Alonza furrowed her brow. “What’s the old phrase? What goes around comes around? It’s now called the Arch of Humanism.”
“If I may be frank,” Paul said, “I expected the city to be brighter. The sun is high in the sky, and yet it seems so dark.”
“That is the soot of the centuries on the buildings. It has its own charm.”
“Not to me,” Paul said, which he would have kept to himself had she herself not been so direct. On the other hand, he didn’t want to disparage a city the minute he stepped in it, as he had with Gregor in Bern. “What’s with all the porn?”
Ms. Marcello leaned to look out the window as if seeing for the first time the gigantic holographs and billboards depicting all manner of hard-core activity. “Oh, that,” she said. “I hardly notice anymore.”
“It makes Rome seem so decadent,” Paul said.
“According to what standard?” she said with such incredulity that Paul had no response.
But as they proceeded deeper into central Rome the streets became narrower, the blackened buildings taller, and the limo a claustrophobic amusement-park car in a haunted-house ride. Soon every place of business reminded Paul of Amsterdam, live nudes in the windows, offering every kind of fleshly heterosexual and homosexual pleasure to all. Bars, nightclubs, strip joints, houses of prostitution, tattoo parlors, drug-shooting galleries—everything was legal.
Paul wanted to ask the chief if this made her proud of her city, if she preferred this to the prewar days when churches dotted the landscape. But she seemed wholly unruffled by it. This was life in Rome now, and as she implied, there was no standard to which it could be compared. What was the problem with people being exposed to anything they wanted? They didn’t have to buy or indulge. These were merely options for an enlightened populace that had long since cast off any shackles of propriety—which, after all, was only in the eye of the beholder anyway.
As they passed through the Arch of Humanism and came upon the Colosseum—fully restored thirty-three years in advance of its two-thousandth anniversary—they eventually drew within sight of the ruins of the Domus Aurea. “The palace of Nero, you know,” Chief Marcello said. “Domus Aurea is Italian for ‘golden house.’ The ruins are massive and mostly underground. That’s the Column of Marcus Aurelius. It’s been there almost two thousand years.”
“What happened to the top?” Paul said. “In grad school we learned a statue of St. Paul stood atop it since the sixteenth century.”
“That’s been gone since just after the war,” she said, “thirty-five years or so. It was big news at the time. Former soldiers who were to become pacifists were allowed to shoot at the statue until it crumbled. When it finally fell, spectators had miscalculated the direction, and it was a wonder no one was killed. Several were injured by little bits of St. Paul smashing onto the pavement and flying through the gawking crowd, as if he were protesting this turning against all he stood for.”
When finally they reached the expansive and lavish Villa Borghese in the northern part of central Rome, Paul was drawn to its beauty.
The driver parked, and as they disembarked, Ms. Marcello told Paul, “Villas like this used to be the estates of the wealthy, but they were turned into public parks. This one has been open to the public for nearly two hundred and fifty years.” She gestured grandly, pointing to an area cordoned off by police tape. “That is where much of the bomb damage was done. Almost every Renaissance master had a work in the Borghese collection. This is a loss that can never be replaced.
“The rest of the damage was at the Bio Park, which was once a typical zoo. It became an interactive center where the public could get closer to the animals and where the experts could study endangered species. Again, devastating.”
“Not to mention the loss of human life,” Paul said.
“Of course.”
Paul had not noticed Chief Marcello communicating with anyone else, but by the time they reached a one-story stone building that had somehow escaped damage between the two bomb sites, some eighty or so plainclothes detectives were taking an espresso break, and everyone, it seemed, was enjoying some sort of pastry. The noise abated quickly as she strode to a small lectern and microphone. Paul decided against making a joke about American cops and donuts, worried it would be lost on this audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Alonza Marcello said, “please welcome from the United Seven States of America, with the blessing of International Government Chancellor Baldwin Dengler, Dr. Paul Stepola.”
She paused, Paul thought, as if hoping or even expecting polite applause. Such was not forthcoming. Her prediction that these people might not welcome an outsider was on the nose. Mostly they stared and continued to eat and drink.
“I remind you that Dr. Stepola is here solely in his capacity as a consultant and adviser, specializing in the religious background of terrorists such as the one taking credit for this attack. Dr. Stepola.”
“Greetings and thank you,” Paul said. “First allow me to thank you for your service to the global community and of course to your own. This has to be difficult, painstaking, and unsavory work, and I applaud your efforts.”
Still nothing.
“I wish I were an expert in an area that would aid you in crime-scene investigation, but I am not. My specialty is religious studies, and as the responsibility for this attack has been claimed by a man who uses religious rhetoric, that puts it in my bailiwick.
“Perhaps you have heard that the real Styr Magnor, if he exists, has not yet been identified. I am happy to tell you that under Chancellor Dengler’s auspices, a vast canvassing force is carefully eliminating men of the same name who have alibis. We hope to report soon on the locating of this criminal.
“Meanwhile, I will be following leads and staying out of your way. But if there is anything I can help with in the way of information, I am happy to answer any questions.”
“That’s it?” a man called out. “You came all this way to open the floor for questions?”
“Yes, sir. If I knew more, I would share it.”
“We probably know more than you do!”
“There is little question of that,” Paul said. “But if I studied the crime scene, I wouldn’t be able to interpret it the way you can anyway. If you have no questions for me, perhaps I should ask what you have found so far.”
“We do have questions for you, Sherlock!”
Paul laughed with the rest, but he’d rather have left the lectern. He didn’t need or want this any more than they did. Imagine if they knew he was also there to connect with the underground, and not for the purpose of arresting believers. Paul had to play this game, had to establish himself as part of the team. Then they would leave him alone and he would be free to make the contacts he really needed.
A scruffy-looking, older detective stood, his pastry and coffee in one hand, his other raised. “What should we be looking for then, sir, given that this was likely the act of a religious madman? So far we’ve been sifting through animal body parts and human remains. It’s ugly business, and we know no more today than the day it happened. Two explosives, both from suicide bombers, were triggered almost simultaneously.”
Before Paul could answer, a younger man stood. “Yes, we’re not finding religious artifacts.” That brought another wave of laughter, as if they imagined an incendiary full of crucifixes or Stars of David.
“Well, if you’ll indulge me,” Paul said, “despite the claims of this Styr Magnor character that he is a brother of underground Christians in America, experience tells me such people are averse enough to suicide that they would not likely have carried it out in this manner.”
“Because of their religious beliefs?”
“In my opinion,” Paul said. “Many Christian believers, Catholics for instance, consider suicide a mortal sin.”
He noticed nodding and heard murmurs of assent, as if they might have actually heard something constructive.
Someone called out, “So if it was some crazy r
eligious faction, it would more likely be Muslims, who think they’re going to earn seventy virgins in the afterlife?”
A few chuckled. A man shouted, “Or one seventy-year-old virgin!”
With that the chief took one step forward and the place quieted. Paul was impressed at her silent control. “Any more questions?” he said.
When there were none, she took the microphone. “Thank you, Doctor,” and with that came a smattering of applause. “I will get your number so my division commanders and I can keep in touch if we think of other things you may be able to help with.”
Paul felt the way the original questioner had, wondering if he had really come all this way for only that. But privately he couldn’t have been happier. He would help as he could, but it appeared he would have the time and space he needed to do what he really wanted.
The chief said her good-byes and had her driver take Paul to the luxurious Venito Hotel, equidistant from the University of Rome, the National Library, and the Termini Station. “An unmarked staff car has been issued you for the duration, Doctor,” she said. “Please let me know if there is anything you need, and I’ll be in touch, as I said, if we have more questions.”
Paul would use the staff car only, naturally, for his NPO work. If he was being watched, International would know that car. He would do on foot what he had to do regarding the underground, and if he needed to rent a car, he could do it under one of his many aliases.
By the time he checked in, it was two in the afternoon, making it 7 a.m. in Chicago. Paul would give Jae time to get the kids up and off to school before he called her. He spent the next two hours cruising the city, getting the lay of the land. Staying within an approximate four-square-mile box and crossing and recrossing the Tiber River several times, Paul was struck anew at the depressing state in which he found what many had described as one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Would Paris, which also competed in people’s minds and hearts for that title, look as debauched?
He called Straight, who sounded groggy but insisted it was okay to talk. “We’re getting word to your contact that you’re in the city,” the older man said. “I’ll get back to you with instructions. Tell me something about his name that assures me you remember it.”
Enzo Fabrizio. “His first and last names start with consecutive letters of the alphabet.”
“Too early in the morning for me to ruminate on that. Hmm. Yeah, I guess they do. Very good, grasshopper.”
After having covered most of central Rome, Paul found himself parked in an alley just south of the Baths of Caracalla. “You ever been here, Straight?”
“Rome, yes, years ago on a U of C faculty-and-student exchange trip. Those Baths still just a tourist spot?”
“Looks like it. I’m not going in. They appear to have been refurbished, but, man, this whole city is depressing, depraved.”
“Degenerate is the word you’re looking for, Paul.”
“Exactly.”
“The USSA isn’t much better. You’re just used to it. Remember your reaction to Vegas and L.A.”
“God needs to do something here, Straight.”
“He is doing something there, friend. You.”
Paul checked his mirrors. He had no feeling of being followed or watched, but perhaps NPO International was just that good. Part of him wanted to believe that everyone at every level in every country still saw him as a top, crack, loyal agent. But he wasn’t that naive. Even if they weren’t onto him yet, he had to live as if they were.
He told Straight, “I’m beginning to see why New Testament believers were always sent out at least in twos.”
“Lonely already?”
“Missing Jae, sure, but there’s an isolation here I feel more keenly even than when I’m living my big lie in the bureau. I could sure use a Barnabas.”
“Well, if you’re thinking about me, I could never keep up with you.”
“Ah, you could work me into the ground and you know it.”
“Jes’ trying to be humble, Paul.”
Paul sighed, not wanting to get off the phone but sensing Straight needed to get going. “Tell you one thing: I’m getting a lesson in what’s happening to me here.”
“How’s that?”
“This is the kind of place that would have turned my head not that long ago.”
“You’d be tempted, you mean?”
“Big-time.”
“And now?”
“This all disgusts me. I mean, I can tell I’m different at home. Even Jae sees it. But I didn’t know how I’d do in this situation—away, alone, homesick. That would have justified a lot of mischief in the past.”
“Don’t get overconfident now, Paul. You’re still a man.”
“A lustful male, you mean.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Pray for me.”
“Constantly.”
On his way back to the hotel—Paul wanted to talk to Jae from there—he wondered where the Rome underground might be located. There seemed myriad possibilities. Every ancient site, especially the ruins, had underground features. Not all could be open to tourists. If he were leading a rebel faction here, he would look into appropriating some long-closed-off and forgotten belowground location, perhaps right in the middle of the city.
Maybe he was way off and they were in various locations in the suburban areas, as they had been in Los Angeles. He guessed he’d find out soon enough.
8
ON THE PHONE BACK AT the Venito, Paul found Jae unusually chipper. “I can’t help it, Paul. I miss you terribly and it’s hard on the kids, but I’m taking action and making decisions, and we’re going to be all right.”
“That’s great, babe. I miss you too, but I’m keeping busy.” He told her of the initial meeting with the Rome detectives. “The site is ghastly. I don’t envy them that work. So, you’re keeping busy?”
“I soon will be. Paul, I’m accepting a job with Dad, and the kids and I are moving to Washington until you get back.”
Paul closed his eyes. That’s all he needed.
“Paul? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“Can’t say that I am.”
“Oh, Paul, I need this. It’ll be something to do all day, and it’ll be in my area of expertise. Mom will help with the kids, and I’ll be able to get to know Aryana better—you know, Berlitz’s wife.”
“I know. But uprooting the kids? Why not just find something to do in Chicago?”
“I just told you. My family being there makes the difference. That’s the real draw.”
“What if I finish up quickly over here? You’re going to have just started with your dad and then leave him in the lurch.”
“He understands that’s a possibility. Frankly, I hope that’s what happens.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“Well, there’s no question, Paul. Ideally I want you home with us in Chicago, but this is clearly the next best thing.”
It wasn’t so clear to Paul. While Jae had—to his knowledge—never been trained in espionage, he couldn’t know for certain that she herself wasn’t already onto him. He didn’t want to be paranoid, but he had to keep an edge, maintain his equilibrium. Her plan to work not just in Washington but also with the NPO and with Ranold could be part of an elaborate scheme for them to set him up. Maybe they had enough on him already to call him in and put him on trial for treason. But if they played him, he might lead them to a wide circle of the underground. Paul decided he’d rather die than take any part of the underground church down with him.
Again, the tightrope. If he tried to forbid Jae, she would defy him, no question. Plus he would look terrible. If they only suspected him at this point, such an action would tip the scales against him. “No way I can talk you out of this, Jae?”
“I told the kids’ teachers this morning, Paul. They’ll finish out the week and we’ll leave after school Friday. I start work Monday the twenty
-first. I so want you to be happy for me and proud of me.”
Paul couldn’t bring himself to say either. January 21 was announcement day, when Chancellor Baldwin Dengler would go on worldwide television and reveal the plan to require a signed expression of loyalty to the international government and its long-standing policy against religion.
Jae had been through a lot with Paul and their rocky marriage, but somehow she had endured with her optimism intact. The rest of the day proved a downer for her because of his response to her plan. She had been disappointed enough at Straight’s initial reaction, but she really wanted Paul to be behind her. Deep inside she believed that if she remained upbeat on the phone with him, once they were in Washington, he’d come around.
Washington. It seemed a respite from her troubled mind. Was it what she was listening to or the frustration of feeling that eyes were on her? The Mother Bear in her wanted to emerge when she worried that if she was being watched, so were the children. Jae had seen no one and nothing concrete . . . yet. She did not recall this paranoia during Paul’s other trips. She was no expert, and Paul had long since assured her that if professionals were trailing her, she would not know it.
When Straight called later in the day, suggesting she volunteer at PSL Hospital with him, she believed Paul had put him up to it in a last-ditch effort to thwart her plan. Straight was even more dead set against her going, telling her he had a very bad feeling about it. On the other hand, he accepted her invitation to dinner on Thursday night and offered to help get her and the kids ready for the trip.
Jae had never read or heard one word from the Bible. Her only exposure to what Christianity was about was from brief conversations with Paul when he was trying to explain what he was learning about the enemy. But he hadn’t said much about that in a while, though she knew he was still frequently listening to the New Testament. She could also tell from the discs and the documentation that came with them that he had taken with him the first four books of the New Testament and that they were called the Gospels.
That afternoon Jae slipped into the player the first of the minidiscs Paul had left and listened to the first chapter of The Acts of the Apostles.
Silenced Page 9