Relic of Time (17 page)

“I began it when I was a student at Stanford.”

“Start another here, George.”

“One is more than I can handle.”

Bishop Sapienza's unvoiced dream was that, if the Vatican did accept his resignation, he would found a Catholic Worker house in Santa Ana and live out his remaining years doing what George Worth did.

Like George, he had deep reservations about Miguel Arroyo. As far as Sapienza was concerned, hungering and thirsting for justice was a lifetime occupation, an objective attainable in the next world, not in this. Justicia y Paz seemed to think that justice was just around the corner and that it needed prompting by less than peaceful means. Not that Miguel himself had taken up arms against the Minutemen on the border. Already, Sapienza had officiated at several funerals of young men who had gone out to the desert to fight and come home in body bags. He blamed Miguel for that; Miguel who had sounded a call to arms and dramatically declared that California had seceded from the Union. The man was a romantic, a dangerous romantic.

“And all this over a stolen image.”

George looked shocked. “It's hardly just another image.”

Sapienza conceded this. But if one wanted instances of the desecration of the sacred, think of all the offenses against Our Lord in the Holy Eucharist.

“The people are so deeply devoted to Our Lady of Guadalupe.”

“So am I, so am I. But I wouldn't go about shooting people for her sake.”

“Neither would Miguel.”

The two men commiserated with each other for an hour and then George headed for home.

“Palo Alto, Palo Alto,” Sapienza called after him, a blessing, a curse, or just a joke told too often. But it could have been relief that George had left before the scheduled arrival of Neal Admirari. Lulu was with him, and it was the first Sapienza had heard of their marriage.

“Oh, we've been married in petto for years,” Neal said breezily.

“I won't ask what that means.”

Lulu said, “Never ask a wordsmith what he means.”

“I will say you both look happy.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Lulu dropped to her knees, tugging Neal down beside her, and asked for his blessing.

“You have been married, in the Church, haven't you?” he asked in alarm. Sometimes people interpreted his lifestyle as a disdain for all the rules.

“No, in San Diego.”

“That's close enough.” And he raised his unringed hand in blessing over them. Lulu had to help Neal to his feet afterward. Sapienza could not have said why he liked these two, particularly Lulu. His dislike for journalists had been fed during his unhappy years in Washington, working in the Taj Mahal a block from the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. He hoped this wasn't because Lulu had written flattering portraits of him, especially since he had come to Santa Ana. Neal pretended to think that the town was named for a general.

“I think it was the other way around.”

“You could rename it for General Arroyo.”

Sapienza rolled his eyes. He had hoped that subject had left with George Worth, but after all these two were journalists and the theft from the basilica in Mexico City continued to be the central item in the news of the day, along with accounts of the guerrilla battles in the Southwest mountains and desert. But it was the mystifying presence of Don Ibanez in the long-term parking lot in San Francisco that the two had on their minds.

“It turns out that the man who was killed was a former CIA agent.”

Lulu added, “It looks like a botched attempt to regain the image. Ignatius Hannan was there, too, with his staff.”

“The dead agent was associated with Theophilus Grady.”

“Hannan is offering a million dollars ransom for the image.”

But it was the presence of Don Ibanez that intrigued Sapienza.

“And how does Don Ibanez explain his presence?”

“Who knows? He is incognito in his hacienda.”

Sapienza had visited there; he had been given the grand tour; he had stood nonplussed in the replica of the basilica, trying not to think of what the money that had gone into it might have done for the poor in his diocese. Don Ibanez seemed to read his thoughts. Sapienza left with a sizeable check.

“And Vincent Traeger was there, too. Posing as Don Ibanez's chauffeur.”

“Traeger?”

“Another former CIA agent. Hannan has hired him before.”

“It sounds as if you have all kinds of leads to pursue.” He might have been asking why they had come to him.

“We thought you could intervene for us with Don Ibanez.”

“I scarcely know the man.”

“He thinks the world of you.”

Sometimes it was difficult not to take pleasure in such praise, culpable pleasure, he was sure. His great fear was that he was a showboat like Miguel Arroyo, drawing attention to himself by trying not to draw attention to himself. Several other bishops had followed his example and abandoned the episcopal regalia except on liturgical occasions. His first reaction had told him what others must think of him. Look, Ma, I'm simple.

“And how would I persuade him. If I tried?”

“Lowry, the cook at the Catholic Worker, suspects that Don Ibanez knows where the stolen portrait is.”

George was lucky to have such a man in Palo Alto. Ah, the conversations he'd had with Lowry. Lowry, having returned to the faith of his youth after years as a communist, had seemingly lost forever the deference laity paid to the clergy, especially to bishops.

“Will you take up tent making, too?” Lowry screwed his vile pipe into the corner of his mouth.

“Only after I've survived a shipwreck or two.”

But Lowry's remark had linked Sapienza to Saint Paul, to the first generation of bishops, the apostles, whom bishops down the ages descended from.

Now, in answer to the two reporters, Sapienza said he didn't have time or leisure to make a trip to Napa Valley.

“You could do it with a phone call.”

As if to prove them wrong, Sapienza consulted a Rolo-dex and then rang the number of the hacienda. The daughter, Clare, answered. She had come to Sapienza when she had decided against staying on with George at the Catholic Worker. She would be better off in a convent. He agreed that such poverty was not for her. But even as he said it, he doubted that she would long take comfort from his endorsement of her decision. The real problem was her feeling for George Worth. So much for the convent.

“Oh, Bishop, he's not here just now. Is there anything I can do?”

“Just ask him to return my call. There's no rush.”

Lulu and Neal hadn't liked that addendum, but still they thanked him. He watched them go out to their car, holding the slip of paper on which Lulu had written the number of her cell phone. He was to call them as soon as he heard from Don Ibanez.

Meanwhile, he drove to Palo Alto to have a talk with Lowry.

Theophilus Grady stood at a picture window that provided a magnificent view he did not see, thumbs hooked in his holsters, pondering the news from San Francisco. Morgan, it was clear, was a traitor, but then Grady had known that for some time, thanks to Gladys Stone. He had yet to hear from the teams he had sent to shadow Morgan. He felt surrounded by people he could not trust, but distrust is the bane of the vigilante. Vigilantes by definition work outside the law, their sense of loyalty in escrow, so how could they be expected to be loyal to their leader? But finally word came. The two Hummers were on their way, and they were bracketing Crosby on the interstate as they came.

Crosby. He had zapped a photo of Crosby to Wortman in the second Hummer, and he made the identification. Grady tried to smile. At least it wasn't Traeger. The photo of Traeger had drawn a blank from Wortman. Traeger had led the squad that had spirited Grady out of Albania. Traeger was real trouble. But Crosby was not much less. It was clear from talking to Wortman in the second Hummer that Crosby had been a witness of what had happened at the San Francisco airport. He did not like to think what that meant for his old comrade. After some thought, he told the Hummer following Crosby to let him come on unmolested. Wortman expressed surprise and disappointment in the response.

“But keep him in view. I want to know exactly where he is once he gets here.”

Wortman sounded like a man who did not intend to follow orders.

Some hours later, he was closeted with Ehman, the driver of the first Hummer, the one Crosby had tailed. He listened impatiently. Ehman had no idea how to report; most of it was jabber.

“Do you have it?”

Ehman looked blank.

“What you got from the trunk after you took care of Morgan?”

“That package? Sure, we have it.”

“And the money?”

“Wortman has that.”

Ehman and those with him seemed to know less about what had happened on the scene in long-term parking than he did. He had kept their tasks separate. He didn't want any of them pulling a Morgan on him. Well, now they knew what happened to traitors.

“We just got the hell out of there when the police arrived.”

Did he want to be congratulated?

“Wortman picked up the car that must have followed me out of there.”

“Where is he?”

“He should be here any minute.”

Ehman knew nothing of the details of missing money that Hannan had put up for the picture. What in hell had Morgan thought he could palm off on them for a cool million? The cunning Arroyo had assured Grady that the image was safe.

“Where?”

“Where would you hide a book?”

Grady waited. Arroyo was a pain in the ass. Revolution makes strange bedfellows.

“In a library!”

Arroyo would say no more. The one thing they had for sure in common was the conviction that that portrait should not be returned to Mexico City, not for a cool million, not for anything. It was, after all, the casus belli. Grady had an informant on Pulaski's staff and knew at least something of what was going on out there. Maybe he should have stayed in place on the border, fought the good fight, as Pulaski and his Minutemen were. That would be a helluva lot better than being squir-reled away here, dependent on reports. And relying on asses like Ehman. On the other hand, if they had not decamped, he would have been deprived of that triumphant news conference in El Paso.

So what the hell had happened in San Francisco? Of course he didn't believe a fraction of what he got from the media. He realized that he had been wiser than he knew to allow Crosby to come to where he was. Crosby could give him a better report on what had gone on in the long-term parking lot than Ehman or any of the others. And then, predictably, Mooney, Independent congressman from Arizona, was on the line.

“Congratulations!” cried the congressman.

What the hell did Mooney think had happened?

“It was a bloody mess, sir.”

“But you recovered the thing! What if it had been returned? That would have ruined everything.”

Despite his gringo name, Mooney was nine-tenths Latino, the darling of his Arizona constituents. He was Grady's vocal support in Washington and, more important, the main conduit through which essential government equipment flowed to the Rough Riders.

No need to enlighten Mooney, even if he could have. The congressman seemed to think that Grady had set the whole thing up, led Morgan into a trap, and got the picture back, as well as the money the zealot Hannan had put up. Not a bad day's work.

“I'd rather be down there with Pulaski.”

“Hey, whose side are you on?”

The fact was that Grady could not have answered that question. As in Albania, he was satisfied with wreaking havoc in the unexamined hope that havoc would give rise to something good. Mooney had not liked Grady's press conference remarks in El Paso.

“We've been through that.”

After El Paso, in answer to Mooney's objections, Grady had told the congressman that he was playing both ends against the middle. Keep them off balance, that was the thing.

Arroyo, on the other hand, had liked the way Grady took responsibility for what had happened in the basilica in Mexico City. Why wouldn't he? It took him off the hook, unless of course Grady changed his story.

Wortman and those with him had not returned, and Grady was thinking of that bag of money. Crosby, he learned, had checked into a motel on the outskirts of Pocatello after following Ehman to where the road led up to his mountain cabin. Grady would have called it the Eagle's Nest, but he didn't like the connotations.

Having Crosby located gave him time to think of the next step. Sometimes he regretted not having Crosby brought to him right away. On the other hand, he doubted that Crosby would long remain a single threat, and it was important to learn who might join him.