The Book of Q

by Jonathan Rabb

  Angeli’s words raced back to him: without Peter standing there saying, “I was the first, I can vouch for His return …” without the doctrine of bodily resurrection, there’s no way to validate the apostolic succession of bishops. No way to lay claim to the papacy.

  Pull out the pin, and the entire structure falls.

  At first, it seemed strange to Pearse that so monumental a shift could require so little ink. More so that Matthew and Luke had so easily glossed over it. But the more he read, the more it made perfect sense. Q wasn’t the story of Jesus the Destined. That was for the Gospels. It was the story of a life built on faith and wandering, of a dream of revolution, inspired by ideas such as love and tolerance and spiritual equality. More than that, it wasn’t advancing an image of Christ that no one had ever seen before—violent or self-serving, or whatever other character flaws iconoclasts had come up with over the centuries to debunk the mythology. It was Jesus at His most essential. The Messiah was still there, but it was a messianic message drawn from the pages of Cynicism, Indian mysticism, and Essene wisdom. Resurrections and the like only distracted from that message. The meaning was in the life, not in the death.

  And for Pearse, it made Jesus all the more powerful, all the more holy. Pure divinity.

  What Q made abundantly clear was that the revolution was the faith—the spirit, not the body—the rest of the structure merely trappings, more for the exploitation of men than for their salvation, something that Pearse himself had always believed. The shift from Q to the Gospels was a shift away from the individual to an overarching and alienating edifice. No wonder the Manichaeans had seen it as the answer to their problem. Here was something to undermine that structure.

  And by the fifth century, the church was the faith. Topple one, topple the other. It had been no different for Ribadeneyra in the sixteenth. For over a thousand years, Q had truly held that power.

  The question was, Could it pose that kind of threat today? Except for the passages on Resurrection, Q put forward an image of Jesus and faith that the modern church would have been only too happy to embrace. Q’s commitment to individual rights and responsibility, and its view of women and their role in the church—anathema to a fifth- or sixteenth-century mind—were perfectly designed to resolve any number of contentious debates now ripping Catholicism apart. And all through the Word of Christ. Where was the hyperasceticism the Manichaeans had promised? Where was the gnosis they said they would be called upon to reveal? Everything in Q was plain as day. The irony, Pearse realized, was that their beloved tract, the scroll destined to bring about the ruin of the church, looked like it might actually be the device to save the church from itself.

  That is, of course, if one could discount the passages on the Resurrection. Those were equally unambiguous. And given recent events, Pearse wasn’t sure if the church could survive that kind of assault, real or not.

  More than that, he understood why the Manichaeans had gone to such lengths to get their hands on it, especially now. Whatever madness they were planning to unleash would mean nothing without a way to justify the emergence of their unified church, something to show that the old one had been corrupted from the very start. The only response to a world gone mad? Remake the church. Embrace unity through a new notion of faith. No doubt most of the scroll would remain “hidden” or “lost.” Keep only what was necessary. Use Jesus to secure Mani. The Resurrection sections would suffice.

  How like the Manichaeans to distort the message in the name of gnosis.

  The door to the car suddenly opened, the sound prompting Pearse up from the parchment for the first time in hours. He glanced back, to see another passport controller making his way down the aisle. The Italian border. He looked out the window, the sun already creeping out from behind a group of hills in the distance. He checked his watch: 6:15. He’d been so wrapped up in Q, he’d missed the sunrise entirely. He suddenly felt very thirsty.

  “How soon to Trieste?” he asked as the man took his papers.

  “About forty minutes.” The man pulled what looked to be a tiny hole punch from a holster on his belt, ready to stamp Pearse’s passport, then stopped. “The Vatican?”

  Pearse wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “They just announced the body count, Father. Eight cardinals survived.” He crossed himself. “Those people are animals.” A quick squeeze of the imprint.

  Pearse crossed himself, as well. “You have to learn to forgive,” he said.

  “I suppose, Father.” He handed Pearse the papers and began to move on. “I suppose.”

  Trieste came as the man had promised, the station alive with early-morning travelers. Now, back in Italy, Pearse knew he could take the chance on a plane—no computer network checking his passport, no security on alert. Even if the Manichaeans did manage to get hold of a passenger manifest, he’d be in Rome an hour after takeoff, too short a period of time for them to do much about it.

  Just in case, though, he’d decided to call in the cavalry. The puzzle was solved. It was time for someone else to put it to use and end this.

  Stopping at the nearest news kiosk, he picked up a paper and looked for the private message, the phone number from his “friends in Rome … day or night.” The fact that Salko had cut them off was reason enough to make the call.

  He scanned the page. It was filled with stories on the travesties spreading like wildfire throughout Europe, an article on the Vatican Bank and the Syrian infiltration. What an appropriate word, he thought.

  But no box.

  He flipped through several other papers, the news seller becoming more and more irritated.

  “Either buy one or move off,” he said finally.

  “Are there any from yesterday?” asked Pearse.

  “Yesterday? Why would anyone want—”

  “Do you have any papers from yesterday?” he insisted.

  The man’s irritation mounted. “I have today’s papers. You want something else, try outside the station. Maybe Buchi’s, two blocks down.”

  Five minutes later, Pearse stood inside the small tobacconist’s, walls lined with papers from around the world. The most recent copy of Helsingin Sanomat out of Finland was two days old. He pulled it from the rack and immediately located the box in the lower right-hand corner of the page.

  Whatever was on Athos, you

  have friends, Father. In Rome.

  Day or night: 39 69884728

  Pearse scribbled the number on his palm, bought a phone card, and headed out into the street. Within half a minute, he was inside a booth dialing.

  A recorded voice came on the line: “We’re sorry. The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the listing and try again …. We’re sorry….”

  He slowly replaced the receiver.

  Why would they have disconnected the line? The answer came to him as he stood there staring at the phone. His window of opportunity had been slim at best, too great a chance that the Manichaeans could trace the number, find whoever had been on the other end, and eliminate them. Once Salko had cut the line, the window had closed.

  Flying back wasn’t sounding all that clever now. Without his “friends in Rome,” what exactly was he planning to do once there? Walk up to the Vatican and tell them that the Pope was a Manichaean, but not to worry—the scroll would solve everything? Or better yet, just hand the “Hodoporia” to von Neurath and explain to him that it might not be all that he’d hoped it would be? Nice try, but better luck next time. Now please tell everyone that Islam isn’t our enemy so we can all go home.

  For some reason, Pearse started to laugh. It was perfect. A Manichaean dream come true. Everything flipped on its head. Now that he had the “Hodoporia,” he was powerless to use it. It only made him more vulnerable. Flight manifests notwithstanding, the Brotherhood would find him soon enough—here, or in Rome. And if he had the scroll with him, everything and everyone would become expendable. Which left him only one choice: confront them head-on. He picked up the phone and
dialed Angeli’s number.

  It was the same message as before.

  “It’s Ian Pearse. I have the ‘Hodoporia.’” He waited. “Hello…. Hello….”

  After fifteen seconds of silence, he placed the receiver back in its cradle. Again he stared at the phone. Then, slowly, he let his head fall back against the glass.

  They wouldn’t have….

  He suddenly stood upright. Of course. As much as he didn’t want to involve anyone else in this, he really didn’t have any other options. He picked up the phone and began to dial.

  He just had to hope Blaney was back in Rome.

  “Eight minutes, Mr. Harris.”

  A quick nod as he sipped at a glass of ice water, Wembley Stadium packed to the gills beyond the window of the luxury box. Harris waited for the man to leave, then turned and stared out at the crowd. The contessa, seated, kept her gaze on him.

  “Your new army,” she finally said.

  The hint of a grin. “I don’t think it’s completely mine.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Still, that doesn’t seem to be a concern of yours, does it?”

  He looked over at her, momentarily at a loss. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “Don’t you?” She waited. “The churches. The Vatican. You put our money to quick use, didn’t you, Colonel? And here I thought we were talking rhetoric, not mass hysteria. Evidently, I was meant to take the term holy war literally.”

  A slight squinting of his eyes. “That’s not the way I work, Contessa.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “I won’t say it hasn’t helped things enormously. Hysteria does have a way of rallying the troops. But I won’t take credit for something I haven’t done. I assumed that was your people.”

  Not convinced, she said, “And who exactly do you think my people are? Or did Mr. Kleist fail to bring you up to speed on that?”

  Again, he waited before answering. “I’m now wondering if I should be asking you that same question.” She said nothing. “I have connections, Contessa, but even I couldn’t organize what’s taken place over the last twelve hours in a matter of days. Something like that takes weeks, if not months, to plan. I can’t say it fills me with confidence to hear that you’re not quite clear on who orchestrated the attacks.” Another pause. “Or perhaps you are, but aren’t willing to admit it just yet?” He placed the glass on the bar. “Either way, I need to get down there.” He moved to the door, then turned. “I suggest you make a few phone calls before all of this gets under way. Oh, and give my best to the cardinal. And my congratulations. Tell him I appreciate everything he’s done.” A single nod of the head, and Harris was gone.

  She sat staring after him. She had come to rein him in, make sure he understood his role. What else had the bomb in Rome been but a message, a colonel’s way of reminding them that he knew exactly who, and where, they were? The rest of the churches, she could almost understand, the first seeds of his holy war, misguided or not. Evidently, that wasn’t the case at all.

  More troubling was his none-too-subtle reference to Erich. Obviously, Harris hadn’t appeared on Kleist’s suggestion alone, as she had been led to believe.

  The crowd roared. She stood and moved to the window. Harris was emerging from one of the runways, bodyguards in clear view. She watched as he made his way toward an enormous structure rising forty feet off the ground at the far end of the field. Two huge screens stood on either side of the raised oval, his entrance beamed out larger than life. A single cameraman led the pack, backing his way up the ramp so as to capture Harris up close. Music blared, grating yet inspirational. Harris waved to the throng. It was clear he’d picked up a good deal from his time in America. The whole thing had that National Convention feel to it. When he finally reached the podium at the center, his entourage fell back, only the cameraman down on one knee to continue the feed. For the contessa, there was something strangely familiar to the man, even from the back, the way he moved, the way his shoulders nestled into the camera. She picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.

  Nearly half a minute of wild adulation passed before Harris spoke, the contessa continuing to scrutinize the cameraman.

  Harris raised his hand: “My friends—”

  He never had a chance to finish. Adulation turned to screams as four cracks erupted over the loudspeakers, the sight of the cameraman racing at Harris, gun in hand, blood everywhere. It was then that she saw it. The hair and skin color were darker, the facial hair, the contours of the face more acute, but it was him, his face screaming wildly, his eyes beyond madness.

  Stefan.

  An instant later, the bodyguards let loose, the barrage sending Kleist over the platform’s edge. He fell, somehow in slow motion for her, his body arching gracefully until it crashed down onto the field below.

  The contessa stared in disbelief. A single phrase fixed in her mind: There’s very little I’d put past Erich now.

  Maybe it was time for her to accept that, as well.

  “No, take a left there.” Pearse leaned forward in the cab and pointed across the piazza.

  “No, no, signore,” said the cabbie. “Avigonesi is on the right.”

  “I know. Just take the left.”

  With a shrug, the man did as he was told.

  Pearse had taken the cab from the airport, his flight and arrival uneventful as far as the Manichaeans were concerned. His sudden change of plans, though, had everything to do with the scroll. He wasn’t going to chance holding on to it for too much longer. Should anything happen, it remained his only bargaining chip. Best to keep it safe. Plus, there was no reason to put Blaney at more risk than necessary.

  “Here,” said Pearse.

  The driver pulled up along the cobbled piazza; Pearse got out. Three minutes later, he was making his way up the short flight of stairs to the office of the church of San Bernardo. He knocked on the door.

  It was half a minute before he heard the sound of shuffling feet. The door opened, revealing the wizened priest, his eyes puffy from sleep, though no less enormous behind the thick glasses.

  “Yes. Hello. Can I help you?”

  “I was here last week.” No sign from the old man that Pearse was registering. “The priest … who fell asleep on—”

  “Ah, yes.” A long, slow nod. “From Albuquerque.” Before Pearse could correct him, he said, “No, no, from …” He thought for a moment. “No collar. Of course. Come in, come in.”

  Pearse stepped through. He waited until the priest had taken his seat behind the desk before pulling up one of the other chairs. He sat.

  “Father, I need your help….”

  Twenty minutes later, Pearse was at the front door of 31 Via Avigonesi. Gianetta answered and ushered him in, her hair, as ever, pulled back in a tight bun. At no more than five feet tall, and with a paper-thin figure beneath a dour black sweater and skirt, she needed a bit of effort to pull the thick oaken door closed behind him. She then led him across the foyer, stopping in front of what Pearse recalled as the door to the library. Equally imposing, it was situated at the foot of a narrow set of stairs leading up to the second floor. She knocked once.

  A moment later, Pearse heard the familiar voice. “Sì?”

  “Padre Pearse, Padre.” Not waiting for an answer, she smiled and headed back to the kitchen.

  From behind the door, Blaney bellowed. “Ian. Come in. Come in.”

  Pearse opened the door and stepped inside. Blaney was seated by the empty fireplace, looking far older than when they’d last seen each other. Pearse guessed it was almost a year now.

  “Hello, Ian. Hello. Please, come in.”

  The large study was exactly as he remembered it—a college reading room replete with thick-stuffed maroon leather chairs and sofas amid wall-to-wall bookshelves. Blaney stood as Pearse drew toward him. The two men embraced.

  “It’s good to see you, John J.” They sat.

  “You look tired, Ian.”

  Pearse smiled. “I’m fine, mom.”

  �
��Just concerned, that’s all. But since you bring it up, how are they, mother and dad?”

  “The same. I think they’re out on the Cape. End of summer. You were at the house once.”

  “That’s right. I remember a very cold midnight swim. Less refreshing than advertised.”

  “Family tradition.”

  “Yes,” Blaney said. “So … you know I’m always delighted to see you, but your message … it didn’t sound like this was going to be a social visit. What’s wrong?”

  “Actually, I’d love a glass of water.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course.” Blaney pressed a button on the intercom next to him. “Gianetta. Puoi portarmi dell’ acqua e forse un po’ di frutta? Grazie.” He didn’t wait for a response. “They insisted I get this thing a few months ago. They’re very keen to make me feel as old as they can.”

  “You look fine,” said Pearse.

  “No, I don’t, and neither do you.” A look of playful concern crossed his eyes. “It’s not Ambrose, again, is it? You’re not in the midst of one of those binges without sleep? It’s not healthy, Ian.” Father as father. Pearse had gotten used to Blaney’s paternal instincts a long time ago. “You need to take a vacation once in a while. Lie on a beach. That sort of thing.”

  “A few midnight swims?” Pearse was about to continue, when Gianetta appeared at the door.

  “Eccellente,” said Blaney, indicating the table between the two men. “Va bene di là. Grazie.”

  “Sì, Padre.” She moved across the room, placed the tray on the table, and quickly poured out two glasses. She then retreated to the door.