The Psalter (18 page)

Romano spoke into the telephone, nodding to Pascal as he passed. The retired linguist microwaved a bowl of milk and added coffee. He sipped café-au-lait and nibbled on a crust of day-old baguette while the priest joined him in the kitchen’s dining nook. “I spoke to Isabelle. They’re releasing her this afternoon.”

“How is she? Was that her on the phone?”

“She says she’s fine and ready to get out. Evidently the food is insipid and no, I was speaking to Colonel Del Carlo. I talked to your daughter earlier.”

“Why did the Colonel call?”

“He didn’t. I called him. I’ve decided to go back to Rome, and I needed permission.
Capitaine
Desmoulins isn’t too happy since the murder investigation is ongoing, but Del Carlo appears to be running the show.”

“I was certain you were a fighter, and not just with your fists.”

“Nothing to be proud of.”

“It was handy last night,” Pascal said. “Where did you learn to box?”

“Father Mike, the priest who took me in. Before that, I was a punk who went for the soft spots—kidneys, throat, Glasgow kiss.”

“Glasgow kiss?”

“Head butt to the nose.”

“Sounds up close and angry.”

“That’s what Father Mike said: fight with your wits, not from the angry place.”

“When will you leave?”

“Tonight. I booked a late flight from Charles de Gaulle Airport. The Colonel’s making the arrangements.”

“Good. We can pick up Isabelle together.”

Romano looked a different man from the unshaven rumple of a priest who had arrived in the world’s fashion capitol only the day before. Pascal lent him a razor and while the priest soaked in the tub, the professor, who delighted in cooking and laundering for his daughter, ironed his black suit. He also hand washed the well-lived-in shirt and pressed it dry. When Romano emerged from the steaming bathroom, his clothes were draped from a hanger on the doorknob. He fairly gleamed as he appeared in the living room. “I scarcely recognized you, Father. You’re positively chic.”

“You’ve been very kind to me, Monsieur Héber. You and your daughter.”

“Nonsense, this is the best adventure I’ve ever had. The mind gets rusty with the routine of aging. A little excitement makes me feel young again.”

The priest shook his head, “Much more excitement and we’ll be carried to our graves.” They laughed out loud together.

Pascal led Romano to an underground garage a block from the apartment. He unlocked the doors of an antique blue Citroën DS. As he turned the key, the engine whirred to life and the car levitated on hydraulic shocks. He pulled on the shifter that extended from the dashboard, and maneuvered it into first gear. The old DS glided up the circular ramp. Turning onto a cobbled street, Pascal spoke while negotiating scooters and Smart Cars zipping by in nonexistent traffic lanes. “Father, you remind me of Jacob and the Angel.”

“Which one am I?”

“Cute. You’ve been wrestling against a power stronger than yourself all of your life and it’s maimed you, yet still you hang on. Isn’t it time to let go? You’ve paid far too much whether you owed anything or not. Time to fight
for
something instead of
against
.”

Romano pondered his censure by the modern Inquisition and their threats to end his career. What drove him to push on when he was ordered to stop? Mostly, he thought about his depraved punishments as a child. He caught the lump in his throat and swallowed.

“This is a 1969 Citroën,” Pascal said. “One of the few things I bought new. It was a marvel of engineering. Did you know if you get a flat tire, you can take off the wheel and drive on three until you find a garage? Rather like limping along until you can get back on track. When you turn the steering wheel, the headlights move in the direction you’re going. I’m surprised no one thought of it before. People prefer to look where they’ve been instead of where they’re going. Maybe they’re terrified to glimpse what’s ahead, but that’s how we avoid accidents, no?”

“I thought you were just a linguist. I didn’t realize you were a philosopher as well.”

“Philosophy? Rubbish. I was talking about the car.” One eyebrow arched and the corners of his mouth turned up.

Pascal pleaded with his stubborn daughter as the nurse pushed her wheel chair to the exit of the emergency room. “You should go home and rest,” he said. “You suffered a nasty concussion.”

Romano chimed in. “He’s right. Concussions are dangerous.”

Isabelle scowled. “So is starvation. Take me to the nearest bistro before I swoon.”

She had eaten the entire basket of sliced, crusty baguette and drained her goblet of table Bordeaux even before the
paté
appetizer arrived. “More bread, please,” she asked the waiter.

“She has a good appetite,” Romano said.

“My skinny daughter does everything with gusto, especially eat, although you can’t tell by looking at her.”

Isabelle was unapologetic as she turned her attention to the
paté
and cornichons. “Getting beat up takes a lot of energy.” The exotic archivist finished her
paté
,
plat du jour
, salad, and dessert before relaxing. Romano looked on, impressed at her ability to consume a vast quantity of food, while Pascal took pride in his lovely daughter’s sensual savoring of her meal. “Now a hot cup of tea, Papa, and I’ll be perfect,” she purred.

They ordered tea and sipped as the priest spoke with concern, “I wish you would ask
Capitaine
Desmoulins for protection.”

“We have nothing to fear, Father,” Isabelle answered before Pascal could cut in. “They took what they wanted and destroyed my ability to retrieve a copy. You’re the one in danger. Only you can get more copies of
Thomas
if they exist. Now that you know where to look, in the palimpsests of Giovanni, you can be sure they’ll be back. I think you’re making a mistake to return to Rome. You’re much safer here under the watchful eyes of the police. You’ll receive no such protection in the Vatican.”

“One would think that after getting beaten up together, you could call me Mike instead of Father, and don’t underestimate the Swiss Guard. They may wear funny uniforms, but they’re just for show. I assure you, they’re the match of any elite police in the world.”

“Father…Michael,” Isabelle took his hand. “No one doubts the Swiss Guard, but someone knew the Pope’s Secretary had the Psalter. They also knew you brought it to Paris and that you went to the National Archives. And they knew enough to convince poor Eugène to let them in. You must accept that somebody inside the Vatican is responsible.” Isabelle realized she held the priest’s hand and pulled hers back.

It was inconceivable to Romano that anyone in the Vatican might be involved. Priests were called to Rome for their faith, their skill, but most of all their fidelity to the church and His Holiness. Every one of the Swiss Guard was handpicked at a young age after painstaking background checks. There was the staff of course. Some were nuns, but even the lay employees were subjected to rigorous investigations. Nevertheless, Isabelle’s point rang true. Now, it seemed quite urgent to return home.

Pascal interrupted the priest’s reflection as he spoke to his daughter. “
Chérie
, Michael understands what he must do.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Romano said, “and you’ve received poor payment for your help. At least let me pay for lunch.” The priest pulled out his wallet to retrieve his credit card. “I think I should be going. I’ll just grab the Metro at the corner.” Romano started to say his goodbyes, but was stopped short.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Isabelle said with mock scorn. “We’ll take you to the airport. Won’t we Papa?”

Having already checked in at the Alitalia desk and now standing in front of the security checkpoint, the priest turned to say farewell to the two who had stood by him, even though it nearly cost their lives. He had come to feel closer to them after a few days than anyone he had met in all his years as a priest, except Father Mackey. Yet they didn’t even share his faith. He extended his hand to shake Pascal’s, but the old man pulled him close and kissed him on both cheeks. Isabelle likewise kissed him in the French manner, and when the priest started to turn away, she added an extra two. Romano blushed, not sure if four kisses was usual.

He was just about to thank them one last time when another voice addressed them all. “I thought I might find the three of you together.” Del Carlo’s words held a nuance of sarcasm. “I decided to take the same flight home. That way, the good priest and I can chat.”

Isabelle and her father said not a word to one another on the ride home, not on the autoroute nor the
périphérique
, the highway encircling Paris, nor through the narrow streets to their apartment. There was no need. They could almost read each other’s minds, though they were deep within their own private thoughts. The archivist knew she had to face the Director General, but she would claim Mike Romano was a professional colleague and she had been demonstrating their newest technology. He was now sort of a colleague. Anyway, Philippe was a tolerant boss.

The loss of the hard drive was another story. She would requisition a computer, but it would take time to receive and reinstall the IsyReaDeT software, and she was severely backlogged. “I’m exhausted,” Isabelle said to her father as he unlocked the door. “I think I’ll go to bed early.”

“I wish you would, you need rest,” Pascal said, kissing her and watching her walk down the hallway until she disappeared into her bedroom. He went to the salon and eased into the overstuffed green chair. Exhaling a long, tired sigh, his eyelids drooped, fluttered, and finally shut. He snored ever so softly as indistinct images crept into his sleep, swirling and vague, then becoming lucid.

The leaves in the woods were bright, multicolored hues of orange, yellow, and red. A brisk wind whipped across the treetops, blowing them to the ground. They were dry and crackled as he stepped on them. The wide path led through a forest of beech, oak, and poplar as the boy wrapped in a woolen coat walked, a spring in his step, toward the light from a clearing. The branches vibrated and the tree trunks passed faster and faster until they were an ashen and russet blur.

Pascal looked down at his feet. He walked normally, yet the forest flew past. As he approached the clearing, the trees on either side slowed and came into focus. Everything appeared normal. The woods gave way to a meadow of dry grass. A low-roofed brick house stood in the middle. The door was open and a familiar old man waved from the threshold, urging him forward.

The man had set brown cakes and tea at the end of a never-ending table in an ancient but cozy kitchen. The boy sat on the long bench as the bearded sage held the platter in front of him, smiling. He seemed to be saying something and Pascal leaned closer to listen, watching him mouth words but uttering no sound. Yet an image of letters began to form in his mind as though he viewed the words rather than heard them. Unshaped and out of focus, their outlines grew sharp and he made them out at last: וֹ הּ וֹ.

He jerked into wakefulness to find himself muttering letters from the Hebrew alphabet, “
vav hei vav
.” Shaking away the sleep, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number from memory. A receptionist answered, then passed the call to a secretary who placed him on hold for several minutes. Pascal was a patient man and the wait didn’t irritate him. He simply closed his eyes until a familiar voice on the other end said, “My dear friend. I wondered when you’d call. I hear you’ve had a bit of excitement in Paris.”

“Does nothing escape your ears?”

“I manage the largest network of spies in the world, so little escapes me. They saved you one day long ago.”

“I’ll never forget. Now I’m begging another favor.”

18
The Prefect

The nose of the Alitalia jet levitated and the fuselage floated off the runway. Romano settled into the wide leather seat. He had never flown first class. Closing his eyes he thought,
Del Carlo’s perks must include quite an expense account. The Secret Archives budget would never allow for such extravagance
. “You’re kind to pay for my ticket home. I usually take the train.”

“Not at all, Father. I thought of taking the train so I could put you under the bright lights for a good fifteen hours. But I don’t think my back would survive, and my wife insists I hurry home.” The colonel forced a laugh.

“Do you have any suspects?” Romano hoped to head off the questions he knew would come. “Or do you still think the Children of the Book are the culprits?”

“We don’t have a lot to go on. You gave a vague description of the two men who attacked you. Can you remember anything else?”

“It was dark and I only got a look one of them, but I can tell you about the size of his boot. I caught one in the groin.” It was now Romano’s turn to feign laughter. “I didn’t see the other one. I only heard his voice.”

“Hum…you said boot.”

“Yes.”

“Did he wear boots?”

“Painful ones.”

“What kind?”

“I’m not sure. I can tell you how they felt, but I don’t…wait a minute…” the priest said. “They were black.”

“How can you be certain if it was dark?”

“When we circled one another, I waited for him to strike. I used to do a bit of boxing.”

“So I’ve heard,” the colonel said.

“Well, I remember his silhouette, and his pants were definitely tucked into the tops, like military boots. The moonlight or streetlight made the toes shine. I can’t think of anyone who wears pink or blue. They might’ve been brown, but I’d bet they were black.”

Del Carlo put his hand to his chin. “If you saw his shape, how did he wear his hair?”

“Crew cut.”

“Perhaps he was bald,” the detective said.

“Nope, the top of his head was flat, not round like skinheads, but more…”

“Like a military haircut?”

“Yes.”

The colonel nodded as though he understood. “And the other one. You mentioned that he shouted something.”

“I don’t remember exactly. I think he said, ‘I’ve got them.’ I’m sorry, but when you’re getting kicked in the…”