Francis nodded his agreement, sending the light dancing on the beads of the rosary he wore around his neck. 'True, but that involved rare documents, something of actual cash value. Have you ever considered the fact that he and that man in Prague…'
'Klaus.'
'… Klaus. That they both were killed because of what was in those old papers?'
'That was why I wanted a copy. I figured if someone was willing to kill anyone who had access to them, there must be something the killers don't want known. If I can find out what that is, I may be able to find out who they are.'
It had worked before. The secret of the enigmatic painting by Poussin, a seventeenth-century French artist, had led him to the shadowy Pegasus organization.
'If you live long enough.'
'Spare me your optimism.'
Francis was looking into his glass, debating a third scotch. 'And you have this copy of the book?'
'In my safe-deposit box until I can find someone to translate. I made yet another copy.'
Francis had decided another wee libation might do no harm. 'I'm sure there's someone at Emory…'
'There is, but he's on sabbatical until the end of the summer. I don't intend to let it out of my sight when it's not in the lockbox.'
'You could make another copy, send it to someone.'
'And risk their life? Remember, two people who had that book are dead. That's why I'm keeping it close at hand.'
Francis gestured toward the bottle; Lang shook his head. 'So, you don't plan to find out who these people are for some time?'
Lang had thought of that but couldn't come up with an alternative. 'If you have any suggestions, don't let your priestly humility keep you from speaking up.'
'Humility's the Dominicans' shtick. Come with me to Rome. Like I told you, I'm leaving next week. Sunday, actually.'
Lang started to protest but the priest raised a silencing hand. 'It works.' He held up a finger. 'First, you can bet your heathen soul there'll be someone at the Vatican who can read that book of yours, Coptic Greek.' He held up a second digit. 'Second, you can share my room in the Vatican. You don't get much more secure than that even if your pals figure out where you've gone.'
Lang wasn't wild about the idea but he didn't have a better one.
Half an hour later, he was staring at the ceiling of the rectory's small guest room. He would be glad to get out of Atlanta. Being here without the warmth of Gurt's body next to him made his hometown an alien and lonely place. Worse was knowing that Manfred would not be exploding through the door at the first hint of morning, ready for the day's adventures. Even Grumps, stretched out beside the bed, was staring morosely into space. Lang was sure he was thinking of his missing playmate.
Gurt and Manfred had just entered his life, what, a couple of weeks ago? Far too short a time to miss them as much as he did, he told himself unconvincingly. He intentionally replaced growing self-pity with anger. Who were these people that made it necessary to be apart from his son and lover? What was it in that ancient text that made it necessary to kill any who possessed it?
Well, Francis was right about one thing: if any place on the face of the planet would be sure to have scholars of ancient Greek-Egyptian, the Vatican would be it. Lang hoped he would learn the secret of the Book of James before his pursuers discovered where he had gone.
He hoped.
II.
Delta Flight 1023
Sunday Night
Lang's dislike of flying was enhanced by the stingy dimensions of a tourist-class seat. They hadn't expanded any since his agency days when travel was always by the most economical means possible. Apparently the Catholic Church subscribed to the same idea. The only difference was that now the airlines no longer served complimentary drinks to economy international passengers, but charged five bucks for those beverages that could only be sold to adults. He had offered to pay for an upgrade for Francis rather than suffer the discomforts of tourist-class travel, but the priest had pointed out that it would be bad politics for any of his fellow clergy to see him luxuriating in accommodations designed for adult-size passengers. The same reason excluded use of the foundation's Gulfstream.
There had been some small comfort in having Francis confirm that politics played as large a role in the clerical world as the secular.
Both men finished a meal of what had been charitably described by the flight attendant as chicken marsala, the only alternative to the mystery meat Lang had seen being served to other, possibly less perceptive, passengers. Lang and Francis put down the post-9/11 plastic utensils that had been largely ineffective in dismantling the rubbery fowl. They reclined the few millimeters allotted each tourist- class seat. Lang opened the novel he had bought at the airport bookstore only to realize he had read it years ago. The publisher had reissued it with a different cover. Now he was stuck with futile attempts to sleep sitting inches away from perpendicular or the in-flight movie, a G- rated animation suitable for small children and the easily amused simpleminded.
He had forgotten how dismal economy travel could be.
He turned to Francis, who looked disgustingly comfortable. 'So, tell me about James.'
Francis blinked and shook his head as though he had been asleep, a possibility Lang hadn't considered given the circumstances. 'James? James who?'
'Jesus's brother, James the Just, I think he's called.'
Francis was unsuccessful in stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. 'What do you want to know specifically? The Catholic Church and you heretics differ on a number of details.'
'Try the truth.'
The priest smiled. 'You really know how to put a fella between an ecclesiastical rock and a hard place. As you know, we believe in the perpetual virginity of Mary, which by definition excludes the possibility of Jesus having any full siblings.'
'Who came up with that idea?' Lang asked.
Francis shrugged as much as possible in the cramped confines of his seat. 'I'm not sure. The idea probably originated in an obscure second-century text called Proto-Evangelium of James. Like the Jews, the early Christians felt anything sexual was unclean. It would be impossible for the mother of the Savior to be defiled. Since she was perpetually a virgin, she could not be the mother of Jesus's so-called siblings.'
'Convoluted reasoning, I'd say.'
Francis nodded. 'Perhaps, but then how reasonable is it that a man would rise from the dead?'
Exactly what Lang had been thinking. How could a religious devotee also do the Vulcan mind-meld? Star Trek or witchcraft? 'OK, but what about James the man?'
Francis was on firmer ground. 'There were two Jameses who were the original disciples. But they are always designated as James the son of Zebedee, brother of the apostle John, and James the son of Alphaeus, also known as James the Lesser.'
'James the Just wasn't an apostle?'
'Someone literally had to stay home and mind the store. If Jesus was pursuing his ministry and Joseph, husband of Mary, had, in fact, died by then, who was to support the family?'
A question of such practicality, Lang was surprised he had never considered it.
'In fact…' Francis produced a pocket-size Bible and quickly thumbed the pages. 'Ah, here, John 7:2-5 makes it clear than none of Jesus's brothers seemed to believe in him. In fact'-he flipped the pages again-'Mark 3:20, 31-35 tells us that, when his family heard of his healing the sick and casting out demons, they went to restrain him. People were saying Jesus was out of his mind. I'd say it would be a fair guess that the family was less than pleased
