Arturo stood inside the transept, using a column for cover. He saw a monk appear behind the altar, hands in prayer, genuflecting before the crucifix. He had seen monks in their simple brown tunics outside the church and knew there was a monastery next door. The monk made the sign of the cross. He lighted candles on the altar, a dozen of them, taking his time. He did not seem to notice the soccer bag that was clearly out of place in the house of God.
The monk lighted a few more candles and came back to the altar. Now he seemed to focus on the soccer bag, bending his legs, genuflecting, and disappearing from view. Arturo hesitated for a minute, thinking the monk was still on his knees, praying, but then he saw him reappear with the bag, moving behind the altar. The monk moved to the rear wall and disappeared again. Arturo radioed Luciano, "Did you see him, the monk? Let's go."
They were sitting outside at a cafe in Campo di Fiori, the market bustling with activity, women hassling vendors over the price of parsley and basil and tomatoes, everyone wanting a bargain.
"You don't look like a priest," Angela said, looking at his hair pulled back in a rakish ponytail. "Priests don't have hair like that. You'll call too much attention to yourself. We should have Sisto do it. He looks desperate enough."
Mazara said, "You think priests look desperate?" He drank espresso, thinking he needed some extra energy for what he was about to do.
"The ones who know they do not have the calling," Angela said.
Mazara said, "How do you know about priests?" He lighted a cigarette.
"I have a cousin who was ordained and lives there at the monastery," Angela said. "He tells me what they talk about." She picked up her cup, sipped cappuccino.
"I will use the hood," Mazara said. "Do you feel better now?" He brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled and blew out the smoke. "Did your cousin tell you how to get into the monastery?"
"I used to visit him," Angela said. "He is a Passionist."
"What is that?"
"A Catholic religious order founded by St Paul of the Cross. Its real name is the Congregation of Discalced Clerks of the Most Holy Cross and Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ."
Mazara gave her a broad smile. "Did you make this up?"
"No," Angela said. "It happens to be true. Only they are not a full order, but a congregation. Founded to teach people how to pray. I think you could use some help in that area."
"What is there to teach? You want to pray, you pray."
"What do you know about it?"
"Praying? Not very much any more," Mazara said.
Angela lit a cigarette.
"You said women are allowed in the monastery?"
"If you are related," Angela said.
"Or if you are a prostitute," Mazara said.
"Why are you so negative about priests?" She pulled her sunglasses down and looked at him.
"You would understand if one tried to molest you."
Angela said, "This really happened?"
"The priest from our village invited me to his office in the rectory," Mazara said. "It was a great honor. He told me to sit on his lap and I felt something hard poking into me. He said, 'Do you know what that is?'"
Angela said, "How old were you?"
"Eleven," Mazara said. "Old enough to know better."
"What did you say?"
He gave her a questioning look. "What do you think?"
Angela said, "What did the priest say?"
"It was the staff of God, and he wanted me to hold it."
"What did you do?"
"I ran," Mazara said.
"I'm sure it was shocking," Angela said, "but I have to ask you — can you do this? Because if you are not sure, I will dress like a nun and pick up the money."
He said, "I like to see that. You would be a sexy nun."
She said, "Let's go over it again."
"You sound like your father. You have to be in control."
She had to be careful what she said or he felt threatened. "I'm being cautious," Angela said. "Are you sure you know what to do?"
He gave her a hard look. "That's enough."
She dropped him off on Clivo di Scauro, and he walked up the hill to the monastery next to the church. He felt like a fool wearing the coarse brown robe with the hood pulled over his head and a rope belt — like he was going to a costume party. The robe was made out of wool and it was hot and itched.
They had discussed the plan a dozen times. He would enter the monastery and walk through to the rectory and enter the church from the altar side. Angela told him if he saw anyone to press his hands together in prayer, close his eyes and pretend he was praying. She also told him some monks took the vow of silence. At that moment he wished she had taken a vow of silence — just close her mouth, stop talking and let him do it.
He walked through to the sacristy, entering the church behind the main altar. He turned and genuflected, making the sign of the cross the way he had been taught as a schoolboy — so long ago he barely remembered the words to the prayers and the ritual of the mass.
He looked down the main aisle into the darkness of the church, past the chairs set up for evening service. He expected to see a brigade of carabinieri, but instead he saw tourists scattered around the front of church, staring up at the ceiling the way he once had, studying the murals depicting the lives of apostles and saints, what else? He approached the altar from behind. The soccer bag was on the tile floor where Signor Tallenger had placed it. He pretended not to notice, taking care of his pre-mass duties, lighting candles and trying to stay calm, relaxed.
Now he pressed his hands together in prayer, picked up the bag and moved to the back wall of the nave. There was a door. He opened it and walked down a staircase leading to the passages under the church. It was cool and dark. He turned on the flashlight and saw ancient rooms of the house of worship the church was built on.
Mazara put the bag down and pulled the robe over his head, happy to remove it, the coarse fabric itching him like crazy. Above him he heard voices and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. He picked up the bag, fit the strap over his shoulder and started running down a narrow passageway that was cut through the soft tufa rock. He imagined the graves of martyrs filling the walls. It was cool and smelled like the woods on a wet day, like soil, the air musty and heavy, difficult to breathe. He heard voices behind him but he did not stop to look.
Arturo and Luciano followed the monk down the stairs into the darkness under the church, Arturo using his silver Zippo for illumination. He felt foolish. What was he going to do — chase the kidnapper through the scavi with a lighter? He stepped on something and almost tripped. He held the lighter down and saw the monk's robe on the brick floor. He tried to radio his backup units, but could not make contact through the thick stone foundation of the church.
He went back up and moved through the church, running outside. There was an old man sweeping debris near the entrance to the church. Arturo identified himself and asked if the man knew where the tunnels under the church led.
The man pointed at a green gate that resembled a stable door.
"Come this way, I will show you."
Arturo and Luciano followed him. The man unlocked the gate to reveal ancient ruins, large Roman-style arches that wrapped around the ceiling and extended down fifteen feet under the foundation of the church. There were underground columns, and two bricked passageways that appeared to continue for some distance. There were also crushed pieces of statues against the underground wall. The scene reminded Arturo of an architectural dig. He fixed his attention on the man and said, "How far do the tunnels go?"