“Even if that demon doesn’t exist?”

A wry smile crossed his lips. “The last I checked, Islamic fundamentalism was alive and well.”

“Playing on people’s irrational fears isn’t what Mani had in mind.”

“We’ve been through this. And it’s a little late to be questioning the method.”

“I’m not questioning it. I’m simply interpreting its emphasis.”

“Nothing brings people together like ignorance, John.” Von Neurath seemed satisfied with his work and tossed the cloth back onto the table.

Now Blaney waited before answering. “‘And nothing but ignorance can make the light-’”

“‘Wither and die.’ Yes. I know the verse. Shahpuhrakan, three-five. You might also recall Book of Giants, chapter six: ‘And through the darkness He will conceive a light so worthy that it will say-I am born of the darkness, and yet I am the light itself!’ Ignorance bearing wisdom. Not much to interpret there. Whether these fundamentalists actually pose a threat or not-whether Mr. Bin Laden and his ilk have more in mind for us than just some senseless bombings-we both know we can use their presence to create a genuine unity. Fear of a common enemy is a powerful incentive. We simply have to make sure that that incentive is strong enough. From there, it’s a small step to the true church. Then you’ll see the power of the Word.” He paused. “If that isn’t light born of darkness, I don’t know what is.”

“It all depends on how you use that enemy.”

“Yes. Yes, it does. I wasn’t aware you were so interested in the more mundane workings of all of this.” He waited for a response. “No, I didn’t think so.” He stood and returned to the window. “Keep the faith pure, John. That’s what you’ve always been so good at. All to make the church whole again.” He waited. “Sometimes I wonder what you think that really means.”

“Light set free. Triumph over darkness. It’s not all that complex, Erich. ‘The vain garment of this flesh put off, safe and pure; the clean feet of my soul free to trample confidently upon it.’”

Again, von Neurath laughed to himself. “Abstractions are so easy, aren’t they? Especially when you can hide behind them.”

“And what does that mean?”

Again von Neurath waited. “We make the church whole, John, and it’s our turn to build from the ashes. Our turn to set doctrine, tend a flock, not just quote from a psalmbook. We’re not exactly a feel-good bunch, now are we?”

Blaney said nothing.

“Two, three hundred elect among us? The rest, told to obey for a life of perfect asceticism? That requires a good deal of control. Limitations. How many of them, do you think, will be that keen to let their ‘souls trample on the world of the flesh’? We’ll have to take a lot of things away from them so that they can see how the Light can be set free. The triumph over darkness demands a great deal of discipline, a healthy dose of … reeducation. Not everyone’s going to understand what we’re doing for them.” Again, von Neurath waited. “So don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable with how we’ll be dealing with our enemies, real or not. You know as well as I do that it pales in comparison to what we have in store for our own followers. That kind of ascetic ideal requires sacrifice. And we don’t have the luxury to pick and choose which ones we make.”

Neither said a word for nearly a minute. Blaney stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Von Neurath suddenly turned to him. “It’s defense, isn’t it?”

“What?” asked Blaney.

“Defense,” he repeated. “‘Satisfied slave turns up in armor.’”

It took Blaney a few seconds to realize what he was saying. “Oh … Yes.” He now recalled the cryptic he’d given him earlier in the day. The word game they’d been playing for years, like all good Manichaeans. The mysteries hidden within language. There might have been a great deal of mistrust and disrespect in their relationship, but at least they had the cryptics to keep them on common ground. “That didn’t take long.”

“Satisfied, fed. Slave, esne. Turn them upside down,” said von Neurath, “and you get defense, armor. Clever.” Perfunctory praise.

“I do what I can,” said Blaney. The phone rang; he picked up. “Yes. … I see. When? … No, that won’t be necessary. … All right. Keep me informed.” He replaced the receiver.

“Well?” the cardinal asked.

Blaney looked up; it took him a moment to focus on von Neurath. “What? Oh. No, that wasn’t about His Holiness. We have a bit of a problem. The priest at San Clemente has disappeared.”

“I thought Kleist was taking care of that?”

“As you said, I’m not very good with the mundane, but obviously he hasn’t.”

“And the monk?”

“I can take care of that. The priest should be Herr Kleist’s focus now.”

“Agreed.” Von Neurath waited before continuing. “Do we know he has the scroll?” Blaney remained silent. “Do we know if he even understands what it is?” Again, no answer. Von Neurath stared out into the lights. “Then we do have a problem.”

Pearse felt a tap on his shoulder, his first sensation a grinding stiffness in his neck. For several seconds, he had no idea where he was, his eyes as yet unwilling to open to more than slits. He lay on his side, legs drawn to his chest, hands wedged between cheek and the hard wooden surface below. Trying to sit up, he nearly toppled from his perch. He placed a hand on the bench in front of him to steady himself. As his eyes strained against sleep, he noticed the church had grown brighter, a hint of sun peeking through the opening at the apex of the dome. Streaks of light cascaded across the top third of the walls. The saints, however, remained in dusky gray.

“Scusi,” said a voice to his left. “Ma non si puo dormire qui, giovane.”

Pearse turned to see a priest standing over his shoulder, a man easily in his late seventies, thick black-rimmed glasses covering most of his face. His eyes refracted to enormous proportions through the lenses, giant brown balls filling the weighted glass. Still, there was a pleasantness to the face, thin lips drawn up in an expression of concern and understanding. When he noticed Pearse’s clothes, his eyes seemed to grow even larger behind the frames.

“Oh,” he continued in Italian, “I didn’t realize you were a priest.” The revelation, however, granted only a momentary reprieve, the slow realization that a priest had been lying asleep in his church even more troubling. He didn’t seem to know how to respond. “Were you … in prayer, Father?” An odd question, but the best he could do.

“I … Yes. I came in to pray,” answered Pearse. “I didn’t mean to …” For some reason, his hand rose to his neck.

Again, the old priest appeared to be at a loss, the gentle face etched with confusion. A priest asleep, with no collar. How could one explain that? “I have some extra ones,” he nodded, eager to move beyond his misgivings, or at least to distance himself from them; he started toward a set of stairs at the far end of the altar.

Pearse looked around; the church was empty. “Do you know what time it is, Father?” he asked.

“Just after five,” the old man answered without turning around. “When I always come in.” A wavering hand appeared, pointing to the top of the steps. “It’s just up there. The collar.” Pearse stood and followed, his legs tight from the cramped position of a lengthy nap.

The office was austerity itself, two straight-backed wooden chairs, no cushions, each standing guard before an equally uninviting desk, another chair stationed behind, all of them under the watchful gaze of a crucifix holding firm against the decay of crumbling walls. The domed ceiling of the small enclosure rose to perhaps eight feet at its height, the room clearly an afterthought, as if the space had been grudgingly ceded by a miserly sanctuary. The old priest shuffled to the desk, opened one of its drawers, and pulled out a new collar. “I always seem to forget if I have enough. Whenever I pass by Gammarelli’s, I think I should stop and get one.” Pearse nodded, recalling the sartoria ecclesiastica just off the Piazza Minerva. “An old man.” He smiled. “I must have twenty of them tucked away in here.” Pearse stepped across, took the collar, and fitted it into his shirt.