The Book of Q (47 page)

Pearse shook his head. “No, I didn’t know him.”

“It makes me sad when I think of him.”

Very hesitantly, Pearse placed his hand on Ivo’s shoulder. The two sat for several minutes. Finally, Ivo stood up. “It’s just different,” he said, clutching the ball in his left hand. With the other, he reached out to the shrouded body, placing his hand on it, a little boy’s need to touch.

Pearse’s natural instinct was to say a prayer. He quietly stood and crossed himself. Probably best, though, not to say a paternoster with a Muslim holy man nearby, especially given the events surrounding the young man’s death. For some reason, the image of Ivo’s outstretched hand reminded Pearse of the five-line couplets, the Ribadeneyra verse never too far from his thoughts, even at a moment like this. Somehow, the prayer seemed strangely appropriate.

With his eyes on Ivo, and not quite knowing why, Pearse began to speak the Latin, words for a young man he had known only in final whispers: “‘So do I stretch out my two hands toward You, all to be formed in the orbit of light.’” Ivo turned back and smiled. He took Pearse’s hand, then looked again at the body.

Ivo began to sing the Latin: “‘When I am sent to the contest with darkness, knowing that You can assist me in sight.’”

Pearse stopped. Ivo stopped as well, again the smile as he looked up at Pearse.

“I know that song,” Ivo said. “Salko sings it with me. ‘The fragrance of life is always within me, O living water, O child of light….’”

Pearse stared down at the little face, his body suddenly numb. His mind frozen.

Éeema, Éeema, Ayo.

six

P
earse steadied himself, watching as Ivo sang. He heard nothing but a dull humming in his ears.

Ivo turned to him; the boy was saying something. Pearse tried to hear, even as the walls seemed to constrict, the air heavier with each breath. Still, Ivo stared up at him.

Pearse felt his hand press against the wall, the chill of the stone offering an instant of release. The tiny voice broke through: “… if you know it?”

Pearse drove his nails into the stone, the pain forcing air into his lungs. The walls began to retreat, another chance to hear the boy.

“Why don’t you sing if you know it?” Ivo repeated.

Pearse felt himself nod. The five-line entries. A child’s first prayer. So obvious.

From somewhere within the haze, he found the words. “‘The fragrance of life is always within me.’”

Ivo smiled and sang:

Pearse joined in: “‘Éeema, Éeema, Ayo.’”

Salko sings it with me.
Pearse crouched down, forcing himself to concentrate. “Salko taught you that song?”

Ivo nodded.

The confirmation was somehow more devastating than the initial shock.

“I know another one.” Ivo smiled. “Not as well. We sang it for Radisav. Salko says I have to learn it without a book. Do you want to hear it?”

There was nothing to do but nod.

Once more, the sweet soprano let forth: “‘It is from the perfect light, the true ascent that I am found….’” He hesitated. “‘That I am found …’”

“‘In those who seek me,’” Pearse continued, his own familiarity with the prayer a momentary diversion from his staggering disbelief.

“‘In those who seek me,’” Ivo repeated, nodding. “Right. You know it, too.”

Another nod.

“‘Acquainted with me, you come to yourselves,’” Ivo sang, “‘wrapped in the light to rise to the onions—’”

“‘Aeons,’” Pearse corrected, his head beginning to clear.

“‘Aeons,’” Ivo repeated. “That’s about all I know. What are aeons?”

“Emanations of the unknowable,” Pearse heard himself say, rote response from a mind not yet willing to confront what was standing in front of him. When he saw the look of confusion on Ivo’s face, he tried a smile. “I’m not really sure myself. So Mommy and Salko taught you those songs?”

Another look of confusion. “Mommy?” A quick smile, eyes wide. “They’re only for Salko and me. He says they’re our special secret. Did he teach them to you, too?”

Pearse had no response. There was too much racing through his head to process it all: Salko appearing out of the blue, handling the men at Kukes—no menace, no Vatican—the church bombings, the telephone call, the trace.

Pearse tried not to condemn himself for what now seemed such obvious stupidity.

But Salko, a part of this … and for how long? A picture of Slitna fixed in his mind. How could he accept that? How could he accept that Ivo …

He might have collapsed from the weight of the last half minute if not for Ivo staring at him, waiting for an answer. Another instant of brutality, this time dispensed at the hands of an innocent, Ivo’s gentle smile, his tiny hand clasped in Pearse’s. Songs, not prayers. Words, not ideology.

“Yes,” Pearse said. “Salko taught them to me, too.”

He had an overpowering desire to cradle Ivo, hold him to his chest, hide him from a threat he couldn’t possibly understand—its most tangible form wandering the village, looking for the boy.

Salko
.

Crippling as the thought was, Pearse knew he needed to move. He needed to get them out of here.

He squeezed Ivo’s hand, picked him up, and headed for the stairs.

Halfway down the steps, Pearse realized the
hohxa
hadn’t been at the table. In fact, he hadn’t been anywhere. The same held true downstairs. Pearse quickly moved across the room. Setting Ivo down, he slowly opened the front door and saw the empty road leading up to the village. Stepping back into the shadows, he knelt in front of the boy.

“So you never talked to Mommy about those songs?” he asked, peering into the little eyes.

Ivo’s smile disappeared—a look of pure concentration. “No,” he finally said. “Salko said I couldn’t.”

The boy’s expression was more than enough to convince. Pearse nodded, a wink. “Then I’m sure you didn’t.”

Ivo’s smile returned.

“So now the three of us have a secret,” Pearse said as he picked Ivo up again. He moved to the door and slowly opened it.

Just as he was about to step outside, Ivo placed a hand on his cheek. “I’m glad you know the songs,” he said.

Pearse stopped. For a moment, everything beyond them seemed to disappear. “Me, too.” He then moved out through the door.

Less than ten feet up the main road, however, he suddenly realized he couldn’t chance running into Salko with Ivo in tow. There’d be no way to keep them all from getting into the car and driving off—no way to separate themselves from Salko. And whatever else might have been running through his head, Pearse knew he had to view Salko as nothing more than an immediate threat. There would be time enough to try to understand the implications later on.

Making sure the road remained empty, he moved back to the side of the house and set Ivo down.

“How about a little adventure?” Pearse said.

Ivo’s eyes lit up.

“And how about we make this one into a game?”

No less excited, Ivo asked, “What kind of game?”

“One where we surprise Salko.”

“Salko!” The raw enthusiasm of a seven-year-old bubbled to the surface; Ivo’s little hands pulled up to his mouth to stifle the near explosion of laughter. “That’d be great.”

Again, Pearse winked. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Pearse knew the game was more for himself than for the boy. Leading on a UN guard, the man from the bus, or even the Austrian had been one thing. Salko knew him better than that. And, given his old friend’s apparent predilection for deception, Pearse also knew the Croat would sense something. Keeping his own focus on Ivo was Pearse’s only hope.

He took the boy’s hand and began to lead him down the hillside, behind the houses on the main road. Ivo skipped as he walked, every so often grabbing Pearse’s side when he began to lose his footing. They made their way through tiny gardens, a few clotheslines, one or two low stone walls, until they came to the back of a house Pearse guessed to be within striking distance of the van. He peeked around the corner. Close enough. No more than twenty yards from them, Petra stood by the van’s now-closed door, Salko at her side. The look on her face had grown to one of genuine panic.

He stepped back and crouched by Ivo. Any hint of anxiety quickly faded as he looked into the smiling eyes.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispered.

Again, Ivo’s hands drew up to his mouth, the anticipation almost too much.

“I’m going to go to the car and talk to Salko and Mommy. I want you to watch me. If you lie on your tummy and crawl to the corner of the wall, I think you can see the car.” Ivo dropped down and inched his way out. “Can you see the car from there?”

He looked back up at Pearse, giving him a big smile and a nod.

“Okay.” Pearse pulled him back, then looked directly into his eyes. “But you have to wait here until I give you the signal to come out.” He demonstrated with a big wave. “Only when you see me give the signal
can you come out.” He waited for Ivo to nod. “And then I want you to run as fast and as quietly as you can up to the car.”

Again, Ivo nodded. “Boy, will Salko be surprised!”

“No sound. Otherwise, he’ll know.”

“No sound.”

Pearse winked, waited for Ivo to take his position, then backtracked behind two of the houses—he couldn’t chance them catching sight of Ivo, no matter how remote the possibility. Just before heading up to the main road, he glanced back; he could still see Ivo, prone on the ground, wirelike limbs outstretched, waiting. Pearse slipped around the side of the house and started up the road. As he passed the house where he had left Ivo, every instinct told him to check on the boy, but he knew he couldn’t. Petra’s voice was a welcome relief.

“Salko didn’t find him, either,” she said as she moved out to him. “He—”

“I found him,” said Pearse, drawing up to the van. Before either of them could ask, he continued. “He’s in the holy man’s hut. For some reason, he wanted to see the boy who died yesterday.”

It was clear from Petra’s reaction that this wasn’t the first time Ivo had shown such a morbid interest.

“The problem is,” Pearse continued, “our friend from dinner last night wasn’t that eager to let me in with the body still there. Something to do with Catholic priests and Muslim corpses. I wasn’t going to argue with him. He said you should come and get him.” He nodded to Salko.

Petra started to go; Pearse quickly grabbed her arm. “He said Salko. He was pretty adamant about it.”

“Janos can get that way,” said Mendravic with a nod. “I’m sorry if he—”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Pearse, aware that he was having trouble looking Mendravic in the eye. Instead, he looked at the ground and nodded.

Salko squeezed his neck. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

He headed off down the road.

“You can let go of my arm now,” said Petra.

Pearse turned to watch Mendravic move past the houses.

“I said you can let go of my arm.”

When he was certain that Mendravic was out of earshot, Pearse released her, his eyes still on the retreating figure. “Get in the car,” he said under his breath.

“What?”

He turned to her. “Get in the car,” no kindness in his tone.

“Ian, what are you—”

“In thirty seconds, Ivo is going to come running out from behind that house. Get in the car.”

Petra tried to look past him to the house; Pearse took hold of her arm again. “Did you hear what I said?” The intensity in his stare was enough to hold her. “
Get
in the car.”

“What about Salko?”

“We’re not taking Salko. If you want Ivo, get in the car.” He paused. “You have to trust me.”

Whatever she saw in his eyes was enough to send her to the door on the passenger’s side. She opened it and sat.

Pearse turned back, to see Mendravic disappearing behind a curve in the road. He waited another five seconds, then turned and raised his hand high, waving it in a wide, sweeping motion. At once, the little figure of Ivo darted out from behind the house and began to race toward them, his tiny arms pumping away. Within seconds, he was in Pearse’s arms; another few, and he was on his mother’s lap. No time to explain. Pearse shut the door and moved around to the driver’s side.

He had just opened the door, when he looked back and saw Mendravic racing up the road, remarkable speed for a man his size. Only then did Pearse see the stooped figure of the
hohxa
twenty yards behind him.

The old man had found Mendravic, a warning from the Brotherhood, too late to stop them.

Pearse pulled the keys from his pocket and leapt into the front seat. Within seconds, he was grinding the car into gear, the sudden burst of movement drowning out the shouts from behind. A winded Mendravic appeared in the rearview mirror, the figure more and more distant, clear enough, though, to see a tiny phone being brought to his ear.

Visegrad
…
They’ll definitely be in Visegrad.

Salko’s prediction now all but a certainty.

White smoke.

The throng in St. Peter’s erupted, Kleist once more high above on his private perch. The spillover down the Via della Conciliazone reached almost to the river, over 100,000 bodies pressed against one another in anticipation of a single phrase:
“Habemus Papam!”
It would be several
minutes before the dean of the College of Cardinals would step out to the balcony, time enough for the masses to build themselves into a good lather. Kleist had to hope it was von Neurath who was waiting in the wings.