Slowly, deliberately, Palestrina turned toward Farel, the angle at which he sat and the spill from the lamp on the credenza behind him making his head and Alexander’s appear almost as one. Now his eyes found Farel’s and he went on. And as he did, Farel felt a chill cross his shoulders and creep down his spine. With every word Palestrina’s eyes grew darker and became more distant as he was drawn ever deeper into the character he was convinced he was.
“Near Troy I defeated a force of forty thousand, losing only one hundred and ten of my men. From there I pushed southward, meeting King Darius and the main Persian army of five hundred thousand.
“Darius fled in our wake, leaving behind his mother and his wife and his children. After that I took Tyre and Gaza and moved into Egypt, and thereby controlled the entire eastern Mediterranean coast. Next came Babylon and what was left of the Persian empire beyond the southern shores of the Caspian Sea into Afghanistan… and then I turned north into what is now called Russian Turkestan and Central Asia…. That was,” Palestrina’s gaze drifted off, “in 327 B.C…. and I had managed most all of it in three years.”
Abruptly Palestrina swung back to Farel, the distance in him gone.
“I did not fail in Persia, Jacov. Priest or not, I will not fail in China.” Immediately Palestrina’s voice lowered, and his stare cut into Farel. “Bring Father Bardoni here. Bring him, now.”
102
Bellagio. 10:50 P.M.
ELENA LAY IN THE DARK, LOOKING AT THE square of light that came in through the small window high on the wall above her.
They were in the convento, the friary, behind the church, which served as housing for the priests. Except for Father Renato, the short, affable priest who had gone to the truck with her, and two or three others, the rest of the clergy were away on retreat. It was a happenstance that provided her with the tiny bedroom she was in and the one next to it, where Father Daniel slept, and the similar room across the hall, where Harry was.
She still regretted her delayed return to the truck and the anxiety she knew she had caused Harry, but she’d had little choice. Father Renato had been hard to convince, and it was only when she reached her mother general by phone in Siena and he had spoken to her personally that he’d relented and gone with Elena, waiting with the wheelchair in the church’s shadow until the police on motorcycles had passed.
Then they’d brought Father Daniel in, given him tea and rice pudding, and put him to bed. Afterward Father Renato had taken them to the convento’s tiny kitchen and served them a pasta-and-chicken dish left over from the evening meal. And then he had shown them the rooms where they could sleep and gone back to his room, warning them that tomorrow the priests would return and that they would have to leave before they did.
“Leave…,” Elena thought, her eyes still on the square of light high on the ceiling above her. “To go where?”
The thought, while deliberate, triggered something else—her own sense of freedom, or, rather, her lack of it. The turning point had come when she’d broken down so emotionally in the water cave, and Harry had left his brother to come to her and hold her and comfort her even though she knew he was exhausted and must have been at wits’ end himself. A second moment had been even more pointed, when he’d returned with the truck and seen her standing naked outside the cave. It was something that, as she pictured it in her mind—the way he so quickly apologized and turned and went back into the cave—became no longer embarrassing but erotic. She wondered, if she were not a nun, whether, despite the seriousness and urgency of their situation, he might have let his eyes linger a little longer—after all, she was still young and had what she thought was a good figure.
Suddenly, and for the first time since she’d been in the hospital room in Pescara listening to the sound of Danny’s breathing over the intercom, she found herself becoming sexually aroused. The night was still thick with heat, and she had taken off her habit and lay naked under the sheets. And now, as the feeling increased, she began to feel a warmth move through her. Reaching up, she touched her breasts.
Again she saw Harry step out of the cave, felt his eyes on her. In that moment she knew her feelings of wanting to be a woman in the fullest sense, wholly and physically, were real; the difference was, she was no longer afraid of them. If God had been testing her, it was not so much that He was challenging her inner strength or her spoken vows of chastity and obedience, but instead, helping her search for herself. Who she really was and wanted to be. And maybe that was the why of all this. And why Harry had come into her life. To once and for all help her make that decision. His presence and manner alone touched her in a way she had never before experienced. It was tender and fresh and reassuring and somehow lifted the guilt and sense of isolation her feelings had always brought her. It was like opening a door and finding that on the other side, life was safe and joyous and that it was all right to be alive, with the same passions and emotions other people had. That it was all right to be Elena Voso.
HARRY HEARD THE SOFT KNOCK, then saw the door open in the darkness.
“Mr. Addison,” Elena whispered.
“What is it?” He sat up, quickly alert.
“Nothing is wrong, Mr. Addison…. Would it be all right if I came in?”
Harry hesitated, puzzled. “Yes, of course…”
He saw the door open a little more, and then the outline of her figure against the diminished light of the hallway outside, and the door closed behind her.
“I’m sorry to wake you.”
“It’s all right…”
There was just enough light for Harry to see her come toward the bed. She was wearing her habit but was barefoot, and seemed excited and nervous at the same time.
“Please sit down,” he said, and indicated the edge of the bed.
Elena looked at the bed and then quickly back to Harry.
“I would prefer to stand, Mr. Addison.”
“Harry,” he said.
“Harry…” Still nervous, Elena smiled.
“What is it?
“I—I have come to a decision that I wanted to share with you…”
Harry nodded, still unsure what was happening.
“I—told you shortly after we met that God had given me a job to do in caring for your brother.”
“Yes.”
“Well, when it is done, I—” Elena stopped and Harry saw her dig down and find conviction. “I plan to petition my superiors for dispensation of my vows and to leave the convent.”
For a long moment Harry said nothing. Finally he did. “Are you asking my opinion?”
“No, I’m stating a fact.”
“Elena—,” Harry said gently. “Maybe before you make a final decision you should realize that after what we’ve been through, none of us are thinking very clearly.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that what we’ve gone through has helped clarify thoughts and feelings I’ve had for some time. Before any of this happened…. Most simply, I want to be with a man—and to love him in every way, and to have him love me in that way, too.”
Harry studied her carefully, watched her breathe. Even in the dim light he could see the sparkle and determination in her eyes. “That’s a very personal thing…”
Elena said nothing. Harry smiled. “Maybe what I don’t understand is why you’re telling me.”
“Because I don’t know what might happen tomorrow, and I want to have told someone who would understand… and because I wanted to tell you, Harry.” Elena looked at him for a long moment, her eyes intent on his.
“Good night and God bless,” she whispered finally and turned and left.
HARRY WATCHED HER cross the room in the dark, had just a glimpse of her as she opened the door and went out. She’d come to share something deeply personal with him, why exactly, he still wasn’t sure. All he did know was that he’d never met anyone quite like her, but he also knew that if he was being drawn to her, this was not the time. The last thing they needed now was that kind of distrac
tion. It was far too disruptive and, therefore, much too dangerous.
103
A STYLISH, HANDSOME WOMAN WEARING A large straw hat stood in line with the other passengers, waiting as the hydrofoil approached the boat landing from the dark of the lake.
At the top stairs above, four Gruppo Cardinale police in flak jackets and carrying Uzis stood watch. Four more patrolled the landing itself, studying faces of waiting passengers, searching for the fugitives. A spot check of papers confirmed that almost all of them were foreign tourists. Great Britain. Germany. Brazil. Australia. The United States.
“Grazie,” a young policeman said, as he handed Julia Louise Phelps’s passport back to her, then touched the brim of his hat and smiled. This was no blond killer with a scratched face, nor an Italian nun, nor a fugitive priest or his brother. This was a tall, attractive woman, an American as he had guessed, with a large straw hat and distinctive smile. It was why he had approached her and asked for her papers in the first place, not because she was a suspect, but because he was flirting. And she had let him.
And then, as the hydrofoil docked and the passengers onboard disembarked, she put her passport back into her purse, smiled once again at the policeman, and, in the company of the other passengers, went onboard. A moment later the gangplank was pulled back, the engines revved, and the hydrofoil moved away.
The policemen on the landing and those at the top of the stairs watched it pick up speed, then saw the hull lift up out of the water as it moved out into the darkness of the lake, crossing to Tremezzo and Lenno, and then Lezzeno and Argegno, and finally back to Como. The hydrofoil Freccia delle Betulle was the last boat for the night. And, to a man, the police relaxed as they watched it go. Knowing they had done their job well. Confident that on their watch, not one of the fugitives had slipped past them.
Rome. The Vatican. Wednesday, July 15, 12:20 A.M.
Farel opened the door to Palestrina’s private office, and the young, bespectacled Father Bardoni entered, poised, unmoved by the hour or by being called there. Showing no emotion at all. Simply answering the summons of a superior.
Palestrina was behind his desk and motioned Father Bardoni toward a chair in front of him.
“I have called you here to tell you personally that Cardinal Marsciano has been taken ill,” he said as the priest sat down.
“Ill?” Father Bardoni sat forward.
“He collapsed here, in my office, early this evening after attending a meeting at the Chinese Embassy. The doctors believe it to be a simple case of exhaustion. But they are not certain. As a result he is being kept under observation.”
“Where is he?”
“Here, on the Vatican grounds,” Palestrina said. “The guest apartments in the Tower of San Giovanni.”
“Why is he not in a hospital?” From the corner of his eye, Father Bardoni saw Farel step forward to stand near him.
“Because I chose to keep him here. Because of what I believe to be the reason for his ‘exhaustion’…”
“Which is?”
“The ongoing dilemma of Father Daniel.” Palestrina watched the priest carefully. So far he was showing no outward display of emotion, even now, at the mention of Father Daniel.
“I don’t understand.”
“Cardinal Marsciano has sworn he was dead. And perhaps he still does not believe, as the police do, that he is not. Moreover, new evidence suggests that Father Daniel not only lives but is well enough to continually avoid the authorities. All of which means that he is probably able to communicate in one way or another—“
Palestrina paused, looking at the priest directly, making certain there would be no confusion interpreting what he said next.
“How joyous it would make Cardinal Marsciano to see Father Daniel alive. But since he is under the care of physicians and unable to travel, it follows that Father Daniel should come, or be brought, if it is necessary, to visit him here, at the apartments of San Giovanni.”
It was here that Father Bardoni faltered, casting a quick, furtive glance at Farel—a sudden, instinctive reaction, to see if Farel fully sided with Palestrina and backed Marsciano’s imprisonment. And from his cold, impassive stare, there was no doubt whatsoever that he did. Recovering, he looked back to Palestrina, incensed.
“You are suggesting that I know where he is? And could get that message to him? That I could somehow engineer his coming to the Vatican?”
“A box is opened,” Palestrina said easily. “A moth flies out…. Where does it go? Many people ask that same question and hunt for it. But it is never found because, at the last minute, it moves, and then moves again, and then again. Most difficult when it is either ill or injured. That is, unless it has help… from someone sympathetic, a famous writer perhaps, or someone in the clergy… and is attended to by a gentle hand schooled in such things. A nurse perhaps, or a nun, or one and the same… a nursing sister from Siena—Elena Voso.”
Father Bardoni didn’t react. Simply stared, vacantly, as if he had no idea what the secretariat of state was talking about. It was a deliberate orchestration to cover his earlier lapse, but it was too late, and he knew it.
Palestrina leaned forward. “Father Daniel is to come in silence. To speak with no one…. Should he be caught along the way, his answer—to the police, to the media, even to Taglia or Roscani—is that he simply does not remember what happened…”
Father Bardoni started to protest, but Palestrina held up a hand to silence him, and then he finished, his voice just loud enough to be heard.
“Understand—that for every day Father Daniel does not come, Cardinal Marsciano’s mental outlook will worsen…. His health declining with his spirit, until there comes a point where”—he shrugged—“it no longer matters.”
“Eminence.” Father Bardoni was suddenly curt. “You are speaking to the wrong man. I have no more idea where Father Daniel is or how to reach him than you.”
Palestrina stared for a moment, then made the sign of the cross. “Che Dio ti protegga, “he said. May God protect you.
Immediately Farel crossed to the door and opened it. Father Bardoni hesitated, then stood and walked past Farel and out into the darkness.
Palestrina watched the door as it closed. The wrong man? No, Father Bardoni was not. He was Marsciano’s courier and had been all along. The one responsible for getting Father Daniel out of the hands of medical personnel and to Pescara after the bus explosion and guiding his movements ever since. Yes, they had suspected—followed him, had his phone line tapped, even suspected he was the man who had hired the hydrofoil in Milan. But they had been unable to prove anything. Except he had erred in glancing at Farel, and this had been enough. Palestrina knew Marsciano commanded strong loyalty. And if Marsciano had trusted enough in Father Daniel to confess to him, he would have trusted in Father Bardoni to help save the American’s life. And Father Bardoni would have responded.
And so, he was not the wrong man, but the right one. And because of it, Palestrina was certain his message would be sent.
3:00 A.M.
Palestrina sat at a small writing table in his bedroom. He was dressed in sandals and a silk scarlet robe that, with his physical poise and enormous size and his great mane of white hair, gave him the look of a Roman emperor. On the table in front of him were the early editions of a half dozen world newspapers. In each the lead story was the ongoing tragedy in China. To his right, a small television tuned to World News Network showed live coverage from Hefei, at the moment the picture was of truckloads of troops of the People’s Liberation Army entering the city. They were dressed in coveralls, their hands gloved, their wrists and ankles taped, their faces hidden by bright orange filtration masks and clear protective goggles to safeguard—as a similarly dressed on-camera correspondent explained—against the transfer of bodily fluids and the spread of disease as they rushed to help manage the still-multiplying volumes of dead.
Glancing off, Palestrina looked at the bank of phones at his elbow. Pierre Weggen, he knew, was a
t this moment in Beijing in a friend-to-friend conversation with Yan Yeh. Solemnly—and with no hint whatsoever that the idea was any other than his alone—Weggen would be laying the early seeds of Palestrina’s blueprint to rebuild all of China’s water systems. He was trusting the Swiss investment banker’s station and longtime association with the president of the People’s Bank of China would be enough for the Chinese businessman to embrace the idea and take it directly to the general secretary of the Communist Party.
Whatever happened, when the meeting was ended and the proper courtesies had been said, Weggen would call and let him know. Palestrina glanced at his bed. He should sleep, but he knew it was impossible. Standing, he went to his dressing room and changed into his familiar black suit and white clerical collar. Moments later he left his private apartments.
Purposely taking a service elevator, he went unseen to the ground floor, and from there out a side door and into the dark of the formal gardens.
He walked for an hour, maybe more, lost in thought, doing little more than wandering. Along the Avenue of the Square Garden to the Central Avenue of the Forest and then back, pausing for some time at Giovanni Vasanzio’s seventeenth-century sculpture Fontana dell’ Aquilone, the Fountain of the Eagle. The eagle itself, the uppermost piece on the fountain—the heraldic symbol of the Borghese, the family of Pope Paul V—was, to Palestrina, something entirely different: symbolic, enormously personal and profound, it brought him to ancient Persia and the edge of his other life, touching his entire being in a way nothing else could. From it, he drew strength. And from that strength came power and conviction and the certitude that what he was doing was right. The eagle held him there for some time and then finally released him.
Vaguely, he drew away, moving off in the dark. In time, he passed the two INTELSAT earth stations for Vatican Radio and then the tower building itself, and then continued on, across the endless green stage maintained by an army of full-time gardeners, through ancient groves and pathways, along the manicured lawns. Past the magnolias, the bougainvillaeas. Under the pines and palms, oaks and olives. Past seeming miles of carefully trimmed hedges. Surprised now and then by a shower of water thrown up by the booby traps of nighttime sprinklers set on automatic timers with no mind but the inching of the clock.