The Book of Q (49 page)

Pushing himself to the window, he peered out, the source of the eruption rising in flame no more than a hundred yards from him.

The Domus Sanctae Marthae.

Holy Mother of God.

Through the smoke and fire, he tried to locate the upper floors, now little more than jagged cavities of glass and stone.
Inside the Vatican. Not possible
. He crossed himself, a prayer for those inside.

The words were barely out of his mouth when he suddenly realized how close he had come to being one of them himself. The decision to return to his apartments had been a last-minute one; even then, it had taken a mighty harangue to convince the guards to let him go. The order had been for all the cardinals—
all.

He reached for the phone, only to be drawn to the sight of the first survivors stumbling from the building, their clothes torn, limbs and faces darkened by residue or blood—he couldn’t tell which. There were more than five or six of them, each one falling to the ground, except for the last, who continued to wander aimlessly, lost in a concussed haze, strangely graceful amid the havoc. The others faded into the background as the pinballing man came into focus, unseen barriers sending him this way and that. It lasted less than four or five seconds; a guard arrived to gather him in, the man’s legs still churning even as he was helped to the ground.

Arbitrary movements, thought Peretti, disconnected—at least from the vantage point of reasoned thought. For the man himself, though, the actions had had meaning, purpose—understood only by a mind lost to the shock.

Just as the mayhem itself had meaning. The question was, Whose mind had inspired it?

He picked up the phone.

The door behind him suddenly flew open. Two men raced in, guns drawn.

“It’s all right,” Peretti said, recognizing them. “I’m fine.”

Both men holstered their guns. “We should take you to the
Gabbia
, Eminence, just in case.”

The
Gabbia
, short for Gabbia per Uccelli—the birdcage—had been a bomb shelter during the war, six floors below the library, now transformed into the Vatican’s safe house for just such occasions.

Peretti nodded. “I should make some calls first.”

The nearer of the two men took the phone. “There are over a hundred lines downstairs, Eminence. We should go now.”

Nodding, Peretti followed them out.

“You were lucky, Eminence,” said the man now trailing him. “They think over a hundred of the cardinals were inside when the bombs went off. Whoever did this knew exactly when to set them off.”

One more nod.

Who indeed.

Pearse sat in the car, hands clasped in his lap. Ivo was doing the same in the passenger seat. Neither had said a word for the last ten minutes.

He had parked in an alley almost a quarter of a mile from the apartment—on Petra’s instructions. Remarkable how quickly she had been able to take everything in stride, the freedom fighter once again in control. Or maybe it was simply a maternal instinct. No matter. She had been equally clear about who would be going for the book.

“You stay here.” A kiss for Ivo as she’d opened the door.

Pearse had started to follow, Petra quick to stop him. “I was talking to you. You don’t know the area. You don’t know the apartment. And if they are here, they know exactly what you look like.” Stepping outside, she’d turned to him, her voice with an intensity he hadn’t heard in years: “And don’t let Ivo out of your sight. Understand?”

The boy had obviously been through enough of these sorts of situations to know when to stay put.

A confirming nod from Pearse had sent her on her way.

That had been almost fifteen minutes ago.

Now, glancing over at his charge, Pearse couldn’t be sure just exactly which of his transgressions was prompting the silence: the flight from Salko, the absence of Petra. Most likely, it was the forced disclosure of the book’s location. Petra’s tone had been sufficient to unlock Ivo’s secret: a box hidden behind a loose slat in his closet. Salko had evidently helped him to make it.

“Do you think you might ever stop being mad at me?” Pearse finally asked.

Ivo crossed his hands at his chest.

“Can I take that as a maybe?”

The boy clenched his arms even tighter, a snort of air through his nose.

“Okay—a maybe, with a big hug and a very quiet sneeze. Am I getting close?” Silence.

“Don’t try to make me happy,” Ivo finally said.

“Okay.” Silence. “How about I try to make you orange?”

Ivo shot him a glance, his expression somewhere between anger and confusion. “Orange?”

“Well, you won’t let me apologize and make you happy, so I thought I could make you orange.”

Ivo’s arms loosened. “How do you make someone orange?”

“I have no idea. But at least it won’t be making you happy.”

Ivo stared at him for a few seconds, then turned away. “That’s silly. You don’t make any sense.”

“Then how about you let me say I’m sorry?”

Without looking at him, Ivo answered, “You shouldn’t have made me tell. It was my secret with Salko. And you shouldn’t have made us leave Salko. Salko wouldn’t have made me tell Mommy.”

“I know,” said Pearse, watching as Ivo began to play with a rip in the door’s vinyl.

“If it’s so important,” the boy said, “why didn’t you give Mommy
your
copy of the book?”

Even angry, Ivo was still a very clever little boy. “Well … because your book is special. It’s going to help us find another special book. And I know Salko wants us to find that other book.”

“Then why didn’t he tell you where my book was?”

Very clever.

“Because,” said Pearse, retrieving the Ribadeneyra volume from the dashboard, “he didn’t know I had this book.”

Ivo slowly turned to him. Only slightly less ruffled, he said, “The one Mommy read from.”

“Right,” said Pearse. “Do you want to take a look at it?”

“I saw it already. When Mommy had it.”

Pearse nodded slowly. “Okay. I was just wondering if you wanted to hold it. But if you don’t …”

Ivo stared at the book, then glanced up at Pearse. “I guess I could.” He took the book. “But don’t think this is making me happy. You still shouldn’t have made me tell.”

“Fair enough.”

For a seven-year-old, Ivo showed tremendous care with it, turning back the pages slowly and peering at the words with great concentration. If nothing else, Salko had taught him how to appreciate his past. His was a child’s Latin, enough to pronounce everything correctly, even if he didn’t understand most of what he was saying. He stopped at one point, eyes wide. He turned to Pearse, pointing to a word he recognized.

“
Manichaeus
,” he said

“Yes, Mani.” To hear Ivo say it with such reverence tore into him. “You know a lot about Mani, don’t you?” he asked.

“I guess. I know the stories from my book.” 

“The stories about Mani.”

Ivo nodded.

“Have you read all of them?”

Another nod. Ivo placed the Ribadeneyra on the dashboard and began to count out on his fingers: “‘The Apostle of Light,’ ‘Shapur the King,’ ‘Sowing the Corn,’ ‘Kartir in Darkness,’ ‘Finding the Light.’”

Bible stories for the Brotherhood, thought Pearse. “Which is your favorite?” he asked.

“‘Kartir in Darkness.’”

“Why’s that?”

Ivo shrugged. “I don’t know. Because he gets swallowed up by the darkness at the end.”

“Kartir?”

Ivo nodded.

From what Pearse remembered, Kartir had been the rough equivalent of a Babylonian Pilate. He wondered how many thousands of other little boys had found Kartir’s demise so compelling.

A troubling thought as the door opened and Petra slid in next to Ivo. He was already on her lap, back pressed into her chest, by the time she pulled it shut. A quick kiss, then back to the vinyl.

“Any problems?” Pearse asked.

“They had a car outside. I took the basement route. Don’t worry, they didn’t see me.” She handed him the book. “And it wasn’t just a box. It was like a little shrine.” The anger in her voice was all too plain. “Statues, pictures…. I have no idea what they were for.” She let her head fall back against the partition, her eyes staring out the window, totally unaware of the effect her tone was having on Ivo. “How could he have done that?”

With tears in his eyes, Ivo looked up at her. “I’m sorry, Mommy. Salko said it was okay.”

She looked at him, at once squeezing her arms around him. “Oh, no, sweetie. I’m not angry with you. I’m not angry with you at all.” She kissed the top of his head.

Ivo’s tears slowed. “Are you angry with Salko?”

“Don’t worry about Salko, sweet pea. That’s nothing for you to think about.”

“Don’t be angry with Salko, Mommy.”

“Okay.” Another few kisses. “I won’t.” After a moment, she looked across at Pearse. “So, is it what you thought it was?”

He continued to stare at the two of them.

“What’s in the book, Ian?” she pressed.

He held her gaze, then turned to the book. “Right. The book.”

Its dimensions were that of a small laptop, though far thinner. Across the top—in Serbo-Croatian—ran the title,
Verses for Children
, nothing to hint at the Manichaean scriptures within. Opening it, Pearse realized the book had recently been rebound, the sheets inside far older than the cover. The title reappeared on the front page, this time in grander script, a sure sign of nineteenth-century publishing. Confirmation came at the bottom of the page, where the year 1866 was inked in thick lettering. Between title and year—in a single column—ran a list of perhaps eight handwritten names, each from a different pen. It was the last few that caught his attention: Alibeg Mendravic, Vlado Mendravic, Salko Mendravic, Ivo Corkan.

A Manichaean lineage brought to life in the scrawled signatures of four six-year-old boys.

Pearse didn’t know whether to be more concerned with the deep-rooted familial devotion or with the book’s obvious professional quality. This wasn’t something that had been produced in a back room by a bunch of zealots, a hundred or so copies to be distributed by hand. This was something far more serious, clearly published on a much larger scale. And if that was the case with the Serbo-Croatian edition, who was to say how many primers had been produced in German or in English? A far more daunting prospect.

Obviously, the Manichaeans hadn’t spent the last seventeen hundred years simply waiting for the return of their Paraclete.

“I wrote my name,” said Ivo, his little finger reaching over to the page, tracing the lettering. “That’s Salko, and Salko’s dad, and his dad. It goes back a long way.” He looked at Pearse. “You have one with your dad, right?”

Pearse felt that now-familiar ache, his own failure for having allowed Ivo to become a part of this. Or was it merely jealousy, Salko’s bond with the boy made clear in the caress of a tiny hand?

“Right,” he answered distractedly, flipping to the next page as quickly as he could.

The table of contents stared back, a list of stories and prayers, each with its first line printed just below the title. Not surprisingly, the only one he recognized was the Ribadeneyra prayer, appropriately titled, “The Awakening.” The title
Treasure of Life
appeared next to it in parenthesis. He scanned the rest of the page. Each entry sported a parenthetical
of its own, several of the titles appearing again and again:
Pragmateia, Shahpuhrakan, Book of Giants
,
Living Gospel
, and, most popular,
Kephalaia
. It didn’t take long to realize that these were the sources for the various verses. Texts thought lost for centuries alive within the pages of a child’s prayer book.

He flipped to “The Awakening.”

As with the “Perfect Light” scroll, tiny sketches of men with daggers and lions on the prowl littered the text. He was about to ask Ivo what they meant, when his eyes stopped on a drawing halfway down the page. At first, he thought it was simply one more triangle—half black, half empty—the ever-present symbol in Manichaean literature. Looking closer, he realized it was far more. Words filled both sides: