“I’ll try and remember the access codes from last time,” he said with a smile.

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“The results are always worth it.”

“You’re such a nice priest. Still, it’s a shame. …”

Half a cup of espresso later, they stood at the door, Angeli clearly eager to get back to her “toy.” The good-byes were brief.

By quarter past twelve, he stood on the Ponte Garibaldi, a starry sky having all but swept away the mist and rain, a hint of cool air off the water a belated apology for the day. He let the breeze sift through his hair and clothes as he walked, the sound of the Tiber constant as his own pace. He stopped for a few moments at the apex of the bridge, lights from each bank streaming onto the edge of the water, never, though, infringing more than a few yards, a narrow strip of deep velvet at center. Pearse stared out at the abyss, caught up in its imagined emptiness.

Light and darkness, he thought. The simplicity in contrast somehow so comforting.

The vigilanza at the gate seemed surprised by his late return. Priests-even those without collars-were usually in bed at this hour. Pearse didn’t recognize a single face as the guards gave both him and his identification a thorough examination before letting him through. The unfamiliarity evidently mutual, they continued to watch him as he made his way to the archway.

The change in weather had somehow eluded the Vatican, a dusty drizzle pressing at him as he walked up to his entryway. With no Jesuit to evade this time around, he managed the door with ease, the light from the foyer slipping into dim haze as he mounted the steps; the third-floor corridor waited silently. Trying to mirror its stillness, he tiptoed toward his room, gingerly pulling the key from his pocket before easing it into the lock. Inside, he slowly pressed the door shut, then placed the key on a side table.

“Quarter to one,” came a voice from somewhere behind him. Pearse spun round, his eyes as yet unaccustomed to the dark, the striped shadows streaming in from the windows as he tried to pinpoint the unseen speaker. “That’s rather late, isn’t it?” His first inclination was to reach back for the door handle, but a figure suddenly appeared at his right, a large hand spread wide across the center of the door. Pearse turned back into the room, his eyes now clearer, the outline of a figure seated by the far window, another at its side. From his chair, the man flicked on a nearby table lamp. “Why don’t you have a seat, Father?”

One by one, Pearse stared at the men, all three in dark suits. “How did you get in here?” he asked.

Stefan Kleist, still seated, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small wallet. He flipped it open to reveal an identification card. “Vatican security,” he answered.

The man in the chair was smaller than the others, far less overpowering, yet clearly more menacing. Or perhaps it was the accent, thought Pearse. The precision of an Austrian German as he articulated English; he couldn’t tell. “I wasn’t aware that gave you permission to enter a priest’s private apartments in the middle of the night.”

“Only under certain circumstances, Father.” Kleist seemed strangely deferential, far less snide than with his initial quip.

“And that usually entails waiting around for one of them to return?”

“Why don’t you have a seat?”

Pearse remained by the door, aware that the room had changed subtly since he’d last seen it. The books were back on the shelves, no longer on the floor by the sofa, the plate of cheese altogether gone. The ball was back in his glove. Someone had decided to clean up-perhaps too well-after what had no doubt been a painstaking overhaul of the apartment. He glanced once more at the man nearest to him-at least six foot seven, eyes vacant, no need to threaten, his frame imposing enough. Pearse slowly moved to the sofa and sat. A vicarious sense of deja vu swept over him.

“Where’s the scroll, Father?” asked Kleist.

The man’s candor momentarily caught him off guard. Not that he had any idea what they thought they would find in it; still, given Dante’s experience, he had expected a bit more finesse. “Scroll?” he replied.

“Tonight’s not the night to play games.” Kleist’s expression remained unchanged, his tone enough to convey his impatience. “You saw the monk at Ruini’s funeral.”

“How did you know-”

“Do you often go out without your collar?” Kleist continued, producing the thin strip of white material from the tabletop. “Or is that only when you’re in a rush?” Pearse said nothing. “What were you in such a hurry to find?” He waited, then asked again. “The scroll, Father-where is it?”

Pearse kept his eyes locked on the small man, trying not to display any of the panic mounting in his chest. He became acutely aware of the silence, second after second slipping by, until he heard the sound of a distant voice break through. “Don’t you mean statuette?” Pearse was still staring, amazed that the words had come from his own mouth. He watched as a hint of uncertainty crept across the Austrian’s eyes.

“What?” asked Kleist.

“Dante said there was some question of provenance,” Pearse continued, no less stunned at the ease with which he let the words slip out. “That the monastery’s claim was prior to the Vatican’s.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The fertility god he found in the catacombs. The statuette.” He seemed to be gaining momentum. “He said you’d be eager to get your hands on it, although I’m not sure he thought you’d go to these lengths. Isn’t that what this is all about?”

Kleist said nothing for several seconds, his gaze fixed on Pearse. When he finally spoke, precision once again laced his words. “This is much simpler than you seem to understand, Father.” He paused, then continued. “We both know the monk never mentioned a statuette. Or any questions of provenance. He told you about a scroll.”

Again, Pearse said nothing, the Austrian evidently willing to wait.

After nearly a minute, however, his patience had grown thin. He began to nod. “All right,” he said, getting to his feet and buttoning his jacket, “then let’s go and see this statuette of yours.”

“What?” blurted out Pearse, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. “Now?”

“Yes, now, Father,” he replied, standing patiently in front of his chair. “If it’s where you say it is, then we’ve made a terrible mistake, and you have our apologies.” The delivery was devoid of any emotion. “If not, then we’ll have to start all over again.”

Nothing in the words approximated what Pearse saw in the eyes staring back at him. Eyes that made it abundantly clear why the smallest of the three was issuing the commands. And it had very little to do with the accent. Remember the monk; remember the terror in his voice. With only a glance, the man had said as much.

Pearse’s tone was far less controlled when he spoke. “Look, I’m a priest-”

“A Vatican priest,” Kleist reminded firmly, without raising his voice. “Which places you under our jurisdiction.”

“I’m also an American-”

“In an independent nation-state that houses no embassies.” He let the well-practiced words sink in. “Vatican City recognizes no claims by foreign states to infringe upon the sovereignty of His Holiness, the Pope. As representatives of that sovereignty, we are equally unrestricted in our handling of those who claim citizenship within its walls.” He waited, then continued. “The statuette, Father.”

A nervous courage surged to the fore. “And what if I refuse to show you where it is?”

“Why would you do that?” he asked, again with no trace of emotion. “As I said, we’re interested in a scroll. You show us this statuette of yours, and we’ll have nothing more to talk about.”

Pearse suddenly realized how well the man from security had played him. He tried to maintain his edge. “Except your apology.”