That is, of course, if one could discount the passages on the Resurrection. Those were equally unambiguous. And given recent events, Pearse wasn’t sure if the church could survive that kind of assault, real or not.

More than that, he understood why the Manichaeans had gone to such lengths to get their hands on it, especially now. Whatever madness they were planning to unleash would mean nothing without a way to justify the emergence of their unified church, something to show that the old one had been corrupted from the very start. The only response to a world gone mad? Remake the church. Embrace unity through a new notion of faith. No doubt most of the scroll would remain “hidden” or “lost.” Keep only what was necessary. Use Jesus to secure Mani. The Resurrection sections would suffice.

How like the Manichaeans to distort the message in the name of gnosis.

The door to the car suddenly opened, the sound prompting Pearse up from the parchment for the first time in hours. He glanced back, to see another passport controller making his way down the aisle. The Italian border. He looked out the window, the sun already creeping out from behind a group of hills in the distance. He checked his watch: 6:15. He’d been so wrapped up in Q, he’d missed the sunrise entirely. He suddenly felt very thirsty.

“How soon to Trieste?” he asked as the man took his papers.

“About forty minutes.” The man pulled what looked to be a tiny hole punch from a holster on his belt, ready to stamp Pearse’s passport, then stopped. “The Vatican?”

Pearse wasn’t sure how to respond.

“They just announced the body count, Father. Eight cardinals survived.” He crossed himself. “Those people are animals.” A quick squeeze of the imprint.

Pearse crossed himself, as well. “You have to learn to forgive,” he said.

“I suppose, Father.” He handed Pearse the papers and began to move on. “I suppose.”

Trieste came as the man had promised, the station alive with early-morning travelers. Now, back in Italy, Pearse knew he could take the chance on a plane-no computer network checking his passport, no security on alert. Even if the Manichaeans did manage to get hold of a passenger manifest, he’d be in Rome an hour after takeoff, too short a period of time for them to do much about it.

Just in case, though, he’d decided to call in the cavalry. The puzzle was solved. It was time for someone else to put it to use and end this.

Stopping at the nearest news kiosk, he picked up a paper and looked for the private message, the phone number from his “friends in Rome … day or night.” The fact that Salko had cut them off was reason enough to make the call.

He scanned the page. It was filled with stories on the travesties spreading like wildfire throughout Europe, an article on the Vatican Bank and the Syrian infiltration. What an appropriate word, he thought.

But no box.

He flipped through several other papers, the news seller becoming more and more irritated.

“Either buy one or move off,” he said finally.

“Are there any from yesterday?” asked Pearse.

“Yesterday? Why would anyone want-”

“Do you have any papers from yesterday?” he insisted.

The man’s irritation mounted. “I have today’s papers. You want something else, try outside the station. Maybe Buchi’s, two blocks down.”

Five minutes later, Pearse stood inside the small tobacconist’s, walls lined with papers from around the world. The most recent copy of Helsingin Sanomat out of Finland was two days old. He pulled it from the rack and immediately located the box in the lower right-hand corner of the page.

Whatever was on Athos, you

have friends, Father. In Rome.

Day or night: 39 69884728

Pearse scribbled the number on his palm, bought a phone card, and headed out into the street. Within half a minute, he was inside a booth dialing.

A recorded voice came on the line: “We’re sorry. The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the listing and try again …. We’re sorry….”

He slowly replaced the receiver.

Why would they have disconnected the line? The answer came to him as he stood there staring at the phone. His window of opportunity had been slim at best, too great a chance that the Manichaeans could trace the number, find whoever had been on the other end, and eliminate them. Once Salko had cut the line, the window had closed.

Flying back wasn’t sounding all that clever now. Without his “friends in Rome,” what exactly was he planning to do once there? Walk up to the Vatican and tell them that the Pope was a Manichaean, but not to worry-the scroll would solve everything? Or better yet, just hand the “Hodoporia” to von Neurath and explain to him that it might not be all that he’d hoped it would be? Nice try, but better luck next time. Now please tell everyone that Islam isn’t our enemy so we can all go home.

For some reason, Pearse started to laugh. It was perfect. A Manichaean dream come true. Everything flipped on its head. Now that he had the “Hodoporia,” he was powerless to use it. It only made him more vulnerable. Flight manifests notwithstanding, the Brotherhood would find him soon enough-here, or in Rome. And if he had the scroll with him, everything and everyone would become expendable. Which left him only one choice: confront them head-on. He picked up the phone and dialed Angeli’s number.

It was the same message as before.

“It’s Ian Pearse. I have the ‘Hodoporia.’” He waited. “Hello…. Hello….”

After fifteen seconds of silence, he placed the receiver back in its cradle. Again he stared at the phone. Then, slowly, he let his head fall back against the glass.

They wouldn’t have….

He suddenly stood upright. Of course. As much as he didn’t want to involve anyone else in this, he really didn’t have any other options. He picked up the phone and began to dial.

He just had to hope Blaney was back in Rome.

“Eight minutes, Mr. Harris.”

A quick nod as he sipped at a glass of ice water, Wembley Stadium packed to the gills beyond the window of the luxury box. Harris waited for the man to leave, then turned and stared out at the crowd. The contessa, seated, kept her gaze on him.

“Your new army,” she finally said.

The hint of a grin. “I don’t think it’s completely mine.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Still, that doesn’t seem to be a concern of yours, does it?”

He looked over at her, momentarily at a loss. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Don’t you?” She waited. “The churches. The Vatican. You put our money to quick use, didn’t you, Colonel? And here I thought we were talking rhetoric, not mass hysteria. Evidently, I was meant to take the term holy war literally.”

A slight squinting of his eyes. “That’s not the way I work, Contessa.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “I won’t say it hasn’t helped things enormously. Hysteria does have a way of rallying the troops. But I won’t take credit for something I haven’t done. I assumed that was your people.”

Not convinced, she said, “And who exactly do you think my people are? Or did Mr. Kleist fail to bring you up to speed on that?”

Again, he waited before answering. “I’m now wondering if I should be asking you that same question.” She said nothing. “I have connections, Contessa, but even I couldn’t organize what’s taken place over the last twelve hours in a matter of days. Something like that takes weeks, if not months, to plan. I can’t say it fills me with confidence to hear that you’re not quite clear on who orchestrated the attacks.” Another pause. “Or perhaps you are, but aren’t willing to admit it just yet?” He placed the glass on the bar. “Either way, I need to get down there.” He moved to the door, then turned. “I suggest you make a few phone calls before all of this gets under way. Oh, and give my best to the cardinal. And my congratulations. Tell him I appreciate everything he’s done.” A single nod of the head, and Harris was gone.