CHAPTER NINE

 

    IT WAS early morning when Lieutenant Andrea di Grazia hurried into the police station just off the Piazza Novona. A young officer jumped up eagerly to open the double doors for him; di Grazia was a bit of a god around here these days.  “Buongiorno!”

Andrea had only been on the Italian police force for thirteen months, and he was barely twenty-six years old, but he was already being considered for promotion from lieutenant to captain because of his record. The most outstanding exploit on that record was the brilliant way he had handled a plane hijacking at the Rome airport a month ago. The hijacker had been a lunatic from the Middle East, demanding a million dollars and an audience with the Pope... or else he'd pull the pin on his grenade and blow people on the plane to kingdom come. Andrea had commandeered a cardinal's cassock, wriggled into it as the police car screamed its way to the airport, and boarded the Airbus. Calmly he had walked down the plane's long aisle with a beatific smile on his face, telling everyone to be calm.

As he approached the wild-eyed fanatic brandishing the grenade, he said, "My son, they tell me you wish to see His Holiness. I have the authority to grant that wish. Kneel and I shall bless you so that you will be worthy of an audience with him."

The man hesitated. For a terrible moment he studied di Grazia, wondering if this was a trap.

"Kneel, my son," said di Grazia in a soothing, clerical voiced

The man knelt, still clutching the grenade. Andrea held out his hand as though to bless the penitent, then dealt the terrorist a slamming karate chop across the base of the neck, dropping him to the carpet, but not before the man had pulled the pin on the grenade. The policeman scooped it up, lunged for the open door, and hurled it out where it exploded harmlessly on the tarmac.

Andrea, a good-looking and likable Milanese, had had several other successes, though none quite as sensational as that. Therefore, his superiors had picked him for the case of the kidnapped American boy, Jonny Phillips. He had gone immediately to the residence of the Thomas Hudsons, where the boy had been living, and afterward reported to his superior officer.

"It doesn't make sense," di Grazia said to the captain with the waxed brigadier style mustache. "I assumed it would be the standard kidnapping, with ransom demands or some sort of political demands—the kind you Romans invented and still hold the patent on:" He shot a sly look at the captain, who chose to laugh good naturedly and accept it as a backhanded compliment.

"Thank you," he said mockingly. "We Romans have had many other ideas which you of Lombardy have been quick to steal. That is why we must have patents."

"Very true, Captain. But wait until you hear all of this. The boy's aunt says they have received only one phone call, and it was not a threat or demand for ransom."

“Then what is it they want?" the captain demanded, looking at Andrea seriously for the first time.

Andrea di Grazia finally realized what it was about the captain that had always intrigued him; he had a face whose features seemed not quite to go with one another, like one of the portraits done by a police artist of a suspect, based upon conflicting descriptions by eyewitnesses.

"That's just it! Apparently nothing. They simply told Mrs. Hudson not to call newspapers or the boy’s mother, and that he would be returned in a few days unharmed."

"But sexually molested."

Andrea shook his head emphatically. "I don't think so. I didn't get those vibrations. The aunt said they assured her repeatedly that the child would not be harmed in any way."

"You've called the mother?"

"She lives in Istanbul. Doesn't answer the phone."

'The father?"

"Lives in California. Can't locate him, so presumably neither can the kidnappers. He and Mrs. Taylor are divorced."

"And what if the father is the kidnapper?"

"I asked Mrs. Hudson that. She said the father does not pay support money, although he's well able to do so. He has not called to talk to his son, although he does know where he is. He forgets the child's birthdays, and has in no way exhibited the kind of interest that would make him a likely suspect."

"Rich?"

"The father may have money. Mrs. Hudson's evaluation of him may be colored by the fact that she is the sister of the mother, but she was quite calm and not in the least vindictive when she said simply, ‘John's a born playboy’. I doubt that he has anything left of his inheritance.'"

"And what of the mother?"

"No big money there. Mrs. Hudson said her sister asked nothing for herself, but only child support for the son. She had been a vice-consul for the United States, but now she is writing a book."

"How did they get the boy?"

"His aunt says he was playing soccer with her son in the front yard. A car—a blue pickup truck, they didn't get the license—pulled up. A man dressed in jeans got out, came up to the Hudson boy, and asked for the Phillips boy. Apparently he did not know either one, right? Then the cousin, the Hudson boy, heard them talking in English, but he wasn't paying any attention, so he couldn't remember what was said. But he does know they were speaking in English, and the name “Father Bartolomeo” was mentioned. The Phillips boy said-he'd be back in a few minutes—he had to see a friend. He waved goodbye to his cousin as they drove away, and that's it.”

"Isn't there a cardinal by that name?"

"There is at least one. Where do you think I got the cassock so that I could bless the hijacker last month?" Andrea said with a grin. Then he leaned over toward the telephone on the captain's desk and asked, "May I?"

The captain's eyes locked with di Grazia's as he telephoned the Vatican. Then Andrea jammed the phone back into the cradle.

"Wonderful," he said, shaking his head. "The good father is in Paris with the Pope."

"Vive le Pape!” The shouts rang out over and over. "Vive le Pape!”

The Parisian crowds lined the curbs, cheering the Pope's massive black shark like limousine with the papal seal on the doors, flanked by policemen on motorcycles and guarded by security men by the dozens at every block; there would be no recurrence of the papal shooting of 1981.

It was a warm afternoon, and Paris was living up to her reputation as a belle among cities alluring and alive,

The Pope was here  on the occasion of the naming of the new Archbishop of Paris, Monsigneur Jean-Marie Lustiger. It was somewhat unusual, this appointment, since Lustiger’s parents were Polish Jews who had come to Paris early in the century and who had died at Auschwitz. In his opening remarks; the Pope had said, "We see no contradiction at all to be of Jewish birth and to become a Catholic. After all, Jesus Christ was the King of the Jews.”

   He then went on to make a stirring address on the state of the Church, with regard to the condition of the world's morality:

"Our conclusion, then, is that religion is necessary to morality. Even your agnostic Renan affirmed this in 1866, when he said, 'Let us enjoy the liberty of the sons of God, but let us take care lest we become accomplices in the diminution of virtue which would menace society if Christianity were to grow weak. What would we do without it? If Rationalism wishes to govern the world without regard to the religious needs of the soul, the experience of the French Revolution is there to teach us the consequences of such a blunder.”

The audience in the cathedral was hushed and awed as he ended with:

"At any moment a comet may come too close to the earth and set our little globe turning topsy-turvy in a hectic course, or choke its men and fleas with fumes or heat. Or a fragment of the smiling sun may slip off tangentially—as some think & our planet did a few astronomic moments ago—and fall upon us in a wild embrace, ending all grief and pain. We accept these possibilities in our stride, and retort to the cosmos in the words of Pascal: 'When the universe has crushed him, man will still be nobler than that which kills him, because he knows that he is dying, and of its victory the universe knows nothing.'"

He was not the greatest orator Bartolomeo had ever heard, yet the force and energy and sincerity made him most effective.

Now, as the gentle but vital man in full papal regalia of white brocade and satin, with a little white and gold cape, waved to the people from inside the car as it edged its way

past the throngs that almost blocked the Pont from the Ile de la Cite, he said to Bartolomeo, who was in front next to the driver, looking back at the magnificent Notre Dame, "Cardinal Bartolomeo, how do you think it went? We wanted it to turn out well. Was it—to use your favorite phrase—'life-enhancing!’?”

"Holiness, it was magnificent! And yes, it was definitely life-enhancing." And he meant it; he felt great admiration for this man, not only because he was the Pope, for there had been other Popes about whom he had not felt this way, but out of genuine love.

"Thank you, good friend. I respect your opinion. Well, when we get to the hotel, give me fifteen minutes alone and then come to my suite, please. I've had something on my mind to tell you, but these last few weeks have been so rushed and crowded."

"May I dare to suggest that His Holiness slow the pace a bit?"

The Pope smiled ruefully, never stopping his gentle waving to the crowd. "One of these days, Your Eminence, one of these days."

Later, in a sumptuous, heavily guarded suite at the Plaza Athene, the Pope greeted Bartolomeo, who was still in his white robe, with the cardinal's crimson sash and red biretta. The Pope was now dressed in a long purple dressing gown, but he still wore, the white cap of office.

A little altar had been set up at one end of the room, with two large, lighted candles and a crucifix above it. The French doors were open to the Avenue Montaigne's traffic noises, which purred below in an unobtrusive way, but on the balcony Bartolomeo could see the backs of the security guards with their automatic rifles.

The Pope's secretary poured the cardinal a cup of tea from a large silver pot, then  excused himself. The Pope, holding a cup in his hand, sat down on the gold sofa and patted the space beside him.

"What I wanted to talk to you about is that we are worried, very worried about the scourge of drug abuse throughout the world. Of course, we have long known that New York is infested with the vermin who spread the evil—who make drugs seem romantic and desirable. Now, there are some 408 parishes in the New York archdiocese. I thank that with some really vigorous program  we could make inroads. We might consider—depending upon our ever-present accursed budget— opening halfway houses for addicts who are trying—how do they say?—to kick the habit.”

“And how would you accomplish this, Your Holiness?" Bartolomeo asked thoughtfully. "By concentrating on the individuals and their families?”

"Exactly," said the Pope. "Individual is the word. Not these big impersonal state programs that haven't worked. I would like Your Eminence to go over there and see what you can do."

"But... how, Your Holiness? In what capacity?"

"For some weeks now, you have been an archbishop. You will be the Archbishop of New York."

Bartolomeo's jaw dropped. "But I am a cardinal deacon, Holiness!"

"You have been an archbishop'—smiling, he tapped his chest—"as we say, in pectore. We will make it official as soon as possible, and then off you go to New York to tend my ailing flock. I have long admired your efficiency, honesty, and loyalty.

Bartolomeo knelt briefly and kissed the papal ring. "I shall not disappoint Your Holiness." He thought of how proud his parents would have been, of how God had blessed him. He would encounter resentment, he knew, because of his abrupt appointment, but no matter. He felt a great exaltation and gratitude.

"You will do splendidly, Your Eminence. You have a simpatia  as the Spanish say, that is irresistible. You wear life easily, like a loose garment. Also, I understand that you have many friends and connections there. I should have sent you there a long time ago. You were born in Brooklyn, yes?"

"I am deeply grateful to Your Holiness. And yes, I was born there."

"Americans understand Americans best," the Pope said.

"I suppose so," Cardinal Bartolomeo agreed.

He paused for a moment, then thought, yes, now is the time.

"Your Holiness, speaking of Americans, before we prepare to return to Rome, one delicate matter, if I have your permission to occupy your valuable time...”

The Pope nodded. "Yes, of course."

Cardinal Bartolomeo sighed, "How to begin? I have a friend, an American woman named Taylor Phillips, who lives in Istanbul. The details of how she became involved in this matter are not quite clear to me, but has Your Holiness ever heard of some lost papyri, a hoax involving some heretical scrolls purportedly found at the site of the Virgin Mary's house in Ephesus?"

The Pope shook his head. "Over the years I have heard of many false writings about the origin of the Christian faith, but none from Ephesus that I can recall. What is the premise of these scrolls?"

Bartolomeo, with apologies and hesitations, told him about the story of Lael. The pontiff smiled. "Well, they say that if one is determined to tell a lie, it is best to tell a big one. The Messiah, a woman! That, I must say, is an Olympian and magnificent lie."                                  He thought for several moments, then he said enigmatically, "Do you read Wittgeristein? I find him hard to understand some times, but he says, 'The point of all philosophical discussion is to show the fly the way out of the fly bottle.' This scroll story is clearly a hoax, but to tell you the truth, I would very much like to see these scrolls, or a translation of them. If it is an ancient hoax, not a modern one, it would have great value; especially to scholars. For example, why would anyone perpetrate such' a hoax, and at what point in Christian history?"

"Your Holiness, I cannot say, but my friend is not uneducated in these matters, and she says it is a convincing forgery indeed, executed by experts, whenever it might have been done."

'Then pursue this," mused the Pope. "To a conclusion."

Bartolomeo knew that the Pope did not make idle requests.

Though his "suggestion" had been made offhandedly, in a week he would be expecting a full written report—and it would be ready. That, Barto knew, was one of the reasons the Pope valued him so highly.”

"I should like to see them. If the Turin shroud was proven to be a fake, we should like to be the first to know of this being a fake too.”

"Would Your Holiness... would you suppress these scrolls if they are found to be authentic?”

"I like to think that I would not—but who knows? In the present world, where the people have lost their confidence in the politicians, and in their everyday lives, where romantics are doomed and saints assassinated, people have little left except their faith in the Church. Faith has survived every major disaster. Perhaps these scrolls would not be as damaging as a third world war, but they could certainly weaken the faith, hoax or not."

Bartolomeo was reflecting on this when the Pope's active mind jumped ahead, bringing up some historical information and applying it to the situation.

"In olden times there was a clan of fanatics called the Guardians of the Faith in Our Lord. They would have killed to suppress such a story as the one you've just told me. But they, and similar groups, have been condemned by the Church for many centuries. Originally, they were simply good Christians, intent upon keeping false versions of Jesus' life and Resurrection from being circulated. Soon they clashed with the writings of the Apostles, but their struggle was kept secret so as not to shake the faith of the new Christians. The Guardians branched out. Some were rejected and expelled, but one later branch bore fruit: a secret group, always headed by three men, always operating within the Church, almost always appointing members whose own families had been connected with the Guardians in the past, in order to maintain the secrecy. Father to son, or grandfather to grandson. Oh, yes, Bartolomeo, as you know, we clerics have not always been celibate. Remember that even our first Pope, Peter, was a married man, and several Popes since have been married."

"Including Clement the Fourth, around the end of the thirteenth century," said Bartolomeo, "who had two daughters."

"And, of course, hundreds of cardinals were married," continued the Pope. "The crackdown on marriage began in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, although the constitution of the French revolution did allow clerical marriage. But in more modern times, when the Guardians had to observe the vows of celibacy, they had to recruit their followers from outside their families."

"Were they really all that powerful," asked Bartolomeo. "These guardians?"

"For a time, they were very influential," the Pope replied, "often driving the Church into unforgivable mistakes, such as condemning Galileo. Have you seen the Galileo letters in our secret archives?"

Bartolomeo felt remiss, a boy who had failed to do his homework. "No, Your Holiness, I confess I have not."

"Very interesting. In a letter in 1633, Galileo wrote to the papal office of the Inquisition to plead his innocence to charges of heresy. Galileo, of course, had supported the Polish astronomer Copernicus, who, contrary to the prevailing belief, had

declared that the earth revolved around the sun and not vice versa. A most moving letter, and the Pope was inclined to absolve him, but it was the Guardians who persuaded him to pursue the matter and bring Galileo to a shameful trial and prison."

"So these Guardians were important factors in the Inquisition?”

"They fanned the flames of the Spanish Inquisition and similar matters. But eventually they became outlaws, for the Church could not condone their extreme methods.”

"And so they were banned, Your Holiness?"

"Yes. It became clear that they were not only operating outside the interests of the Church, but were also showing signs of conspiring to seize complete power of the Church. One incident that created real trouble was the discovery that certain heretical writings had fallen into their hands and instead of delivering them to the Vatican for proper scrutiny and evaluation, they were held as a powerful weapon to be used against

the Church when they so chose. Of course, the priesthood today is much more progressive. All that is needed to fight such persuasive and devilish heresy is reason. There is no room or need for Guardians today."

Why is he telling me all this now, Barto thought. Does he suspect a resurgence of new fanatics, new Guardians, in the Vatican? He never says things without a reason. But Barto knew better than to query him directly about the matter. He would be told whenever His Holiness decided to tell him, so he merely said, "Your Holiness is wise."

The secretary came back into the room. "Your Holiness must excuse me, but we must prepare to return to Rome."

The Pope gave an exaggerated sigh and patted his new archbishop on the shoulder.

"Your Eminence, we come to gay Paree,' and what do we see of her? The inside of a cathedral and a hotel room! Not even the Mona Lisa! What we gave up when we elected to put on the cloth, eh, Archbishop Bartolomeo?"

Jason and Taylor were having breakfast at the Byzantine Café in the hotel when a bellboy went by, paging Mrs. Phillips. "Excuse me, darling," Taylor said. "Probably my sister." "Of course," said Jason, and, as he watched her go, he wondered about the look that came to her eyes when she'd heard the boy call her name

Taylor went to the phone booth, her heart pounding, her palms wet. She did as she had been instructed; she waited for "them" to speak first. The silence was almost as loud as the beating of her heart. Finally she realized that the rules could not apply in a public phone booth, for how could they know when she had been reached and was on the line? Very quietly she said, “This is Mrs. Phillips."

The voice from Rome said, "Thank you, Mrs. Phillips, I'm glad to see that you have the intelligence to know when to bend the rules. I was getting a little worried and was about to ring off and try again with further instructions—which might have proven embarrassing. Now, Mrs. Phillips, you have been doing well—very well. Most commendably accurate information. We are happy to say that our contact has arrived in Athens and is ready to back you up."

"But... but you said he'd replace me!" Taylor protested.

"Exactly what I said," the man replied. "But we think it would be in everybody's best interests if you stuck with Mr. Van Cleve. Where is he going now?"

"Thessaloniki," she said. "Salonika."

"Thessaloniki? Why?"

"To get to Mount Athos."

"Why Mount Athos?"

"He believes the scrolls are there."

"In which monastery?"

"I don't know."

"Does he?"

"I don't know."

"Try to find out. Meanwhile, your son will be delivered to you in Thessaloniki."

"And then we are both free?"

"As far as we are concerned, there's where your journey and your job come to an end. Even if we wanted you to, there is no way you could enter the no-woman's-land of Mount Athos."

"I see," said Taylor with relief.

"However, we will count on your powers of persuasion, which seem to be considerable, to persuade Van Cleve to drive to Thessaloniki rather than fly. He has relied on you to be his chauffeur up to now, so we see no problem with that.

"When will Jonny...?"

"One moment, Mrs. Phillips! We'll get to that. First we have one more thing. Take your time driving up there. Take the longest route. We have certain things we have to take care of. Now about Jonny . Yes, Thessaloniki...here we are .... yes, the Macedonia Palace, that should do nicely. We will expect you to stay at the Macedonia Palace Hotel and wait for your son there. You will be contacted there. Now remember, do take your time driving up. Understand?"

"Yes," Taylor replied. '

"Very good." The line went dead.

When Taylor returned to the table, Jason asked, "How is he?"

For one panicky moment she could not think how he would know whom she'd been talking to. Then she realized that Jason meant the boy.

"He's all right, thank you," she said. "Just a minor infection. My sister's sure he'll be all right."

"However," she said, "I do have some bad news. As I passed the desk, I checked with the concierge, and all the Olympic flights are booked solid for the next two days. There's a fair coming up — the Thessaloniki Trade Fair."

"Another airline?"

"No other airline," Taylor replied. "We can drive up. And I just thought of a friend, a man who can act as a guide for you. Andoni. You'll like Andoni. He once helped me with some research. Not very bright, but he does know the area and the monasteries. He's an excellent guide." As she spoke, she wondered how she could sound so convincing. But what could she do? She had to go along with, this, if she hoped to get Jonny back.

And Jason was disquieted by her sudden false air of enthusiasm. Something was very wrong.

In his Rome office, Tobin concluded a brief conversation with Instanbul.

"Good work, Melnick. You've done well so far, very well. Macedonia Palace. That is where the lady will be staying. Keep her under strict surveillance, but nothing should be done as yet. I will call you shortly—or you call me, if there is anything to report."

Tobin hung up and called the Hilton Hotel in Athens again; but this time he did not speak to Mrs. Phillips.

Not long afterward, a smallish, dapper man removed the folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and tapped the end of his moist nose carefully as he went to the desk of the Athens Hilton and asked the concierge, "Any messages?"

"Oh, yes sir, this came for you. I rang your room, but you were out."

"Probably in the shower," said McCue, taking the note. "Thank you."

He walked away as he read the message, then turned and went back to the desk. "Is there a travel agency around?" he asked.

"I'll be glad to help you if I can, sir," the concierge offered.

"Can you get me on a flight to Thess...Thess..."

."Thessaloniki?" The clerk shook his head. "Sorry, sir all booked."

The small man pulled out a large bill and held it out.

"There just might be a cancellation," said the clerk, picking up the phone.

"Why haven't they killed me?" Jason said, as they lay together in the dark. "It would be so simple for them just to kill me. Why?"

It was two-thirty in the morning and they were in Thessaloniki. Although tired after the six-hour drive, neither had slept. They had made love and lay in each other's arms, preoccupied with their thoughts.

"They obviously don't choose to," said Taylor. “Thank God."

"At this particular time they don't choose to," he said. 'That means they want me to pursue this business. They want me to find the scrolls! That makes some sense, doesn't it? It's just possible that they, whoever they are, don't know exactly where the scrolls are, and I'm doing their legwork for them. The moment I find them, I'm dead. Then they take the scrolls and burn them... or whatever...”

"That's why I say quit, darling. Quit!"

He shook his head in the dark. “There was a time, back in Izmir, when I guess I had that option. No longer. They don't want me wandering around with all this information ready to blab to all the world. I'm safe as long as I stay on the story. If I were to abandon the search—bam!—they'd nail me." He gave a rueful laugh. "That's the Catch-22—as long as I follow the clues, stay on the treasure hunt, I'm fine. It's just when I win and find the treasure that I'm in deep trouble."

He was ready to throw back the bedclothes and get started on the hunt, but Taylor was asleep. He thought he'd better get a little sleep himself. He wondered that Taylor could sleep so soundly under the circumstances, not knowing the night of anguish she'd endured in addition to the constant anxiety for her son and the physical stress of all the driving. But he soon succumbed and slept for a few hours himself.

It was not yet dawn when Jason awoke. He shook Taylor gently and whispered, "Time, darling."

"Jason, it's still dark," she murmured as she turned over and prepared to go back to sleep.

"Ouranopolis is a good ways from here. Your friend Andoni will be waiting." 

"Okay," she said, wide awake now as the name Andoni reminded her of her mission.

"Why don't you just stay in bed? You're exhausted and I can find my way to Andoni's place."

"No, no, I'll drive you. This way I'll have the car. You might be gone a couple of days."

As she got dressed, she realized Jason was right; he had to keep going. To stop now would be tantamount to repeating the fate of Lascaris and Phillips Taylor and who knew who else? Maybe even that poor innocent man, Elias, whom she had put the finger on. But no, he was such an old man. But then, Lascaris was an old man too! Oh, God!

Her torturous thoughts caused her to look pensive, and Jason said, "You all right?"

"I was just thinking, Jason, that maybe when you get back you'll get to meet Jonny.”

"You didn't tell me," he said. "He's coming home?"

Should she tell Jason about the kidnapping now, and trust his assessment of the situation? No, he had enough to worry about, and anyway it would soon be over. They had promised that Jonny would be delivered to the Macedonia Palace; he might even be there when she got back.

"Yes," she said, then added uncertainly, "I think he's coming home soon... very soon."

The thought came to Jason. Could they have threatened her son in some way? That would explain all kinds of things. But if she hadn't told him... no, she surely would have told him. Best not to mention it. It wouldn't do to put such a thought in her mind.

It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Jason stood quietly where he had gotten out of the car when Taylor drove off to return to Salonika. In his pocket he felt the pistol that she had insisted he take.  "

"If you take it, I'll bet you won't need it. If you don't— I'll bet you will."

"There's female logic at its absolute finest." He grinned.

As he stood looking at the spot where the car and Taylor had disappeared, he felt overwhelmed by his task, by his efforts to make some sense of this strange situation he'd got himself into. And something was still very wrong with his relationship with Taylor. It had started off so beautifully... but maybe it was for the best; who wanted another relationship that could turn out painfully? He turned and walked toward the taverna.

As he approached, a great bearded giant of a man came out of the Pegasus Taverna and threw a bucket of water into the street. He fit Taylor's description, and Jason followed him as he went back into the taverna. The man did not notice Jason, and when he reentered the taverna, he closed the door.

Jason stopped and once again looked back toward Salonika. Taylor had been anxious to get back to the hotel, and hadn't wanted to say hello to Andoni, her old friend. Jason could not shake the feeling that something was going on that Taylor hadn't told him. Then he pushed the door and it creaked open He stepped in. The place was dark, ominously dark. Was this a trap? Was Andoni yet another one of them? Had Taylor unwittingly led him to an assassin?

His foot came down on something soft. With a yelp and then a snarl, a black dog exploded to life and fled.

"Andoni?" Jason called out tentatively.

He could hear a gruff voice singing boisterously from another room.

"Andoni!' he called again, but the voice went on and Jason walked toward the sound. Opening another door, Jason smelled hot olive oil and garlic, and saw the oil lamp that illuminated the kitchen. He could see the big man standing in front of a large wood stove. There was no one else in the room except a yellow-striped cat, asleep under the stove. In the confined space, the man, who was about sixty, looked even more powerful than he had outside. He sang lustily as he stirred several small fish in a pan of oil.

"Are you Andoni?"

The bearded man turned around, unstartled.

"Breakfast won't be ready for a while. Have some ouzo?"

"A little early for me," said Jason.

Andoni poured anyway, from an unlabeled bottle into two cloudy glasses.

"You friend of Mrs. Phillips, I know. You Professor Hoover, no?" He clapped Jason on the shoulder.

He speared a tiny fish with a fork. "Have a marida -eat bones and all! Good! Good!”

He extended the fork to Jason's mouth. The fish was soggy with olive oil, but fresh and tasty.

"So you want I should take you to Vatopedi." He shook his head. "Dangerous. It can be outrageous."

"The guidebook I've been reading says, quote, it is peaceful and the monks have little, but are very hospitable, unquote," Jason replied.

"Hah! Guidebooks not right. Lots of trouble. Bands of outlaws hide in the hills. Some monasteries afraid even to let stranger pass.”

"But surely . . . why, those monasteries are like fortresses!'

"And like fortress, they careful who come in. You got papers?"

."Papers? What kind of papers? I have my visa, my passport—"

"Sure, but extra papers... important papers they give you at Athens... special papers to let you travel on Mount Athos."

"I'm afraid I don't have any special papers, just my—" '''

"Maybe they decide not to let you go." He shrugged and shook his head. "Make no difference either way.”

Jason hesitated. "Perhaps I should look for another guide if you aren't willing to take me."

Andoni shrugged again, shaking his head. "Anyone else tell you same thing, boss."

Jason extracted five hundred euro and put them on the table.

"And the same when we get back."

Andoni's face broke into a grin, and he pulled at his beard.

"On other hand, this outrageous sum of money. I get you papers. We go, boss, we go."

He poured himself another glass of ouzo.

"When?" asked Jason.

"Soon, now." He pointed to the glass with a hurt look. "My friends, they drink with me. Drink, boss, drink!"

Jason took a cautious sip. 'That's... that's slow poison," he gasped.

"Yes," roared Andoni happily. "Very good slow poison for people not in hurry to die!" He hesitated for a moment, then said, "You sure you want to go to Vatopedi?"

"Yes," said Jason.

"Okay," said Andoni with a doubtful nod of his head.

There was a donkey in the backyard, along with two chickens, and after Andoni had cleaned up the kitchen, he packed the animal with some tins of food and a bottle of ouzo. Then he fed the chickens and, leaving the taverna unlocked, started for the boat landing.

Jason, carrying his gear, walked alongside the big Greek. He did not see a small man who kept dabbing  at his runny nose, sitting in a car that now moved forward slowly about a hundred yards behind them.

Once out of Ouranopolis, Taylor drove as fast as conditions would permit in order to make up for the time she'd spent in bringing Jason to Andoni's. She wanted to be waiting for Jonny when they brought him to the hotel. She had done her duty, had followed instructions to the letter, stalling for time as she drove Jason up from Athens. She had not once given away her secret—not to Jason, not to the police. They could not ask for more.

There had been a few moments back on the narrow strip out of Ouranopolis, when the fog was thick and she'd had her headlights on, that she'd seen headlights behind her and she'd thought she was being followed, but now she hadn't seen any sign of anyone following since Ierissos.

She thought of Jason. Was he still being followed? But who would dare to harm him on the holy mountain, surrounded, as he would be by men who were devoting their lives to God? It was incomprehensible to her that such men could commit coldblooded murders like that ghastly mutilation of Lascaris. And as for Jason's notion that the Vatican could be involved in a conspiracy, she was having second thoughts.

 She made good time crossing the Chalkidiki peninsula, and as she reached the outskirts of Thessaloniki, she wondered if she should buy a gift for Jonny. But no, when he returned, they could go shopping together and she could get him whatever he liked.

And when Jason returned... but would he? Even if he found what he was looking for and got away with it, would he not fly directly back to the United States? Why had she assumed he'd want to meet Jonny? Would they like each other if they did meet? It warmed her to think so. She truly loved this man.

When she arrived back at the hotel in Thessaloniki, she asked the room clerk anxiously, "Any messages?"

The clerk shook his head.

"No one's been here?"

"No one, madam. I'm sorry."

Taylor thanked him and walked to her room. More waiting. How much longer..,how much longer? She went into her room, locked the door, and flung herself facedown on the bed and cried.

Finally, she got up and stood looking out of the window. Had they reneged completely? Or was Jonny, perhaps, on his way? Why had no one tried to contact, her? But maybe they had—yes, of course they had; it was illogical of her to suppose they would leave a message with the concierge. She could only sit in her room and wait.

Or if she did phone Father Bartolomeo, who would know? She had to talk to someone. She could no longer keep this bottled up inside her.

She picked up the phone... then put it down. Supposing the outgoing calls were being monitored? She'd be jeopardizing Jonny's safety. She put down the receiver slowly. She paced the room, then walked back to the telephone and snatched it up.

She gave the number in Rome. She had second thoughts while she listened to the distant hums and clicks. She forced herself to hang on, and in a moment the voice of Antonio, Father Bartolomeo's secretary, said in Italian, "Si, Signora. His Eminence just came in the office."

"My dear child, what luck! I've just this moment returned from Paris, and—“

"Father, I'm so terribly worried. I must tell you..." Taylor's voice broke, but she held back the tears. "I have promised not to tell you, or anyone... but... it's Jonny..."

“Tell me, Taylor," he said firmly as he sat down at his desk. “Tell me everything."

As calmly as she could, Taylor told her story—all that had happened, and how and why. "And now, Father, they still haven't returned Jonny, and I simply cannot take any more of this!"

Father Bartolomeo said quietly, "You poor girl. Now listen to me carefully. You stay there and let me get to work at this end. If they release Jonny and he does join you there, call me. Otherwise, leave it all to me. Continue to follow any instructions you may receive. I will get back to you."

When he hung up, the cardinal tried to sort out the facts and recent events. Suddenly there flashed through his mind what the Pope had said in Paris about the group called the Guardians, those religious fanatics of another age. Could it be that the organization was not extinct, as His Holiness would like to believe? But how was the connection made between them and Taylor's boy? With whom had he talked recently about Taylor? Patrick. Patrick! And whom had he told about Taylor's son, mentioning the aunt's name? And whom had he told about Taylor's involvement with the Ephesus scrolls? Patrick! It was just too monstrous to contemplate. There wasn't anyone alive whom he'd known longer than Patrick!

Archbishop (in pectore) Bartolomeo sat momentarily stunned, at his desk. Now, what to do about all this? Idly he riffled through the dozen or so telephone messages that had accumulated in his absence. What could he do? Cardinals were expected to be able to work miracles, but after all, he was just an ordinary man under his robes. He had even promised miracles, telling Taylor not to worry. Let the archbishop handle it! The great archbishop, whose big mouth and lack of judgment of his fellow man had got her son kidnapped in the first place.

Then a name on one message caught his eye. Rozmyslowski. Not an easy name to overlook. Al had been a close wartime friend, a fellow American, and they frequently got together for dinner and reminiscences when he was in Rome.

Al! That was it! He was a man of action—a hotshot pilot, a reliable, resourceful man. Right now he might be a godsend!

 Father Bartolomeo telephoned the number and asked for Al Rozmyslowski.        

"Al! Where are you?”

"Right here at the Excelsior, Barto, just passing through. Can we get together for a little bull session, old buddy?"

"Of course. Al, listen, I've got a pressing problem. You still flying?”

"Sure, Padre. It's the only thing I really like to do."

"Al, how soon can you get over here?"

An hour later, Father Bartolomeo said, “The Lord does work in mysterious ways," shaking his head incredulously as Al was about to leave,

"Don't you worry, Padre. I can take care of my end. And from what you told me I’d put my money on that Guardians outfit. Hate to say it, but your old friend Patrick sounds like the fink, if not the actual kidnapper.”

When Al had gone, the cardinal thought about Patrick. He recalled Patrick once telling him about a visitation from Jesus. When Bartolomeo had said, "It was just a dream, Georgie," Patrick had turned very red and said fiercely, "No! He came to me, I swear it!" Then he insisted that he'd been told always to protect His name and the Faith at any cost. And for years Bartolomeo wondered why Jesus had never come to him.

Could Patrick Cardinal Furst really be involved in such a thing as kidnapping? How naive of Bartolomeo to have divulged all he knew of Taylor and her son to Patrick! But

Patrick... Georgie... was that the key? Did Patrick still identify with those old George Raft roles? But why not? Patrick, the scholarly historian, could have a Walter Mitty-type outlet for his aggressions in just such an outfit as the Pope had described. And his justification for his acts would naturally come from the very history of the Church itself. The only recollection Barto had of George Raft was one of a pensive man, silently tossing a coin. Was Patrick that quiet man, tossing coins and deciding the fate of— no, no, it could not be that simple. But Barto had a feeling that it might not be far wrong.

He paced up and down the room. He stared up at the small crucifix on the wall.

Guidance, please, Lord, guidance! he beseeched silently, but nothing came to him.

He went to the desk, picked up his Vatican directory, and looked up the telephone number of Patrick's apartment. He lifted the phone and started to dial. Then, as though an unseen hand were pushing down on his, he hung up. He hesitated a moment, then went quickly into his bedroom. He got out of his cardinal's robes and into slacks and a beige turtleneck sweater. Then he went out of his apartment and down the stairs to the basement garage. His Fiat was next to two other cars that belonged to clerics who also lived in the building, all with the distinctive SVC to be found on all Vatican license plates.

In five minutes he was at Patrick's quarters, although the evening traffic on the Via Veneto was especially hectic. He parked across from the elegant apartment on

Del Sarto Street

and walked across the street to where the uniformed doorman stood.

"Cardinal Patricio" he said.

"And your name, sir?" The doorman's hand went to the brass phone that connected the lobby to the apartments.

Bartolomeo had the feeling, for some reason, that if he was announced, Patrick might not see him, might pretend not to be in, so he said for the first time in his life:

"I am Archbishop Bartolomeo, but you needn't announce me. I am expected."

The man dipped his head slightly and said, "Yes, Your Reverence," and quickly opened the door.

Bartolomeo took the elevator to the third floor, saying to himself, "Archbishop Bartolomeo... my, my, you've come a long way from Brooklyn, kid." And then he thought of the reason for his coming, and, as he went down the carpeted hall to Patrick's apartment, he thought how far apart he and old "Georgie" had drifted, although they had started out together in the same community and ended up together here in the Vatican.

He rang the bell, and in a moment the door opened. Patrick stood there, his handsome face framed by a round, white Delia Robbia bas-relief of the Crucifixion on the wall of the foyer behind him. The cardinal's mouth opened in surprise, and he glanced furtively toward the living room. Bartolomeo could see two male figures with their backs to him, sitting on a red velvet sofa under a large painting by Rouault of Christ's head. Then Patrick's face spread into a charming smile.

"Barto!" he exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise! Rumors are flying that you are to be our newest archbishop!"

"Patrick, I came to talk to you about something far more serious!”

Patrick's smile faded when he saw the scowl on Barto's face—and heard himself addressed as Patrick rather than as "Georgie."

"What is it, Barto?"

The smile, the greeting, the look of genuine concern on Patrick's face disarmed Cardinal Bartolomeo for a moment, but he went on.

"What do you know about the Guardians?" he asked.

“The Guardians?”  Patrick wrinkled his brow.

"Yes, the Guardians." And Father Bartolomeo knew that Patrick's query had been phony, for few would be in a position to know more about any historic organization connected in any way to the Vatican than his old friend Patrick.

"Only what everyone knows, that they are—"

"Were is the verb of choice here, Georgie, remember?"

"Right. They were—"

'"Georgie, when I told you about Taylor Phillips, her son, and the scrolls, whom did you tell about our talk?"

"Why?" He hesitated. "I can't remember. Why is it important?"

"Please think," Father Bartolomeo said.

"Barto," said Father Patrick, "what on earth is going on here?"

"Think!" Bartolomeo said. He took Patrick by the upper arm in a steel grip and backed him through a swinging door into the kitchenette, across that room, and pushed him hard up against the refrigerator.

"Think!"

"Barto!" Patrick hissed in a hoarse whisper, alarmed by the other's ferocity. "I have guests!”

"Whose brilliant idea was it to kidnap the boy?”

"What boy? What are you talking about?"

'"You know!" Bartolomeo growled. "You know”

Patrick hesitated. "Let me get rid of..." he jerked his head toward the living room.

Bartolomeo released his grip.

Patrick, rubbing his arm, went back into the living room, closing the kitchen door behind him.

"Gentlemen," Father Bartolomeo heard him say apologetically, "Something has come up. Let us continue this matter, if you will, in my office. Nine tomorrow, please."

Bartolomeo opened the door a crack. He could see the two men as they rose to leave. He could not see them well, but again the Pope's words came to him as he watched Patrick ushering them to the front door; didn't the Guardians operate with three men? Could they all be part of this monstrous kidnapping?

The men muttered good night to Patrick and left. Bartolomeo came out of the kitchenette when he heard the door close.

“Now just what is this all about?” demanded Patrick haughtily as he stood by a large wooden statue of Mary. "The serpent of hate appears to be in your bosom!"

Bartolomeo grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard. "Don't use that tone with me! Where the "hell is the boy being held?"

"I told you, I know nothing of a boy! Kidnapping? What kind of accusation is this?" Patrick jammed the tips of his fingers hard on Barto's chest with indignation.

When Patrick's fingers touched him, Bartolomeo was instantly back in the streets of Brooklyn. Without thinking, just a reflex action, he shot out a left jab and almost simultaneously, a right cross to Patrick's face, shouting, "Don't you touch me; you damned Guardian!" For a moment Bartolomeo looked down at his still-clenched fists in horror and shame.

Back against the wall, Patrick put his hand in amazement to the trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth. "Where in the world," he panted “did you get that idea? Of course I haven't kidnapped . . . what boy? The Phillips boy? I've never even seen him! Never heard of him till you told me about him!"

"Liar!" said Barto.         

Patrick suddenly leaped forward and swung his fist. Barto ducked under it, slamming a left into Patrick's stomach as he did.

Patrick doubled over for a moment, then snapped out with an uppercut that caught Bartolomeo under the chin. The archbishop fell back against the wooden statue of the Virgin, grasped for it, and they both toppled over to the floor. Bartolomeo shook his head, pushed the statue off him, lunged for Patrick's legs, and jerked him off his feet. Patrick's head hit the wall as he fell, and he lay there dazed. Bartolomeo crawled to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him.

"Where is the boy?'

"I don't know!"

"But you are a Guardian! Yes or no?"

Patrick nodded.

“And the boy?”

'Barto!" Patrick gasped. "I swear to you in the name of the Savior, I don't know about any kidnapping!”

Bartolomeo relaxed his grip and said, ruefully and ashamed, "Look at us, Georgie! Men of the cloth, fighting like street brawlers. Ridiculous! I must believe you. We've known each other too long. I'm sorry, Patrick, truly sorry. Now what can you tell me of this... this conspiracy?”

Patrick dragged the back of his fingers across his bruised mouth. "You call it conspiracy! We of the Guardians call it faith and zeal and a burning desire to purge the Church of anyone who would lessen it in the eyes of the world."

"Bravo, a noble speech! And is the kidnapping of a young boy one of your nobler acts? I understand that at least two people have been murdered. Isn't that a rather fanatic distortion of religious zeal? Positively medieval! So the Pope was right— the Guardians do still exist. Very much so."

Patrick said nothing, but his eyes lowered.

"Patrick, we are running out of time! Where do we start to find the boy?"

"I don't know, Barto... let me think... give me time..." His mind was in turmoil. Two people killed? So Tobin had lied! He'd never liked or trusted the man—an evil, power-lusting maniac in cardinal's clothing. How was it possible that such a noble, God-inspired institution as the Guardians had gotten so far out of hand? Or had it always been thus, and had he been too much of a zealot himself to see it? Had he been duped unwittingly all along? Was a hunger for power the real motivation of the Guardians, and was violence their method, rather than faith and vigilance? Then to his friend he finally

said, "I have killed no one, Barto. Kidnapped no one. I will help you. I told someone—unaware, so help me—of any possible consequences to your friend or her son. It had to do with surveillance on this man who is bent on exposing the Ephesus scrolls."

"Whom did you tell?”

"Tobin."

'Tobin!" Bartolomeo nodded. “Tobin, of course. How he rose to become a cardinal, I'll never know. Tobin!"

"I never truly liked or trusted him either." He seemed to see him now, clearly, for the first time, as the evil man he was. “Tertius is also involved, but he is nothing but Tobin's puppet."

"And where would they have taken the boy? Patrick thought for a moment. "A likely spot might be Tobin's summer place—his house in Calese."

"Let's go, then—straight to Tobin, and confront him and demand the release of the boy."

Father Patricio shook his head. "That would be foolish. He would only deny it and move the child to another location. Or even kill the boy. Yes, I believe now that he is ruthless enough to kill the boy." Patrick shuddered, then said, "Instead, let us go to the house and, if the child is there, free him ourselves."

"Better still, let's call the police. I have a young friend on the force, Andrea di Grazia, who—"

"Barto! The police? Never! Think of the implications! The police find a boy kidnapped by a cardinal! Think of the damage to the Church, the reflection on the Pope, on all of us!"

"You're right.”

"The two of us can free him. How much protection do they need to contain a boy... how old, would you say?"

"Eight, nine. You're right. We have no choice. Do you want to go in my car?"

"No, you follow me. We might need both cars for the getaway."

"Georgie, you sound like a gangster."

"Well, Barto, you always said I looked like one.

"Before we go, I've got to call the boy's mother.”

As the phone was ringing, he kept thinking, Answer, answer, answer, sweet Taylor. For if she didn't, it might mean that someone had gotten to her. She knew far too much now to be allowed to stay alive. And then his heart gave a skip as he heard her voice: "Oh, Father..."

"I've no time to talk, but there's a pilot friend of mine who will be there soon to help you. Taylor, I want you to clear out of that room they've set you up in. Not out of the hotel. Just tell the manager you want a different room. My friend will ask for you by your maiden name. No one else is to know where you are, understand? Of course, you are being watched, but this may slow them down a bit. And don’t worry, my dear , I’ ll  get Jonny.”

"Oh, Father, I'm so grateful. But don't you think it might be better if I went to another hotel?"

"No, Taylor, dear. You couldn't gain anything by it. If you walked out, you'd only be followed. This way, as long as they think they know where you are, it could be much more confusing for them, since there will be nothing to indicate that you are no longer still in the room they reserved for you. Do as I say, my dear, and be careful. My friend will be there soon. His name is Al, a good man, a very good man. I must go now. Goodbye, child, and God be with you."

Taylor immediately arranged to have her things moved to another room. She re-registered, using her maiden name. Once settled, the respite that had come with the activity, the sense of doing something subsided, and once again she was left with her doubts.

How could Father Bartolomeo be so sure he could get Jonny? Was the Vatican really involved in this? Now that she had moved, how could Jason find her when he returned? Would he ever return? Would he be a good father for Jonny? How little she knew about him, really. But then, even her own sister—how could she have let this terrible thing happen to Jonny? But she had to stop this doubting and fretting. She had to trust someone. It was the waiting, the inactivity that made her feel so helpless, so vulnerable, so alone.