The Book of Q (24 page)

With that in mind, Pearse attached himself to the first clump of passengers off of the bus, he at its rear, head tucked low into the shoulders of those around him. Even so, he had no idea what he would do should someone appear. He’d used up his one flash of brilliance in Kalambáka.
Clutching at the strap of his pack, he stepped through the platform gate and into the central hall.

Far grander than he’d expected, the station opened up under a vaulted dome of steel and glass, a series of tobacco shops, shoe-repair stalls, and newspaper kiosks all littered about, the tinny sound of overamplification echoing with each muffled announcement.

Head still bent, Pearse noticed a man—no more than twenty-five—making his way toward the recent arrivals. A man who seemed to be staring directly at him.

For the second time in the last few hours, Pearse felt the blood drain from his face. He edged his way deeper into the group.

Still the man came, heading straight for him. Pearse knew it was pointless to run. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a guard by one of the exits. He was on the verge of breaking toward him, when the young man did something Pearse never expected.

He waved, a hesitant smile on his face.

The movement stopped Pearse in his tracks.

“Professor Seldon?” The young man continued toward him. “Peter Seldon?”

It took Pearse a moment to remember.

“Yes…. Yes, that’s me,” he answered.

“Oh, good,” the man said, pulling up to his side. “I was a little worried. Dominic Andrakos. Professor Angeli—”

“Of course. Yes. Hello.” The two men exchanged a handshake.

“You were worried you wouldn’t find your way to my place?” Andrakos asked.

Pearse realized the relief on his face must have been all too obvious. “Something like that.”

“Understandable.” Andrakos smiled. “Salonika can be a bit tricky. The professor described you over the phone. She said you were coming by ferry. As there’s only one bus a day from the west, I took the chance. My car is just out front.”

“Lead the way,” Pearse added in Greek.

“Oh? You speak,” he responded in kind. “The professor didn’t mention that.”

“Enough to get by. I’m much better with the classical.”

“Then this will be good practice for you.”

Ten minutes later, they were fighting the traffic on Odós Egnatia, one of Salonika’s broader avenues, Andrakos spouting bits and pieces of historical
insight as they drove. Mario Andretti as tour guide. Pearse kept a hand on the car’s dashboard, nodding each time the younger man took a breath. Had it not been for the speed and the still-unsettling few moments at the station, he might actually have enjoyed the ride. As it was, he was simply glad to be getting closer to the mountain.

The guard at the desk nodded to Kleist, no need for identification, not even a second glance at the package in his hands. Security had been punched up since the Pope’s death, most buildings within the Vatican under continuous surveillance. As a senior officer, Kleist was becoming a familiar figure around the City. In fact, he’d been to the Domus Sanctae Marthae four times in the last two days. Not that surprising, given that the six-story hospice would soon be home to the hundred or so members of the conclave. The cardinals had been forced to stay in makeshift quarters at the Papal Palace for centuries; now, they enjoyed far more spacious living during their deliberations. John Paul II had seen to that. Boniface had found no reason to change things back.

Having surveyed the building several times now, Kleist wished the late Pope had. The whole thing was too spread out, too disjointed, much more difficult to control.

His concern, however, had little to do with the cardinals’ safety. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Trying to bury upward of a hundred men under fifty tons of marble and stone would, he was discovering, require twice as many explosives as would the Papal Palace. Much greater chance of discovery. That the plastique would be in the building for less than an hour once the call came through made little difference. Impromptu spot checks by the bomb squad—dogs in tow—could be expected each night the conclave sat in session. And once they had chosen a new Pope, Kleist knew security would be taken to an even higher level. All of which meant that while the world celebrated the election, he would be racing around the hospice, twelve to fourteen minutes to plant the bombs between the dogs’ departure and the cardinals’ return.

Added to that, von Neurath had been adamant that certain fragments from the explosives remain sufficiently intact to allow for positive identification. They had gone to too much trouble acquiring the casings—ones that their Syrian dealer had assured them had come from the private cache of the Dar Hadjid, one of the more ruthless militant groups out of Iran—not to leave enough detritus for the source to be
traced. The choice to target the third and fifth floors, therefore, had as much to do with room assignments as with engineering. Certain crucial cardinals on the fifth; best chance for surviving fragments on the third. As von Neurath had said, two birds with one stone: Allah’s stamp on the atrocity, more room for their own in the Sacred College. He had displayed a genuine delight in detailing the strategy.

And yet, the actual horror of what they were planning troubled Kleist far less than the cardinal’s explicit instructions that he discuss the preparations with no one but him. Usual protocol required Blaney, Ludovisi, and the contessa to be kept apprised of every detail. Von Neurath had explained that the lines of communication needed to be restricted at this point. Why was not his concern. Still, it seemed odd.

Reaching the fifth floor, he pulled a collection of brackets from the package, along with a section of blueprint, and moved down the corridor. The schematic was surprisingly clear. Inside several heating vents and ceiling ducts along the hall, he attached two sets of the metal supports, less than a minute for the epoxy to harden at each stop. It had been the same that afternoon on the third floor. One or two more trips, and everything would be in place.

Back on the ground floor, he nodded to the guard on his way out. “Everything looks fine.” Kleist smiled.

“Wouldn’t have expected anything else,” answered the man.

Good to hear, thought Kleist as he stepped out into the night.

The university’s junior faculty housing made Pearse’s Vatican rooms seem lush by comparison. Andrakos insisted on a glass of something before they headed out; given the last day and a half, Pearse readily accepted. They toasted over a tiny wooden table in what passed for the kitchen, both men downing the liqueur in a single swig.

“Hooo.” Pearse coughed several times, his eyes filling with tears. He’d had ouzo before. This was definitely not ouzo.

“
Yamass
,” said the young Greek. “You won’t get this quality booze for a couple of days.”

“That might be a blessing in disguise.”

Andrakos smiled and tilted back his glass, refilling both before Pearse could say no. “They water down everything on the mountain.”

“I can understand why.” If he’d had any concerns about Andrakos’s driving before, he couldn’t wait to see him on the road after two of these.

Surprisingly, the alcohol changed very little. In fact, it seemed to heighten his skills. While Pearse replanted his hand firmly on the dashboard, Andrakos took the car in and out of alleys, crisscrossing and circumventing the afternoon traffic with extraordinary ease. Amid the whirlwind, he even managed to throw in a few more sights—a fleeting view of the Arch of Galerius, sixty feet of weathered stone and marble, its side piers lopped off, leaving only a gated torso, several bands of reliefs chiseled below, a glimpse into the city’s Roman past.

“A little reminder of home for you,” said Andrakos.

“Doesn’t look like Boston,” said Pearse.

“Ah,” said Andrakos. “I meant your current home.”

“You’d love Boston. Just remember to take the car.”

Pearse was permitted only a few seconds to take it all in before they were zipping past mosques and minarets, a quick glance at Atatürk’s birthplace, confirmation of Salonika’s role as meeting place between East and West. An equal-opportunity guide, Andrakos enjoyed recalling his city’s tug-of-war history, secure in the fact that whatever her conquerors had tried to impose, they had never escaped her singular imprint. Salonika was forever Greek, its relics—Roman, Turkish, Armenian—infused with the image of that Hellenic past.

It was only when he realized they were making their way deeper into town, rather than out to the mountain, that Pearse spoke up.

“Travel visas,” Andrakos explained. “No documents, no monks.”

Less than five minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Ministry of Macedonia and Thrace, which, as far as Pearse could see, was Agiou Dimitriou Street’s answer to Rome’s Palazzo Borghese, though on a far less opulent scale. The ash gray building stood back from the street, a pebble garden leading to the entrance steps, with arched columns beyond. Inside, the fantasy quickly faded, stark walls amid a bureaucrat’s maze of offices, along with two bizarre modern sculptures standing sentry at the door. A far cry from the Berninis he had hoped for.

Andrakos hurried them through the main hall, hellos and nods to just about everyone they passed. The same held true on the second floor, first names for most, smiles and waves following him down the corridor. Clearly, Angeli had chosen her contact well.

He headed for the office at the far end, not bothering to knock before venturing in.

“
Yasu
, Stanto,” he said, moving straight for the desk.

The man in the chair looked up, a slightly older version of Dominic, a brother’s glare in his eye. “Don’t you even bother to knock, Nikki? I could have had someone—”

“I told you I was coming. We need the papers.”

It was then that the older Andrakos noticed Pearse at the door. “Oh, yes. Hello,” he said in English. “Please come in.”

Pearse stepped inside, at once taken by the view through the window—picturesque church, several bubble domes atop a ceramic roof, clear indication of Stanto’s favored position at the ministry. A view like that took years to acquire.

Dominic was already busy with various piles on the desk.

“They’re not in there.” Trying his best to curb his annoyance, Stanto smiled at his guest, then pulled the pages from his brother’s hands, continuing in a hushed Greek. “Look, Nikki, I can’t keep making last-minute arrangements for you. This is a serious office, not your private travel agency. The boys on the mountain can get very upset.”

“They love me out there,” replied Dominic, a wink to Pearse as his brother pulled a second set of pages from his hands.

“They love God, Nikki. They tolerate you.”

“
Barely
tolerate.” Dominic laughed. “By the way, the professor speaks Greek.”

The older Andrakos hesitated before turning to Pearse. “Oh. Of course,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m sorry. Constantine Andrakos. I’m not usually this—”

“No need to apologize,” said Pearse, shaking his hand. “Peter Seldon. I’m the one you should be taking to task. It’s my fault that this has all been so last minute.”

“You’re nice to say so, Professor, but you don’t know Dominic. It isn’t the first time.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out two rather impressive-looking envelopes. Pearse noticed they were both addressed to the Holy Community of Mount Athos, the great imperial crest—the double-headed eagle of Byzantium—at the top. “They delivered the
diamonitirio
fifteen minutes ago. The ink is probably still wet.”

Dominic took the passports and, trying his best at a pose of servility, asked, “And the boat? Did you get the boat, Stanto?”

“Yes, I got the boat,” he replied, as if to a child. “It’ll be waiting for you at Ouranopolis. Brother Gennadios will meet you at Daphne. He said he’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“I told you they loved me.”

“I think he meant the professor.” He turned to Pearse. “Gennadios mentioned he once did some work on Ambrose.”