The Book of Q

“That’s only ‘Perfect Light.’ I have a whole book of the other ones.”

A child’s first prayer. Part of a prayer book. Of course. Eyes on the road again, he asked, “Does Salko have that book?”

Ivo shook his head. “No. He gave it to me. When I turned six. Everyone gets one when they turn six. You know that.”

“Right.” A Manichaean primer for initiates. What else could be more obvious? “And you still have the book?” Pearse asked.

Ivo nodded.

“What are you talking about?” asked Petra.

“Where’s the book now?” Pearse said, ignoring her.

“At home,” Ivo answered.

Pearse started nodding to himself.

“What?” asked Petra.

“It’s how he made sure,” he said to himself.

“What are you talking about?”

“Ribadeneyra picked that prayer to make sure that the person who figured out his puzzle was one of them. A Manichaean. Who else would know the child’s prayer? Who else would-” He suddenly slammed on the breaks. All three lurched forward.

“What are you doing?” she screamed, one hand around Ivo, the other strong-arming the dashboard.

“There are lots of prayers in that book, aren’t there, Ivo?”

The little boy didn’t seemed bothered in the least by the sudden stop. “Prayers and pictures and puzzles.” He turned to Petra. “Salko says when I learn enough of them, I can start doing the puzzles.”

Now it was her turn simply to nod.

“It’s something in that book,” Pearse said. “Otherwise, why use the prayer? Something only a Manichaean would know to look for. Something to explain the other Ribadeneyra entries.”

Forgetting Salko for the moment-and everything else that had happened in that last half hour-Pearse jammed the car into gear.

They’d be expecting them in Visegrad. Not Rogatica.

He checked his watch. With any luck, they’d be there by midafternoon.

Peretti heard the explosion, then felt the tremor. His hand immediately went to the wall, one or two picture frames tipping over on themselves from atop his bureau, a painting on the wall losing its nail. A second explosion. Then a third.

Pushing himself to the window, he peered out, the source of the eruption rising in flame no more than a hundred yards from him.

The Domus Sanctae Marthae.

Holy Mother of God.

Through the smoke and fire, he tried to locate the upper floors, now little more than jagged cavities of glass and stone. Inside the Vatican. Not possible. He crossed himself, a prayer for those inside.

The words were barely out of his mouth when he suddenly realized how close he had come to being one of them himself. The decision to return to his apartments had been a last-minute one; even then, it had taken a mighty harangue to convince the guards to let him go. The order had been for all the cardinals- all.

He reached for the phone, only to be drawn to the sight of the first survivors stumbling from the building, their clothes torn, limbs and faces darkened by residue or blood-he couldn’t tell which. There were more than five or six of them, each one falling to the ground, except for the last, who continued to wander aimlessly, lost in a concussed haze, strangely graceful amid the havoc. The others faded into the background as the pinballing man came into focus, unseen barriers sending him this way and that. It lasted less than four or five seconds; a guard arrived to gather him in, the man’s legs still churning even as he was helped to the ground.

Arbitrary movements, thought Peretti, disconnected-at least from the vantage point of reasoned thought. For the man himself, though, the actions had had meaning, purpose-understood only by a mind lost to the shock.

Just as the mayhem itself had meaning. The question was, Whose mind had inspired it?

He picked up the phone.

The door behind him suddenly flew open. Two men raced in, guns drawn.

“It’s all right,” Peretti said, recognizing them. “I’m fine.”

Both men holstered their guns. “We should take you to the Gabbia, Eminence, just in case.”

The Gabbia, short for Gabbia per Uccelli-the birdcage-had been a bomb shelter during the war, six floors below the library, now transformed into the Vatican’s safe house for just such occasions.

Peretti nodded. “I should make some calls first.”

The nearer of the two men took the phone. “There are over a hundred lines downstairs, Eminence. We should go now.”

Nodding, Peretti followed them out.

“You were lucky, Eminence,” said the man now trailing him. “They think over a hundred of the cardinals were inside when the bombs went off. Whoever did this knew exactly when to set them off.”

One more nod.

Who indeed.

Pearse sat in the car, hands clasped in his lap. Ivo was doing the same in the passenger seat. Neither had said a word for the last ten minutes.

He had parked in an alley almost a quarter of a mile from the apartment-on Petra’s instructions. Remarkable how quickly she had been able to take everything in stride, the freedom fighter once again in control. Or maybe it was simply a maternal instinct. No matter. She had been equally clear about who would be going for the book.

“You stay here.” A kiss for Ivo as she’d opened the door.

Pearse had started to follow, Petra quick to stop him. “I was talking to you. You don’t know the area. You don’t know the apartment. And if they are here, they know exactly what you look like.” Stepping outside, she’d turned to him, her voice with an intensity he hadn’t heard in years: “And don’t let Ivo out of your sight. Understand?”

The boy had obviously been through enough of these sorts of situations to know when to stay put.

A confirming nod from Pearse had sent her on her way.

That had been almost fifteen minutes ago.

Now, glancing over at his charge, Pearse couldn’t be sure just exactly which of his transgressions was prompting the silence: the flight from Salko, the absence of Petra. Most likely, it was the forced disclosure of the book’s location. Petra’s tone had been sufficient to unlock Ivo’s secret: a box hidden behind a loose slat in his closet. Salko had evidently helped him to make it.

“Do you think you might ever stop being mad at me?” Pearse finally asked.

Ivo crossed his hands at his chest.

“Can I take that as a maybe?”

The boy clenched his arms even tighter, a snort of air through his nose.

“Okay-a maybe, with a big hug and a very quiet sneeze. Am I getting close?” Silence.

“Don’t try to make me happy,” Ivo finally said.

“Okay.” Silence. “How about I try to make you orange?”

Ivo shot him a glance, his expression somewhere between anger and confusion. “Orange?”

“Well, you won’t let me apologize and make you happy, so I thought I could make you orange.”

Ivo’s arms loosened. “How do you make someone orange?”

“I have no idea. But at least it won’t be making you happy.”

Ivo stared at him for a few seconds, then turned away. “That’s silly. You don’t make any sense.”