get
“I do what I can,” said Blaney. The phone rang; he picked up. “Yes. … I see. When? … No, that won’t be necessary. … All right. Keep me informed.” He replaced the receiver.
“Well?” the cardinal asked.
Blaney looked up; it took him a moment to focus on von Neurath. “What? Oh. No, that wasn’t about His Holiness. We have a bit of a problem. The priest at San Clemente has disappeared.”
“I thought Kleist was taking care of that?”
“As you said, I’m not very good with the mundane, but obviously he hasn’t.”
“And the monk?”
“I can take care of that. The priest should be Herr Kleist’s focus now.”
“Agreed.” Von Neurath waited before continuing. “Do we know he has the scroll?” Blaney remained silent. “Do we know if he even understands what it is?” Again, no answer. Von Neurath stared out into the lights. “Then we do have a problem.”
Pearse felt a tap on his shoulder, his first sensation a grinding stiffness in his neck. For several seconds, he had no idea where he was, his eyes as yet unwilling to open to more than slits. He lay on his side, legs drawn to his chest, hands wedged between cheek and the hard wooden surface below. Trying to sit up, he nearly toppled from his perch. He placed a hand on the bench in front of him to steady himself. As his eyes strained against sleep, he noticed the church had grown brighter, a hint of sun peeking through the opening at the apex of the dome. Streaks of light cascaded across the top third of the walls. The saints, however, remained in dusky gray.
Pearse turned to see a priest standing over his shoulder, a man easily in his late seventies, thick black- rimmed glasses covering most of his face. His eyes refracted to enormous proportions through the lenses, giant brown balls filling the weighted glass. Still, there was a pleasantness to the face, thin lips drawn up in an expression of concern and understanding. When he noticed Pearse’s clothes, his eyes seemed to grow even larger behind the frames.
“Oh,” he continued in Italian, “I didn’t realize you were a priest.” The revelation, however, granted only a momentary reprieve, the slow realization that a priest had been lying asleep in his church even more troubling. He didn’t seem to know how to respond. “Were you … in prayer, Father?” An odd question, but the best he could do.
“I … Yes. I came in to pray,” answered Pearse. “I didn’t mean to …” For some reason, his hand rose to his neck.
Again, the old priest appeared to be at a loss, the gentle face etched with confusion. A priest asleep, with no collar. How could one explain that? “I have some extra ones,” he nodded, eager to move beyond his misgivings, or at least to distance himself from them; he started toward a set of stairs at the far end of the altar.
Pearse looked around; the church was empty. “Do you know what time it is, Father?” he asked.
“Just after five,” the old man answered without turning around. “When I always come in.” A wavering hand appeared, pointing to the top of the steps. “It’s just up there. The collar.” Pearse stood and followed, his legs tight from the cramped position of a lengthy nap.
The office was austerity itself, two straight-backed wooden chairs, no cushions, each standing guard before an equally uninviting desk, another chair stationed behind, all of them under the watchful gaze of a crucifix holding firm against the decay of crumbling walls. The domed ceiling of the small enclosure rose to perhaps eight feet at its height, the room clearly an afterthought, as if the space had been grudgingly ceded by a miserly sanctuary. The old priest shuffled to the desk, opened one of its drawers, and pulled out a new collar. “I always seem to forget if I have enough. Whenever I pass by Gammarelli’s, I think I should stop and get one.” Pearse nodded, recalling the
“Thank you.”
“You’re not Italian,” said the priest.
“No. American.”
“You have no place to stay?” he asked, continuing before Pearse could answer. “We once had a father from Albuquerque,” the pronunciation thoroughly mangled. “He said he had lost all of his baggage, his papers. He had no collar, either. We gave him a hot meal.”
“Albuquerque. Really?” Pearse smoothed out the collar, at the same time rubbing the cramp from his neck. “Actually, I have rooms at the-” He cut himself short. “Not far from here.” He smiled. “I come from Boston … a small parish.” He had no idea what had provoked the impromptu confession, but it seemed to have the desired effect. The man listened intently. “I came in to pray early this morning. I must have been more tired than I realized.”
“Of course.” A sudden gleam filled the old man’s eyes. “Would you like to take the Mass?” he asked, an eagerness in his voice, eyes wider still.
Pearse began to shake his head, then stopped. Why else had he come in? When else would he have the opportunity? Given the last twelve hours, he had no idea what to expect beyond the doors of the church. If last night had been any indication-save for a momentary flash of distant resolve-certainly nothing of the familiar. He needed to reclaim something of his own. Something to take away with him. “Yes.” He nodded, moving toward the old man. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“I thought you might.” The priest reached into a second drawer and pulled out all the necessary accoutrements-linens, chalice, wine, wafers. He moved slowly but with great care, the tarnished silver and weathered pieces of linen reclaiming a lost splendor in his hands. Setting them on the desk, he then turned to the small closet by the door and removed an equally ancient alb, then a lace stole, the cincture hanging on a hook at the side. Pearse moved toward him and helped him into the vestments, a bit of smoothing necessary on the wrinkled fabric; together, they retrieved the items on the desk and headed back to the sanctuary, taking labored steps, Pearse more and more relaxed in the old man’s presence. The priest said nothing as he draped the corporal across the altar table, Pearse waiting until he had cast it just so before carefully setting down the pieces he had brought himself, all in neat order. A look of genuine delight rose on the old man’s face as he turned to pour a healthy swig of wine into the chalice, a few drops of water.
“I prefer the Latin,” he said. “When I’m alone. Old habits. I hope that’s all right with you.”
Pearse nodded, ever more at ease.
“Good.” The old priest smiled. Then, with a long breath-a moment of quiet thought-he began to chant, eyes somehow smaller behind the frames, concentrated, his body swaying back and forth, hands holding on to the table for support. An image of perfect serenity.
Pearse let go, as well. And for a few minutes, he seemed to forget everything that had brought him to the refuge of San Bernardo. Everything that lay beyond its doors.
The second-floor lights told him she was awake; the shadow scurrying past the window confirmed she was still at work on the scroll. Pearse pressed the bell and waited.
As much as he hated to admit it, there really had been no other choice. The scroll was all he had to go on. More than that, it was his only leverage; at some point, he knew they would track him down. Better to understand what it was they wanted before facing the inevitable.
Another quick lesson from Angeli.
A hesitant voice answered. “Hello?”
“It’s Ian Pearse,” he said. “I saw the light-” The buzzer cut him off; he pushed through and stepped into the hallway.
Upstairs, the apartment lay under a veil of smoke, the smell of cigarettes thick on her breath as he followed her in. No word of hello, not even the expected smile, only the glass dome peeking out from over the barricade of books as they made their way through. Nearing the desk, he noticed she had managed to get to the end of the scroll, the right-hand side now laden with rolled parchment. He also saw how tired she looked, the red of her cheeks having faded to gray, her hair matted in odd clumps, obvious signs of long hours spent in deep concentration. A few crumbs of biscotti were all that remained from the once-full plate.
