"May I see her dossier, please?"
Coleman slid it across the table to her.
West studied it: summa cum laude... Ph.D.... twenty-seven languages (Jesus!)... associate professor... registered Democrat... devout Catholic... She picked up the phone and talked to Bacquier again. This was turning out to be interesting after all.
* * *
Angela Summers sat in the motel room, alone except for the machine that had been her undoing. She had been terribly apprehensive before, but now that they knew about her, now that her life was about to come crashing down around her, she felt strangely serene. Following your conscience was ultimately liberating, she reflected. No one can really hurt you if you are willing to accept the consequences.
After a long while the man who had operated the polygraph returned. He brought a woman with him. She was middle-aged and a trifle overweight. Her short black hair was liberally flecked with gray. There were deep lines around her eyes. She wore no makeup. She looked like a woman who was used to giving orders. She did not make Angela feel very comfortable.
"My name is West," the woman said.
"How do you do," Angela replied.
The woman nodded and sat down. "Well," she said, "our machine says you've been lying to us. Would you care to tell us the truth?"
Angela said nothing.
West tapped a manila folder with her index finger. "You're in a lot of trouble," she said. "Don't make things worse for yourself by not cooperating."
"If I'm in trouble I should get a lawyer," Angela observed.
West ignored her. "You're a religious person. How can you justify lying?"
You do not understand religion, Angela thought. But she was right, it was not pleasant to lie, even in a worthy cause. She considered carefully, and told the truth. Some of it. "I met Tenon and spoke with him," she said. "I admit that. But I did not help him escape. I did not know he wanted to escape. I do not know where he is now. And I won't say anything more without a lawyer."
"You talked with him about religion?"
Angela stared at her and said nothing. She stifled an urge to smile. She was in trouble, yes, but it wasn't the end of the world. And Tenon was free. They couldn't find him, obviously; they were worried. It was part of the pattern, of course: vomurd. Not what she had expected would happen, but what did that matter? She hoped Tenon had found some friends. She would pray for him.
West stood up abruptly, slapping the folder against her thigh. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Summers. You are free to go. But you will not be allowed to leave the compound." She nodded coldly to Angela and left the room.
* * *
West was nettled, but not surprised or discouraged. Interrogation of a woman like that would be difficult and probably fruitless at this point. And it was not impossible that she was telling her the truth. The sequence of events made sense: Tenon talks with her, finds out about religious freedom, decides to flee the ship on his own. But if he were still alive then someone, wittingly or unwittingly, had to have helped him. There was not much she could do if the assistance had been unwitting—a truck driver picking up a confused-looking foreigner wandering along the highway, and then forgetting about it, for example. That was pretty farfetched, though. More likely someone knew who Tenon was, and was holding on to him for his own reasons.
But what could those reasons be? She studied Angela's folder some more. After she had finished with it she went to see Bacquier.
"Are you making progress?" he inquired hopefully. "It is hard to believe Ms. Summers had anything to do with this."
"Well, she is our best lead at the moment. Tell me, has she been allowed to go to Mass frequently since she came here?"
"Every day. With an escort. She just goes to church and comes back."
"But conceivably she could talk to people inside the church."
"I suppose so. I don't know whether the soldier goes inside with her or not. Who do you imagine she would speak to? I just can't see—"
"Neither can I. However, it's what we have so far. I'm going to talk to the pastor at that church."
"Very well. You're the specialist."
"Yes. And of course, don't let her out of the compound for any reason until this thing is cleared up."
Bacquier nodded. "Of course."
* * *
Father Gardner was paying bills when the doorbell rang. He considered not answering, but that was foolishness; it was the middle of the day. Aliens came only in the dead of night. And besides, he hated paying bills.
The woman at the door did not look friendly. "Good afternoon, Father. I wonder if I might talk to you for a few moments?"
She was holding her identification out to him. It took a moment for him to focus on it, and another moment to comprehend. FBI. He felt himself flush. He knew she was watching him, observing his reactions, but there was nothing he could do. His flush only deepened. "Of course, Ms.—?"
"West."
"Won't you come in?"
He brought her into his office. She sat where Angela Summers had sat. Could he be arrested?
"Father, I want to ask you some questions about an interpreter from the Alien Study Team by the name of Angela Summers. Are you acquainted with her?"
How much did they know? Was this woman just toying with him? Never in his life had he wanted so much to lie—no, not lie, to run away and hide. He was a child again, desperate to escape his parents' wrath. But it was too late. "She—uh, I believe she attends Mass here at Most Precious Blood."
"Have you seen her speaking with anyone while she was in church?"
He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what you mean. She sits by herself, I believe."
"Before or after Mass—any contact with anyone?"
"I—I don't think so. I can't be sure, of course. It could have happened."
"Have you spoken with her?"
She was just leading up to that, of course. Wanted to see the priest squirm. Well, if she knew, then what was the sense of squirming? He would just tell the truth. They couldn't find Bernardi—at least not through him. And they couldn't put him in jail for what he had done. At least, he didn't think so. "Yes," he replied firmly.
"Do you have any opinion of her?"
"She seems like a fine, religious woman. I admire her."
The FBI agent was silent for a moment, then abruptly stood up. "Well, thank you for your time, Father. If I have any more questions I'll let you know."
"Yes, uh, certainly." He saw her to the door and stared after her as she walked away. Had he missed something? Had he unconsciously given her some vital clue? He felt vaguely let down. Moments of courage were not frequent for him. Something at least should happen when one occurs. He sighed and went back to his bills. Something would happen eventually, he was quite certain.
* * *
Madeleine West sat in her official car and tried to puzzle it out. Something about that man had been unsettling. He had been quite clearly uncomfortable, which was not surprising, but there had been something more, something out of place. Fear, perhaps? Well, she had the resources. She might as well use them. She took her phone out of her pocket and dialed a number. "This is Madeleine West," she said into the receiver. "I'd like some background on Father Gardner, pastor of Most Precious Blood Catholic Church in Greenough. Whatever you can dig up on short notice: interviews with neighbors, school records, log of recent phone calls, any suspicious activities. You know the stuff." There, that would keep a couple of rookies busy for a while.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon when a rookie interrupted her dossier-reading with some information he thought might be of interest to her. A few minutes later she drove back to the rectory, and had a long, serious talk with Father Gardner. Then she went back to the compound and called her boss.
Things were getting a bit too interesting now.
Chapter 12
Ed Fitzgerald enjoyed meeting with the President, most of the time. Most of the time his people did their jobs properly,
and that meant the President would be pleased. The President liked competence.
By rights the meeting he was on his way to should have been particularly enjoyable, therefore. His agent had cracked the case inside a day; well, at least she had started to crack it. Pretty impressive, anyway. But Fitzgerald was nothing if not an astute judge of character, and he had a feeling the President would not be pleased. Not with what he had to tell him.
The White House was virtually deserted this time of night, the tourists long gone, the hotshot aides all home in bed dreaming of ways to speed up their careers. Fitzgerald had been a hotshot once himself. The rooms he passed were dim and silent, the corridors empty. Only important events happened here at midnight. Well, this would be no exception.
Jim Elias met him outside the Oval Office. He was dressed in suede pants and a silk shirt. God help us: was that the fashion nowadays? "Better be good," Elias said as they shook hands. "I was in the middle of a heavy date."
"You're not old enough to go on a date by yourself, are you?" Fitzgerald asked.
Elias shook his head. "I'm really not, but I got a friend at the FBI to forge me an ID so I could buy beer."
"They do good work over there, I hear. Is himself in?"
"After me."
Harold Gibson was striding toward them, hand outstretched, as they entered the room. He didn't look like a man who had been up since five that morning. Fitzgerald dreaded Gibson's handshake; his hand always ached for hours afterward. "Mr. President."
"Fitzie, good to see you. Have a drink?"
"Oh well, if you insist."
Gibson smiled and gestured to Elias, who was already getting out the Jameson's. The kid dressed funny, but his memory was amazing.
"Sit sit sit. Don't tell me, you have good news. The alien's back in the ship, the Numoi are happy, God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world."
Fitzgerald sat and sipped his Jameson's. "Well, not exactly. God does enter into this, though."
"You intrigue me. Tell us everything, from the very beginning. You have thirty seconds."
Fitzgerald took a somewhat larger sip. Gibson sat opposite him, his eyes boring into Fitzgerald's skull, trying, so it seemed, to suck all the useful information out of him so that he wouldn't have to be bothered with a time-wasting conversation. The President could be quite intimidating if you weren't used to him.
"Here's what we have, as best we can figure it. This alien—his name is Tenon—secretly belongs to some forbidden religious cult on Numos. He had a conversation with one of the UN interpreters a couple of days ago, and evidently something came up about religious freedom here. So the fellow jumped ship and made his way into town, where he met up with the local parish priest. This priest handed him over to a friend of his, another priest, and the two of them took off. We have our best people tracking them down right now. Is my time up?"
Gibson's eyes shifted momentarily, puzzling it out. "Doesn't make sense," he said. "Why would the priests help this guy?"
"That's not entirely clear to me. There seem to be some correspondences between his beliefs and Christianity. Also, presumably he would be put to death if he gets sent back to his ship."
The President shook his head. "Still sounds funny." Then he paused. "You've got something more. What is it?"
Very astute. And now the sticky part. "The way we broke this," Fitzgerald said, "was by getting the log of this parish priest's long-distance calls. On the night of Tenon's disappearance there was an overseas call placed. To the Vatican. To a personal number assigned to the Pope's private secretary. This local priest says his pal—name of Bernardi—won't let go of Tenon without Clement's say-so. The Vatican is evidently in this thing up to their scapulars."
"Good grief. This private secretary—what's his name?"
"Collingwood. He's an American."
Gibson turned to Elias, who was slouched in a chair across the room.
"He's in his late thirties," Elias said, "ambitious, intelligent, kind of a cold fish. I thought he was still in America, at the synod or whatever you call it in New York City."
"Would he get involved in something like this without the Pope's knowledge?"
"Doubt it. He's a team player."
The President was silent. Fitzgerald braced himself. It was about time for Gibson to get angry. "Goddammit," he roared on schedule. "What kind of Mickey Mouse shit are those assholes trying to pull? I've put my head on the block for them! I've kept them in business in this country! If they tried they couldn't come up with anything that could be more damaging to me. I've got half of Congress screaming for blood because I've handed the aliens over to the UN—as if the aliens were some sort of goddam national treasure—and now the Vatican has set one of them loose on the countryside." His eyes riveted on Fitzgerald. "And you're doing a fine job of keeping it secret, by the way. The Post and the Times have already all but said flat out that it's an alien we're after."
Fitzgerald's ears hurt. He was getting a headache. "You can't do an investigation like this in total secrecy," he offered. "Not and get any results."
"Fat lot of results we've gotten," Gibson muttered, but it was clear that his anger had spent itself. Elias looked bored. This must happen every half hour during the day. If only he weren't so loud. After a moment the President smiled and said, "Now let's get constructive. What is our response?"
"Finding the alien would help," Elias remarked.
Fitzgerald shrugged. "We've got our best people on it." Nice little phrase. No arguing with that.
"You know," Elias went on, "Clement is not the world's number-one ace political strategist. It may be that he's just acting reflexively here. This guy lands in the Church's lap asking for sanctuary, and they grant it. They don't consider anything else."
"So where does that leave us?"
"Well, we bring other considerations to his attention. Tell him the alien isn't worth his tax-exempt status in America. And so on. Put the screws to him. Diplomatically, of course."
Gibson nodded thoughtfully and turned to Fitzgerald. "You a Catholic, Fitzie?"
He spread his palms. "You know how it is."
Gibson sighed. "I have difficulty dealing with religious people. They look at everything so differently, you know?"
"Like Republicans," Fitzgerald suggested.
The President laughed—loud enough to wake Lincoln's ghost, Fitzgerald thought. "What time is it in Italy?" Gibson asked Elias.
"Seven a.m.," he answered promptly.
"Jesus, what a mind. Offhand, would you happen to know the Pope's phone number?"
Chapter 13
The Pope's office was bare and functional—far from the baroque opulence or even the sleek modernism of some of his predecessors. The walls held nothing but a cheap crucifix and portraits of Pious the Tenth and John the Twenty-third. The only artworks worth mentioning were a couple of ancient sculptures rescued from the Vatican grottoes.
Clement was well aware that people admired the simplicity of his life. "Whatever else you might say about him," he could imagine them remark, "he certainly doesn't pamper himself." It was an odd quirk of fate, he felt, that the things people praised him for he found totally unworthy of praise. He could not help being uninterested in material possessions; that was the way he was. May as well praise an Irishman for having red hair, or a German for being able to speak German. If someone had placed a Delia Robbia in front of his desk, he would not have noticed it; if the most expensive wine in the world had been served for his dinner, it would not have tempted him.
In some people, of course, such abstinence would have been a virtue. While his celibacy, for example, had been a tolerable burden, he knew of many priests whose struggle to maintain theirs had been truly heroic. For some people, just living from day to day was a triumph of the will.
Ah yes, his humility too was well known. Always deprecating himself; his virtues are worthless, his vices numberless. Clement was aware that his protestations could sound ludicrous.
That was
the trouble, of course. He was aware of so much, and so incapable of doing anything about it.
He sat in his chair (a special orthopedic chair, one creature comfort he was almost forced to allow himself) and consulted his schedule for the day. Nine o'clock meeting with Cardinal DiStefano to discuss reorganization of the Congregation of the Faith. Eleven o'clock audience in the Hall of the Consistory. Twelve o'clock audience with the South American ambassadors... He shoved the paper aside. It was easy to fill up the days just being a symbol. At least he was not a disgrace to his office. God had seen fit not to make him totally incapable.
The knock sounded lightly on the door, and Collingwood's face appeared immediately afterward. "You wanted to see me, Holiness?"
"Come in, Anthony. Sit."
Collingwood sat on the other side of the desk. No trace of worry or deception. He had once thought himself good at spotting such things. He was no longer very sure of his skill. "Anthony, I want you to tell me about the phone call you received from America two nights ago."
Collingwood was silent for a moment. The confrontation didn't seem to trouble him. "It was Father Bernardi," he replied. "The alien had escaped from his ship, and Bernardi wanted to know what to do with him. We agreed he should go into hiding with Tenon until you told him otherwise."
Clement fingered his pectoral cross. "And why, Anthony, did I learn of this from the President of the United States, and not from you?"
That cracked Collingwood's composure a bit. He pushed at his glasses and rubbed his nose. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "That must have been unpleasant for you. I felt I should wait, you see—"
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