“I’m sure you can find a transport out of Zagreb tonight,” she said. “Salko can arrange it.” Without waiting for him, she turned and started back.

He was about to follow, when the sound of a helicopter rose in the distance. Pearse cleared his eyes and looked up to see the tiny bird lift above the horizon.

In his three months in Bosnia, he had never seen one, told they were too easy a target for would-be snipers, especially in broad daylight. Yet this one was flying in untouched, making for a large field just the other side of Slitna’s few remaining buildings. Petra watched, as well. Mendravic was now in the doorway, his hand trying to block out the sun. As the helicopter began its descent, the older Croat limped out into the street. Making his way past Petra, he motioned for her to wait, the same for Pearse as the aircraft set down.

It took Mendravic several minutes to get within shouting distance, his hair blown wild by the slowing propellers. Petra pulled up to Pearse, both watching as two men jumped from the cockpit, each one ducking under the blades, each in sunglasses and gray suit. They approached Mendravic, the taller of the two pulling some sort of identification from his pocket. Mendravic examined the card, nodded, and began to lead them back toward town. As they drew closer, he signaled for Pearse and Petra to join him.

“These men have come about the box you found,” he said, still shouting over the noise of the engines. “They’re from the Vatican.”

A kind of reprieve for both, they nodded and continued toward the house.

“We’re eager to get it back,” said the taller man as he removed his glasses, “if, of course, it turns out to be what we’re looking for.”

It suddenly struck Pearse that Mendravic had sent the message less than fifteen minutes ago. How had these men known to come here? “And that would be what?” he asked as they continued to walk.

The man turned to Pearse. “Pardon?”

“The pieces of parchment. What exactly are they?”

He stared at Pearse for a moment. “I take it you were the one who found them.”

“Yes,” he answered. “And the woman.”

The man glanced at Petra. “I see.” He then turned his attention back to Pearse. “You haven’t looked through them, then?” They neared the house.

“We tried,” Pearse replied. “None of us is familiar with the-”

“Odd symbols?” the man offered.

Pearse nodded. “Yes.”

“I see.”

“They’re in here,” said Mendravic, leading the way through the door. The man kept his eyes on Pearse until, nodding, he stepped inside.

The box sat open on the table, the shorter man quick to begin examining its contents. Pearse stayed by the door. “The Vatican,” he said. “That’s a long way to come. And on such short notice.”

The taller man kept his eyes on the activity at the box. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Considering we radioed less than fifteen minutes ago, I’d say remarkable.”

“Yes.” He paused, then turned to Pearse. “We picked up your transmission on our radio. In the helicopter.” His delivery betrayed no emotion. “Quite lucky, I suppose.”

“Quite,” replied Pearse.

For the first time, the man smiled. No warmth, just a curling of lips. “As I said, we’re eager to get it back.” The practiced smile remained. “How again did you say you found the box?”

“A church,” answered Pearse, his eyes locked on the man’s. “Saint Hieronymus.”

“Just you and the woman,” he pressed, his tone suggesting he knew far more about last night than he was saying. Pearse recognized the threat.

“Yes,” he answered, his eyes momentarily to Petra. She nodded.

“Church documents,” the man said. When Pearse didn’t answer, he added, “You asked what they were. Language, not symbols.”

As much as every instinct told him to hold back, Pearse couldn’t seem to let it go. “Funny that they should end up in an abandoned church in the middle of a war zone.”

“Yes,” the man replied, watching as his partner carefully leafed through a few of the pages. “They were stolen from the Vatican Library several months ago. We were told they had resurfaced on the black market here.”

“I see.” Pearse could sense Petra’s gaze on him, but he chose to ignore it.

“Nasty business, the black market,” the man continued. “People getting killed over a few pieces of meat.” Again, he turned to Pearse. “How lucky for you that you didn’t run into anyone at that church.” He kept his eyes on him for another few seconds, then turned his gaze to his colleague, who nodded and shut the box. “And it looks as if you won’t have to worry about it anymore.” He picked up the box and moved to the door, Pearse stepping out of the way as the two men approached. “Best for everyone that way, I would guess.” Another thinly veiled threat. The man stopped, looked back at the room, then at Pearse. “So much else here that demands your attention.” Another smile before he followed the smaller man out into the street.

Pearse watched them as they went. A moment later, Mendravic was by his side. “You can be very stupid, Ian.” Pearse now looked at his friend, whose eyes remained on the two departing figures. “I have no idea what was in that box, but you don’t provoke men like that.”

“I can’t imagine the Vatican-”

“Neither can I, but that’s not going to stop me from nodding and smiling, and giving them anything they want. How long have you been in this part of the world, that you don’t understand that?” The two men reached the helicopter; Mendravic turned to Pearse. “And I won’t bother asking what actually happened in that church last night.” He stepped back inside, his eyes now on Petra. “I’m also grateful that no one else was there.”

The helicopter lifted off, Pearse again watching as it disappeared into the sun.

Five hours later, he stood beside a small van. The driver, a man originally from Tirana, had slipped across the Albanian border a few months back and was now helping others to find their way through the perilous back roads of the upper Balkans. For a price, of course. Today, he would be escorting a young American as far as Zagreb. A journalist, he had been told. The details never really mattered. Naturally, he was splitting his take with a few well-placed guards-if, in fact, one could call the apes at the border “guards”-but it was still good money. Americans always overpaid.

“You pay double if we get to the border after sundown,” the man barked over the idling motor.

Pearse ignored him and continued to speak with Mendravic. “I have the address.”

“He’s a distant cousin,” said the Croat, “but he should know I’m still alive.”

Pearse nodded, tried a smile. “She won’t come out, will she?”

Mendravic started to answer, then grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him close. “Whatever brought you here is still with you. Don’t ever question that.” He held Pearse for some time before releasing.

“I’ll try.”

Mendravic smiled, nodded. “No, she won’t.” He reached out and cupped Pearse’s cheek in his hand. “Good-bye, Ian.” With that, he turned and made his way into the house.

Pearse waited a moment, then opened the door of the van. He glanced one last time at the war-torn landscape, then ducked into the seat. His Albanian seemed overly anxious.

“I’m telling you, after sundown, we don’t get through. No matter how much money you have.” He waited for Pearse to say something. “You do have the money, don’t you?” Pearse nodded. The man immediately ground the van into gear, yammering away as they pulled out. It was a poor act, but at least it was entertaining. Pearse hoped it would be enough to keep him preoccupied for a few hours.

He thought of looking back, but instead, he shut his eyes.

Better that way.

PATER

one

Rome, August 2000