The Book of Q (30 page)

Pearse waited. “A few weeks ago. We needed time to decipher it.”

“Naturally.” The monk suddenly realized he was still holding the gun. He quickly placed it in the pocket of his robes. “You understand the precaution.” He now sat back on the edge of the pulpit. “Had we been told, we could have helped—”

“It was best this way.”

“Of course.” He nodded, a newfound deference in his tone, even in the way he held himself. Pearse realized that if nothing else, a Manichaean knew his place in the hierarchy. Nikotheos truly believed that the man who had discovered the lost scroll—and who now had access to the “Hodoporia”—had come from the very highest echelons of the church; he thus warranted a considerable respect. Pearse had no intention of convincing him otherwise. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled
John J.’s simple words of advice to a newly ordained priest, a young man uncomfortable with the pressures of the confessional:
Plant the seeds, Ian. Give them the room to unburden themselves. And listen
. Strange how appropriate they seemed in so incongruous a setting.

“The
summus princeps
made the decision,” said Pearse, testing the waters.

“Of course.” The monk nodded. “He’s always been fascinated with the ‘Hodoporia.’”

He
, thought Pearse. A who, not a what. An invitation for more probing. “You can understand why he wanted to handle everything as discreetly as possible. Especially,” he added, not sure what he hoped to hear in response, “given the events of the last few days.”

“The cardinal has always been a cautious man,” answered the monk.

Pearse tried to mask the astonishment in his eyes.
The cardinal
. Had Nikotheos just confirmed von Neurath’s involvement? Pearse had no choice but to press further. “Nothing,” he continued, “not even the ‘Hodoporia,’ can be allowed to get in the way of the election.”

“I understand.” Again the monk nodded. “Imagine it. With the ‘Hodoporia,’ he’ll be able to use Rome as no one ever has. It will expedite everything.”

Again, Pearse had to stifle his reaction.
Use Rome
. What else could Nikotheos mean but von Neurath on the papal throne? And expedite what? A Manichaean in the Vatican … the catalyst for the “one true and holy Christian church”?

Before Pearse could respond, the monk’s eyes flashed with a sudden insight. “Or is it the other way around?” This time, he waited for Pearse; when no answer came, he continued. “The cells were alerted
because
he anticipated the recovery of the ‘Hodoporia’? Which would mean”—he let the thought sit for a moment—“that the vacancy in Rome wasn’t simply good fortune?”

The cells … alerted
. Pearse knew he had to tread carefully; even so, the implications of what Nikotheos was saying demanded greater clarification. “The ‘Hodoporia’ and the great awakening go hand in hand,” said Pearse. “The cells must be ready to act.”

“‘The church will be one and His name one,’” intoned the monk, as if reciting a well-practiced verse of prayer. Before Pearse could dig deeper, the monk added, “But this isn’t the ‘Hodoporia,’ is it?”

No matter how eager he might have been to learn more about the cells, Pearse knew he had no choice but to follow Nikotheos’s lead. The
monk probably knew little of what was to happen beyond his own cell. A handful of monks on a strip of mountain weren’t going to play too large a role in the “great awakening.” Even so, Pearse couldn’t help but regret the lost opportunity. “Not from what I’ve seen,” he answered. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

It was a question he hadn’t had time to ask himself. “Another piece in the puzzle?” he mused.

Nikotheos nodded. “Still, I’m sure he’ll be eager to hear about it.”

“Yes.”

For the first time, the monk seemed to relax, the night’s excitement obviously having taken its toll. Stepping away from the pulpit, he said, “You can call after first prayer if you like.”

“Call?” This time, Pearse’s surprise got the better of him.

“It’s not all paraffin lamps and outdoor plumbing these days,” he countered, now beginning to make his way to the door.

Pearse did his best at a smile. “Of course.” To his great relief, Nikotheos had misunderstood his reaction.

“We have a telephone, a fax machine.” He pointed up at the steps. “Even something in the door. We installed it after the Great Lavra incident.” He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “You were the first to set it off. It was how I knew you were here.”

Pearse nodded. As much as he wanted to hear the voice on the other end of the line, he knew contact with Rome was out of the question. It might confirm von Neurath’s role, but it meant serving himself up. Without the ‘Hodoporia,’ he still had no leverage, nothing to force their hand. “I need some time to study this,” he said, picking up the book and easing it into his pocket. “Before I make that call.”

“Of course.” Nikotheos had reached the top step.

Pearse bent over and slid the stone back into place. Jesus was once more in line with the other prophets. The monk, meanwhile, gazed out at the Vault, a newfound appreciation etched across his face. “The ‘Hagia Hodoporia,’” he mused. “Who’d have thought it?” Pearse retrieved the glass, the velvet, and the box, then joined him at the top of the stairs. He, too, took one last glance.

Not surprisingly, his gaze came to rest on the larger-than-life figure of Mani. No doubt due to his own exhaustion, Pearse thought he saw a momentary glint of concern cross the Great Prophet’s eyes.

Maybe he had more leverage than he realized.

Giacomo Cardinal Peretti pored through the diaries, every thought—personal and papal—inscribed within their pages. Boniface had kept meticulous journals, all locked away in the bureau by his bed, unknown to all but his closest allies. That Peretti had removed the only key from around his lifeless neck, then borrowed the last three volumes—June through August—had gone unnoticed by the security men. It would be days before any of them would think to go through the late Pope’s personal effects.

Now, sitting alone in his own rooms—his accustomed bedtime long past—Peretti sifted through the minutiae with tremendous care. Little in the first volume had drawn his special attention: a draft version of an encyclical on faith, lengthy diatribes on the continuing abuses in Kosovo, growing concerns about von Neurath’s ambition. At the end of the second, however, each entry began to include several lines on something far beyond the daily tasks of office, sentences replaced by bullet points.

Peretti read:

The last entry ended with a prayer for Ruini, a personal recrimination for not having seen the obvious dangers, and one last question:

Peretti closed the book. His friend’s death two days later was answer enough.

A Manichaean prayer and Athos. What was von Neurath up to?

He had waited ten minutes in his cell, time enough to be sure that Nikotheos wasn’t still lurking about. Keeping the robe and bonnet on, Pearse had then made his way back to the great doors, along the open bluff, through the wooded trails, before coming to the ancient Ford. Three in the morning. Another hour to matins. Enough time to get him off the mountain.

What had taken Gennadios fifteen minutes took Pearse forty, the road to Daphne no less treacherous on the return trip. With the first hints of dawn—a gray matted backdrop as yet unwilling to cede the day to the sun—so, too, came the first boats out of the harbor. Dressed in monk’s habit, Pearse had little trouble securing a ride to Ouranopolis, the backpack accepted with a curious look from his still-groggy captain. A gift from a recent visitor, Pearse explained. God’s will that he put it to use. The man shrugged, then pulled the boat out into the Aegean. Oranges, not God’s will, were his concern this morning.

Ten minutes into the ride, the drone of the engine gave way to the echo of the
simandron
—the long wooden beams used for calling the monks to prayer—each with its own particular timbre, deep, resonant tones of muted whale song bouncing off the scarps of the mountain. Last night, their music might have drawn him in, heightened his sense of reverence; now, they only reminded him of the hunt.

Another ten minutes and the din began to fade as the first sign of sun peeked through from above the tower at Ouranopolis, the hamlet already alive, boats busy with early-morning cargo for the mountain. A lone monk easily slipped through the swirl of movement, the narrow street where Andrakos had left the car still hidden under predawn shadow. Pearse quickly removed the robe and bonnet, tossed them onto the backseat, and fired up the engine. Within minutes, he was back on the highway.

The question was, To where? Igoumenitsa, Athens, and Salonika were no longer possibilities; the news from Phôtinus would no doubt send the Vatican men to all three, and far quicker than Pearse would be able to get to any of them. More than that, he knew Nikotheos would waste little time in alerting the Greek police to the disappearance of one of the monastery’s most valuable manuscripts. Not to mention the issue of Andrakos’s stolen car. Given the time limitations, and the nature of the various border options, Pearse decided on Bulgaria, his best bet Kulata—according to the map in the glove compartment—an hour and ten minutes if the roads were kind. He had to hope Nikotheos had waited until
after
matins before checking on his guest.

As Athos slipped farther and farther into the distance, the Holy Mother seemed more than content to remain by his side, her watchful gaze keeping the roads all but empty, no trace of police during the seventy-
five-minute
hurtle through the Greek countryside. She was equally kind at the border, a shift in guards—men impatient to get home—a priest’s collar and Vatican papers once again sufficient to grease the wheels. Ten minutes from the small outpost, he pulled the car over and exhaled, trying his best to focus on what to do next.

It was only then that he realized he had no idea where he was meant to go. Everything since San Clemente had propelled him along without much time to think, one task to the next, a small leather-bound book having replaced the scroll. Aside from that, though, he had to admit he was no further along than when he had left Rome. Granted, there was the confirmation from Nikotheos as to von Neurath’s role, the hint of something to be “expedited,” “cells” in the waiting—hardly enough, though, to bring the diverse pieces together.

Settling on what he did have, he reached for the backpack and pulled out the leather-bound book.