Forbidden Sanctuary (27 page)

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.