The Third Revelation (46 page)

Zelda Lewis Faust insisted on sponsoring a reception after the ceremony and Laura could find no charitable way of refusing. Her brother John was flown in to say the nuptial Mass and witness the exchange of vows between Laura and Ray Sinclair. Nate Hannan gave away the bride, leading her down the aisle to the waiting groom. During the ceremony, Zelda wept audibly, a wife who had lost two husbands, at least one of them permanently, perhaps both. Nate Hannan had hired an investigator, a man named Wallenstein, who came with the highest of recommendations, to find Gabriel Faust. One of the objects of the quest was to restore Faust to the bosom of his wife.

From his hotel room overlooking the harbor at Pantelleria, Gabriel Faust watched a small craft fighting the current to gain entrance. After almost an hour it succeeded, slipping through the narrow opening into the calm waters within. It seemed a metaphor of his own situation.

But peace and security are cloying. After years of struggle, sailing in choppy waters, it was an equivocal blessing to be in port at last. He missed the excitement of uncertainty, he missed the pull of an unknown future. He missed Zelda.

Inactivity brought on unwelcome bouts of thinking, against which he had no defense. His new wealth, however question-ably acquired, existed in Zurich databases. The check he had gotten from Trepanier had gone swiftly into another account and now underwrote the only credit card he used. Barring the logical possibility of a general and absolute collapse of the Western economy, he had not a worry in the world.

There was little opportunity for dissolute living on Pantelleria. The women were either ugly, chaste, or married. There were no brothels. The bars closed at ten o'clock! He missed Zelda.

Without a worry in the world, he worried. Moth and rust might not consume, nor thief break in and steal, but all that money gave him only a fragile sense of security. Did it really matter that he was rich? Once, wealth would have meant mobility, at least. Now he did not dare venture from Pantelleria. No one would dream he was here. If only Zelda were with him.

He missed her inconsequential chatter. He missed her vacant, receptive smile when he talked to her. He missed her warm, plush body against his own.

And he missed an audience. He felt like a magician who had performed the ultimate trick—in darkness. To an empty theater. He longed to confide in someone what a coup he had brought off. Not just any ear would do, of course. Only Zelda's, really, would serve.

At night, after the hotel bar closed and he returned to his room and the solitary continuance of his drinking, he explored ways of bringing Zelda to this island. All of them involved unacceptable risks.

“Doctor Faust?”

The man who had sat beside Gabriel on the bench overlooking the slips in which boats bobbed rhythmically to the gentle movement of the water looked out on that nautical scene when he spoke. Gabriel did not recognize him.

“Have we met?” he asked.

“At last.”

Gabriel studied the man's profile, which looked like a fist. His hat, all wrong for this climate, was pushed back and sweat lay damp upon his brow.

“Wallenstein.” Still looking out at the harbor, he thrust a hand at Gabriel. Gabriel took it.

“American?”

“Whoever isn't wants to be nowadays. Of course you know why I'm here.”

“Tell me.”

“Ignatius Hannan.”

“Ah. What made you come here?” Faust asked with a sinking heart.

“Of all places? I had an interesting conversation with Miki Inagaki.”

Et tu, Brute?
But what, apart from a prosperous business relationship, friendship of a sort, and honor among thieves, did Inagaki owe him?

Wallenstein sighed. “Ah, the power of money. It can buy anything.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Ho ho, Doctor Faust, let me put a problem to you.”

Wallenstein's problem was, in effect, whose money he should take. He could of course, having located Gabriel Faust, bill Ignatius Hannan for having done so. On the other hand . . .

“I should think fifty-fifty would leave us both content,” Wallenstein said.

“You could take half my money and still turn me in.”

Wallenstein turned his sad, pouched eyes on Gabriel. “To what end?”

“To get Hannan's money as well as half of mine.”

Wallenstein's eyes seemed to go up and down like cherries in a slot machine. “That's true.”

Would he have thought of it if Gabriel had not mentioned it? The next day, after Gabriel had instructed the bank in Zurich, Wallenstein returned with the local constabulary. Gabriel was under arrest. He would be flown back to the United States to face his accuser.

In the Carmel of Philadelphia, a new member was being received into the community. For the occasion, she was adorned as a bride, all in white, with a bridal veil, advancing down the aisle to accept her mystical spouse. The bishop on his throne in the sanctuary awaited her. Off to the right, behind a grille, was the community the candidate soon would join.

Traeger sat in a back pew watching Heather Adams go up the aisle. She might have been walking away from him, like the ending of
The Third Man
. Nonsense, of course. There had never been anything between them. He tried to think of her as his sister, and almost succeeded.

The governments of France, Germany, Italy, and Spain brought a joint action suit against Fatima Now! The charge was inciting the violence that was only now subsiding in their countries. Ignatius Hannan asked his lawyers to represent the organization of the late Jean-Jacques Trepanier. In the event, the plain-tiffs were awarded a sum equal to the assets of Fatima Now! Even the buildings and land had to be sold.
Sic transit gloria mundi.
The judgment gave even Ignatius Hannan pause.

He had not been granted a private audience with the Holy Father, either at the Villa Stritch or after the pontiff returned to Vatican City. Later, thanks to an assist from Cardinal Piacere and the invocation of Kevin Flannery, S.J., John Burke intervening, Hannan was included in a group of fifty, each of whom received a rosary and a papal benediction. Hannan settled an enormous amount on the Pontifical Academy of Saint Thomas Aquinas.

“PASTA,” Father Burke said.

“I've eaten,” said Ignatius Hannan.

In the Hotel Columbus on the Via della Conciliazione, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Sinclair snuggled in a narrow bed.

“Returned to the scene of the crime,” Ray whispered in Laura's ear.

“It's no longer a crime.”

“It's better.”

In the Sala di Prenza, Ferdinand the Bull parried the weak thrusts of the representatives of the media credentialed to the Holy See.

“Ask a question,” Angela di Piperno urged Neal Admirari.

“What's the point?”

The recent unpleasantness that had wracked the cities of Europe and the Middle East, which had made Rome itself, including the Vatican City, a war zone, was dismissed as a mere bagatelle.

“Like the Reformation,” Neal grumbled.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Angela asked, when the charade was over.

“After I buy you one.”

They drove out to the rustic ristorante on the Via Cassia Antica.

“Our place,” Angela said, fluttering her lashes prettily.

Neal patted her hand. She was only a quarter of a century younger than he was.

“Do you ever see Donna Quando?” Angela asked, sipping a glass of white wine.

“Only by daylight.”

“Good.”

He touched the rim of his glass to hers.