The Book of Q (51 page)

A base from which to maintain the faith, even in the face of Cold War annihilation.

The only space that retained any link with the city above was the chapel, two stories high, squeezed in at the back of the complex: marble panels camouflaged the steel walls and floors; the flicker of chandeliers replaced the hum of fluorescent lights; paintings hung above the altar—Peretti recognized a Filippo Lippi—a gentle reminder of what they were here to protect; and, along the nave, twin rows of richly grained pews extended to the back wall.

All of them empty save for the nine shaken cardinals sitting alone in silent prayer.

Peretti glanced at the bent figures. They were, for the most part,
i vecchii,
“the old ones,” cardinals beyond eighty, who no longer voted in the conclave but whose spiritual presence remained essential. It was their age that had saved them, too slow to get back to the Sanctae Marthae in time for the explosions. Little consolation in that. The oldest was Virgilio Cardinal Dezza, long ago Archbishop of Ferrara, a tiny rail of a man with a full head of white hair. Peretti had talked with him just this morning, nothing about the vote (of course), but about the beauty of the Sistine. Dezza had admitted he had always had a certain soft spot for the pagan sibyls on the ceiling—a thought that perhaps Michelangelo had painted them with a little more care, just to get a jab in at old Julius II. It had made him laugh; Peretti had laughed, as well.

Now, Dezza seemed a broken man.

Peretti dipped his fingers in the holy water, crossed himself, and knelt in the aisle. He then made his way to Dezza’s side. The old man’s eyes were closed. Peretti closed his as well and began to pray.

When he opened them, Dezza was looking up at him, a pained smile on his lips.

“Peretti.” He placed a hand on his knee. “You weren’t …” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. “Thanks be to God. It’s a terrible thing. Terrible.”

Peretti nodded.

“And the rest of it,” the old man continued. “Is it a sign? Hail and fire, mixed with blood, falling to the earth. Is He coming?” 

Dezza had reached that point in life where tragedy could be understood only as omen. Not unusual for men so long devoted to the church. “Terrorists, Eminence,” Peretti said. He had known Dezza for too many years—first as bishop, then as cardinal—not to call him by anything but his title. “They were bound to find their way into the Vatican at some point.”

The old man looked at him. “But it isn’t just here, Giacomo. It isn’t just the Vatican, is it?”

Peretti wasn’t sure what to make of the expression—a genuine terror or a hint of senility—peering up at him. “The church is strong,” he said. “There are others who will take their places.”

Confusion crossed the old man’s face. “Take their places?” he said. “Even if they’re rebuilt, who will have the courage to step inside one?”

Peretti stared at him for several seconds. “What are you talking about, Eminence?”

“The churches, Giacomo. The churches.”

“What churches?”

“The ones they destroyed,” he said. “Hundreds of them.”

Again, Peretti stared at the old man. “What are you talking about?”

“In the room with the screens,” Dezza said. “It’s all in the room with the screens. The church in flames. Hail and fire, mixed with blood. Hail and fire.” His focus was back on the altar, his hands clasped in prayer. He closed his eyes, the conversation all but forgotten.

Peretti stood, a quick devotion, then back into the maze of corridors that made up the
Gabbia
. Three minutes later, he found his way into “the room with the screens.” Thirty or so televisions filled the far wall, each one tuned to a different channel. The pictures were all too similar. Destruction on a massive scale. Stepping farther into the room, he saw von Neurath sitting on a sofa, a group of young priests in chairs around him, each one either jotting furiously on a pad or talking on the phone. It was clear who was dictating their every move. Every so often, von Neurath looked up to catch a report on one of the news programs. Otherwise, his energy remained focused on his entourage. It was during one of his quick glances up that he noticed Peretti in the corner.

He turned to him at once.

“Cardinal Peretti,” he said. “They told me you were safe. Thank God you’re alive.”

Peretti remained by the door. “Yes, Holiness.”

“A terrible tragedy, Giacomo. You and I were very lucky.”

When he spoke, Peretti’s words carried no emotion. “Then there must be a reason why He spared us, Holiness.”

The two men continued to stare at each other. “Yes,” von Neurath said finally. “There must.” He turned to the screens. “And then this,” he said. “It’s all quite unbelievable.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“I thought we had enough trouble with the bank,” von Neurath added, passing a few notes to one of his lackeys. “But I see I was wrong.”

“Trouble at the bank?” Peretti asked, his tone more confirmation than surprise.

“You haven’t heard?” Von Neurath looked up, waiting for a response. When Peretti shook his head, he continued. “Not surprising. I found out myself less than an hour ago.” He turned again to the notes. “It looks as if one of our analysts has placed the bank in a rather precarious position with a group of Syrian investors. It’s Ambrosiano all over again, except this time there’s talk of terrorist funding. I’m not really sure of the details.”

“Remarkable timing, Holiness.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. And they say all of this might be only the beginning.”

“They, Holiness?”

Again von Neurath stopped and turned to Peretti. Pointing to the screens, he said, “They, my son. A thousand churches bombed, every continent, every denomination.”

It was the last word that struck him. “Denomination?” Peretti asked.

“It’s the Protestants as well, Giacomo. And the Greeks and the Russians.” He began to scribble something on a pad. “It seems as if it’s an all-out war on Christianity.”

Peretti waited before responding. “Do they say from where, Holiness?”

“An old enemy,” von Neurath replied, handing a sheet to the man seated across from him. “From the East. Given this new wave of fundamentalism, I suppose it was bound to happen at some point.”

“I see.” Peretti stared up at the screens. It was more than just destruction he saw. Groups had already begun to rally, outraged men and women waiting to unleash their venom, not a pastor or priest in sight to calm them. Blood lust left to run wild. He turned to von Neurath. “Then we must do what we can to ensure that our church remains strong, Holiness.”

Again, von Neurath looked over at him. “Yes. We must.” 

An explosion on one of the screens drew the attention of everyone in the room. Peretti took it as his cue to leave.

He let himself stand in the corridor for a moment, the enormity of what he had just seen and heard quickly relegated to the back of his mind.
An all-out war on Christianity
. Orchestrated from within the Vatican? If so, it meant that the last place he should be was inside its walls. Peretti headed for the entrance.

A pair of guards stood silently by the door, a third at a desk, all three with guns at the ready. Peretti approached the man at the desk. The guard recognized him at once and stood.

“Is something wrong, Eminence?”

Peretti shook his head quickly. “No, but I need to leave the
Gabbia
for a few minutes.”

“That’s not possible, Eminence. It’s still not safe.”

“Then when will it be safe?”

The question seemed to fluster the man momentarily. “I … would imagine once the City has been secured, Eminence.”

“And how long do we think that will take?”

Again, the guard had no answer.

Before he could respond, Peretti continued. “Because if it’s later than tonight’s first Mass, then we have a problem. His Holiness has asked me to retrieve a certain book from the library. For the Investiture of Office.” Peretti was making it up as he went. Von Neurath had become Pope the moment he’d answered the cardinal dean’s question, “Volo aut nolo?” with a resounding “Yes.” That he’d have to wait a few days to have the woollen pallium bestowed on him made no difference whatsoever. Chances were, though, that a young Vatican guard knew none of that. “His Holiness must be ordained as quickly as possible, especially given the situation. It’s a simple task, but we will need that book.”

“Of course. I can send one of my men—”

“Will he know where to find the
Ritus Inaugurationis Feudalis Praedicationis
?” Not that there was an actual Investiture Proclamation lying around the library—not that such a proclamation even existed—but it sounded reasonable enough.

“Well … if someone tells him where it is.”

“That wouldn’t make any difference. It can’t be handled by anyone but a cardinal. Am I now making myself clear?”

“No. I mean, yes, of course, Eminence.” The man glanced at the two other guards. Both stared straight ahead. No help there. He looked back at Peretti. “You mean he isn’t Pope yet?”

Peretti waited, then responded. “I can stand here and have this conversation with you for as long as you like. But at some point, you’re going to have to open that door and let me get the
Ritus
.”

“But His Holiness—I mean His Eminence …” The guard leaned over the table; in a whisper, he said, “Cardinal von Neurath said that no one was to leave. He gave an express order.”

Peretti leaned in, as well. “Well, until he’s Pope, that order carries no more weight than my own, now does it?”

The guard needed a moment for that one. With a newfound resilience, he walked to the door, punched a few numbers into a keypad, and watched as the air lock released. “You,” he said to the man nearest him. “Go with His Eminence. Gun cocked at all times. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The guard turned back to Peretti. “And if you could, Eminence, come back as quickly as possible.”

“Of course,” said Peretti. “I want to keep myself as safe as I can.”

The bookshop had all the tourist trappings: picture books on the bridge, postcards, even a few coffee mugs. Ivo had been particularly interested in a scale model of the bridge, the dust on the box saying more about the region’s recent history than any number of news stories could have. The man at the cash register had virtually beamed at the sight of the three of them perusing the stacks, less enthusiastic when Petra had pulled a map from one of the shelves and moved them to the back of the store. No need to be by the windows. Not that she expected Salko’s friends to be prowling the outskirts of town—less so a bookstore—but she’d done too much to make their arrival as inconspicuous as possible to jeopardize those efforts now.

They had stopped in Ustipraca—a town halfway between Rogatica and Visegrad—Petra friendly enough with the shopkeepers to rummage for something a little more provincial: long skirt and kerchief for her, coat, brimless cap, and a new pair of boots for him, along with a bundle of cloth put together to look like an infant in her arms. Three became four with a small blanket and a few pages of newspaper crumpled up
inside. Most bizarre was her insistence that Ivo don a girl’s long skirt and kerchief of his own. He’d giggled his way through it all, Pearse thinking it a bit much, until he’d looked at all of them in a mirror. By then, she’d applied some stipple from a child’s makeup kit to his face, five days’ growth of beard to add to the image of the nondescript Bosnian family. Pearse had had trouble recognizing them himself.

Now, gazing at a map of the town, and acutely aware of the few other customers in the shop, he was grateful for the camouflage.

“There,” whispered Petra, pointing to a spot on the map. “The old inn would have been there.”

Pearse pulled a sheet from his jacket and placed it above the map. Tracing the inn, bridge, and hills, he marked an X for Mani’s location in the original triangle. He then peeled the page back.

“That can’t be right,” he said as he stared down at the area.

“That’s where the inn—”

“It puts him in the middle of the river,” he said, trying it again so as to make sure he hadn’t miscalculated.

“Let me see,” she said, taking the map.

Pulling the tracing away, Pearse pinpointed the three landmarks. “There, there, and there,” he said. “Which puts Mani there,” he added, his finger in the middle of the Drina.

“That can’t be right.”

“I just said that.”

Her eyes still on the page, she asked, “Which are your three landmarks?”

Trying not to show his frustration, he said, “The bridge, the hills, and your inn, which obviously wasn’t where you thought it was.”

When she looked up, the expression on her face only served to annoy him further.

“What?” he said.

“I’ll give you the inn and the hills, but you’ve got the wrong bridge.”

“What?”

“1521, Ian. The great bridge wasn’t built until fifty years later. Remember the song?”

Pearse didn’t answer.

“It’s the bridge over the Rzav River, not the Drina,” she said. “That’s the one your Manichaean was referring to.” She placed her finger on the map. “The Rzav is the other river in town, which happens to be there.”