The Book of Q (44 page)

What quickly became clear was just how smart a little boy Ivo really was. Polite to the end, he showed no hesitation in making his points, less patience for anyone who treated him like a child. And always with something of Petra’s swagger in the way he handled his confrontations. In fact, more often than not, it was Petra herself who was on the receiving end.

“That’s not true, Mommy,” he said. “Why should we care about the Serbs when they don’t care about us?” There was always a hint of the parrot in what he said, little phrases that he’d heard from Salko or his mother—mangled just a bit—but always injected at just the right moment. It wasn’t necessarily what he said, but how he said it that allowed his cleverness to shine through. Even when Petra was on the defensive, Pearse sensed her absolute pleasure in Ivo’s little jabs.

“Well, maybe that’s why we should worry about them even more,” she answered.

Somewhere along the way, he’d busied himself with a wedge of bread, rolling pieces of it into tiny balls. Preoccupied or not, Ivo managed to keep up. “No, because Salko said that’s what they want. And we’d be giving them what they want, and we can’t do that.”

“Like what?” she pressed, the rest of the table watching as the little boy kept his eyes fixed on his handiwork, every once in a while a bread ball popping into his mouth.

“Like letting them know we’re afraid. And we aren’t.” Another piece into his mouth.

“Never let them know,” chimed in the raid leader with a smile. “Even if you are, just a little.”

Ivo looked at the man, hesitated, then nodded, a very earnest nod for a little boy. And just as quickly, he was back to the bread.

“Is he always like this?” the man asked, his smile wider still.

“No,” answered Petra. “Sometimes he can get pretty serious.”

The entire table erupted in laughter, Ivo continuing with his very intricate
bread work. When he realized that everyone was looking at him, he suddenly became embarrassed. Sensing the moment, Petra drew him in close, kissing the top of his head as he buried himself deep in her side.

“It’s just that they all think you’re as wonderful as I do, Ivi. Must be terribly hard having everyone think you’re so wonderful.”

That only made it worse. Except that perhaps Ivo was enjoying the attention more than he was letting on. And Pearse seemed to enjoy that just as much. The little showman, he thought. Why not? He was, after all, Petra’s boy.

Pearse wasn’t that surprised, then, when, an hour later, Ivo appeared at the door to his room, no less bold than at the table.

“Hello.”

Pearse looked up. He’d been alone on his bed with Ribadeneyra since dinner, the five-line entries no closer to unscrambling than when he’d started. He had managed to tease out some connection among the rest of the entries—even without the final piece to the puzzle—a pattern beginning to emerge, when the little voice broke through.

“Hello,” he answered, laying the pages on his pillow. Ivo remained by the door, his courage taking him only so far. “You can come in, if you want. I won’t bite.”

With a little nod, he pushed open the door, sized up the room, and slowly wandered in, not quite tall enough to see over the top of the chest of drawers. When he was satisfied, he turned to Pearse, one hand lazily running along the edge of the bed.

“Do you come from America?”

Pearse smiled. He’d expected a thousand other questions, not the one, though, most obvious to a seven-year-old boy. “Yup.”

“I knew it,” he said, as if having uncovered some great mystery. “I asked Mommy. She said I should ask you.”

Again, Petra was letting him in. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to merit it. “How’d you know?”

“The way you talk.” He started to roam again, his fingers lighting on the backpack. “What’s in here?”

“Nothing much.”

“Can I open it?”

“Sure.”

He watched as Ivo struggled with the zipper, a giddy anticipation of the unknown within. Or at least of something American. His disappointment
on unearthing nothing more than a change of clothes and a few odds and ends was equally intense.

“Sorry,” said Pearse. “No chocolate.”

Ivo snapped his head up, the look now one of astonishment.

“Isn’t that what you were looking for?” asked Pearse.

A coy smile crept across the boy’s face. “How’d you know that?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” Pearse smiled.

For a moment, it looked as if Ivo might not let it go at that. Then, just as quickly, he was on to his next topic. “Did you come from America last night?”

“Actually, I haven’t been to America for a couple of years.” Another flash of disappointment. “Have you ever been to America?”

The look now turned to one of utter disbelief, less to do with the possibility than with the fact that Pearse had even thought to ask. “No! I know only one person who’s been to America. Except for you.”

“Really?” Pearse knew where he was going, but couldn’t hold himself back. “Who?”

“My father.”

It was said with such confidence, such an affinity, as if he had just spoken with him before coming into the room. The connection so clear. Again, he had to thank Petra for that.

“And where does he live?” asked Pearse. A look of confusion etched across the young face. “America. Like you.”

Pearse nodded. Obviously, his geography had its limits. Not wanting to lose him entirely, Pearse reached under the papers and pulled out his baseball. “Here.” He tossed it to him.

Ivo caught it, no hesitation.

“Nice catch,” said Pearse.

“I’m pretty good.” He examined the ball very closely. “What kind of ball is this?”

“It’s a baseball,” said Pearse.

Ivo’s eyes lit up. “A baseball! From America?”

From Rome, but close enough. “I know you were hoping for chocolate, but—”

“No, no. This is great. Can I play with it?”

“You can keep it, if you want.”

If possible, Ivo’s eyes grew wider still. “You mean … it’s mine?”

“Well, I might ask you to play catch with me sometime.”

“You can play anytime you want.”

“Thanks. Maybe sometime you could go to America with me and see a game.”

It was almost too much for him. “America?” A hint of hesitation crept in. “And Mommy, too?”

“Of course. And don’t forget Salko.”

Before Pearse had finished, Ivo was running back to the door, shouting to his mother. Within a minute, he was back, pulling Petra by the arm. Once again, her expression was far from what Pearse expected: not strictly a glower, but as close as she dared with Ivo looking directly at her.

“And Salko, too,” he bubbled.

“Yes, I heard you, sweetie,” answered Petra as she stared at Pearse.

“That’s very nice of him.”

Pearse smiled. “I just said—”

“Yes, I’m sure you did.”

Pearse wasn’t sure, but he suspected this was part of a family dynamic he’d never had occasion to experience until now. Something reserved for mommies and daddies. Even on the short end of things, it was awfully nice, more so to see Petra struggling with it as well.

Not sure what protocol demanded, he fell back on the slow nod.

“You have to go to sleep,” she said to forestall any further discussion. At once, Ivo launched into the ancient bargaining ritual, all of it to no avail. As he mopingly made his way to the door, he turned to Pearse and, instead of a simple “Good night,” shot a finger at him and winked. It was enough to provoke a moment’s giggle before a quick dash out the door.

Laughing, Pearse asked, “What was that?”

“Mel Gibson did it in a movie. He thinks it’s how all Americans say good night.” She remained by the door.

“Isn’t Mel Gibson Australian?”

At last a smile. “Don’t tell him that.”

A silence settled on the room. He thought she might go; instead, she moved toward him.

“So, have you figured out where this book of yours is in Visegrad?” she asked pointing to the papers.

“No clue.”

“So you have no idea
where
it is, you don’t really know
what
it is, and you have no clue
who
was chasing after us.”

“Right. But aside from that, I’m really close.”

She laughed and sat down next to him. “Maybe another set of eyes would help.”

“Sure. How’s your Latin?”

“Oh,” again more playful, “not so good.”

“Then maybe I’ll have to stick with the pair I have.”

“They’ve always been a pretty nice pair.”

For several seconds, neither of them said a word.

“Was I just flirting with a priest?” she finally said.

“I don’t know. Question is, Was the priest just flirting with you?”

She was about to answer, when Mendravic stepped into the doorway.

“Ian, have you—Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” they answered in unison.

A bit perplexed, Mendravic answered, “All right … I won’t be. But if you two—”

“We don’t,” they said again as one.

“Okay,” he replied, still not sure what he had just walked in on, though happy enough to let it go. “Did you tell him?” he asked Petra.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I was just about to—”

“Ian, have you seen any of the papers?” Mendravic asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I have them right here. What’s this all about?”

“No, the newspapers, the ones they drove up from Novi-Pazar.”

“I didn’t know they had any. No. Why?”

“And the last time you saw a paper was …”

“I don’t know, five, six days ago. Why?”

“Petra pointed it out to me. Maybe you should take a look.”

Two minutes later, the three of them stood at the kitchen table, eight to ten major European papers waiting on top. The KLA might have been provincial in their worldview, but at least they were more sophisticated when it came to the news they read. Evidently, they wanted to see what kind of an impact they were having outside their own little universe.

“I hadn’t seen one in almost a week, either, until Petra showed me these,” Mendravic said as he began to sift through them. “So I can’t tell you how long these have been running.” He pointed to the lower right-hand corner of the nearest paper, the
Frankfurter Allgemeine
. A small box was set off from the columns, the look of an advertisement, except, for some odd reason, the language inside was English. Before Pearse could read, Mendravic pulled over several other papers—French, Italian, Greek—noting the identical box in each, and always the same language: English. Pearse read:

Every paper the same. Pearse turned to Mendravic. His phone was at the ready; Pearse took it and dialed. Both men angled their ears to the receiver and listened.

It picked up on the second ring. “
Pronto
.”

Pearse wasn’t sure what to say. The line remained silent. He looked at Mendravic. Finally, in English, Pearse answered, “I saw your ad.”

“Yes.” The accent was Italian.

“And I’m calling.”

“We’ve had many calls. I need a name.”

A number in a newspaper. People with nothing better to do than to dial it. Pearse understood. Realizing why the man needed his name, however, was hardly a rationale for giving it to him.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing that.”

“Then we can’t help you. We already know the name we’re looking for.”

True, he thought. Even so. “I’m still not comfortable.”

“As I said, then we can’t help you.”

Pearse waited. Another glance at Mendravic. The Croat shrugged. “Phôtinus,” Pearse said.

There was a pause on the line. “The monastery on Athos.”

“The Vault of the Paraclete.”

Another pause, this one far longer than the others. A decision was being made. “Father Pearse?”

He didn’t know whether to feel relief or anxiety. He was about to answer, when Mendravic suddenly pulled the phone from his ear and hung up.

“What are you doing?” Pearse asked, stunned.

“Do you realize how stupid we both are? I can’t believe I only thought of it now.”

“Thought of what?”

“Think, Ian. What’s the simplest way to find out exactly where you are?”

Pearse shook his head.

“A trace. They were keeping you on the line to pinpoint your location
Very easy to do, even with satellite hookups. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

“But they sounded as if they were trying to help.”

“I’m sure they did.”

Pearse stood there, not knowing what to think. Of course Salko was right, but then who would these people be?

The image of the four men from Kukes instantly fixed in his mind. Especially the one who had come after him, the look in his eyes just before Salko had attacked. No threat. No menace.

But if they knew about Athos, why go after him? Why not go after the Manichaeans directly? It didn’t make any sense.

“Do we need to get out of here?” he asked, unwilling, for the moment, to focus on anything but the immediate threat.

“I think we caught it in time,” Mendravic answered. “But I don’t know. We could go to Visegrad, if you want.”

“And sit there?” Pearse said, his mood souring. “I still have no idea where the ‘Hodoporia’ is.”

“The what?” asked Petra.

“The thing we’re looking for. The parchment.” The phone call had evidently taken more of a toll on him than he cared to admit. “I haven’t … gotten it. I haven’t broken the code. And I don’t know if I can. Look, there’s a woman in Rome—”

“All right,” said Mendravic, trying to keep Pearse from sinking deeper into frustration. “We stay here tonight. We go tomorrow. Maybe … I don’t know. I could take a look. You could show me how it works….”

“Oh, that would be good,” Petra piped in, also trying to lighten the mood. “I’m sure you’d be a lot of help.”

“I’m just suggesting—”

“He’s trying to move forward, Salko, not back.”

“Your confidence is overwhelming. I’m sure you—”

“I’ve already been dismissed,” she said. “I couldn’t pass the Latin test.”

“There’s a test?” he answered.

Listening to the two of them was enough to snap Pearse out of his funk. “I get it. You’ve made your point.”