He felt a wave of relief as the little car careened around a bus, missing its massive front by inches, and turned onto Via del Conciliazone, the divided boulevard that ends in the circular embrace of St. Peter's Square directly in front of the basilica. This would be the first time Lang had been in the Papal States since the Julian affair, a near-disastrous venture that took place in the little-known necropolis upon which the Vatican itself had been built.

Scattering pilgrim and tourist alike, the Fiat plunged across the square, stopping only at a barricade along the left or south side of the cathedral. A Swiss guard in full purple and gold sixteenth-century regalia carefully checked Lang's and Francis's passports against a printed list on a clipboard.

Satisfied he was dealing with legitimate visitors, he stepped into a booth beside the entrance and returned with two laminated badges.

"Be sure you wear these at all times," he cautioned in stiff English before waving them past.

Minutes later, Lang and Francis were shown into second- story dormitory-style rooms located the equivalent of two or three city blocks east of the basilica with a view of St. Catherine's Gate. Below, Swiss guards came and went.

"Must be close to their barracks," Lang observed.

Francis joined him at the window. "Barracks, mess hall, parade ground and armory, according to the official guidebook. Celebrated their five-hundredth anniversary in oh six. That's a long time protecting popes."

Lang stepped back from the window. "Who are the Swiss Guard, anyway?".

Francis chuckled. "If you're looking for a job, forget it. You have to be between nineteen and twenty-five, single, of good moral character, a Swiss citizen and a practicing Catholic."

Lang tsk-tsked, shaking his head. "Too bad. Those unies are real chick bait. Do they actually guard the pope or is their function ceremonial?"

"They really do guard him like our Secret Service does the president. A lot of them died when Charles V of Spain sacked Rome in 1527. Clement II really pissed him off. The pope barely managed to escape. Three days of the customary burning, looting and raping."

"Ah, the good old days when the winner didn't have to worry about political correctness."

A gentle tap at the open door interrupted the conversation. "Father Narumba?"

A young black man in a cassock stood in the doorway. "Excuse me, Father, but the meetings are about to begin."

Francis glanced at Lang. "Just as well. The conversation was rapidly degenerating. Lang, are you…?"

"I'll be fine," Lang assured him. "I've got something to do here, too, remember?"

Lang took the time to douse his face in water as cold as the small bathroom's basin could provide. On the way back out, he slipped, a towel rack being the only thing that prevented what could have been a nasty fall. Puzzled, he glanced around the bathroom for the source of the water he now saw on the tile floor. A drop on his cheek directed his gaze upward to a brown, soggy stain on the ceiling. The plumbing probably hadn't been checked since running water had been installed to update what Lang guessed was a very old building.

Minding his step, he went back into the bedroom. He changed into a clean shirt, decided his rumpled pants could go another day and stepped into the hallway. Only then did he realize he had no key to the room. And the door had no lock.

Lang didn't know whether to feel stupid or embarrassed. This was, after all, the Vatican, where saving of souls took precedence over material objects.

Nonetheless, Lang went back into the room to make sure he had left no valuables. Practicality was hardly a sin.

Rather than risk getting lost in miles of hallways, Lang retraced his route. His memory from the Julian affair proved correct: the scavo archaelogica was almost directly across from the point he and Francis had checked in with the Swiss guard minutes ago.

Keeping a lookout against the possibility some irresponsible soul had again entrusted the morning's driver with a car or other potentially lethal device, he crossed the narrow passage and opened the door.

He entered a small room divided by a counter bearing colored brochures of the Vatican, the necropolis underneath and several of the Vatican's museums.

A white-haired man in a short-sleeve shirt, the first person Lang had seen without a uniform or clerical adornment, looked up from what appeared to be the sport pages of La Repubblica. "The last English tour of the necropolis has already left," he said.

"I'm not here for the tour, but thanks for the information."

The man frowned as if Lang's disinterest in being shown through the ancient Roman cemetery was a disappointment. His eyes came to rest on the visitor's badge. "Then, how may I be of service?"

His tone said he had no such intent but Lang smiled pleasantly; "I was sent to this office to find someone who can translate Coptic Greek."

It was clear the old man was weighing the possible position in the Vatican hierarchy of the person who had sent this American against the bother of interrupting his perusal of the soccer scores.

The unknown prevailed.

"That would be Father Strentenoplis." He pointed the way Lang had come. "Archives, across the way."

Lang thanked him and left.

The next person Lang met escorted him down a short corridor to an open door. Inside was a desk supporting neat stacks of paper beside a computer screen, behind which sat a man with a chest-length beard. He wore a simple black cassock adorned only with a gold cross on a chain around his neck.

He looked up and smiled with tobacco-yellowed teeth. "Come in," he motioned. "Come in, sit." He pointed to a single wooden chair.

Again, Lang was amazed at how easily Europeans recognized Americans.

Or they automatically addressed anyone who looked like they had just gotten off an airplane in English.

"Father Strentenoplis?" Lang asked.

The man stood. He was well over six feet. The beard, Lang saw, was streaked with silver, hiding the entire lower part of his face. The beaklike nose was striped by threads of red, those tattletale burst capillaries of the heavy drinker.

"Is me!" He was still gesturing for Lang to sit.

"B-But," Lang stammered, noting the cross had two cross members "You're…"

"Greek church, one you call 'orthodox.' Is true! Who read ancient Greek better than another Greek, no? You are surprised I am here at center of Western church, no?"

Lang sat. "Well, yes."

Father Strentenoplis also sat. "Is age of ecumenicalism! No longer argue over number of angels dancing on head of a pin. Your pope need expert in ancient and Coptic Greek, my patriarch in Istanbul want expert on medieval German, read heretic Luther. Even swap, yes?"

Lang nodded, the man's enthusiasm contagious. "Sounds fair to me."

The priest gave the doorway a surreptitious glance before he reached under the desk and produced a small pouch and a stack of rolling papers. For an instant, Lang thought he was about to roll a joint. He was relieved to see he was only preparing a cigarette. He rolled it with one hand, using the other to extend the tobacco and paper across the desk.

Lang shook his head… "No thanks."

The father lit up, instantly dispelling Lang's long-held belief that his friend Jacob smoked the foulest tobacco in the world.

"You come see me about ancient Greek, yes?"

Lang reached inside his shirt, producing the sheaf of papers. He peeled off one of the two copies. "I was hoping you could translate."

The priest held the cigarette between his lips, squinting through the rising column of smoke. Lang wondered how many times he had set his beard ablaze. He held the papers flat with one hand, producing a pair of half-moon glasses with the other. He scanned the first couple of pages.