chance them catching sight of Ivo, no matter how remote the possibility. Just before heading up to the main road, he glanced back; he could still see Ivo, prone on the ground, wirelike limbs outstretched, waiting. Pearse slipped around the side of the house and started up the road. As he passed the house where he had left Ivo, every instinct told him to check on the boy, but he knew he couldn’t. Petra’s voice was a welcome relief.
“Salko didn’t find him, either,” she said as she moved out to him. “He-”
“I found him,” said Pearse, drawing up to the van. Before either of them could ask, he continued. “He’s in the holy man’s hut. For some reason, he wanted to see the boy who died yesterday.”
It was clear from Petra’s reaction that this wasn’t the first time Ivo had shown such a morbid interest.
“The problem is,” Pearse continued, “our friend from dinner last night wasn’t that eager to let me in with the body still there. Something to do with Catholic priests and Muslim corpses. I wasn’t going to argue with him. He said you should come and get him.” He nodded to Salko.
Petra started to go; Pearse quickly grabbed her arm. “He said Salko. He was pretty adamant about it.”
“Janos can get that way,” said Mendravic with a nod. “I’m sorry if he-”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Pearse, aware that he was having trouble looking Mendravic in the eye. Instead, he looked at the ground and nodded.
Salko squeezed his neck. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
He headed off down the road.
“You can let go of my arm now,” said Petra.
Pearse turned to watch Mendravic move past the houses.
“I said you can let go of my arm.”
When he was certain that Mendravic was out of earshot, Pearse released her, his eyes still on the retreating figure. “Get in the car,” he said under his breath.
“What?”
He turned to her. “Get in the car,” no kindness in his tone.
“Ian, what are you-”
“In thirty seconds, Ivo is going to come running out from behind that house. Get in the car.”
Petra tried to look past him to the house; Pearse took hold of her arm again. “Did you hear what I said?” The intensity in his stare was enough to hold her. “
“What about Salko?”
“We’re not taking Salko. If you want Ivo, get in the car.” He paused. “You have to trust me.”
Whatever she saw in his eyes was enough to send her to the door on the passenger’s side. She opened it and sat.
Pearse turned back, to see Mendravic disappearing behind a curve in the road. He waited another five seconds, then turned and raised his hand high, waving it in a wide, sweeping motion. At once, the little figure of Ivo darted out from behind the house and began to race toward them, his tiny arms pumping away. Within seconds, he was in Pearse’s arms; another few, and he was on his mother’s lap. No time to explain. Pearse shut the door and moved around to the driver’s side.
He had just opened the door, when he looked back and saw Mendravic racing up the road, remarkable speed for a man his size. Only then did Pearse see the stooped figure of the
The old man had found Mendravic, a warning from the Brotherhood, too late to stop them.
Pearse pulled the keys from his pocket and leapt into the front seat. Within seconds, he was grinding the car into gear, the sudden burst of movement drowning out the shouts from behind. A winded Mendravic appeared in the rearview mirror, the figure more and more distant, clear enough, though, to see a tiny phone being brought to his ear.
Salko’s prediction now all but a certainty.
White smoke.
The throng in St. Peter’s erupted, Kleist once more high above on his private perch. The spillover down the Via della Conciliazone reached almost to the river, over 100,000 bodies pressed against one another in anticipation of a single phrase:
Once again, he pulled the small device from his pocket and flipped open the screen. He pressed a button. Dial tone. Within half a ring, the line picked up.
“Have the dogs cleared?” Kleist asked.
“Eight minutes.”
“I want the chessmen on the board until we have confirmation.”
“Understood.”
“Hold them until the king retreats. They move as a unit. The king stays on the board until the rest are back in the box.”
“Understood.”
Kleist paused. “Double the coverage on the Campane. No access to anyone, passes included.”
“Understood.”
He cut the line. He’d been the one to dub their quarry the “chessmen”-bishops, cardinals, it made little difference. Pawns this afternoon. Keeping them in the Palace until after the Pope’s address was simply the best way to buy himself a little extra time. The men at the arch? A chance to dilute the crew inside the hospice still further.
The dean emerged. An almost eerie silence fell over the 100,000 bodies.
“We have a Pope!” A thunderous roar exploded, the dean holding his hands high in an attempt to quiet the crowd. Even the microphone had no chance, the introduction of the supreme Pontiff lost to the constant clamor: “His Holiness, Pope Lucius the Fourth.”
Had anyone asked, von Neurath had actually considered the far more obscure Zephyrinus for several weeks. Not so much for anything Zephyrinus had done, but for his timing. Pope in 216. The year a child had been born near the city of Seleucia-Ctesiphon on the Tigris, the capital of Persia. His name, Mani. The Paraclete. The hope of the one true and holy church.
In the end, Lucius had won out. Harbinger of the light. Far more appropriate.
Kleist watched through binoculars as the former Erich Cardinal von Neurath-clad in the white soutane and skullcap, emblems of his office-stepped out onto the balcony, his arms already in the classic pose of pious authority. He swept the air in narrow circles as if he were somehow breathing in the scent of spirituality. The noise of the crowd managed to reach even greater decibels, waves of sound echoing throughout the colonnades, von Neurath already comfortable with his preening humility.
Kleist turned his attention to the arch. The two extra men had taken up their positions. Like all good Catholics, they were crossing themselves, waiting for their new Pope to begin the Apostolic Blessing.
Fourteen minutes, start to finish. That was what von Neurath had promised. After that, eight minutes for the cardinals to be led back to the Sanctae Marthae.
Kleist picked up the package and headed for the door. He was now on his own timetable. Four minutes to the hospice, twelve minutes to set the plastique, four minutes to return.
Which left him a two-minute grace period.
The Harbinger of the Light always liked to keep things as tight as possible.
“Where’s Salko?” Ivo said.
Once again, the seven-year-old was asking the most obvious question. And once again, Pearse was totally unprepared for it. Keeping his eyes on the road, he said, “Salko … is …”
“Staying in the village,” Petra cut in, pulling Ivo closer to her chest.
“What about the surprise?” he asked.
“What surprise?” she said.
“The one we’re going to play on him.”
