"I wonder… " he said slowly, putting a hundred shards of idle thought and speculation together.
"What do you wonder, Doc?" Peggy asked, lounging on the couch and reading through a copy of the International Tribune.
"I was marking term papers and you were watching CNN. We went out for dinner on M Street and then walked back to the house."
"Okay," said Peggy, "so you proved you don't have early onset Alzheimer's. So what?"
"Who was on our doorstep?"
"Brennan."
"Never a friend of ours by any means, so why choose us? What the hell did we have to do with any of this?"
"What are you getting at?"
"He fed the whole thing to us like feeding pabulum to a baby. His so-called informant who was confessed to by a so-called CIA agent with a dose of conscience. The murder of both of them. Subtle connections to Rex Deus and the Sinclairs. All of it meant to pique our interest."
"Pique?" Peggy grinned. "I've never been piqued in my life."
"You know what I mean."
"Sure, you think we were being set up. But for what?"
"He gets me interested enough to call some old colleagues, and leads me by the nose right to William Tritt, lets me think it was all my idea."
"You really think he's that subtle?"
"He's the head of the Vatican Secret Service," said Holliday. "You can't get any more subtle than that. Most people aren't even aware that Sodalitium Pianum even exists." Holliday shook his head. "Damn it to hell! He led us right down the garden path, every step of the way. If I hadn't mentioned Pat Philpot he would have worked the name in himself somehow. Philpot leads us to that disaster in Rock Creek Park, and before you know it we're on the run. I knew something was wrong back then but I just thought Philpot was using me to bird-dog Tritt for him, to take the American assassin out of the picture before anyone found out."
"And now?"
"I think Philpot was telling the truth about the rogue division of the Agency, but now I think he may well be part of it."
"And Brennan?"
"Him, too. He's part of it, as well." Holliday paused. "And then there's the assassination."
"Which one?"
"The VP and the secretary of state. The X on the roof of the limo."
"What about it?"
"Tritt's not the kind to make mistakes like that. Maybe the vice president was the target all along. The president's going to have to appoint a replacement soon."
"Sinclair," said Peggy, getting it, her eyes widening.
"Sinclair." Holliday nodded.
"So, what do we do?"
"We sure as hell don't get on the good old SS Black Emerald, I can tell you that much." He paused. "Pack up anything you need, bring the memory stick with those pictures of Tritt on the roof and let's get out of here."
"Where are we going?"
"Back to Geneva. Let's begin at the beginning."
It was close to midnight when the nondescript Mercedes taxi pulled up in front of 16 Via Tunis in Rome and let out its passenger, a tall, elegantly dressed man in a topcoat and carrying an attache case. The door into the gray, five-story stucco apartment building was covered by an ornate wrought-iron grille. A dozen buzzers and an intercom were set into the doorframe. Mike Harris, deputy director of operations for the CIA, pressed the buzzer for number 6. He glanced to his left; the restaurant next door was already closed and there was no one on the street.
"Si? Chi I?"
"Crusader," replied Harris, speaking clearly into the intercom grille.
There was a long silence. Then the buzzer sounded and the lock on the wrought-iron gate clicked. Harris pulled open the gate, opened the door and stepped into a dim hallway. Directly ahead of him was a grimy, winding staircase leading upward. He climbed all five flights to the top story. The floor was black-and-white checkerboard tile and there was only a single door. The lighting in the hall was bright and the walls were clean and freshly painted. It was anything but grimy. Discreetly placed above the door on the ceiling was a small eye-in-the-sky camera, a miniature version of the ones they used in Las Vegas casinos. Harris knocked firmly on the door, feeling metal under his knuckles rather than the wood it appeared to be. He smiled and waited.
A few seconds later the door opened. It was Brennan. The two men shook hands and Brennan ushered the CIA director into the apartment.
"Been a long time, Mr. Harris." Brennan said.
"Indeed it has, Father Brennan. Is he in?"
"Of course," answered the priest. He led Harris down the hallway to a spacious living room that faced the street. There were three large windows, the shutters all firmly closed. Once again the slats of the shutters appeared to be varnished wood, but the CIA man was willing to bet they were steel, just like the door.
The room had a plain, grandmotherly feel to it. There were brass lamps here and there, lots of bookcases everywhere and an old Persian carpet on the floor. There were two short couches, two armchairs, a gas-fed fireplace and an old wooden desk covered with stacks of paper and file folders. Antonio Niccolo, Cardinal Spada, Vatican secretary of state, was seated behind the desk, dressed in a simple black suit with a red collar tab to mark his rank. He had a cigar-Harris assumed it was Cuban-in his hand and there was a heavy-looking glass full of amber liquid in front of him. The photograph behind him on the wall-papered wall was of him and the late Pope in better days. The cigar, at least at the moment, was unlit. Brennan took a seat in one of the armchairs. Harris dropped down onto one of the small upholstered couches.
"Good flight?" Spada asked.
Harris shrugged. "I took the company Citation. Seven hundred per, without any screaming babies or other people sneezing on me."
"The benefits of power." Cardinal Spada smiled.
"Not for long if the present administration has its way," grumbled Harris. "The son of a bitch wants me to pool with Homeland Security and the Bureau." He shook his head. "What does the Bureau need with a plane that can fly seven hundred miles an hour? They couldn't find the key to the executive bathroom."
"A sad state of affairs," commiserated Spada.
"Every president's the same. They're going to shake things up, get things done, pull the country up by its bootstraps. They don't seem to understand we're the ones who really run things and we always have, and that's never going to change."
"Certainly not if you can help it," said the cardinal dryly.
"Damn right," snorted Harris. "Speaking of which, how's your new boss doing?"
"Coming along," smiled Spada. "As Cardinal Urbana he was desperate for the job, although the scales were tipping toward Washington. Imagine that! An American Pope, and black, as well. Foley almost made it last time. Everyone was becoming nervous. I called in a few favors, rattled a few old bones in their hiding places and made sure we had an Italian in the chair. Too many outsiders recently-Poles, Germans. Urbana knows I put him in power and knows that I can keep him there; he won't be choosing any new secretary of state until I tell him to."
"Want the big job yourself?" Harris laughed. "You're young enough to keep it for a while."
For the first time Brennan realized that the CIA man must have been drinking heavily on the flight to Rome.
"Good Lord, no! The Vatican is much like your country, Mr. Harris. It is controlled and operated by the bureaucrats like you and me, not the figureheads. Being the Pope requires far more Latin than I ever learned. Not to mention the fact that I like my favorite restaurants too much to give them up. The Pope has little in the way of privacy."
"What about Holliday and the Blackstock woman?" Harris asked, turning toward Brennan.
"As of nine o'clock tonight they slipped out of the museum entrance into a taxi, rented a car in Fumicino and are headed back to Geneva, presumably on the trail of our Mr. Tritt."
"You have the pictures Ms. Blackstock took?"
Brennan dug into the pocket of his plain black jacket and took out a USB memory stick.