“I don’t understand.”
“Just you and Christopher. Take him with you. Protect him.”
“But what about you?” Misha asked.
“Christopher won’t be safe till Saul and I are. If something happens to us, put Christopher in a kibbutz. Give him a new identity.”
“I don’t believe the Agency tried to kill me,” Saul said. “It was someone else. The people we’re after.”
“Even so, can you trust your former network?”
“I have to. But I had to make a deal with them. In exchange for their letting me come back from exile, I promised I wouldn’t take your help. We have to do this on our own.”
“But …”
“No. We have the information you gave us. We’ve got to accept the risk. But if we fail, take over for us. Don’t let the bastards win.”
“You’re sure there’s no other way?”
“For us to survive?” Saul shook his head. “To get back to Christopher? No.”
10
His father kissed him. Why was his father crying? “Good-bye, son. Misha, take care of him.”
“Always remember, Christopher …”
Why was his mother crying too? More kisses. Her tears wet on his cheek.
“We love you.”
Shouts from beyond the swinging doors. “You can’t go back there!”
“They’ve found you! Hurry!” Misha said.
A rush toward another door, this time into darkness, an alley, neverending, into the night. But when he looked in terror behind him, he saw that he and Misha had gone one way, his parents another. Eyes brimming with tears, he couldn’t see them any longer.
ETERNAL CITY
1
Dressed as a priest and a nun among many actual priests and nuns, Drew and Arlene walked along Rome’s crowded Via della Conciliazione. Though the street wasn’t narrow, it seemed constricted when compared with the vista ahead of them. The eastern edge of Vatican City … St. Peter’s Piazza … Like the head of a funnel, the street opened out to the right and left, melding with the four curved rows of Doric columns that flanked the piazza’s right and left side.
“I’ve heard this called St. Peter’s Square,” Arlene said. “But it isn’t square. It’s oval.”
They reached the piazza’s center. An Egyptian obelisk stood between two widely spaced fountains. Though impressive in themselves, the obelisk, fountains, and surrounding columns seemed dwarfed by the majesty of St. Peter’s Basilica, which rose beyond the piazza, its massive dome haloed with radiance from the midafternoon sun. Renaissance buildings stretched to the right and left of the basilica and the huge tiers of steps leading up to it.
“I didn’t realize how big this place is,” Arlene said.
“It all depends on your perspective,” Drew said. “The piazza, the basilica, and everything else in Vatican City would fill less than a seventh of New York’s Central Park.”
She turned to him in disbelief.
“It’s true,” he said. “The whole thing’s only a fifth of a square mile.”
“Now I know why they call this the world’s smallest city-state.”
“And it hasn’t even been a city-state very long,” Drew said. “It wasn’t until 1929—believe it or not, thanks to Mussolini, who wanted the Church to give him political support—that Vatican City was established and granted independence as a state.”
“I thought you told me you hadn’t been here before.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then how come you know so much about it?”
“While you were asleep on the plane from Cairo, I read a guidebook.”
“Devious,” she said as he grinned. “Since you’re such an expert, how do we get to the rendezvous?”
“Just follow me, Sister.”
He guided her to the left, along a walkway next to the steps leading toward the basilica. Showing Vatican passports, they walked by Swiss guards, the Pope’s traditional bodyguards, whose long-handled battle-axes and striped uniforms with billowy sleeves looked more theatrical than threatening, and proceeded beneath the Arch of the Bells, finally within the capital of the Catholic Church. Though the Vatican’s permanent population was only slightly more than one thousand, the crowd of clergy and tourists was considerable. Guides supervised the laity.
They crossed a small rectangular open area, the Piazza of the First Roman Martyrs. On its right, the basilica loomed. But on the left, at the end of a narrow street, cypresses canopied a tiny cemetery.
“Important sponsors of the Church used to have the honor of being buried here,” Drew said. “To add to the honor, the Vatican brought in dirt from the hill in Jerusalem where Christ was crucified.”
They passed beneath two farther arches, reached the Vatican courthouse, rounded the back of St. Peter’s Basilica, and followed a maze of wooded lanes till they came to their destination, the Vatican gardens. Fountains and hedges, ponds and flowers surrounded them, creating a sense of peace. One of the fountains was shaped like a Spanish galleon. Cannons on each side spouted water, as did the horn in the mouth of a child on the bow.
“I thought you’d appreciate these gardens,” a voice said behind them. “They make Rome—and indeed the world—seem far away.”
Though sudden, the voice wasn’t startling. Drew had been expecting contact soon. He turned toward Father Sebastian. “Is this where he died?”
“Father Victor?” The priest wore a white collar, black bib, and suit. His eyes were bleak. “At two o’clock in the morning. Over there, by that lily pond. Beside that marble angel. Shot twice in the head.”
Drew frowned. “What was he doing here so late?”
“Meeting someone. Father Victor was thorough. He kept an appointment book, which he submitted to us before his daily activities. The record indicates he didn’t know whom he’d be meeting here at such an hour. But his notation makes clear, the meeting concerned Cardinal Pavelic’s disappearance.”
Drew peered past the trees of the gardens toward the towering basilica and the other buildings within the Vatican. “Do we assume that whoever met him lived in one of the Vatican’s apartments? That would explain why the gardens were chosen as the meeting place.” Drew shook his head. “On the other hand, maybe that’s what we’re supposed to think. Maybe someone from outside chose the gardens just to make it seem as if he lived in the Vatican.”
“Or maybe the person who was scheduled to meet Father Victor didn’t show up, or someone else came along after the meeting,” Arlene said. “An unidentified contact, a meeting place that might be intended to mislead us. We don’t know anything.”
“Except for the nature of Father Victor’s wounds,” Father Sebastian said.
Drew’s interest quickened. “What about them?”
“Both were full in the face. The powder burns indicate extremely close range. You understand?”
“Yes. Anything’s possible in the night. But from what you’ve said about Father Victor, he was a professional. Even granting that a professional is capable of being fooled, the powder burns suggest the killer was probably someone he knew, someone he trusted enough to come up close to him.”
Father Sebastian’s dark eyes blazed. “Conceivably a member of my order.”
Drew glanced toward the ring on Father Sebastian’s left hand, middle finger. Gold setting. Magnificent ruby. Its insignia an intersecting cross and sword. Again he felt chilled by the symbol of religion and violence, by his enforced involvement with the Fraternity of the Stone.
“Perhaps the same member of my order who twice tried to stop you from cooperating with us,” Father Sebastian continued. “To keep you from finding out why Cardinal Pavelic disappeared. Be careful, Brother MacLane. Coming to this rendezvous, I made triply sure I wasn’t followed. But after this, it isn’t wise for us to meet again. Use the safe-deposit box in Zurich to pass on messages.”
“We don’t have the key for it, or the number of the bank account, or—”
“The records Fa
ther Victor kept that led him to be summoned to these Vatican gardens at two A.M. You’ll also want the weapons I promised.”
“Those in particular.”
“After I leave, stroll over to the marble angel beside that lily pond. The site of Father Victor’s death. Behind the angel, a metal plate covers a niche in the marble. Raise the metal plate. Beside the tap that controls the flow of water for the fountain, you’ll find a package. It contains everything you need.”
2
The package—ten inches long and wide, four inches thick, wrapped in coarse brown paper, addressed to an illegible name and stamped as if it had gone through the Vatican’s postal system—was heavy out of proportion to its shape. Drew held it with deceptive casualness while he and Arlene left the Vatican, crossing St. Peter’s Square. So far, their cover as a priest and nun had allowed them to seem invisible, but now he anticipated what they’d have to do next, and the disadvantage of their disguise quickly became apparent.
Arlene said what he was thinking. “If we keep hanging around together dressed like this, we will attract attention. We’ll cause a damned scandal.”
“Sister, such language. I’m shocked.”
She made a face at him. “Where are we going to study the documents? Not in public. And a nun and a priest can’t rent a room together. I can’t even visit you if we rent rooms separately. What about tonight? It isn’t safe to sleep apart.”
“Safe? Your sense of romance touches me deeply.”
She grinned. “Not to disillusion you, but …”
“Yes?”
“Your body isn’t high on my list of priorities right now.”
“Commendable, Sister. Subdue carnal thoughts.” Drew glanced at the shops along the Via della Conciliazione. “But a change of wardrobe might not be a bad idea.”
“Where do we put on the clothes? We’ll raise a lot of eyebrows if we do it in the stores.”
“We’ll find a place. How hard can it be?”
3
How hard? Drew mentally repeated after fifteen minutes of washing his hands in the train station’s men’s room, waiting for it to be empty. How hard? It seemed an unwritten law that every patron of this restroom had to pass the time of day with the padre with whom they shared such intimate facilities. “Yes, my son. Very good, my son,” Drew answered in Italian, continuing to wash his hands.
At last the men’s room was empty. Ducking into a stall, he quickly changed from his priest’s black suit and white collar into gray slacks, a blue shirt, and a navy blazer. He stuffed the priest’s suit into the paper bag from which he’d taken his purchases, then carried both the bag and the small heavy package of weapons and documents from the stall just as a security guard walked into the restroom. Drew restrained himself from saying “Good day, my son,” and went out into the train station.
The noise of the crowd was awesome, reverberating within the cathedral-like structure. Reflexively, he scanned the surge of bodies, looking for anyone who didn’t fit the pattern of hurried travelers. Satisfied, he made his way to a pillar, behind which Arlene—wearing beige slacks, a matching jacket, and an emerald blouse that emphasized the green of her eyes—was waiting.
“What took you so long?” she asked. “I was starting to think I’d need to come in after you.”
“Talking to my flock. See these hands. The cleanest in the city.”
4
The draperies were closed. Beyond them, the roar of evening traffic intensified. The husk of the opened package lay on the hotel bed, next to a safe-deposit box key, Italian money, two Mausers, and the sheaf of documents.
Drew divided the documents between Arlene and himself. All were photocopies. Of newspaper clippings, Father Victor’s appointment book, transcripted telephone conversations, reports from informants, and files compiled by the lay investigators assigned to the case.
Arlene looked up, impressed. “Father Victor’s sources were excellent. He had access to everything Interpol and the local police knew.”
“And a lot they didn’t know, thanks to his contacts within the Church. Look at this. He even had sources in all the major intelligence networks, including the KGB.”
It took them three hours before they felt they’d studied the documents sufficiently. Drew slumped on the sofa. “Looks like the Fraternity went through a lot of wasted trouble bringing us into this. I don’t see anything that gives us a lead.”
Arlene rubbed her tired eyes. “Father Victor did everything I’d have done. He covered every angle—religious, political, criminal.”
“And apparently came up with nothing. Yet someone killed him. Why?”
“It could have been an unrelated matter. Nothing to do with the cardinal’s disappearance,” she said.
“Could be. But his appointment book suggests the meeting at the Vatican gardens involved this case. And something else bothers me. The Fraternity’s one of the best networks I’ve ever seen. With all its resources, what are we supposed to do that it can’t?”
“Just what Father Sebastian explained,” she said. “A member of the Fraternity wants to sabotage the order. Two motivated outsiders have a better chance of learning why Cardinal Pavelic disappeared.”
“Because the traitor within the network won’t know what we’re doing and can’t interfere.” Drew stood and paced. “Does that make sense? Why doesn’t Father Sebastian detach himself from his order and rely on his own devices to do what he expects us to do? What’s the difference? Why me? Why us?”
“You think we’re being set up?”
“Sure looks that way. The ambush in the desert. The bomb in Cairo. The traitor obviously knows you were sent to bring me to Father Sebastian. Maybe Father Sebastian chose us because as outsiders we’re expendable. Instead of risking his life or someone else’s in the Fraternity, he lets us take the risk and hopes the traitor will make a mistake when he comes after us.”
“But wouldn’t any outsider have served his purpose?” Arlene asked. “For sufficient money, Father Sebastian could have had his pick among any number of independent contractors.” She hesitated. Her green eyes flared. “Except no amount of money would have kept an independent contractor on the job after two attempts against him. We were chosen because we had a better motivation. If we don’t cooperate, the Fraternity will kill us.”
“Life does seem very sweet right now.” Drew smiled and squeezed her hand. “We’ve got the greatest reason in the world to want to keep living.” His voice became hoarse. “So we weigh a certain death against a less certain death. And here we are. We know we’re being manipulated, but we have to permit it.”
“Then let’s get the job done.”
“And get on with our lives.” He picked up a photostat of a newspaper story.
CARDINAL’S DISAPPEARANCE REMAINS A MYSTERY
ROME, ITALY, February 28 (AP)—Vatican officials and Rome police remain baffled five days after the disappearance of Cardinal Krunoslav Pavelic, influential member of the Roman Catholic Church’s central administration group, the Curia.
Pavelic, seventy-two, was last seen by close associates after celebrating a private mass in the chapel of his Vatican living quarters Sunday evening. On Monday, he had been scheduled to give the keynote address to a widely publicized conference of Catholic bishops on the subject of the Church’s political relations with Eastern European communist regimes.
Authorities at first suspected right-wing terrorists of abducting Cardinal Pavelic to protest a rumored softening of the Vatican’s attitude toward any communist regime willing to ease restrictions on Church activities. However, no extremist group has so far claimed responsibility for Pavelic’s disappearance.
Drew finished reading. He turned to Arlene, who’d leaned forward to read past his shoulder.
“What can a newspaper story tell you that isn’t better substantiated in the primary documents Father Victor had?” she asked.
“Right now, I’m interested in what isn’t in those other documents.” Drew’s hand tighte
ned on the photostat of the newspaper story. “You said Father Victor had covered every angle—religious, political, criminal? But one angle’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“It might be the reason Father Sebastian wanted us. Wanted me.” He had trouble speaking. “It used to be my specialty.” Again, unbearably, he suffered through the memory of the explosion that had dismembered his parents before his eyes, the rage that had turned him into an instrument of vengeance and had ultimately driven him to the penance of the monastery.
“Terrorists.” The word made bile rise to his mouth. “The newspaper story mentions the possibility that Cardinal Pavelic was abducted by them. But where in these other documents has that possibility been investigated and dismissed? Is that our direction?”
5
The morning sun fought through a veil of smog. Escaping the blare of traffic, Drew entered a pay phone near the Colosseum and dialed a number he hadn’t used in almost eight years. He felt an unnerving sense of déjà vu.
A man, whose raspy voice Drew didn’t recognize, answered in Italian. “Forum Dry Cleaners.”
Drew replied in Italian, “Mr. Carelli, please.”
“No Carelli here.”
“But can you relay a message to him?”
“I told you no Carelli. I never heard of him.” The man hung up.
Drew replaced the phone on its hook and leaned against the glass wall of the booth.
Arlene stood just outside. “From the look on your face, I gather you didn’t make contact.”
“Apparently some changes have been made.”
“Eight years. It isn’t surprising. Relays are changed as often as every week.”
“I guess I’d hoped we could do this easily.”
“Who is Carelli?”
“A pseudonym for a man called Gatto. In the old days, when I was an operative, he was a middleman. Sometimes we used him as a backup, in case a mission went sour. More often, we bought information from him.”