Forbidden Sanctuary

by Richard Bowker

A pause. "Director's office."

  "Hello, this is Madeleine West. I would like to speak to Mr. Fitzgerald, please. It is a matter of extreme importance."

  "One moment, Ms. West."

  Another pause. "Madeleine, what's up?"

  "Mr. Fitzgerald, I'm with Albert Bernardi's mother in her apartment. I have just been assuring her that the government will take no action against Father Bernardi should he be found as a result of information supplied by her. Can you confirm that this will be our policy?"

  "I certainly can. Is Mrs. Bernardi listening?"

  "Yes sir, yes I am," Mrs. Bernardi replied.

  "Good. Mrs. Bernardi, I am the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I want to assure you that we have no interest in prosecuting your son for anything he may have done. We just want to hand this alien over to his people and get the world back to normal again. You know, I'm a staunch Catholic, and like a lot of Catholics I've been disappointed with the Pope's attitude in all of this. I've got to admire your son, and I respect his sense of obedience to the Pope, but you have to admit that things have gotten out of hand."

  "Yes, you're right, they have."

  "Well, is there any other assurance I can give you?"

  "No, uh, thank you. Thank you, sir."

  "Well, great. I hope you make the right decision. Madeleine, you keep in touch. You're doing a fine job."

  West put away her phone.

  Mrs. Bernardi looked solemn and impressed, but still unhappy. "Why did this ever have to happen?" she whispered.

  West reached out and covered Mrs. Bernardi's hand with her own. "I know it's hard," she said.

  Mrs. Bernardi looked down at the floor. "He called me when he got into town the other day. Said he didn't want me to be worried, but people might be looking for him. I didn't know what he meant, of course, but I asked him where he would be. He was a bit reluctant at first, but finally he told me."

  She took a deep breath. "He had a girl friend in high school. Her name's Jenny Salieri. She has a place somewhere out on Long Island. She's an artist. He said he'd be staying there. It's a cottage. I was a little shocked, you know, but he said it would be all right, she wasn't using it. I don't know. Things are so confusing. I don't know what—"

  "Do you happen to have the address, Mrs. Bernardi?"

  She shook her head, and as she did the tears came pouring out. "He'll never forgive me," she sobbed.

  "Of course he will," West said. "Don't worry about a thing," she added as she headed for the door.

  * * *

  "Salieri?" Dewey said. "Hold on. Yeah. Here it is. Jennifer Salieri. We talked to her. Has a Manhattan address listed. Must be a summer cottage. She said she corresponded a bit with Bernardi since he went into the Jesuits, but hasn't seen him in ten years. Nothing suspicious. She's a fashionable artist, it says here. Into holography and that sort of thing. Don't understand any of it myself."

  "Get the address of the cottage," West said. "And make sure Mrs. Bernardi's apartment is covered."

  * * *

  It took them fifteen minutes to track the address down, and West was on her way, with two carloads of agents following. They got explicit directions over the phone from the local police, and within the hour they were around the corner from the cottage.

  "Surround it," West ordered. "Stay out of sight. I'll go in."

  It was twilight as they advanced toward the cottage. The neighborhood was poshly rural. Bernardi has rich friends, West thought. They could hear the roar of the ocean, but it was just out of sight beyond the dunes. The evening was clear and cold.

  There was a light on in the cottage. Excellent. The agents fanned out expertly. West looked around. No car. No way of escaping. She walked up to the door and knocked.

  No answer. She stood and listened. No sounds. She tried the knob. The door was open. She entered.

  Fancy, she thought. Dark-stained wood and expensive orientals. A large picture window looking out on the ocean. Strange, free-standing art objects, all curves and colors. For once she agreed with Dewey: she couldn't make sense out of any of that stuff, either. She closed the door behind her.

  A quick search showed that the place was empty, but that someone had been there quite recently. The ashes in the fireplace were still giving off heat; a dirty frying pan in the sink was half filled beneath a dripping faucet.

  There was no trace of men's clothing in the closet, though; nothing to suggest it was Bernardi who had lived here. Had his mother lied to her? Not likely. Had she changed her mind and called her son to let him know they were on their way? But the phone was tapped: if her agents had fouled up...

  Her phone rang. "Yeah," she barked into it.

  "Someone's walking up the beach. Looks like he's heading for the house."

  "Keep your positions. Let him enter."

  She stood by the fireplace, out of sight of the back door. After a few moments she heard the familiar sequence of sounds: feet on steps, key being inserted, creak of door opening, bang of it shutting. The light went on in the kitchen, and a dark figure moved back and forth. There was the sound of running water. Doing the dishes. West moved forward.

  She took out her identification and her revolver. She walked into the kitchen. "FBI. Don't move, please."

  The figure didn't move.

  "Turn around."

  The figure turned. It was a woman. She was smiling. "May I at least put the frying pan down?" she inquired.

  West nodded. She felt depressed and frustrated. "Jennifer Salieri?"

  "Yes, of course. And who are you?"

  She felt something more than frustration. Envy. Yes, stupid envy. Jenny Salieri must have been—what?—fortyish, but she was still darkly beautiful. And elegant, even in the casual slacks and sweater. West thought of the diet she had long ago given up on, the clothes she didn't have the time to coordinate. Damn, this case was really getting on her nerves. "My name is Madeleine West. We received information that people we are looking for might be in this house."

  "Al Bernardi and friend, right? Let's sit down, shall we? Can I get you a drink?"

  Feeling foolish, West lowered the revolver, but ignored the pleasantries. "Would you tell me what you know about this matter?"

  "Well, as you can see, they're not here. And I honestly have no idea where they are."

  "But you know more than you told the agent who spoke to you earlier."

  Salieri leaned back against the sink. "Oh, I suppose I should be brutally frank, although it won't get you anywhere. Al called me a few days ago—just before this business broke in the papers—and asked for a favor. Well, I could never refuse Al anything, although he refused me often enough. It was really nothing. He said that people were going to be looking for him, and there was a good chance they would think he was at this cottage. Did I mind, was all he wanted to know. Well, of course not. I invited him to use the place if he wanted to, but he said no, he had other plans."

  "He didn't mention what those plans were, did he?"

  She smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid not. And if he had I'm sure it would have been a lie that'd take you another day or two to unravel. He'll end up confusing you so much that when you actually do find him you won't be sure it's for real. He's just about the cleverest man I know. What a waste. Are you sure you won't have that drink?"

  West pondered the information. She could be lying. They could actually have been here and she was covering for them. It wouldn't hurt to run a check on the area. They wouldn't turn up, though. West knew in her bones that the woman was telling the truth. And that bastard had lied to his mother. West was getting a headache. "I'm sorry. I don't have the time. If you think of anything that might help us, please give us a call. We're not interested in Bernardi. We just want the alien back."

  The woman shrugged. "Sure. If you find Al—which I doubt—say hi from me, will you?"

  West nodded. Now she was carrying messages to him. Outside, in the darkness, a wave of anger swept over her—at him, at the woman, but mo
stly at herself, for feeling that stab of envy, for letting the case affect her emotions.

  It occurred to her that she had little reason to envy Jenny Salieri, who had obviously spent her life longing for a man who preferred to be celibate. That must be a pretty tough thing to live with.

  Enough. She gave her orders and headed home.

  Chapter 21

  Clement sat in his office reading Cardinal Newman. He had made a few calls, but they had been depressing; he had tried to do some mundane paperwork, but had been unable to concentrate. Now it was evening, his back was aching, all deadlines had passed, and he was alone.

  At the best of times his job was lonely; at the worst it was as if he inhabited his own planet, and his only human contacts were the flickering shadows of a TV screen, portraying an existence so far removed from his own that it could hardly be considered real. I did not ask to live on this planet, he thought (not for the first time), but that was self-pity. When Pusateri had hobbled up to him after the balloting in the Conclave and put the question to him, he had whispered "Accepto"—and he had known what he was accepting. He had chosen, and this was the fruit of his choice.

  There was a knock on the door. Clement smiled. His isolation, after all, was mental and emotional; hardly physical. "Yes?" he murmured.

  It was Collingwood. He had been expecting him, really. There was something to be worked out between them. "Come in, Anthony."

  Collingwood walked across the room and sat down in silence. He didn't know where to start, clearly. How often had he been at a loss for words in his life? In a way Clement pitied him. It was an awkward position for an ambitious man like him to be in. Still, it was all his own doing, and Clement had more important things to worry about.

  The problem was, Clement realized, that he didn't much like Collingwood. The man was brilliant; he had made himself indispensable, really. He was, for all Clement could tell, a good man, a good priest; his motives always seemed to be worthy, his positions were always Christian. And yet he seemed cold and manipulative; one could not laugh with him, for example. His laughter had to have a point, had to accomplish something. He lacked the fire of the Holy Spirit. He made Clement uncomfortable.

  Such reactions were not sinful perhaps, but they were certainly not laudable. If Collingwood caught any hint of them, it was not from lack of effort on Clement's part to suppress them. Anthony was a child of God, one of his flock. Also, Clement needed him (just as he needed Clement). All other considerations were superfluous.

  "You look worried, Anthony."

  "I've been watching the news," Collingwood replied pointedly.

  "Yes. Riots in Mexico City. Nuns attacked in Bangkok. A stony silence from the Vatican."

  "Matters will only get worse if the silence continues."

  "The Church has suffered before. It has sometimes done her good."

  "Surely it suffered to more purpose than this."

  "You seemed to feel before that this was rather important." Clement raised his hand to stop Collingwood's reply. "No, let me see if I can say it for you. Circumstances have changed. What may have deserved our support before no longer outweighs other considerations. The stakes have been raised. Our bluff has been called. Is that about right?"

  "I didn't know your Holiness was acquainted with gambling terminology."

  Clement smiled. "I am perhaps acquainted with more than you give me credit for, Anthony."

  "Well, your analysis is correct, of course. I simply don't see why you won't accept it. Cardinal Capelli is obnoxious—I suppose I'm obnoxious—but that shouldn't obscure the truth of what we say."

  "You are owed an explanation, I suppose," Clement responded. "I doubt that any I give will satisfy you, though. I see this, purely and simply, as a moral issue. Ultimately political concerns—and all other concerns—must yield to morality. I am willing to accept the burden of these other concerns."

  "But the creature isn't human! It will take the theologians years to sort out the moral issues involved, and of course they'll never end up agreeing. Why risk so much on an unproved case?"

  "To me it is not unproved. Let the theologians ponder as long as they want. I feel the obligation."

  Collingwood half rose from his chair, then slumped back down in it. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  "I give you permission to say whatever you want," Clement said mildly. "I will not take offense at it. I will not let it affect your standing with me."

  "Thank you, Holiness," Collingwood whispered. He stared at Clement intently for a moment, then got up and began to pace the room. He stopped in front of the window, turned, and spoke. "What I fear," he said, "is that you perceive this as the Race War all over again. That you finally feel you have found an issue you can summon up your courage and fight for. That a personal crisis is obscuring the reality of the situation for you. That you're out to prove something at the expense of the Church."

  Clement nodded. "Your fears are not unreasonable. I'm only a man. My motivations cannot be entirely pure. But look at it this way, Anthony: would I do right by my conscience if I were to ignore its promptings, out of fear that my actions would be interpreted as you have interpreted them? I cannot spend my life examining my motivations. Ultimately I must act."

  "All right, but you aren't acting!" Collingwood protested. "You're letting events carry you. You've got to see that this is wrong. The greatness of your role in the Race War was that, while everyone else sat around and worried, you did something. Sitting in the Apostolic Palace and reading Newman is not the leadership you should be providing the Church."

  Now Collingwood was hitting close to home. Surely there should be something more—but what? When the world will not listen—when even the people who have taken vows of obedience to you are muttering mutinously. He felt utterly powerless, swept along by the flood of events, waiting for the inevitable. But there was no inevitable, of course. There was free will, and that meant he had some control.

  The control could be infinitesimal, certainly. Still, he hadn't really expected to have any effect on Kuntasha. He had been shaving one morning, and the radio had been on, intoning evacuation plans and continued stalemates, and he had suddenly noticed the white hair, the age lines on his face, and it was as if he had truly looked at himself for the first time in a decade. And the decade had not been kind to him. The thought of death lodged in his mind like a pebble in his shoe, digging into him at every step. But a lifetime of prayer and meditation had prepared him to accept the idea of death, so almost immediately he thought: yes, I am going to die. What will I do with my life? And at that instant he was prepared to walk past the rifles and offer what was left of himself for peace. If he were rejected, things would not be any worse. If he were killed—well, it was not an ignominious way to die. If he succeeded...

  Well, he had succeeded. And here he sat. Older, but hardly wiser, seeking to recapture something he wasn't sure he ever really had. He had less hair now, and more wrinkles. But nothing had really changed.

  And the answer came to him. "You are right, Anthony. This is no time for sitting. Get me Ashanti on the phone. I want to talk to the alien leader."

  Collingwood stared at him, clearly struggling to make sense of this. "You want to go to their ship?" he asked.

  "I can hardly invite him to come here, can I?"

  * * *

  Collingwood found himself walking south from the Vatican, through Trastevere. The streets were narrow and cobblestoned, without sidewalks. They twisted and curved and doubled back on themselves; he was quickly lost in them, and more than once had to jump out of the way of taxis that were just as lost as he was. No matter.

  He had never been in this section of Rome before. There was really no reason for him to come here. The Trastevirini, he had heard, claimed to be the most Roman of the Romans. Your family had to have lived here for generations before you were accepted by them. He was an outsider. Always had been—even in college, in America. Even at the seat of power—he was a foreigner, a schemer,
treated with mistrust and fear, making his way alone, friendless.

  He passed the warm glow of a tavern. Inside they were shouting out some bawdy song, laughing and clinking glasses. He raised the collar of his coat; he wouldn't have minded getting drunk, but how could he manage it? It would have to be alone, in his room in the Apostolic Palace—a ludicrous thought. He walked on.

  Clement wanted to meet with Zanla. Ashanti was trying to arrange it now. They could be on their way as soon as tomorrow. Headlines around the planet. Hopes raised in billions of breasts. Clement had done it before, after all....

  No matter what Clement said about moral obligations, it was clear to Collingwood now that the man was simply out to replicate the great triumph of his life. Perhaps it was unconscious; perhaps he had really convinced himself that he was somehow saving the Church. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he was going through with it, and Collingwood was powerless to stop him.

  What mattered was that Clement hadn't the skill to carry out the mission successfully. There might be some way of presenting his position, some points of compromise that could be worked out, but Clement just wasn't the man for the job. He would be rebuffed, and the riots would continue, and they would be one day closer to total chaos.

  Damn Bernardi. Why had he ever listened to the man? Why had he allowed himself to be seduced from the principles of caution and prudence that had gotten him where he was? The idea had been stupid from the beginning—to expect to produce some kind of great revival of religion out of this business. If they had gone about it slowly, diplomatically, the impact would not have been as powerful, but at least they might have gotten closer to the truth. As it was, he was implicated in what appeared to be the beginning of interplanetary war.

  Collingwood had reached the Tiber. A prostitute brushed up against him and muttered something in Italian. She had orange hair, and her breath smelled of garlic. He pushed past her, feeling suddenly nauseated.

  He stood on the bridge but couldn't bring himself to cross to the east bank. He was not a Roman. There was nothing for him there.