Текст книги "The Book of Q"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

A more and more inviting prospect the farther on he walked.

That there was hardly any light didn’t seem to bother him in the least. The lamps were for town; out here, they would have been an intrusion.

He had walked the route perhaps fifteen times in the last day, committing to memory the exact number of paces required along each lane, the placement of each turn, the points when the road would rise and fall-but nothing visual. Too much conspired at night to make anything but the most precise measurements a reliable guide. The countryside could play tricks, tease with the appearance of a hedge, the outline of a house. He might as well have been blindfolded, for the attention he gave to his surroundings.

Concentrating on the numbers also allowed him to focus on the sound of his steps, barely audible even within the crisp stillness of the late evening. The last of the houses had come and gone some ten minutes back, his only indication a sudden quickening in the roll of the road, the undulation more and more aggressive during the last quarter mile of the walk.

As he reached the end of the count, he looked up and saw the small church in front of him, its outline cutting into the sky, its Norman lines lost to the blackness. He scanned the area to his right; the manse, a small cottage by day, was now little more than an amorphous hump on the horizon. He headed for the side of the church farthest from it, a window he had left unlatched during his visit that afternoon. Truth be told, he’d removed the latch entirely. No reason to leave anything to chance.

Hoisting himself up to the sill, he lifted the window, a momentary screech of metal on wood, nothing, though, to cause concern. He then pivoted himself through, slid down to the stone floor, and removed the pack from his back. Retrieving a laser-line flashlight from one of the compartments, he twisted its head and pointed the fine beam at the ground.

It would take him almost an hour to plant the explosives, most of the time devoted to positioning them so that enough of the fragments could be found and traced. That took some expertise. It was why he had been chosen.

Why others had been chosen.

Vienna. Ankara. Bilbao. Montana. Over a thousand names. Over a thousand churches.

One result.

Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.

The humidity had returned, even in the short amount of time they had spent in the restaurant. Added to that, the alley outside smelled like three-day-old garbage, the neighborhood cats having made easy work of the cans and bags placed along the walls. One or two were still busy, unconcerned with the arrival of the odd quartet. A quick glance over, then back to the hunt.

As the four of them neared the alley’s edge, Mendravic turned to Pearse. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll bring the car around.” He then handed him the boy and moved off down the street.

For just a moment, Ivo lifted his head, eyes half-asleep; just as quickly, he dropped his head down, nuzzling into the soft of Pearse’s neck.

It had happened so quickly, Pearse had no time to react. The boy in his arms. The very thing he’d been unable to do himself back in the apartment now handed to him without a thought. Mendravic had had other things to worry about.

Strangely enough, Pearse couldn’t recall what they were. Not with his son in his arms. For several minutes, he stood, eyes closed, arms wrapped around the sleeping boy, forcing himself not to hold him too tightly, the impulse almost too much. Mind a blank. The smell of sleep from his hair. The sound of breath on his neck. Here was the Teresian moment, felt, not thought, not even fully understood.

At some point, Pearse began to feel a hand on his arm. He turned to see Petra.

“You can let me have him,” she said, her arms outstretched, waiting.

He was about to tell her that it would be easier for him to carry the boy, when he saw the expression on her face. She seemed torn, unsure whether to give in to a moment she had wanted for so long, or to take back what was hers-if, in fact, she could think of Ivo as hers alone anymore.

Pearse suddenly understood why he had been so afraid in the apartment. It was because of this moment. Having held him, and then to give him up. That was the loss.

With a simple nod, he reached up under Ivo’s shoulder and carefully lifted him to his mother. Again, the boy’s body draped awkwardly on hers, but it didn’t seem to register with her at all.

Trying to focus on anything but the last few minutes, Pearse suddenly realized it was taking Mendravic a very long time to get the car they had left just outside the front of the restaurant. Motioning for Petra to stand back in the shadows, he slowly edged his face out into the light. He looked back over his shoulder. “Wait here.”

An eerie quiet filled the street, heightened by the glow of two white lamps at either end. No signs of life as he slowly began to move out along the pavement, head low, his own shadow half a foot in front of him. The air seemed to grow more sterile with each step, a dryness in his throat. Nearing the corner, he heard his own voice begging him to turn back. Still he walked.

The sound of squealing wheels broke through, his first instinct to flatten himself against the wall. The car was coming from behind him, its lights on high beam, blinding him for an instant as it careened down the street. With a sudden choking of the engine, it stopped directly in front of the alley. Pearse pulled himself from the wall and began to run, the only image in his head that of Petra and the boy, his own horror at having abandoned them. With his hand up to guard against the glare, he saw the driver’s door open, a man begin to emerge. Pearse propelled himself faster, lunging at the figure as he stood.

Mendravic caught him with a quick forearm, locking his throat in a viselike grip.

The two recognized each other instantly. Mendravic released, Pearse gasping for air as he steadied himself against the car.

“What the hell were you …” Mendravic had no time for questions as he moved to the back of the van, opened the trunk, and motioned for Petra to bring Ivo. Mother and son emerged from the alley, Mendravic taking the boy and placing him inside the van. Petra stepped up into the back cabin as well. Mendravic shut the door.

It was only then that Pearse saw the blood on his arm.

“Salko, what-”

“Get in the car,” he barked, racing to the driver’s side. Pearse leapt around to the other. He’d barely pulled the door shut before the car bolted out into the road.

Mendravic reached behind him and slid open a small glass partition to the back.

“Are you all right back there?” he asked.

“We’ll be fine,” Petra answered. “He’s up, though.” A small face suddenly appeared in the opening, eyes wide, a smile equally electric.

“Hello, Salko.”

“Well, look who’s up.” Mendravic continued to glance at his side mirror, his attention more on what lay behind them than on the road ahead. “Hello, little man,” he said. A hand now appeared and tugged at Mendravic’s ear, evidently a game between them. Removing the tiny fingers, Mendravic said, “Can you do me a favor, Ivo? Can you sit back there with Mommy and not make a sound? Can you do that for me?”

“Can I come sit with you?”

“Can you sit with Mommy?”

It was then that Ivo noticed Pearse. “Hello,” he said, his tone no less forthright.

“Hello.” Pearse smiled.

“I really need you to sit with Mommy,” said Mendravic, eyes still on the mirror. “Okay?”

The boy stared for another moment at the stranger, then back to Mendravic. Another quick squeeze, and then gone.

Mendravic slid the glass partition shut.

“He takes it all in stride, doesn’t he?” said Pearse.

“What?” Mendravic was concentrating on the road.

“Nothing.” Seeing the blood on Mendravic’s arm, he asked, “What happened?”

“Obviously, our friend in the resistance wasn’t as good as she thought she was.”

“They found you?”

“No. I found them. At the car. Good news, it was only two of them this time. Bad news, I wasn’t as effective.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we could have company.” He pulled the car around a corner, forcing Pearse up against the door.

“And your arm?”

“Is in pain.”

Pearse said nothing, watching as Mendravic took the road heading up into the mountains. Evidently, Visegrad would have to wait.

After nearly twenty minutes of silence, Mendravic finally seemed to relax behind the wheel.

“We’re not going to Visegrad,” said Pearse.

“Not tonight we’re not.” Mendravic took the car to seventy. “And we’re not taking Ivo anywhere near there.”

Pearse nodded, suddenly angry with himself. It was something he shouldn’t have needed to be told.

“Why did you leave them in the alley?” asked Mendravic.

The question felt like a slap to the face. “I … thought-”

“Next time, don’t. If I tell you to stay someplace, stay there. Do you understand?”

Pearse didn’t need to answer.

“I’ve got some friends,” Mendravic continued. “We’ll stay with them for a day or so until the boys with the boots move on.”

Pearse nodded.

“Just like old times,” said Mendravic, his attempt to lighten the mood ringing hollow.

Pearse looked back through the glass. Ivo was once again asleep in Petra’s lap. Her eyes were shut, as well.

Just like old times. It was a nostalgia he could have done without.

five

“… during or after the election of the new Pontiff, unless explicit authorization is granted by the same Pontiff; and never to lend support or favor to any interference, opposition, or any other form of intervention, whereby secular authorities of whatever order and degree or any group of people or individuals might wish to intervene in the election of the Roman Pontiff.”

The cardinal dean finished reading and began to make his way around the Sistine Chapel. One by one, the cardinal electors rose to acknowledge the oath.

Von Neurath sat with his hands comfortably in his lap. The hard back of the bench seemed to suit his posture, less so the velvet cushion underneath. On his right sat an Englishman; on the other, a South American. Neither had said a word in the last twenty minutes, better that way, since von Neurath couldn’t remember if his Spanish colleague was Brazilian or Argentinian, Escobar de something, if memory served. Cardinal Daly, however, was another matter entirely, well known among the conclave as a papabile-a “good prospect”-according to the scuttlebutt that had been circulating over the last few days. Strange that they’d placed two of the prime candidates so close to each other. Or maybe it was simply geography, the Italians on one side of the chapel, the rest of the Catholic world on the other.

Usually brightened by the afternoon sun, the chapel lay under a glow of standing lamps, the gated windows above the Perugino frescoes draped behind thick cloth, a nod to both the solemnity and the secrecy of the conclave. Even in the half-light, the chapel lost none of its grandeur, the plaintive stares from above deepened by the shadows, thick, muscular tones-the pigment having been restored-once again fresh and alive.

Von Neurath stared at one or two of the faces above. He’d never been all that taken with the paintings, far too ornate for his tastes. He much preferred the line of a van Eyck, or a Breu the Elder, or a Lochner, or even a Fra Angelico, if pressed to name an Italian. Now there was the precision of faith. With Michelangelo, everything of value seemed to get lost-hulking, self-indulgent bodies twisting this way and that, no direction, no meaning. Perfect for the Italians, he thought, each of whom continued to gaze up, with self-satisfied grins, as if somehow they were reading a private message, the figures meant for them alone. Von Neurath brought his arms to his chest and waited.

Movement by the altar caught his eye. The Cardinal Camerlengo-his old friend Fabrizzi-began to set the chalice and paten in place, cue for the initiation of the first ballot. Von Neurath looked down at the paper in his hand, the printed Latin a simple reminder of what had brought them all together.

“Eligo in summum pontificem …”

“I elect as supreme Pontiff …”

And next to it, in his own hand, the words “Erich Cardinal von Neurath.”

It was an odd sensation to see the name in front of him. The Italians might have their art, but he would have their throne. Looking up, he had to suppress a smile.

The dean approached him. Von Neurath stood.

“And I, Erich Cardinal von Neurath, do so promise, pledge, and swear.” He placed his hand on the Gospels held out in front of him. “So help me God and these Holy Gospels which I touch with my hand.”

Twenty minutes later, each of the 109 had sworn their troth. The voting began.

As the first of the cardinals moved toward the altar-always one by one-von Neurath scanned the faces across from him. How many of them were thinking of grandnieces and grandnephews? he wondered. Kleist had made over sixty tapes. He’d sent out fewer than twenty of them, but it was more than enough to encourage the crucial swing votes necessary to take him past the two-thirds majority for election.

The procession continued, at last his own turn. With a deep breath, he folded the paper in his hand, stood, and slowly walked toward the altar. Reaching the table, he turned back to the conclave, raised his ballot high for all to see, then placed it on the paten. He watched as the Cardinal Camerlengo lifted the gold plate and slid the ballot into the chalice. As simple as that.

Forty minutes passed before all the votes had been cast, time spent in silence. Some prayed, some stared longingly at the pictures. After all, it was the Divine Spirit who chose a Pope, not men. They could take the time to enjoy their surroundings-God’s will, not theirs, managing this most pressing of matters.

Von Neurath thought of the “Hodoporia.” He’d heard nothing from Kleist in over five days, the last message from Athos, confirmation that the priest had yet to get hold of the actual parchment. Some sort of book. One more step removed. Assurances that everything was close at hand.

Without the “Hodoporia,” though, von Neurath knew the papacy would mean nothing, infallibility or not. Two hundred and fifty million Catholics at his disposal, and no way to convince them to follow a new path. No way to justify the shifts to come with a divine authority.

He had no choice but to trust Kleist, trust that he would deliver what he had promised.

“Peretti.”

The sound of a voice brought his focus back to the altar. One of Fabrizzi’s three assistants-the scrutineers-was reading out the first ballot. He then passed it to the next cardinal, who likewise read it aloud. So, too, the third, who then ran a needle and thread through the paper.

“Daly.”

Von Neurath exchanged a moment’s smile with the Englishman as his name was echoed twice more. No need to worry. Two votes. One hundred and seven to go.

Eighteen minutes later, von Neurath sat stunned. By his own count, he had fallen six short of the majority, Peretti having taken forty of the remaining forty-two.

Evidently, several of the swing votes had decided not to swing.

The cardinals sat silently as one of Fabrizzi’s assistants gathered the twined ballots and notes and retreated to the small stove whose chimney had become so famous over time.

Black smoke.

Two more votes tomorrow morning, one tomorrow afternoon, if need be. For as long as it took.

The cardinals rose. Filing out, von Neurath noticed that Peretti was staring at him. The hint of a smile. He did his best to return it.

Kleist would have to make certain he wasn’t put in so embarrassing a position again.

Pearse had slept on and off for over twelve hours, his body finally giving out after more than a week of neglect. They had arrived in the village sometime after two, twenty miles west of Novi-Pazar, less than an hour from the Kosovar border, somewhere up in the hills. That they’d crossed back into Yugoslavia hadn’t occurred to him until he’d seen the signs for Belgrade. No border post, no guards. Evidently, when he wanted to, Mendravic could avoid such inconveniences.

Pulling up along one more dirt road-a smattering of houses spread out along the surrounding hills-they’d stopped at the only hovel still showing some signs of life. Ivo had been quickly carted away to a bed while Mendravic had made the introductions.

Much as Pearse had expected, the men and women of the KLA proved to be none-too-distant cousins of the Irish Provisionals, less concerned with practical objectives than with the grand design. He’d talked with them for over an hour, stories of recent escapades, all dismissed with a fanatic’s rationale. As it turned out, these were a new breed of KLA, taking their fight “beyond the borders,” as they had explained. The rest of Serbia/Yugoslavia would learn to leave Kosovo alone.

By three, he’d had his fill, the brandy having taken its toll, as well. Hoisting himself up from the table, he’d found a bed and slept.

No dreams. Not even a hint of movement. Just sleep.

Now, at almost three in the afternoon, he emerged from his room to find Petra alone at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in her hands.

Pearse found a cup and joined her.

“So, he finally appears,” she said as he sat. “What time did you make it to bed?”

Small talk. He could manage that. “A little bit after you. Not much of a conversation. Where is everyone?”

“Gone by the time I got up.” She took a sip, then glanced around the room. “This seems strangely familiar, eight years removed.”

He nodded, memories of Slitna hard to ignore, especially during last night’s diatribes. Pearse wondered if he and Petra had sounded as rabid, all those years ago. Probably, although he hoped not. They’d certainly never had rolls like the ones now beckoning to him from a dish at the center of the table. Better bread, greater mania, he thought. It seemed a logical enough connection.

He took a roll and tore off a piece, dunking the wedge in his coffee and quickly tossing it down.

“That, too,” she added.

“Saves time on the digestion. You knew that.” The second piece received a healthy slathering of butter. “Is Salko up?”

“Ivo wanted to go exploring. Mommy wouldn’t do. He pulled him out of bed about an hour ago.”

Pearse nodded, another sip of the coffee. “This doesn’t faze him at all, does it?”

“Ivo? No. I’m sure it’s like a game for him.”

“That’s quite a game.”

“Not when you’ve played it before.”

Pearse hesitated, then asked, “Ivo?”

“We were in a village like this for about three months in ’97.” Seeing his confusion, she explained, “When NATO pulled out? The trouble in Mostar?” Still nothing. “You do have newspapers in the United States, don’t you?” she added.

Pearse grinned. “I think we have a couple. I suppose you have to remember to read them.”

“I suppose you do. Although,” she added more pointedly, “I’m sure we stopped being front-page news once Mr. Clinton got reelected.”

No bitterness in what she said, just pragmatism. The same way she could talk about a seven-year-old being trundled from his bed in the middle of the night as part of some familiar game.

“He really takes to Salko, doesn’t he?”

“Didn’t you?”

Pearse nodded to himself, then rolled a piece of the buttered roll into a ball and popped it into his mouth. “Do they get to see a lot of each other?”

“About once a month. Maybe more, if something comes up.”

“Something … like what?”

“I don’t know. Little-boy things that a father would be-” She stopped herself. “Not really that often.”

She was trying to be kind. Even if he’d known what to say, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to find the words. He’d make her laugh, or put her in a position where she’d have to tell him to stop, just as he had last night. For some reason, he thought of the Ribadeneyra entries. The alchemy so manageable there. Here, impossible. Then again, better to leave unsaid what he couldn’t say.

“It’s good Ivo has him,” he finally said.

“It’s good they have each other,” she echoed. “Salko probably needs the fix more than Ivo does.”

Another ball of bread for him as she stared into her cup.

After a time, she said, “There are days, you know, when they disappear for hours. Just the two of them. Their ‘little adventures.’” She was letting him in, if only for a moment. “It’s funny. Ivo always comes back with this adorable look in his eyes, as if they’ve got some great secret. Something just the two of them know. The men.” She smiled to herself. “I remember when Salko taught him how to whistle. The great event. And Ivo came running in, and he waited and waited while Salko told me where they’d been, the two of them passing each other little winks and nods. I pretended not to notice. And then, all of a sudden, he started to whistle. This sweet little chirpy thing through the giggles. And we all started laughing. He was so proud of himself.” It was as if she were looking directly at them. “You should have seen his face when I whistled back. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t say a thing. Somehow, I knew the magic secret.” She laughed. “That’s when he told me I had a girl’s whistle. It wasn’t like Salko’s or his.” She stopped, eyes even more distant. “I wasn’t Mom. I was just a girl.”

Pearse took a sip of the coffee, then said. “Did Salko tell you why I’m here?”

She turned back to her cup. “Some of it.” She reached for a piece of bread, something to keep her hands busy. “I don’t think he’s that clear on it himself.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Whoever it is, they’re very thorough. They knew where to find me.”

“Sorry about that.”

She shot him a quick glance. A mock upbraiding. “They would have come whether you and Salko had shown up or not. Probably better that you did.”

“You’re being mighty nice this morning.”

“Don’t get too used to it.”

Without thinking, he dipped the buttered piece into his coffee, the black liquid turning a pale brown. “That was clever.”

“If you’d wanted milk, all you had to do was ask,” she said.

“Yes, thank you very much.” He stood and walked to the sink, then dumped out the cup. “It was pretty horrible anyway.” Regardless, he poured himself a fresh cup.

“I guess … this must be a bit of a shock,” she said.

“The bad coffee?” She let the comment pass. “I can’t say it’s what I expected when I left Rome, no.”

“Right.” She hesitated. “What did you mean yesterday? About it not making sense to you.”

He was about to take a sip, but stopped. “I thought … you didn’t want to talk about that.”

“I guess I do.”

He leaned back against the counter.

“Or …” She suddenly stood and moved to the counter, eyes fixed on the kettle. “Maybe not. Maybe now’s not the best time.” She picked up the kettle and, facing away from him, began to pour.

He tried to find something to say, but all he could come up with was, “Okay.”

She placed the kettle down and stood there, staring, her hands on the counter.

“I don’t even know why I asked,” she said.

He turned to her, her face in profile. Once more, he reached out and took her hand. This time, she didn’t pull away.

“Maybe … we should let this wait until after Visegrad,” he said.

Her eyes still on the counter, she nodded slowly. “Maybe we should.”

No movement. Then, slowly, she looked up at him, her hand still in his. She said nothing. A moment later, she let go and headed to the table, cup in hand.

“So,” she asked as she sat, “what exactly are you looking for in Visegrad?”

It took him a moment to refocus. “Remember that parchment we found in the old church?”

“Of course I remember it.”

“I think it’s related to that.”

Her eyes went wide. “That’s … bizarre.”

For the first time since he’d made the connection, Pearse realized he hadn’t taken the time to admit how odd it really was. For the next twenty-five minutes, he did his best to explain what he himself was having trouble understanding.

“And you think they’ll kill this friend of yours?” she asked.

Pearse shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He was about to explain further, when the sound of cars and vans broke through from outside. Both of them moved to the window, Pearse’s initial assumption the boys from Kukes. When he recognized one of the men from last night’s conversation, however, he relaxed. That is, until he saw the makeshift stretcher, a body in tow, being pulled from the back of one of the vans. The place was at once alive with running figures, a woman walking by the side of the stretcher, her hands clutching something below the laid-out man’s shirt.

Petra was already out the door by the time Pearse could take it all in. He moved outside as well, two men pushing past him, no concern for their erstwhile guest.

“Some sort of raid that went wrong,” Petra said, drawing up to him. “Two of them are injured. I told them you’re a priest.”

“But they’re not Catholics.”

“They don’t seem to care. They’re taking them in there.”

Petra led him toward one of the houses, what passed for the village clinic. Not terribly sanitary, but certainly the cleanest room within a ten-mile radius. Inside, they’d already started on the man Pearse had seen through the window, the woman a doctor still at his side. The other lay on a second table, doing his best to hold back the screams, sudden bursts of air through his nose, a man who looked well into his forties but who was probably no more than twenty-five. Every few seconds, his back arched, the grimace on his face silencing whatever means of release he had found, the need for two others to hold him down. His leg was streaked red, a bandage drenched in blood around what remained of his right foot.

The other was at most nineteen, no screams, no movement, no need to hold him down. His eyes remained wide, a stare Pearse recalled all too well from another lifetime. This boy would be dead within minutes. Even so, the doctor was doing what she could. A small area of his shirt showed some blood, hardly enough, though, to prompt the distant stare. Only when he moved closer did Pearse realize that the front of the torso wasn’t the issue. From beneath the gurney, a small pool of blood had begun to gather on the table. The boy lay flat because to move would mean to leave a part of himself on the canvas. The doctor called Pearse over. They needed help with the shirt. Pearse did as he was told. Kukes revisited.

In a sudden movement, the boy grabbed his arm and began to speak in a rapid-fire whisper. Pearse turned to the doctor, expecting her to bark at him to get out of the way-but she was too busy to notice. Without thinking, Pearse leaned over, trying to make out even one or two of the words as they raced by. The boy spoke with such intensity that Pearse found himself nodding, as if he actually understood what the boy meant him to hear. The whisper gave way to a strange sort of laugh, the grasp on his arm loosening, until the boy drifted back to silence.

Pearse stared at the face.

The clarity of that moment. The purity of its language, even unheard.

Even as the gaze froze.

Pearse turned to the doctor. She, too, had watched the final moments; she reached over and shut the boy’s eyes. Not a word to Pearse as she moved to the second table. With everyone preoccupied, Pearse silently gave the boy the last rites, whichever God he prayed to.

Forty-five minutes later, he stood outside with Petra, the shock slowly wearing off.

As if heaven-sent, Ivo and Mendravic chose to appear at that moment, making their way up the road, the tinier of the two skipping, his hands filled with rocks and sticks, and who knows what-treasures only a seven-year-old could find. “Here’s to exploring,” Pearse said as he and Petra moved out to them. Ivo began to run toward his mother as soon as he saw her.

“We came back about twenty minutes ago,” said Mendravic as he drew up to Pearse.

“Did he see any of the-”

“No,” Mendravic answered, continuing to walk, leaving Ivo with his mother. “I thought it a good idea to find another adventure.”

Pearse nodded, continuing to walk. “One of them mentioned something about a raid gone wrong.”

“They picked the wrong day to go,” Mendravic replied.

Before he could explain, one of the KLA men had drawn up to them, now walking alongside. Youngish, mid-thirties, he’d been one of the more vocal around the table last night. Pearse couldn’t quite recall his name.

“It was as if they were waiting for us, Salko,” he began, ignoring Pearse altogether. “You wouldn’t have believed it. Armored vehicles, roadblocks, the whole works. We had no choice but to run. I still have no idea how they knew we were coming.”

“They didn’t,” answered Mendravic.

“I’m telling you-”

“You were an added bonus,” he explained. “They weren’t there for you.” Before the man could ask, Mendravic said, “They were there because of what happened two hours before you left.” Mendravic stopped. “Someone blew up a Catholic church around five this morning. I saw it on the news at that inn outside of Janca. The boy and I stopped for lunch. It was all over the television.”

“Serbs?” asked the man.

“They have no idea,” Mendravic answered. “No one killed. Just the building.”

“So why the roadblocks?” asked the man, a growing frustration in his voice. “You’d think they’d be happy that the Catholics got it. Happier if it had been a mosque.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Mendravic answered. “That’s why they were there. You were lucky to get away.”

“Because of some hysteria about a church, I lost a man?” Pearse could see the rage in his eyes, the utter disbelief. “They’ll blame it on us, won’t they? Catholic church. Muslim KLA. Probably did it themselves just for the excuse.” The man began to shake his head, all the while staring at Mendravic, Pearse evidently still invisible. When the words wouldn’t come, he finally looked at the priest, no hint of kindness in his eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if he might say something. Instead, he turned and headed back to the clinic.

“What weren’t you telling him?” asked Pearse when the man had moved out of earshot.

“It’s the stupidity that’ll make him want to kill them even more now,” Mendravic said, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure. When he realized Pearse had said something, he turned to him. “What?”

“There was something else you didn’t tell him, wasn’t there?”

Mendravic waited before answering. “When did you get to be so smart?”