it go. “Did you tell him?” he asked Petra.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I was just about to—”

  “Ian, have you seen any of the papers?” Mendravic asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “I have them right here. What’s this all about?”

  “No, the newspapers, the ones they drove up from Novi-Pazar.”

  “I didn’t know they had any. No. Why?”

  “And the last time you saw a paper was …”

  “I don’t know, five, six days ago. Why?”

  “Petra pointed it out to me. Maybe you should take a look.”

  Two minutes later, the three of them stood at the kitchen table, eight to ten major European papers waiting on top. The KLA might have been provincial in their worldview, but at least they were more sophisticated when it came to the news they read. Evidently, they wanted to see what kind of an impact they were having outside their own little universe.

  “I hadn’t seen one in almost a week, either, until Petra showed me these,” Mendravic said as he began to sift through them. “So I can’t tell you how long these have been running.” He pointed to the lower right-hand corner of the nearest paper, the Frankfurter Allgemeine. A small box was set off from the columns, the look of an advertisement, except, for some odd reason, the language inside was English. Before Pearse could read, Mendravic pulled over several other papers—French, Italian, Greek—noting the identical box in each, and always the same language: English. Pearse read:

  Whatever was on Athos, you have friends, Father. In Rome.

  Day or night: 39 69884728

  Every paper the same. Pearse turned to Mendravic. His phone was at the ready; Pearse took it and dialed. Both men angled their ears to the receiver and listened.

  It picked up on the second ring. “Pronto.”

  Pearse wasn’t sure what to say. The line remained silent. He looked at Mendravic. Finally, in English, Pearse answered, “I saw your ad.”

  “Yes.” The accent was Italian.

  “And I’m calling.”

  “We’ve had many calls. I need a name.”

  A number in a newspaper. People with nothing better to do than to dial it. Pearse understood. Realizing why the man needed his name, however, was hardly a rationale for giving it to him.

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing that.”

  “Then we can’t help you. We already know the name we’re looking for.”

  True, he thought. Even so. “I’m still not comfortable.”

  “As I said, then we can’t help you.”

  Pearse waited. Another glance at Mendravic. The Croat shrugged. “Phôtinus,” Pearse said.

  There was a pause on the line. “The monastery on Athos.”

  “The Vault of the Paraclete.”

  Another pause, this one far longer than the others. A decision was being made. “Father Pearse?”

  He didn’t know whether to feel relief or anxiety. He was about to answer, when Mendravic suddenly pulled the phone from his ear and hung up.

  “What are you doing?” Pearse asked, stunned.

  “Do you realize how stupid we both are? I can’t believe I only thought of it now.”

  “Thought of what?”

  “Think, Ian. What’s the simplest way to find out exactly where you are?”

  Pearse shook his head.

  “A trace. They were keeping you on the line to pinpoint your location Very easy to do, even with satellite hookups. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

  “But they sounded as if they were trying to help.”

  “I’m sure they did.”

  Pearse stood there, not knowing what to think. Of course Salko was right, but then who would these people be?

  The image of the four men from Kukes instantly fixed in his mind. Especially the one who had come after him, the look in his eyes just before Salko had attacked. No threat. No menace.

  But if they knew about Athos, why go after him? Why not go after the Manichaeans directly? It didn’t make any sense.

  “Do we need to get out of here?” he asked, unwilling, for the moment, to focus on anything but the immediate threat.

  “I think we caught it in time,” Mendravic answered. “But I don’t know. We could go to Visegrad, if you want.”

  “And sit there?” Pearse said, his mood souring. “I still have no idea where the ‘Hodoporia’ is.”

  “The what?” asked Petra.

  “The thing we’re looking for. The parchment.” The phone call had evidently taken more of a toll on him than he cared to admit. “I haven’t … gotten it. I haven’t broken the code. And I don’t know if I can. Look, there’s a woman in Rome—”

  “All right,” said Mendravic, trying to keep Pearse from sinking deeper into frustration. “We stay here tonight. We go tomorrow. Maybe … I don’t know. I could take a look. You could show me how it works….”

  “Oh, that would be good,” Petra piped in, also trying to lighten the mood. “I’m sure you’d be a lot of help.”

  “I’m just suggesting—”

  “He’s trying to move forward, Salko, not back.”

  “Your confidence is overwhelming. I’m sure you—”

  “I’ve already been dismissed,” she said. “I couldn’t pass the Latin test.”

  “There’s a test?” he answered.

  Listening to the two of them was enough to snap Pearse out of his funk. “I get it. You’ve made your point.”

  “Good.” Mendravic nodded.

  “Look, I’ll … figure it out. I have to figure it out.”

  “I don’t think anyone was worried about that,” she said.

  Mendravic put his hand to Pearse’s neck; he squeezed once. “My guess is, you get to Visegrad, and everything falls into place. Trust me. You’re friend will be fine.”

  Pearse nodded. Why not? The alternative wasn’t worth thinking about.

  The contessa had been right. The congregation seemed primed to hear him speak. Harris had spent the better part of the last hour listening to what many considered the preeminent Pentecostal preaching in the South. Archie Conroy and his Ministry of Peace. Five thousand strong had gathered in the largest amphitheater he had ever seen. Another 120,000 had tuned in for the early-morning services. That the contessa had set it all up on such short notice had astounded him. Thir
ty million on deposit was one thing. Having one of the most powerful ministries in the States at his beck and call was another. Conroy hadn’t flinched. If the contessa was involved, Harris had carte blanche. He was learning not to underestimate her.

  “Now, before I hand you over to the colonel, who has been so kind to join us here this morning”—Conroy’s accent and demeanor reeked of southern hospitality, with a little medicine show thrown in just for fun—“I want him to know who is with him today, joining him in prayer.” Conroy paused. “I think I would be right in saying it’s a community of the faithful.” Amens from the crowd. “Which embraces anyone of faith.” He smiled and looked over at Harris. “Even an Anglican, Colonel. Even an Anglican.” A wave of laughter from the audience. Harris could see Conroy wasn’t quite ready to cede the stage.

  “Because we are a community here, even though you may be sitting next to someone you don’t know, whose own brand of faith is unknown to you. Look around you. Does he call himself a Baptist? Does she call herself a Methodist? Another a Pentecostal?” Again he turned to Harris. “I think it’s a pretty safe bet you’ll be the only Anglican here, Colonel.” Harris nodded with a smile as the audience laughed. Conroy turned to his congregation. “But does any of it matter if we are a true community in faith? As Paul tells us in Romans, ‘Then let us no more pass judgment on one another, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of a brother.’ Or elsewhere, when he tells us, ‘With one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord.’ ‘One voice.’ For ‘if the dough offered as first fruitsis holy, so is the whole lump; and if the root is holy, so are the branches.’ Look around you at those branches. ‘One voice.’ Can you say that with me?”

  The entire congregation echoed, “‘One voice.’”

  “Again.”

  “‘One voice,’” this time louder.

  “Can you hear the power in that? Can you sense the power of that one indomitable spirit—unbroken, untarnished by personal desire, by personal lusts, by personal affectation. ‘One voice.’ Paul warns us in Philippians. He tells us that there are those who ‘preach Christ from envy and rivalry.’ ‘Envy and rivalry,’” he repeated. “How? How can they preach it that way? Because they ‘proclaim Christ out of partisanship.’ ‘Partisanship,’” each syllable given its due. “Those walls they build high, as if somehow they can keep the Word only for themselves, hold Christ within their churches? Can the Lord be so tethered? Can the Lord be kept for only one group, no matter what they call themselves? No. He alone flies free to all who would embrace Him. But to those who embrace ‘partisanship,’ He has only one answer: ‘Affliction and imprisonment.’ Choose to build those walls, choose to place those stumbling blocks between brothers, and you will not find Salvation in Him.

  “It seems so obvious, doesn’t it? One God, one salvation, one faith, one voice. How else would He hear us? Even when He afflicted us with the Tower of Babel—that voice scattered throughout, altered, and divided—His message was clear. Those differences don’t matter. Language, culture, wealth”—he paused for emphasis—“denomination. Seek Him out, and you speak but one language. The language of God. The language of Christ.

  “Now, I know there are plenty of preachers who think my views on inclusion only complicate things.” He began to pace, nodding, eyes staring straight ahead. “‘Leave things the way they are,’ they say to me. ‘Archie—Baptist with Baptist. Methodist with Methodist. We all have different needs,’ they tell me. And maybe they’re right. Who am I to argue with the status quo? Who am I to say we’re stronger than that, that the only thing that matters is our faith in Christ? What other needs do we have? I don’t know.” He stopped and turned to face the audience again. “When the Pharisees told Jesus that His ways were too dangerous, His message of love and inclusion too bold, He continued on. I don’t know if I have that strength. I can find it only through Him. But henever talked about different needs. He never talked about the status quo. He talked of love and salvation. He talked of ‘one voice.’”

  Archie turned again to Harris. “It’s a kind of salvation itself, isn’t it, Colonel?” For all his homespun rhetoric, Conroy knew exactly how to lead a crowd. He was making Harris an essential part of the message—the dissolution of denominational differences, with its personification sitting up onstage with him. An English Anglican and a southern Pentecostal. What could be clearer? Harris was beginning to understand why the contessa had insisted on this venue.

  “A kind of protection,” Conroy continued, addressing the audience. “But protection from what? It’s so hard to talk of inclusion when there are those whose very existence is bent on destroying that voice, whose sole aim is to maintain a ‘noisy gong or a clanging cymbal’—as Paul tells us in Corinthians 1:13—rather than to embrace the singular Truth that is Him.” He stopped. “And I’m not talking about my fellow preachers who say, ‘Archie, give it a break.’” A few titters from the audience.

  “We’ve been doing it to ourselves for centuries, haven’t we? Allowing personal ends, political ends, commercial ends dictate the destruction of that ‘one voice.’ Within our own community of faithful.” He paused. “And outside it.” He waited for complete silence.

  “How many of you think I’m talking about our friends in Rome?”

  The response was minimal, the congregants having been too well prepped over the last few weeks of sermons not to know where he was going. “I’m sure I could find fault there. More so than with my fellow preachers. I could give you reasons for five centuries of animosities, bring in experts to explain why that conflict exists, justify the ongoing division. I’m sure the colonel here could tell you far more about that than I could.

  “But I won’t ask him, because I believe in ‘one voice.’ Because I believe that maybe, just maybe, we can begin to recognize what binds us and not what separates us. Maybe there’s a chance that we can begin to see beyond our own history to our future. Maybe there’s something in the air that gives us hope, a new beginning”—he again looked to Harris—“a brave new dawn. You’ll forgive me, Colonel, but it is such a nice phrase.” Harris laughed along with the audience.

  “Things are happening here that give us that hope, organizations, like the colonel’s, that are saying, ‘Haven’t we come to a point when we’re sick and tired of using our faith to differentiate rather than to incorporate? Disharmonize rather than harmonize? Rend apart rather than heal within?’ We must remember, ‘if two make peace with each other in a single house, they will say to the mountain, “Move from here!” and it will move.’ And there’s never been a better time to make peace in our house.” Another pause.

  “Because there is something far more dangerous than our own bickering out there now that demands our attention. Those who want to talk about doctrines and rituals and five hundred years of contention might be too caught up in their own little worlds to recognize when something far more profound appears on the horizon. If we’re to find salvation, we must remember that ‘that day will not come, unless the rebellion comes first, and the man of lawlessness is revealed, the son of perdition.’ Thessalonians 2:3. He who encourages that ‘noisy gong,’ that ‘clanging cymbal’ revealed. He who delights in our own disunion. He who so desperately needs to keep our house divided. For if we were to unite, he would have no hope of defeating us.

  “He’s an old foe in a new garb, still intent on his holy war. Who am I talking about?”

  A murmur swept through the hall, all of those listening once again too well prepared not to understand whom Conroy meant.

  “And he has the audacity to call us godless.” He paused once more. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. I think it’s time to let the colonel tell you all about that, and the wonderful work he and his Faith Alliance are planning.” Conroy turned to him. “It gives me great pleasure to introduce to you, Colonel Nigel Harris.”

  The audience erupted as Harris stepped to the podium to shake Conroy’s hand. The man had set him up masterfully. The audience
was primed. Harris only hoped that the other ministries the contessa had scheduled would make his job as easy.

  Éeema, Éeema, Ayo.

  Black smoke.

  From his perch on a balcony above the Arco della Campane, Kleist watched as the mass of humanity let out a collective groan. The second vote of the morning. He could only imagine the cardinal’s mood right now.

  They had taken the girl last night in Berlin, centrally located enough so that the story had hit most of the European papers and television shows by midmorning. Maybe not early enough. Kleist had to hope that the news would find its way to the appropriate ears by the afternoon vote, for his own sake, if not for von Neurath’s.

  Even so, they’d already targeted a second child—in São Paulo, with enough traces left behind at the scene to point a finger at yet one more of the soon-to-be-infamous groups out of the Middle East. It would be sufficient to get the message across.

  While he watched the horde pulse within St. Peter’s Square, Kleist pulled what looked to be a calculator from his jacket pocket, the device no bigger than his palm. He flipped open its lid, revealing a small screen with three or four buttons below. Using the tip of his pen, he began to tap out various instructions, file after file appearing then disappearing before he reached deep enough into the system to find what he wanted. He pressed one of the buttons; the hum of a phone line began to emanate from the device. Within a few seconds, it was dialing, the sound of a fax connection moments later. With another quick tap, the information on the screen began its cyberspace journey to the editors of Corriere della Sera in Milan. Von Neurath’s choice. Something about completing the circle. Kleist hadn’t bothered to ask.

  When the transmission was complete, he pulled up a second file, more information linked to the Syrian involvement with the Vatican Bank, various holes from the first file filled in, others made more ambiguous. This time, La Repubblica in Rome the destination. A third file for La Stampa in Turin. Il Gazzetino in Venice was the last to receive the anonymous tip. Together, the four papers would be able to piece together enough to make the story front-page news. And always with the name Arturo Ludovisi at its center.