Forty minutes passed before all the votes had been cast, time spent in silence. Some prayed, some stared longingly at the pictures. After all, it was the Divine Spirit who chose a Pope, not men. They could take the time to enjoy their surroundings-God’s will, not theirs, managing this most pressing of matters.
Von Neurath thought of the “Hodoporia.” He’d heard nothing from Kleist in over five days, the last message from Athos, confirmation that the priest had yet to get hold of the actual parchment. Some sort of book. One more step removed. Assurances that everything was close at hand.
Without the “Hodoporia,” though, von Neurath knew the papacy would mean nothing, infallibility or not. Two hundred and fifty million Catholics at his disposal, and no way to convince them to follow a new path. No way to justify the shifts to come with a divine authority.
He had no choice but to trust Kleist, trust that he would deliver what he had promised.
“Peretti.”
The sound of a voice brought his focus back to the altar. One of Fabrizzi’s three assistants-the scrutineers- was reading out the first ballot. He then passed it to the next cardinal, who likewise read it aloud. So, too, the third, who then ran a needle and thread through the paper.
“Daly.”
Von Neurath exchanged a moment’s smile with the Englishman as his name was echoed twice more. No need to worry. Two votes. One hundred and seven to go.
Eighteen minutes later, von Neurath sat stunned. By his own count, he had fallen six short of the majority, Peretti having taken forty of the remaining forty-two.
Evidently, several of the swing votes had decided not to swing.
The cardinals sat silently as one of Fabrizzi’s assistants gathered the twined ballots and notes and retreated to the small stove whose chimney had become so famous over time.
Black smoke.
Two more votes tomorrow morning, one tomorrow afternoon, if need be. For as long as it took.
The cardinals rose. Filing out, von Neurath noticed that Peretti was staring at him. The hint of a smile. He did his best to return it.
Kleist would have to make certain he wasn’t put in so embarrassing a position again.
Pearse had slept on and off for over twelve hours, his body finally giving out after more than a week of neglect. They had arrived in the village sometime after two, twenty miles west of Novi-Pazar, less than an hour from the Kosovar border, somewhere up in the hills. That they’d crossed back into Yugoslavia hadn’t occurred to him until he’d seen the signs for Belgrade. No border post, no guards. Evidently, when he wanted to, Mendravic could avoid such inconveniences.
Pulling up along one more dirt road-a smattering of houses spread out along the surrounding hills-they’d stopped at the only hovel still showing some signs of life. Ivo had been quickly carted away to a bed while Mendravic had made the introductions.
Much as Pearse had expected, the men and women of the KLA proved to be none-too-distant cousins of the Irish Provisionals, less concerned with practical objectives than with the grand design. He’d talked with them for over an hour, stories of recent escapades, all dismissed with a fanatic’s rationale. As it turned out, these were a new breed of KLA, taking their fight “beyond the borders,” as they had explained. The rest of Serbia/Yugoslavia would learn to leave Kosovo alone.
By three, he’d had his fill, the brandy having taken its toll, as well. Hoisting himself up from the table, he’d found a bed and slept.
No dreams. Not even a hint of movement. Just sleep.
Now, at almost three in the afternoon, he emerged from his room to find Petra alone at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in her hands.
Pearse found a cup and joined her.
“So, he finally appears,” she said as he sat. “What time did you make it to bed?”
Small talk. He could manage that. “A little bit after you. Not much of a conversation. Where is everyone?”
“Gone by the time I got up.” She took a sip, then glanced around the room. “This seems strangely familiar, eight years removed.”
He nodded, memories of Slitna hard to ignore, especially during last night’s diatribes. Pearse wondered if he and Petra had sounded as rabid, all those years ago. Probably, although he hoped not. They’d certainly never had rolls like the ones now beckoning to him from a dish at the center of the table. Better bread, greater mania, he thought. It seemed a logical enough connection.
He took a roll and tore off a piece, dunking the wedge in his coffee and quickly tossing it down.
“That, too,” she added.
“Saves time on the digestion. You knew that.” The second piece received a healthy slathering of butter. “Is Salko up?”
“Ivo wanted to go exploring. Mommy wouldn’t do. He pulled him out of bed about an hour ago.”
Pearse nodded, another sip of the coffee. “This doesn’t faze him at all, does it?”
“Ivo? No. I’m sure it’s like a game for him.”
“That’s quite a game.”
“Not when you’ve played it before.”
Pearse hesitated, then asked, “Ivo?”
“We were in a village like this for about three months in ’97.” Seeing his confusion, she explained, “When NATO pulled out? The trouble in Mostar?” Still nothing. “You do have newspapers in the United States, don’t you?” she added.
Pearse grinned. “I think we have a couple. I suppose you have to remember to read them.”
“I suppose you do. Although,” she added more pointedly, “I’m sure we stopped being front-page news once Mr. Clinton got reelected.”
No bitterness in what she said, just pragmatism. The same way she could talk about a seven-year-old being trundled from his bed in the middle of the night as part of some familiar game.
“He really takes to Salko, doesn’t he?”
“Didn’t you?”
Pearse nodded to himself, then rolled a piece of the buttered roll into a ball and popped it into his mouth. “Do they get to see a lot of each other?”
“About once a month. Maybe more, if something comes up.”
“Something … like what?”
“I don’t know. Little-boy things that a father would be-” She stopped herself. “Not really that often.”
She was trying to be kind. Even if he’d known what to say, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to find the words. He’d make her laugh, or put her in a position where she’d have to tell him to stop, just as he had last night. For some reason, he thought of the Ribadeneyra entries. The alchemy so manageable there. Here, impossible. Then again, better to leave unsaid what he couldn’t say.
“It’s good Ivo has him,” he finally said.
“It’s good they have each other,” she echoed. “Salko probably needs the fix more than Ivo does.”
Another ball of bread for him as she stared into her cup.
After a time, she said, “There are days, you know, when they disappear for hours. Just the two of them. Their ‘little adventures.’” She was letting him in, if only for a moment. “It’s funny. Ivo always comes back with this adorable look in his eyes, as if they’ve got some great secret. Something just the two of them know. The men.” She smiled to herself. “I remember when Salko taught him how to whistle. The great event. And Ivo came running in, and he waited and waited while Salko told me where they’d been, the two of them passing each other little winks and nods. I pretended not to notice. And then, all of a sudden, he started to whistle. This sweet little chirpy thing through the giggles. And we all started laughing. He was so proud of himself.” It was as if she were looking directly at them. “You should have seen his face when I whistled back. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t say a thing. Somehow, I knew the magic secret.” She laughed. “That’s when he told me I had a girl’s whistle. It wasn’t like Salko’s or his.” She stopped, eyes even more distant. “I wasn’t Mom. I was just a girl.”
Pearse took a sip of the coffee, then said. “Did Salko tell you why I’m here?”
