Conroy knew exactly how to lead a crowd. He was making Harris an essential part of the message-the dissolution of denominational differences, with its personification sitting up onstage with him. An English Anglican and a southern Pentecostal. What could be clearer? Harris was beginning to understand why the contessa had insisted on this venue.
“A kind of protection,” Conroy continued, addressing the audience. “But protection from what? It’s so hard to talk of inclusion when there are those whose very existence is bent on destroying that voice, whose sole aim is to maintain a ‘noisy gong or a clanging cymbal’-as Paul tells us in Corinthians 1:13-rather than to embrace the singular Truth that is Him.” He stopped. “And I’m not talking about my fellow preachers who say, ‘Archie, give it a break.’” A few titters from the audience.
“We’ve been doing it to ourselves for centuries, haven’t we? Allowing personal ends, political ends, commercial ends dictate the destruction of that ‘one voice.’ Within our own community of faithful.” He paused. “And outside it.” He waited for complete silence.
“How many of you think I’m talking about our friends in Rome?”
The response was minimal, the congregants having been too well prepped over the last few weeks of sermons not to know where he was going. “I’m sure I could find fault there. More so than with my fellow preachers. I could give you reasons for five centuries of animosities, bring in experts to explain why that conflict exists, justify the ongoing division. I’m sure the colonel here could tell you far more about that than I could.
“But I won’t ask him, because I believe in ‘one voice.’ Because I believe that maybe, just maybe, we can begin to recognize what binds us and not what separates us. Maybe there’s a chance that we can begin to see beyond our own history to our future. Maybe there’s something in the air that gives us hope, a new beginning”-he again looked to Harris-“a brave new dawn. You’ll forgive me, Colonel, but it is such a nice phrase.” Harris laughed along with the audience.
“Things are happening here that give us that hope, organizations, like the colonel’s, that are saying, ‘Haven’t we come to a point when we’re sick and tired of using our faith to differentiate rather than to incorporate? Disharmonize rather than harmonize? Rend apart rather than heal within?’ We must remember, ‘if two make peace with each other in a single house, they will say to the mountain, “Move from here!” and it will move.’ And there’s never been a better time to make peace in our house.” Another pause.
“Because there is something far more dangerous than our own bickering out there now that demands our attention. Those who want to talk about doctrines and rituals and five hundred years of contention might be too caught up in their own little worlds to recognize when something far more profound appears on the horizon. If we’re to find salvation, we must remember that ‘that day will not come, unless the rebellion comes first, and the man of lawlessness is revealed, the son of perdition.’ Thessalonians 2:3. He who encourages that ‘noisy gong,’ that ‘clanging cymbal’ revealed. He who delights in our own disunion. He who so desperately needs to keep our house divided. For if we were to unite, he would have no hope of defeating us.
“He’s an old foe in a new garb, still intent on his holy war. Who am I talking about?”
A murmur swept through the hall, all of those listening once again too well prepared not to understand whom Conroy meant.
“And he has the audacity to call us godless.” He paused once more. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. I think it’s time to let the colonel tell you all about that, and the wonderful work he and his Faith Alliance are planning.” Conroy turned to him. “It gives me great pleasure to introduce to you, Colonel Nigel Harris.”
The audience erupted as Harris stepped to the podium to shake Conroy’s hand. The man had set him up masterfully. The audience was primed. Harris only hoped that the other ministries the contessa had scheduled would make his job as easy.
Black smoke.
From his perch on a balcony above the Arco della Campane, Kleist watched as the mass of humanity let out a collective groan. The second vote of the morning. He could only imagine the cardinal’s mood right now.
They had taken the girl last night in Berlin, centrally located enough so that the story had hit most of the European papers and television shows by midmorning. Maybe not early enough. Kleist had to hope that the news would find its way to the appropriate ears by the afternoon vote, for his own sake, if not for von Neurath’s.
Even so, they’d already targeted a second child-in Sao Paulo, with enough traces left behind at the scene to point a finger at yet one more of the soon-to-be-infamous groups out of the Middle East. It would be sufficient to get the message across.
While he watched the horde pulse within St. Peter’s Square, Kleist pulled what looked to be a calculator from his jacket pocket, the device no bigger than his palm. He flipped open its lid, revealing a small screen with three or four buttons below. Using the tip of his pen, he began to tap out various instructions, file after file appearing then disappearing before he reached deep enough into the system to find what he wanted. He pressed one of the buttons; the hum of a phone line began to emanate from the device. Within a few seconds, it was dialing, the sound of a fax connection moments later. With another quick tap, the information on the screen began its cyberspace journey to the editors of
When the transmission was complete, he pulled up a second file, more information linked to the Syrian involvement with the Vatican Bank, various holes from the first file filled in, others made more ambiguous. This time,
Sacrificing one of their own for the sins of the many.
At least that was how von Neurath had explained it-the choice of words, thought Kleist, a clear indication that perhaps thirty years within the fold had affected the cardinal more than he realized.
No matter. By tonight, the entire world would be privy to the latest mind-bending catastrophe out of the Institute of Religious Works, a mere trickle of the deluge to come. But the bloodhounds would have to wait for at least a few more days. Time enough to place von Neurath on the papal throne.
And by that time, there’d be much bigger stories holding their attention.
Pen at the ready, Kleist stared at the delete command flashing up at him. For some reason, he was having trouble following von Neurath’s instructions to erase the files. He stood alone on the balcony, the room behind him empty. Still, he felt the need to glance over his shoulder. No one. Kleist looked back at the tiny screen, his pen once again poised above.
With a gentle tap, he reengaged the phone line. Another connection, this one somewhere in Barcelona. A second tap.
All four files went at once.
Von Neurath had given him a direct order.
The contessa, however, had always given him far more.
And she would understand.
“No, no. That’s more than enough.” Mendravic placed what he thought was the last bag of food in the back of the van, the woman at his side insisting he take one more. “We’ll be able to pick up what we need along the way,” he tried to explain.
“Not if someone’s looking for you,” she answered, and pushed the bag into his arms.
The woman was somewhere in her late forties. She held her hands atop two full hips, broad shoulders below an equally wide, if almost square, head. Her face, though, was that of a much younger woman, lovely pale skin, with bright blue eyes that peered over at Mendravic. Pearse sensed there was something of a history between them. Funny that he’d never thought to ask about that part of Salko’s life. Or any part of his life, come to think of it. An affinity built on circumstance.
“All right,” said Mendravic, smiling, “but if I take it, I get to take you, as well.” He bent over and placed the bag alongside the others in the van.
“You’d be so lucky. You barely fit inside the car yourself.” She reached underneath and pinched the middle of his stomach. “You’d probably make me sit in the back with all the food.”
