Pearse said nothing for several seconds. “So that’s why you put the scroll back.”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “The police would have been useless. And the abbot … he was the one who’d let them in.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“That, as far as I knew, my rooms weren’t part of the Vatican. They didn’t see any humor in that.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“They asked if Sebastiano had given me anything the previous night. I asked them how they knew we had met. They repeated the question. I asked them if something had happened to Sebastiano. They asked again if he had given me anything. So forth and so on. I don’t know why, but I told them no. There was something about them, something that told me to protect my friend. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have given them what they wanted.”

“I would have done the same thing,” said Pearse. “Did they say anything else?”

“They wanted to know if Sebastiano had told me about anything he’d recently found in the church.”

“Did they ever mention the scroll? Explain what it was?”

“No. I asked them what it was that could possibly bring Vatican security all the way out to San Clemente. They said it wasn’t my concern. So it went, each of them taking turns with questions. Each time, I told them I was sorry but that I didn’t know what they were looking for.”

“And they believed you?”

“I have no idea. Eventually, they decided to leave.”

“And that was it? Nothing else until the tunnels?”

“Nothing else?” asked Cesare somewhat surprised. “Well, not unless you consider Sebastiano’s death unimportant.”

Pearse turned to him. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He waited, then asked again. “And that’s all they said?”

“Yes.” Cesare started to nod, then stopped. “No.” He seemed to be trying to remember something. “There was one thing.” After a moment, he said, “It was when they were leaving. One of them”-his eyes were still hunting for the words-“he said, ‘We’re well aware of the perfect light.’” Cesare nodded to himself. “Yes, that was it, the ‘perfect light.’ He said, ‘Don’t be foolish to think you can keep it from us.’” He looked at Pearse. “That struck me as odd. Of course, I had no idea what he meant. I thought he might have been referring to the Holy Spirit or-”

“‘Perfect Light’?” asked Pearse, a sudden intensity in his tone. “You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“I think so,” Cesare replied, aware of the shift in the younger man’s voice. “Yes, now that I remember it. As I said, the words were unusual.” Pearse remained silent; Cesare continued. “I imagine he meant it as some sort of threat. Expected me to understand. Evidently, it was lost on me.”

“It wasn’t the Holy Spirit.” Pearse continued to stare out. Almost to himself, he said, “He was referring to the ‘Perfect Light.’”

“Yes …” answered the Italian, clearly puzzled by Pearse’s response. “I know. That’s what I just said.” He waited for a response.

“‘Perfect Light, True Ascent,’” Pearse added, his eyes rising to the Arch of Constantine. “Maybe it’s not so absurd.”

“What’s not so absurd?” asked the Italian. “Ian?”

It took Pearse a moment to focus; he turned to Cesare. “‘Perfect Light, True Ascent.’ It’s a prayer, Dante. A Manichaean prayer.” Again, his gaze drifted. “It’s supposed to be a collection of Jesus’ sayings.”

“A prayer?”

Pearse nodded. “Passed down orally. Never a written text. Or so says Augustine.” He turned to the monk. “You’re absolutely sure those were the words the man used?”

“Yes.” Cesare took a moment. “And that’s what the scroll is, this … ‘Perfect Light’?”

Pearse shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“You mean to tell me a prayer was the reason those men went through my rooms?” Cesare was suddenly more heated. “The reason they followed me to San Clemente, to the old church? A prayer is why Sebastiano was killed?” The last thought seemed to incite him further. “I don’t believe that, Ian. That is absurd. A prayer doesn’t explain what’s happened.”

“I realize that, but I don’t have an answer for you.” Cesare said nothing. “You wanted a link to the Manichaeans, well, here it is. For whatever it’s worth.” Restless, Pearse stood. “You’re sure they were the same men who were in the tunnel?”

“Yes. Who else would they be?”

A question suddenly crossed his mind; he turned to Cesare. “How do you know, if they never caught you?”

Cesare looked up, momentarily taken aback by the question. “How do I know?” Pearse heard the defensiveness in the monk’s voice. “There are plenty of ways to be seen and not be seen in those tunnels, Ian. It wasn’t that hard to let them find me, and just as easy to lose them. I’m sure that by the time they reached the old church, I was already making my way here. Why is this of any importance?”

“So if you knew you’d lost them, why were you afraid that you’d been followed?”

A tinge of anger flickered over Cesare’s face. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking?”

The two men stared at each other. Finally, Pearse shook his head, sat back down on the bench. “I don’t know … neither do I.”

The monk took a moment before responding. “Look, I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position. I understand. Naturally you’re suspicious. Maybe it’s better that way.”

Again silence before Pearse continued. “So what do you do now?”

“I have a few friends. They can put me up for tonight.”

“And then what?”

From under the top of his tunic, Cesare pulled a bag that hung around his neck. “Is there anyone who would understand these kinds of prayers more-how can I say it? — more-”

“Better than I do?” asked Pearse with a smile. “Of course.”

“Then I think that person needs to see the scroll.”

“And you want me to get it.”

Cesare opened the bag and pulled a piece of paper from inside. “I drew you a little map. How to get to the catacombs from the main sanctuary entrance. You could go tomorrow.” He held the paper out to Pearse.

“And once I have it, does this start all over again? Am I going to be talking to someone through scaffolding two days from now?”

Cesare said nothing; he laid the paper on Pearse’s lap.

“And if I say no?” Pearse asked.

“Sebastiano is dead. If I go back to San Clemente, maybe those men are there; maybe this time, it’s not questions. You’ve told me there’s a real link here to something that was supposed to have been rooted out centuries ago.”

“And if it wasn’t,” Pearse insisted, “what possible threat could it pose now anyway? We’re talking about ideology, Dante. The church has had fifteen hundred years to establish itself. I don’t think an ancient heresy has any hope of undermining that authority.”

“Fine. Then why have these men gone to such lengths for a prayer? Does that make any more sense to you?” Cesare waited before continuing. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that it’s Vatican security who have been the ones to take such an interest? Whatever this is, it’s clearly important to someone. Important enough to take a man’s life.”

Pearse stared into Cesare’s eyes. For several moments, neither said a word. Finally, he reached down and took the paper from his lap.

“Thank you,” said the monk. “And tomorrow, we’ll take it to this expert of yours.”

Pearse stared at the scrawled map. “You’re sure you’ll be okay tonight?” he asked.

“They’re old friends.” Cesare stood, placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, then turned and began to walk away. About ten yards from him, he turned back. “Go in peace.” The two exchanged a smile before Cesare turned again and headed off.

Sitting alone, Pearse watched as the monk made his way past the arch. Go in peace. If only it were that easy.

Stefan Kleist sat in a small sound studio, several television screens in front of him. One of the monitors pictured a girl, perhaps seven years old, playing on the grass, other children with her, an older woman on a park bench in the distance. A typical spring afternoon. The camera zoomed in on the older woman. She had nodded off, her head tilted back, one hand having fallen from her lap to the bench. The camera again panned to the girl. Kleist spoke into a microphone, a device placed at its base to distort his voice. “I could have taken her then while the old woman slept. Your sister should be more careful with her granddaughter.” The tape moved to another scene. The same girl, this time with a younger woman on a busy street, the woman staring into a shop window, unaware as the little girl ambled farther and farther off. The camera now zoomed in on the woman as she turned from the window. Panic rose on her face, her eyes scanning frantically as she realized the girl was gone. When she spotted the tiny figure two stores down, she ran after her, grabbed her arm, and berated her for wandering off. Again Kleist spoke into the microphone. “Or then, when your niece was preoccupied. So easy to have taken the girl then.” Once more, the screen faded to another shot, this one through an iron fence, the girl seated on a set of stairs, her small chin resting on tiny hands as she waited in front of a convent school. The camera whipped around and lighted on a young priest making his way through the far gate. “That could be me,” intoned Kleist. “Or there,” he added as the camera focused on a sister coming out from one of the entrances. “What child wouldn’t take the hand of a nun?” The screen now filled with myriad images of the girl-at school, with friends, the park-anywhere a seven-year-old might find herself. “So many choices. So difficult to guard against them all. And if you think the police could help you, don’t. I would know before you had hung up the phone. And the girl would be gone.”