The Book of Q

She sat staring after him. She had come to rein him in, make sure he understood his role. What else had the bomb in Rome been but a message, a colonel’s way of reminding them that he knew exactly who, and where, they were? The rest of the churches, she could almost understand, the first seeds of his holy war, misguided or not. Evidently, that wasn’t the case at all.

More troubling was his none-too-subtle reference to Erich. Obviously, Harris hadn’t appeared on Kleist’s suggestion alone, as she had been led to believe.

The crowd roared. She stood and moved to the window. Harris was emerging from one of the runways, bodyguards in clear view. She watched as he made his way toward an enormous structure rising forty feet off the ground at the far end of the field. Two huge screens stood on either side of the raised oval, his entrance beamed out larger than life. A single cameraman led the pack, backing his way up the ramp so as to capture Harris up close. Music blared, grating yet inspirational. Harris waved to the throng. It was clear he’d picked up a good deal from his time in America. The whole thing had that National Convention feel to it. When he finally reached the podium at the center, his entourage fell back, only the cameraman down on one knee to continue the feed. For the contessa, there was something strangely familiar to the man, even from the back, the way he moved, the way his shoulders nestled into the camera. She picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.

Nearly half a minute of wild adulation passed before Harris spoke, the contessa continuing to scrutinize the cameraman.

Harris raised his hand: “My friends-”

He never had a chance to finish. Adulation turned to screams as four cracks erupted over the loudspeakers, the sight of the cameraman racing at Harris, gun in hand, blood everywhere. It was then that she saw it. The hair and skin color were darker, the facial hair, the contours of the face more acute, but it was him, his face screaming wildly, his eyes beyond madness.

Stefan.

An instant later, the bodyguards let loose, the barrage sending Kleist over the platform’s edge. He fell, somehow in slow motion for her, his body arching gracefully until it crashed down onto the field below.

The contessa stared in disbelief. A single phrase fixed in her mind: There’s very little I’d put past Erich now.

Maybe it was time for her to accept that, as well.

“No, take a left there.” Pearse leaned forward in the cab and pointed across the piazza.

“No, no, signore,” said the cabbie. “Avigonesi is on the right.”

“I know. Just take the left.”

With a shrug, the man did as he was told.

Pearse had taken the cab from the airport, his flight and arrival uneventful as far as the Manichaeans were concerned. His sudden change of plans, though, had everything to do with the scroll. He wasn’t going to chance holding on to it for too much longer. Should anything happen, it remained his only bargaining chip. Best to keep it safe. Plus, there was no reason to put Blaney at more risk than necessary.

“Here,” said Pearse.

The driver pulled up along the cobbled piazza; Pearse got out. Three minutes later, he was making his way up the short flight of stairs to the office of the church of San Bernardo. He knocked on the door.

It was half a minute before he heard the sound of shuffling feet. The door opened, revealing the wizened priest, his eyes puffy from sleep, though no less enormous behind the thick glasses.

“Yes. Hello. Can I help you?”

“I was here last week.” No sign from the old man that Pearse was registering. “The priest … who fell asleep on-”

“Ah, yes.” A long, slow nod. “From Albuquerque.” Before Pearse could correct him, he said, “No, no, from …” He thought for a moment. “No collar. Of course. Come in, come in.”

Pearse stepped through. He waited until the priest had taken his seat behind the desk before pulling up one of the other chairs. He sat.

“Father, I need your help….”

Twenty minutes later, Pearse was at the front door of 31 Via Avigonesi. Gianetta answered and ushered him in, her hair, as ever, pulled back in a tight bun. At no more than five feet tall, and with a paper-thin figure beneath a dour black sweater and skirt, she needed a bit of effort to pull the thick oaken door closed behind him. She then led him across the foyer, stopping in front of what Pearse recalled as the door to the library. Equally imposing, it was situated at the foot of a narrow set of stairs leading up to the second floor. She knocked once.

A moment later, Pearse heard the familiar voice. “Si?”

“Padre Pearse, Padre.” Not waiting for an answer, she smiled and headed back to the kitchen.

From behind the door, Blaney bellowed. “Ian. Come in. Come in.”

Pearse opened the door and stepped inside. Blaney was seated by the empty fireplace, looking far older than when they’d last seen each other. Pearse guessed it was almost a year now.

“Hello, Ian. Hello. Please, come in.”

The large study was exactly as he remembered it-a college reading room replete with thick-stuffed maroon leather chairs and sofas amid wall-to-wall bookshelves. Blaney stood as Pearse drew toward him. The two men embraced.

“It’s good to see you, John J.” They sat.

“You look tired, Ian.”

Pearse smiled. “I’m fine, mom.”

“Just concerned, that’s all. But since you bring it up, how are they, mother and dad?”

“The same. I think they’re out on the Cape. End of summer. You were at the house once.”

“That’s right. I remember a very cold midnight swim. Less refreshing than advertised.”

“Family tradition.”

“Yes,” Blaney said. “So … you know I’m always delighted to see you, but your message … it didn’t sound like this was going to be a social visit. What’s wrong?”

“Actually, I’d love a glass of water.”

“I’m sorry. Of course.” Blaney pressed a button on the intercom next to him. “Gianetta. Puoi portarmi dell’ acqua e forse un po’ di frutta? Grazie.” He didn’t wait for a response. “They insisted I get this thing a few months ago. They’re very keen to make me feel as old as they can.”

“You look fine,” said Pearse.

“No, I don’t, and neither do you.” A look of playful concern crossed his eyes. “It’s not Ambrose, again, is it? You’re not in the midst of one of those binges without sleep? It’s not healthy, Ian.” Father as father. Pearse had gotten used to Blaney’s paternal instincts a long time ago. “You need to take a vacation once in a while. Lie on a beach. That sort of thing.”

“A few midnight swims?” Pearse was about to continue, when Gianetta appeared at the door.

“Eccellente,” said Blaney, indicating the table between the two men. “Va bene di la. Grazie.”

“Si, Padre.” She moved across the room, placed the tray on the table, and quickly poured out two glasses. She then retreated to the door.

Waiting until they were alone, Pearse inched out on his seat, taking a glass as he spoke. “I’ve found Q.”

Blaney was retrieving the other glass. He sat back and took a sip. “Q?”

“‘Quelle.’ The Synoptic Problem. I’ve found the scroll.” It took Blaney a moment to respond. “That’s … remarkable. Where?”

“‘How?’ might be a better question. Or ‘Why?’”

“You’re sure it’s Q?”

Pearse nodded as he drank.

“And it’s a collection of Jesus’ sayings?”

Pearse thought he heard the slightest hint of disappointment in Blaney’s tone. “Yes. But in a context you won’t believe. It’s the lost years, John. Jesus from twelve to thirty.”

“‘Jesus from …’ Remarkable,” he repeated.

“And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. It turns out that the ‘Beloved Disciple’ was actually a Cynic teacher who wandered with Him. There are nonparable conversations with Jesus, transcriptions of early sermons He gave, a recounting of the two years He spent in Jaipur with a group of Buddhist monks. The Eastern and Cynic influences are unmistakable.”