The Book of Q (48 page)

Once again, he pulled the small device from his pocket and flipped open the screen. He pressed a button. Dial tone. Within half a ring, the line picked up.

“Have the dogs cleared?” Kleist asked.

“Eight minutes.”

“I want the chessmen on the board until we have confirmation.”

“Understood.”

“Hold them until the king retreats. They move as a unit. The king stays on the board until the rest are back in the box.”

“Understood.”

Kleist paused. “Double the coverage on the Campane. No access to anyone, passes included.”

“Understood.”

He cut the line. He’d been the one to dub their quarry the “chessmen”—bishops, cardinals, it made little difference. Pawns this afternoon. Keeping them in the Palace until after the Pope’s address was simply the best way to buy himself a little extra time. The men at the arch? A chance to dilute the crew inside the hospice still further.

The dean emerged. An almost eerie silence fell over the 100,000 bodies.

“We have a Pope!” A thunderous roar exploded, the dean holding his hands high in an attempt to quiet the crowd. Even the microphone had no chance, the introduction of the supreme Pontiff lost to the constant clamor: “His Holiness, Pope Lucius the Fourth.”

Had anyone asked, von Neurath had actually considered the far more obscure Zephyrinus for several weeks. Not so much for anything Zephyrinus had done, but for his timing. Pope in 216. The year a child had been born near the city of Seleucia-Ctesiphon on the Tigris, the capital of Persia. His name, Mani. The Paraclete. The hope of the one true and holy church.

In the end, Lucius had won out. Harbinger of the light. Far more appropriate.

Kleist watched through binoculars as the former Erich Cardinal von Neurath—clad in the white soutane and skullcap, emblems of his office—stepped out onto the balcony, his arms already in the classic
pose of pious authority. He swept the air in narrow circles as if he were somehow breathing in the scent of spirituality. The noise of the crowd managed to reach even greater decibels, waves of sound echoing throughout the colonnades, von Neurath already comfortable with his preening humility.

Kleist turned his attention to the arch. The two extra men had taken up their positions. Like all good Catholics, they were crossing themselves, waiting for their new Pope to begin the Apostolic Blessing.

Fourteen minutes, start to finish. That was what von Neurath had promised. After that, eight minutes for the cardinals to be led back to the Sanctae Marthae.

Kleist picked up the package and headed for the door. He was now on his own timetable. Four minutes to the hospice, twelve minutes to set the plastique, four minutes to return.

Which left him a two-minute grace period.

The Harbinger of the Light always liked to keep things as tight as possible.

“Where’s Salko?” Ivo said.

Once again, the seven-year-old was asking the most obvious question. And once again, Pearse was totally unprepared for it. Keeping his eyes on the road, he said, “Salko … is …”

“Staying in the village,” Petra cut in, pulling Ivo closer to her chest.

“What about the surprise?” he asked.

“What surprise?” she said.

“The one we’re going to play on him.”

Pearse heard the disappointment in his voice. “Actually, he—”

Before Pearse had finished, Ivo’s eyes lit up. “Oh!” he whispered. He turned to the glass partition and slid it back.

“Hello, Salko,” he shouted, straining against his mother so as to peer into the back of the van. “I know you’re back there.” He waited. “You thought you were going to get me because I thought I was surprising you.” He looked at Pearse, a big smile on his face. “You’re pretty good at this.” Before Pearse could answer, Ivo was back at the partition, howling away at the unseen Salko. “Hellooooo. I got you. You can come out now.”

Petra brought him back to her lap. “Sweetie, Salko isn’t there. I told you, he stayed in the village.”

Ivo broke free again, his head deep into the opening. “Come on. I know
you’re here.” When it slowly sank in, Ivo became very quiet. “Why? Why isn’t he here?” He sat back on Petra’s lap and looked across at Pearse. “You said we’d surprise him. You said he’d be here.” Pearse could hear the first hint of genuine sadness in the little voice. “Why isn’t he here?”

“He had to stay in the village to help his friends,” said Petra, holding him closer.

“But why didn’t he say good-bye?” The words were now choked.

“It all happened very quickly, sweetie,” Petra said. “He didn’t even say good-bye to me. I think he needed to help his friends right away.”

“Why?”

Petra looked over at Pearse. “I don’t know. Sometimes Salko has to help his friends, and sometimes he has to leave without telling us.”

“But he didn’t leave.” He lifted a hand to stem the first tears. “We did.”

“I know, sweet pea. I know.” She cupped his head to hers. “But we’ll see him soon.”

“I didn’t say good-bye.” His words were now muffled in his mother’s neck. “I didn’t say good-bye.”

She began to rock him.

Ten minutes of silence passed before Pearse spoke.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said.

Petra waited before answering. “Is he asleep?” she whispered.

Pearse glanced over at the little boy. The morning had obviously taken its toll. Pearse kept his voice low, as well. “Close enough.”

“Don’t ever use my son as a threat again,” she said.

The quiet severity of her tone stunned him. It took him a moment to respond. “What?”

“You said if I wanted to see him, I had to get in the car. Don’t ever do that again.”

Another few seconds to understand what she was saying. “No. I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” She let the words sink in before asking, “Now what’s going on? Why did we leave Salko back there?”

“It’s … complicated.”

“Try me.”

He waited. He had no idea how to make sense of the last twenty minutes; and as much as he wanted to trust Ivo, he had to make sure. “‘
Sic tibi manus meae intendeo,
’” he said.

“What?”

“‘Omnes fingi in gyro lucis.’”

“What are you saying? I told you, I’m no good with Latin. Stop it,” she demanded, her anger mounting.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No, and now you’re frightening me. Why did we leave Salko back there?”

He kept his eyes on the road. He was having trouble admitting it to himself. “Because he’s involved with this.”

“So are you,” her tone no less pointed then before.

“That’s not what I meant. He’s after the parchment. That’s why he showed up in Kukes.”

“A part of it?” The confusion momentarily softened her tone. “You’re telling me he’s a …” She couldn’t find the word.

“Manichaean,” Pearse said. “Yes.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Neither does Ivo being able to recite a seventeen-hundred-year-old prayer that very few people have ever even heard of. But he did.”

“Ivo?” Confusion turned to shock.

“‘So do I stretch out my two hands toward You, all to be formed in the orbit of light.’ In the Latin, ‘
Sic tibi manus
…’ He told me Salko taught it to him. It’s one of their secrets. He’s obviously very good at keeping them.”

Pearse knew exactly what she was feeling at that moment—disbelief, betrayal, an utter sense of helplessness. He knew because he was still feeling them himself.

“I can’t …” She continued to stare. “Ivo doesn’t … He barely knows any of the prayers at church.”

Pearse pointed to his pack by her feet. “Open it.”

“What?”

“Just open it.”

She hesitated, then reached across the sleeping child and picked up the pack.

“The little book with the rope tie,” he said. “It’s about fifteen pages in.”

She did as she was told. She flipped past Ribadeneyra’s brief history until she found the entries.

“There,” he said, quickly glancing over. “Try the fifth line, then the eleventh.”

She read. “I can’t believe Ivo knows this.”

“Then ask him. Wake him up.” Emerging from a series of back roads, they arrived at a deserted intersection, the first promise of paved surface.
A sign for the main highway peeked out from behind a tuft of trees. Pearse headed west.

Petra stared at the page, then back at Pearse.

“Ask him,” he repeated.

She continued to stare. When she realized he wasn’t going to relent, she very gently placed a hand on Ivo’s cheek, bending close into his ear.

“Ivi, sweetie,” she whispered. “If you sleep now, you won’t sleep tonight.”

The boy breathed in heavily, a slight turning of his neck.

“Come on, sweetie. You have to get up.”

Another long breath as two tired eyes blinked in Pearse’s direction, a tiny hand to rub them as the boy straightened up.

“Are we going home?” The nap had done little to improve his mood.

Petra looked at Pearse. “I don’t know, sweetie.”

Pearse didn’t have an answer, either.

Holding the book at her side, she did her best with the Latin: “‘
Sic tibi manus meae intendeo
…’”

Ivo immediately sat up in her lap, quickly turning to his mother. His look of surprise was almost comical. Just as quickly, he turned to Pearse. “You told her,” he said, disappointment now verging on anger.

“No, she’s reading it.”

Ivo flipped around, only now seeing the book in her hand. “Let me see.”

“Be careful, sweetie. It’s very old.”

“I know, I know. Salko told me.” Ivo waited for his mother to bring the book closer. He then looked back at Pearse. “That’s not the book.”

“Let him see the words,” said Pearse.

Ivo turned. Petra pointed to the lines in the text.

“What are all the other words?” he asked.

“They’re … other songs,” Pearse answered. “They—” Cutting himself short, he quickly glanced over at Ivo. “What book did Salko tell you was old?” he asked.

“The book with the songs,” Ivo answered.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to write them down.”

“That’s only ‘Perfect Light.’ I have a whole book of the other ones.”

A child’s first prayer. Part of a prayer book.
Of course
. Eyes on the road again, he asked, “Does Salko have that book?”

Ivo shook his head. “No. He gave it to me. When I turned six. Everyone gets one when they turn six. You know that.”

“Right.” A Manichaean primer for initiates. What else could be more obvious? “And you still have the book?” Pearse asked.

Ivo nodded.

“What are you talking about?” asked Petra.

“Where’s the book now?” Pearse said, ignoring her.

“At home,” Ivo answered.

Pearse started nodding to himself.

“What?” asked Petra.

“It’s how he made sure,” he said to himself.

“What are you talking about?”

“Ribadeneyra picked that prayer to make sure that the person who figured out his puzzle was one of them. A Manichaean. Who else would know the child’s prayer? Who else would—” He suddenly slammed on the breaks. All three lurched forward.

“What are you doing?” she screamed, one hand around Ivo, the other strong-arming the dashboard.

“There are lots of prayers in that book, aren’t there, Ivo?”

The little boy didn’t seemed bothered in the least by the sudden stop. “Prayers and pictures and puzzles.” He turned to Petra. “Salko says when I learn enough of them, I can start doing the puzzles.”

Now it was her turn simply to nod.

“It’s something in that book,” Pearse said. “Otherwise, why use the prayer? Something only a Manichaean would know to look for. Something to explain the other Ribadeneyra entries.”

Forgetting Salko for the moment—and everything else that had happened in that last half hour—Pearse jammed the car into gear.

They’d be expecting them in Visegrad. Not Rogatica.

He checked his watch. With any luck, they’d be there by midafternoon.

Peretti heard the explosion, then felt the tremor. His hand immediately went to the wall, one or two picture frames tipping over on themselves from atop his bureau, a painting on the wall losing its nail. A second explosion. Then a third.