The Book of Q (56 page)

He looked over at her, momentarily at a loss. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Don’t you?” She waited. “The churches. The Vatican. You put our money to quick use, didn’t you, Colonel? And here I thought we were talking rhetoric, not mass hysteria. Evidently, I was meant to take the term
holy war
literally.”

A slight squinting of his eyes. “That’s not the way I work, Contessa.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “I won’t say it hasn’t helped things enormously. Hysteria does have a way of rallying the troops. But I won’t take credit for something I haven’t done. I assumed that was your people.”

Not convinced, she said, “And who exactly do you think my people are? Or did Mr. Kleist fail to bring you up to speed on that?”

Again, he waited before answering. “I’m now wondering if I should be asking you that same question.” She said nothing. “I have connections, Contessa, but even I couldn’t organize what’s taken place over the last twelve hours in a matter of days. Something like that takes weeks, if not months, to plan. I can’t say it fills me with confidence to hear that you’re not quite clear on who orchestrated the attacks.” Another pause. “Or perhaps you are, but aren’t willing to admit it just yet?” He placed the glass on the bar. “Either way, I need to get down there.” He moved to the door, then turned. “I suggest you make a few phone calls before all of this gets under way. Oh, and give my best to the cardinal. And my congratulations. Tell him I appreciate everything he’s done.” A single nod of the head, and Harris was gone.

She sat staring after him. She had come to rein him in, make sure he understood his role. What else had the bomb in Rome been but a message, a colonel’s way of reminding them that he knew exactly who, and where, they were? The rest of the churches, she could almost understand, the first seeds of his holy war, misguided or not. Evidently, that wasn’t the case at all.

More troubling was his none-too-subtle reference to Erich. Obviously, Harris hadn’t appeared on Kleist’s suggestion alone, as she had been led to believe.

The crowd roared. She stood and moved to the window. Harris was emerging from one of the runways, bodyguards in clear view. She
watched as he made his way toward an enormous structure rising forty feet off the ground at the far end of the field. Two huge screens stood on either side of the raised oval, his entrance beamed out larger than life. A single cameraman led the pack, backing his way up the ramp so as to capture Harris up close. Music blared, grating yet inspirational. Harris waved to the throng. It was clear he’d picked up a good deal from his time in America. The whole thing had that National Convention feel to it. When he finally reached the podium at the center, his entourage fell back, only the cameraman down on one knee to continue the feed. For the contessa, there was something strangely familiar to the man, even from the back, the way he moved, the way his shoulders nestled into the camera. She picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.

Nearly half a minute of wild adulation passed before Harris spoke, the contessa continuing to scrutinize the cameraman.

Harris raised his hand: “My friends—”

He never had a chance to finish. Adulation turned to screams as four cracks erupted over the loudspeakers, the sight of the cameraman racing at Harris, gun in hand, blood everywhere. It was then that she saw it. The hair and skin color were darker, the facial hair, the contours of the face more acute, but it was him, his face screaming wildly, his eyes beyond madness.

Stefan.

An instant later, the bodyguards let loose, the barrage sending Kleist over the platform’s edge. He fell, somehow in slow motion for her, his body arching gracefully until it crashed down onto the field below.

The contessa stared in disbelief. A single phrase fixed in her mind:
There’s very little I’d put past Erich now.

Maybe it was time for her to accept that, as well.

“No, take a left there.” Pearse leaned forward in the cab and pointed across the piazza.

“No, no, signore,” said the cabbie. “Avigonesi is on the right.”

“I know. Just take the left.”

With a shrug, the man did as he was told.

Pearse had taken the cab from the airport, his flight and arrival uneventful as far as the Manichaeans were concerned. His sudden change of plans, though, had everything to do with the scroll. He wasn’t going to chance holding on to it for too much longer. Should anything
happen, it remained his only bargaining chip. Best to keep it safe. Plus, there was no reason to put Blaney at more risk than necessary.

“Here,” said Pearse.

The driver pulled up along the cobbled piazza; Pearse got out. Three minutes later, he was making his way up the short flight of stairs to the office of the church of San Bernardo. He knocked on the door.

It was half a minute before he heard the sound of shuffling feet. The door opened, revealing the wizened priest, his eyes puffy from sleep, though no less enormous behind the thick glasses.

“Yes. Hello. Can I help you?”

“I was here last week.” No sign from the old man that Pearse was registering. “The priest … who fell asleep on—”

“Ah, yes.” A long, slow nod. “From Albuquerque.” Before Pearse could correct him, he said, “No, no, from …” He thought for a moment. “No collar. Of course. Come in, come in.”

Pearse stepped through. He waited until the priest had taken his seat behind the desk before pulling up one of the other chairs. He sat.

“Father, I need your help….”

Twenty minutes later, Pearse was at the front door of 31 Via Avigonesi. Gianetta answered and ushered him in, her hair, as ever, pulled back in a tight bun. At no more than five feet tall, and with a paper-thin figure beneath a dour black sweater and skirt, she needed a bit of effort to pull the thick oaken door closed behind him. She then led him across the foyer, stopping in front of what Pearse recalled as the door to the library. Equally imposing, it was situated at the foot of a narrow set of stairs leading up to the second floor. She knocked once.

A moment later, Pearse heard the familiar voice.
“Sì?”

“Padre Pearse, Padre.”
Not waiting for an answer, she smiled and headed back to the kitchen.

From behind the door, Blaney bellowed. “Ian. Come in. Come in.”

Pearse opened the door and stepped inside. Blaney was seated by the empty fireplace, looking far older than when they’d last seen each other. Pearse guessed it was almost a year now.

“Hello, Ian. Hello. Please, come in.”

The large study was exactly as he remembered it—a college reading room replete with thick-stuffed maroon leather chairs and sofas amid
wall-to-wall bookshelves. Blaney stood as Pearse drew toward him. The two men embraced.

“It’s good to see you, John J.” They sat.

“You look tired, Ian.”

Pearse smiled. “I’m fine, mom.”

“Just concerned, that’s all. But since you bring it up, how are they, mother and dad?”

“The same. I think they’re out on the Cape. End of summer. You were at the house once.”

“That’s right. I remember a very cold midnight swim. Less refreshing than advertised.”

“Family tradition.”

“Yes,” Blaney said. “So … you know I’m always delighted to see you, but your message … it didn’t sound like this was going to be a social visit. What’s wrong?”

“Actually, I’d love a glass of water.”

“I’m sorry. Of course.” Blaney pressed a button on the intercom next to him.
“Gianetta. Puoi portarmi dell’ acqua e forse un po’ di frutta? Grazie.”
He didn’t wait for a response. “They insisted I get this thing a few months ago. They’re very keen to make me feel as old as they can.”

“You look fine,” said Pearse.

“No, I don’t, and neither do you.” A look of playful concern crossed his eyes. “It’s not Ambrose, again, is it? You’re not in the midst of one of those binges without sleep? It’s not healthy, Ian.” Father as father. Pearse had gotten used to Blaney’s paternal instincts a long time ago. “You need to take a vacation once in a while. Lie on a beach. That sort of thing.”

“A few midnight swims?” Pearse was about to continue, when Gianetta appeared at the door.

“Eccellente,”
said Blaney, indicating the table between the two men.
“Va bene di là. Grazie.”

“Sì, Padre.”
She moved across the room, placed the tray on the table, and quickly poured out two glasses. She then retreated to the door.

Waiting until they were alone, Pearse inched out on his seat, taking a glass as he spoke. “I’ve found Q.”

Blaney was retrieving the other glass. He sat back and took a sip. “Q?”

“‘Quelle.’
The Synoptic Problem. I’ve found the scroll.” It took Blaney a moment to respond. “That’s … remarkable. Where?”

“‘How?’ might be a better question. Or ‘Why?’”

“You’re sure it’s Q?”

Pearse nodded as he drank.

“And it’s a collection of Jesus’ sayings?”

Pearse thought he heard the slightest hint of disappointment in Blaney’s tone. “Yes. But in a context you won’t believe. It’s the lost years, John. Jesus from twelve to thirty.”

“‘Jesus from …’ Remarkable,” he repeated.

“And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. It turns out that the ‘Beloved Disciple’ was actually a Cynic teacher who wandered with Him. There are nonparable conversations with Jesus, transcriptions of early sermons He gave, a recounting of the two years He spent in Jaipur with a group of Buddhist monks. The Eastern and Cynic influences are unmistakable.”

“Cynic? You mean the teachings are …” Blaney had to think for a moment. “You’re not telling me we’re in danger of having to rethink the entire tradition, are you?”

“No. That’s what’s extraordinary. Q gives us the same Jesus, the same faith we’ve always known, except maybe with a little expansion here and there. It’s the way we’ll look at the
church
that’s going to change.”

“The church?” Blaney’s enthusiasm seemed to return. “You think it might cause problems.”

Pearse sat back. “I don’t know. That’s where it gets tricky. There are things in Q, things that could rock the foundations as we know them.”

“So there
is
something dangerous.”

“Yes, but it’s not the real threat. That’s not why I came to you.” Again, he leaned forward. “Your connections at the Vatican are still—”

“Can I see it?” Blaney interrupted. He slowly placed his glass on the table.

“Q isn’t the problem, John. Trust me. You might find this hard to believe, but there’s a group of—”

“Still, I’d like to see it.”

Pearse hesitated, momentarily uneasy with Blaney’s insistence. “I don’t have it with me,” he said.

Now Blaney paused. “Why not?”

“It wouldn’t have been safe. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Where is it, Ian?”

“You don’t have to worry about the scroll, John.”

“The ‘Hagia Hodoporia.’” Blaney paused again. “Where is it, Ian?”

The two men stared at each other. For nearly half a minute, Pearse couldn’t move. Then, slowly, he sat back in his chair.

“I was hoping you’d just bring it to me,” said Blaney.

Pearse continued to stare.

“Not that you had too many other options, I imagine.” He waited for a response. When none came, he reached again for his glass. “Q. That’s a bit of a surprise. Although I suppose it does make sense.” He took a sip.

Another long silence. Finally, Pearse spoke. “How long?” No anger, no accusation. “Slitna? Chicago?”

Blaney held the glass in his lap. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“How long?” repeated Pearse. “I’d like to know when I stopped making decisions for myself.”

“Don’t get dramatic, Ian. You’ve always made your own decisions.”

“All that talk about the ‘purity of the Word,’ ‘faith untethered.’ Only you weren’t talking about my faith, were you?”

“Faith in the Word is faith in the Word. It ultimately amounts to the same thing. Now, where is it?”

“When?” Pearse asked again, still no sign of emotion.

“That doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Pearse didn’t answer. The two men sat in silence.

“All right,” Blaney finally said. “About … a year and a half ago. When we found the last of the ‘Perfect Light’ packets. When I knew we were getting close.”