Forbidden Sanctuary

by Richard Bowker

But that was precisely what he had to escape. Collingwood was not stupid; he would survive. They would all survive. Meanwhile, the man would do his job.

  "Do you know anything about the subject offhand?"

  "You mean—resigning?"

  "Of course."

  Clement could see Collingwood force his mind back into its accustomed channels. "I believe a Pope has to resign into the hands of the College of Cardinals, theoretically. A letter of some sort might be sufficient. I should check with Cardinal Fontanelli."

  Clement glanced at his watch. "It's early morning in Rome. Don't wake him yet. But work it out tonight—I would like to do it quickly."

  "As you wish, Holiness." There was a pause. "May I ask, Holiness...?"

  "I suppose."

  "Why, then. Why are you resigning?"

  "Nuns are being attacked in Bangkok, Anthony. If the Church does not want me then I should not burden her with me."

  Collingwood appeared as if he were about to reply, then changed his mind and merely nodded vaguely. "As you wish," he repeated in a murmur. "I will get in touch with Cardinal Fontanelli."

  And Clement was alone again, with the deed all but done. He tried reading Newman for a while, but he was too restless to concentrate. Finally he wandered downstairs in search of a cup of tea. Marcello was sitting in the large kitchen with a few other members of the retinue. Several half-empty jugs of red wine were scattered over the table. All talk ceased when Clement entered the room, and everyone rose solemnly. He gestured for them to sit. "Enjoy the wine," he said in Italian. "It's as good a way as any to keep warm in this cold land." A couple of people laughed, but no one drank while he and Marcello stood there waiting for the kettle to boil. He was glad when the tea was made, and he could leave them to their simple pleasures.

  On the way back to his room he saw, through a half-opened door, the pastor sitting by himself in his office. What was his name? Clement could not recall. He hesitated for a moment, and then walked in.

  "Excuse me," he murmured, and the priest jumped up, startled. "I just wanted to thank you for the hospitality you have shown us." He noticed the cot plunked down in the middle of the cluttered office. "I fear we have put you to considerable inconvenience."

  "No no no," the priest replied hurriedly. "It's an honor, your Holiness. I—you know—it..." He stopped, unable to frame the sentence.

  Clement nodded. "This whole business has been hard on both of us, I think. I'll make a deal with you: I'll pray for you if you'll pray for me. Then perhaps we'll both feel better."

  The priest smiled nervously. "I pray for you anyway, Holiness. But I'll pray even harder."

  "Then it's a deal."

  He smiled and blessed the priest, who still looked nervous and puzzled. Clement sighed as he mounted the stairs. He stopped and took a sip of his tea at the top. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Collingwood sat and stared out the window—as he had done last night, as it seemed he had been doing so often lately. His phone lay on his lap. How long had it been: two hours? three?

  Last night his course had seemed clear. But now, when the time had arrived, and his worst fears had been realized (and then some), it was not so easy. He could call Rome and wash his hands of the whole business, or he could call the number he had obtained today, and see if a solution was still possible.

  The decision could not be made by thinking about it, he realized finally. Thinking only provided him with reasons for what he really wanted to do. I have come too far, he thought. I really do not want to give up. He picked up the phone, punched out the number, and waited for a sleepy French voice to answer.

  Once Bacquier could be made to understand the nature of Collingwood's information the conversation was swift and direct. No questioning of motives, only the merest probing about sources, then a quick promise of action—and anonymity. Collingwood hung up, satisfied and relieved. Perhaps everything would still work out. He rose and turned to leave the dreary room.

  Clement was standing in the doorway, staring at him. "I heard your voice," the Pope said quietly. "I thought you were speaking to Fontanelli." He paused. "I couldn't sleep," he added finally.

  "You heard it all, then," Collingwood said.

  "Enough."

  Collingwood felt weak, almost faint, as he stood there. It was not just the shock of being discovered, like a child with a dirty magazine. There was something unnerving about the way Clement, too, was just standing, staring silently at him. How dare you? he wanted Clement to say. Do I not have enough trouble without having to deal with this act of betrayal?

  But Clement said nothing, and his silence had its own message. No explanations, no excuses. It required something more fundamental, more important, and it was not to be denied.

  "Permit me to resign, Holiness," Collingwood said.

  Clement slowly shook his head. "Not yet, Anthony."

  "The call to Fontanelli? I'll do it right away. I—"

  "No, Anthony. I want you to call Bacquier again."

  "If you wish. But it can't be undone, Holiness. I'm sure he's already—"

  "I understand. I want him to set up another meeting between me and Zanla for tomorrow morning—early, before Tenon can be returned. If they manage to capture him."

  Collingwood started to object, but Clement's stare silenced him. "You are not resigning then?"

  "I have a job to do. A job you have just made more difficult."

  What the stare required was simple obedience, obedience due the Vicar of Christ. Collingwood perceived that Clement had changed, and that he had somehow produced the change. But he couldn't think about that now. He would have time—too much time, he feared—to ruminate on it later. Now he was obliged to obey. With Clement watching, he turned back to his phone and entered Bacquier's number.

  * * *

  "I am confused, Monsignor. I do not see what purpose would be served.... But at such short notice. I cannot understand, particularly if we find Tenon... Well of course we are not certain, but... Yes of course I will hold." Bacquier drummed his fingers on the night table and cursed silently. "Yes, your Holiness, I am here.... I understand.... Yes, of course... I understand... certainly, your... I will do my best.... Yes, I will be back in touch. Good night, your Holiness."

  Bacquier hung up, and allowed his curses to become vocal. What in the world was going on over there?

  But that didn't really matter. There would be no harm in chasing down one more lead on Tenon; and there would be no harm in setting up one more meeting—except, perhaps, to his own health, going out into the bitter cold night to visit the damn blue ship.

  Bacquier stretched and prepared to go to work. Things would be so much easier if the FBI could find the blasted alien.

  * * *

  Zanla sat in his office and tried to ponder the meaning of Bacquier's latest visit. More talk. He was willing to talk, especially after hearing the complaints of the crew when he told them they would actually have to try to carry out the threat. But he didn't see what it would accomplish, unless the Pope changed his position.

  He couldn't keep his mind on the threat, or Bacquier, or the Pope, however. It was too late at night, and this was the time when his plans yielded to his memories, the darkness of the outside world entered his thoughts, and he was forced to relive his shame; and with each reliving it grew....

  He was sitting in his place as the Master made the setting on the retheo, and the fear was raw in his throat. This time it was real, this time the bonds would be transformed, space would dissolve, and when it reformed a thousand things could kill him in an instant, and the odds were good that these thoughts would be his last.

  This time the fear of death overcame the fear of disgrace: he broke the bond and stumbled back from the retheo, from his crewmates, screaming in fear and self-loathing, now longing paradoxically for a death that would end his humiliation. But the other officers had calmly picked him up and locked him in his room; the bonding proceeded without him, and he had
to endure the jump across space without a bondmate, alone amid the ruins of his life.

  He had hoped the shame would be private, but what chance, really, had there been of that? Ergentil knew: his officers undoubtedly did too. And his crew? The rest of Numos? The aliens? Did they perhaps sense something about him, some weakness they could exploit?

  Nonsense, clearly. But it proved Ergentil's point: he couldn't separate his private problems from his public responsibilities. Just as now he should have been planning a strategy for the final meeting with the Pope, and instead he was staring at the ceiling and remembering events of half a generation ago.

  He stood up abruptly and left his office. But in the silent corridor he realized he didn't want to return to his empty room, to dreams that would be as troubled as his memories.

  Where else was there to go?

  He walked up to the first level and stood outside Ergentil's room. It was foolishness, but he supposed he was past being made to feel embarrassed by her. The worst she could do would be to tell him to go away. He went inside, and slowly raised the light level.

  "Ergentil," he said quietly.

  She stirred in her bed and looked over at him, shading her eyes from the light. Her tousled hair fell down over her bare shoulders. "What is it?" she murmured sleepily.

  He shut the door behind him. "The Pope wants another meeting."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know."

  "Did you agree?"

  "I saw no reason not to."

  Ergentil looked away for a moment, considering. "Why have you come to me then?" she asked.

  "I would like you to be at the meeting."

  She could not hide her astonishment, but it quickly passed. "Very well," she said. "I was glad you took my advice during the first meeting."

  That was her way of saying she appreciated the offer, he realized. No mention of his initial hesitation, of all his other mistakes. It appeared their truce was complete.

  She shifted in her bed, ran a hand through her hair. "Is that all?" she asked—but not unkindly, he thought, not with a tone of dismissal.

  "Samish awoke me to speak with Bacquier. I can't get back to sleep."

  "What would you have me do?"

  He didn't know, he didn't know. "Talk with me."

  "What about?"

  "About—about the threat. I don't want to have to go through with it. The crew is so tired, the retheo settings—I don't know. And once we do it..."

  "You are the Master. It is your decision."

  "I would much rather..." His voice trailed off again. And he realized he did not want to talk about the threat, or the meeting, or his shame. Too many words had already been spoken. He gazed at her in the silence; her eyes were puzzled, uncertain, but not—

  Of its own accord the bonding started, he could feel her feel his need, he could sense her hesitation, and then the release. She reached out her arms to him, and he crossed the room to where she lay. She enfolded him in her embrace, stroking the back of his head, letting her warmth wash over him like scented oil. Let it go, they thought together, there is only this moment, let all the rest go, and together they sought the beauty of the moment, and found it in each other.

  Chapter 26

  Madeleine West's hand reached out for the phone while she was still asleep. She answered it before the first ring had ended.

  "West."

  "Hello, this is Claude Bacquier. I'm very sorry to disturb you, but I have some urgent information."

  "Yes?" Her husband had stirred at the sound of the phone. His hand came to rest on her thigh. She flicked it away like a mosquito. Her own hand tensed on the receiver.

  "Bernardi has been seen at 7:30 Mass at Saint Anthony's Church. That's on Shepherd Street in the Bronx. This information is thirdhand, but comes from a very good source, so it should be checked out carefully."

  "Who is the source?"

  "I'm afraid I cannot tell you."

  "Who did the source get it from?"

  "I don't know."

  West stifled a groan. "It's better than nothing, I guess." And, after a pause: "Are they going to carry out their threat, do you think? Today's the day."

  "I am aware. The Pope is going to meet with Zanla again. That is a good sign. But who knows? If you find Tenon, get him here as soon as possible. If you do not find him..."

  The sentence trailed off. Bacquier was in the same boat she was in, West realized. His job was to develop friendly relations with the aliens. If this thing blew up, his career might blow up with it. Like her own career, if she couldn't manage to find Tenon with the resources of the United States government behind her. Damn him. "Give me your number. I'll call you if anything happens."

  "Very well."

  When she hung up she glanced at the clock. Two-fifteen. There would be some mighty grumpy agents in a few minutes. She got out of bed and went downstairs to make the calls. No sense disturbing her husband.

  * * *

  West slipped into a pew near the back of the church and knelt down. It was 7:20. She was wearing a knitted cap that all but covered her eyes and a shapeless old coat which, she hoped, made her look poor and therefore inconspicuous.

  She folded her hands in an attitude of prayer and glanced covertly around her. She wasn't used to churches. This one had an impressive stone exterior, but the inside had been painted a hideous shade of pink, perhaps in a misguided attempt to make it cheerier. Numerous statues gazed disapprovingly out of nooks and crannies at the color—or perhaps at her. They were all bland and lifeless, except for the crucifix, whose sculptor had taken a gruesome delight in depicting Christ's suffering. The thorns in His crown were immense, His face was spattered with blood, His body was twisted in agony. How did people find comfort in religion, she wondered.

  She picked up a tattered hymnal and fingered it idly as she watched the old ladies trudge in—kerchiefed Italian women, leaning on canes, carrying shopping bags. There were about a dozen scattered throughout the large church as the Mass began. And not a single man. West felt a stab of anger. Another waste of time. Damn Bernardi. And Bacquier. And the aliens.

  She mimicked the old ladies in front of her, standing and sitting on cue while her eyes swept the church. She wished she could talk to the agents posted outside. Maybe Bernardi had sensed something and been scared away. Maybe they were following him at this moment, closing in on him without her....

  West heard a noise behind her—the dull thud of a kneeler hitting the floor. She waited. No other sound. She closed her eyes. It took all her self-discipline not to turn around and look.

  She was furious—at herself, mostly. If it were Bernardi, then he had the entire length of the Mass to decide that she looked suspicious. Why hadn't she stayed outside? Why had she thought that being in here would somehow help matters? He would slip out of the church, lose the other agents (who were probably asleep), and she wouldn't even realize it until it was too late. And even if he didn't lose them, he was smart enough not to lead them to Tenon.

  She tried to calm down. Nothing to be done; just act natural. Why should he suspect that the old lady in the baggy coat was an FBI agent? We are the professionals, she thought, he is the amateur.

  Still, she was grateful that the Mass seemed to move so swiftly. No time on weekday mornings for elaborate rituals, evidently. The priest moved about the altar with the brisk efficiency of a housewife setting the dinner table. Before West knew it the old ladies were bustling up to the front to receive communion.

  Should she join them? She didn't know Catholic etiquette. It might look odd if she were the only one to remain in her pew. But if she did walk up to the altar it would offer Bernardi (if it was Bernardi) the perfect opportunity to disappear. She waited for a moment in the dim hope that the person would walk past her to receive communion himself. But that would make things too easy, she thought grimly. Finally she slid out of the pew and headed for the altar.

  West had never done this before. She felt a little nervous as she stood in the s
hort line in front of the priest. It was probably blasphemy or something, especially if you were doing it while trying to track down a priest. Maybe she would be struck by lightning as she swallowed the host. An occupational hazard.

  The priest was a plump middle-aged Italian reeking of cheap after-shave. She realized as she took the host that for the rest of her life she would associate communion with that after-shave. She put the host in her mouth. It tasted like cardboard, and was difficult to swallow, but the lightning never struck. She turned quickly and walked back down the aisle.

  She stopped halfway, her eyes probing the shadows. Nobody there. Had she imagined the sound? No, that was silly. Someone had been behind her. And now he was gone. "Bastard," she muttered and broke into a run, as the old ladies turned to watch in shocked disbelief.

  West blinked her eyes against the bright sunlight and motioned to Callaghan across the street. She fished her phone out of her pocket and he did the same. "Was it Bernardi?" she demanded. "Did he get away?"

  "Relax, chief," Callaghan replied calmly. "He just turned left onto Dunstable. Dewey's got him. Couldn't have gone more'n a couple hundred yards."

  "Does he suspect anything?"

  "He looked a bit cautious, but wouldn't you?"

  She began to feel pretty foolish. There was nothing to worry about. They had their man. They were doing their job. "Okay, I'll catch up with Dewey. The rest of you spread out but head in our direction." She hurried down the steps of the church and turned left.

  She picked up Bernardi before she spotted Dewey—good for Dewey. Bernardi was slouching along, wearing a blue ski parka with the hood up. Even from behind, though, she knew it was him. At last.

  She kept her distance as Bernardi walked past boarded-up brick buildings and snow-covered empty lots strewn with frozen garbage. Not her part of town. Bernardi showed no sign that he knew he was being followed. That meant nothing, though. He would be too smart to give anything away.

  He took another left turn and West lost sight of him. Dewey was up ahead on the far side of the street, though, and could still see him. Her phone crackled to life. "He just went into—looks like a little variety store. Want me to go after him?"