On the long Atlantic flight, he had thought of Martin, dead. Who had killed him?
He lived in a world of too many lies to see the truth clearly; he must be patient and wait for it.
When he arrived he had gone to see Martin at the morgue. Cold, still, white.
He very nearly cried then but he could not. He had a reserve of dignity beneath the cold demeanor that made grief a private matter.
What could he do now?
But he must confront Tunney first; to learn the terrible secret; to force Tunney to tell him.
At the hotel, after a long bath, he dressed and sat down to write. There were always notes, always cables to be drafted. He had forbidden his secretary to accompany him; if the secretary had been there, grief would not be permitted.
Tears stained the ink on the pages and smeared the writing.
Outside the hotel, he listened to sounds of a resort city, a city without grief or loss or a sense of sorrow. He held the elegant gold pen, then put it down; his mind swayed back and forth restlessly like a circus elephant trapped in chains, swaying and bellowing in his captivity.
Martin Foley, I loved you.
The face was cold, white and unsmiling.
He tried to remember the eager eyes but they were already gone from memory.
I am so old now, I am aged in a day because you are dead.
The knock at the door startled him, not only because he had been thinking so deeply of Martin, but because only the Congregation office in Rome knew he was here, in this hotel.
“What is it?”
“Ludovico,” the voice answered.
He rose and closed his portable desk and put it away in a drawer. He looked around him to make certain there were no papers visible. He went to the door and opened it.
“Ludovico?”
“Yes.”
“I was sent to you. To help you.” The other man smiled, his face open and guileless, the eyes smiling behind the rimless glasses.
“Who are you?”
“From the embassy. I am Denisov.”
“The embassy—”
“At Prague. You were at Prague and you requested our help.” The smile was fixed, Ludovico realized; it had no mirth to it or warmth. “I am Denisov. Do you understand that name?”
The shoulders of the Cardinal seemed to slump in that instant; he felt all the sick grief come back over him. Of course. The Concordance implied an alliance, a mutual need. Of course. It was a new world and Ludovico was still in it, still a survivor waiting for the parting of the curtain.
“Come in,” he said dully.
“Yes,” Denisov said.
Ludovico closed the door and the two men stood in the modern, bright room and stared at each other without speaking.
“Martin,” Ludovico said finally.
“Yes. We think we can help you. It is all contained in the journal—”
“I don’t know what you mean—”
“Did he not tell you that? Please, do not be so to your guard. The journal is everything; it is the source.”
“What do you mean?” Ludovico felt himself pressed. Grief waited; he became alert again. He backed away, keeping his eyes on the man with large shoulders and the simple face.
“Leo Tunney,” Denisov said gently. “Yes. Of course we know of this. Leo Tunney has kept a journal. It is all in the journal.”
“What?”
“Whatever we seek.” Denisov smiled again without warmth. “We, Ludovico. The Church and us. We seek the same ends this time. We are not enemies now.”
And Ludovico, seized suddenly by a sick despair, realized that everything Denisov said was perfectly true.
PART THREE
Revelations
26
All night long, Mrs. Jones had dreamed of him, of his fat face in repose, of the small dirty hole at his temple. She had dreamed of shots and of death and of hell; she had seen a hell of real flames and felt a hell of loss. She knew they were only dreams even as she dreamed them and her dream self said she would not be afraid.
When she awoke, it was just after dawn, the usual hour; she had her duty and she would do it. She was nearly seventy years old, though she had told the priest she was fifty-five to get the job. She was a strong woman and she had been a widow for thirty years and had made her own way in the world when it would give her nothing.
She hurried along the still Sunday morning streets and thought of the lonely old man in the house, surrounded by a police guard, alone and frightened in a strange world he had just come back to.
She felt pity for Leo Tunney and had from the first day, when he sat at her table and could not eat the meat.
She opened the kitchen door with her key and noticed the two policemen sitting across the street in the county police car.
The house was cold and she shivered. She went to the thermostat in the hall and saw that it was set on the daytime reading for when the sun was high; the thermostat was always turned up at night but in the excitement, she had forgotten to do it. And Leo Tunney would not have known.
He was like a child, she thought.
She had never had children, she had not been blessed; but she understood children and rather liked them. She understood their confusion at the world.
She turned on the coffeepot and went to the refrigerator for eggs. He would eat an omelet, she had discovered, and she put a little cheese in it. Sliced American cheese, which he did not seem to like but it was easy on him, she said. It would cure his diarrhea, she told him, and he had eaten her food meekly.
Poor old man, she thought. Like a child.
Tunney entered the kitchen as soundlessly as a ghost.
His face was pale, his eyes haunted; his hands were trembling, she saw.
“Father Tunney.”
“Mrs. Jones. It’s you. I’m sorry. I heard the noise. And I was waiting for you.”
“Breakfast’ll be on in a bit,” she said briskly. When faced with death, with illness, it was best to be brisk, she always thought. People wallowed in such things and it was no good for them. People had to pull themselves up by the bootstraps sometimes, even when it was hard. Life was for the living, she always said.
“I—”
“Now don’t tell me you can’t eat, because you got to eat, you got to keep up your strength, such as it is. And you got to do the work now, you got to put this place in order—”
“I cannot. There’s nothing to be done.” He sat down at the table.
That was when she saw the red journal in his hand.
“Mrs. Jones.”
“Have you slept at all, you poor man?”
“No. There was no time. This had to be finished. The time is all gone now.”
She didn’t like talk like that; that was talk that defeated you before you started. She knew that times were bad sometimes but you had to stand up to them. A winner never quits, a quitter never wins.
“I want you to do something for me.”
“Just as soon as I put this on.”
“No, Mrs. Jones.” The voice, still soft and flexible as a reed in the water, commanded her oddly. She sat down.
“Mrs. Jones. This journal. This is what they want, all of them.”
“I don’t want to know nothing about that, none of it. I don’t interfere with you men. Catholics same as a Baptist to me, all God’s children.”
“Mrs. Jones, you’re a good woman.” The voice was weak again, as though the temporary moment of command had drained it, made it pale and watery.
“And you’re a good man, too, Father Tunney.”
“No. I am not.” The voice was very soft. “I know what I am and who I have been. At least… since that morning, when the woman, Lu Ann Carter, showed me… faith again. I have faith again and that’s enough; at least I have that again.”