The Book of Spies

46

Rome, Italy
THE EFFICIENCY flat was in a forgotten corner of Rome, tucked away on one of the little streets on Janiculum Hill just south of St. Peter's Basilica. The husky blast of a boat horn sounded from the Tiber River as Yitzhak Law paced to the flat's open window. Running both hands over his bald head, he stared out at the unfamiliar terrain.
"You are distressed, amore mio." Roberto Cavaletti's voice sounded behind him.
Yitzhak turned. Roberto was studying him from the table beside the sink, their only table. The flat was one room, so small that opening the oven door blocked entry to the tiny bathroom. It reminded Yitzhak of his student days at the University of Chicago, and that was the only charm to it. That, and it was safe. Bash Badawi had brought them here yesterday, after a doctor had treated Roberto's shoulder wound.
"I have a class to teach this evening," Yitzhak said. "A meeting later tonight. When I don't show up, they'll worry." It was not an issue yesterday, when he had no other classes or meetings. He was a professor in the Dipartimento di Studi Storico-Religiosi at the Universita di Roma-Sapienza, and he took his responsibilities seriously.
Roberto massaged his close-cropped brown beard, thinking. "Perhaps it is worse than that. They will phone the house, leave a message, and when no one returns the call, they will go looking for you."
"I thought of that, too. There'll be an uproar. But it's the students who concern me most--no one will be there to teach them."
"You wish to tell the department? We have the cell phone Bash gave us. He said we must not leave, and no one could know where we are. A cell call is not leaving. And you do not have to say any details." Roberto held up the cell.
"Yes, of course. You're right."
Feeling relieved, Yitzhak marched over and took the device. Calling out, he settled into the chair across from Roberto. He had changed the dressing on Roberto's wound earlier. Thankfully it was healing nicely, and Roberto had had a good night's sleep.
Gina, the department secretary, answered. She recognized his voice immediately. "Come sta, professore?"
Speaking Italian, he explained he had to leave in an hour for emergency business. "I'll need a substitute for my lecture, Gina. And please alert Professor Ocie Stafford that I can't attend his meeting, with apologies."
"I will. But what am I to do with your package?"
"Package? . . . I don't understand."
"It looks and feels like a book, but of course I cannot be certain. It is in a padded envelope. This morning a priest from Monsignor Jerry McGahagin at the Vatican Library delivered it. He said it was most important. The monsignor wants your advice." Monsignor McGahagin was the director of not only one of the oldest libraries in the world, but one that contained a priceless collection of historical texts, many of them never seen by outsiders.
He thought quickly. "Send someone over with it to Trattoria Sor'eva on Piazza della Rovere. As it happens, I'm near there now." Bash had pointed out the place as a good restaurant serving excellent handmade pasta.
"Yes, I will do that. A half hour, no more."
Yitzhak ended the connection and relayed the conversation.
Roberto shook his head. "You are bad. We are supposed to stay here."
"You stay. That puts half of us in compliance."
Roberto gave an expressive Roman shrug. "What am I to do with you. You are always the dog looking for one more good bone."
"I'll be back soon." Yitzhak patted his hand and left.
Dusk was spreading across the city, the shadows long. Yitzhak had steeled himself not to think about Eva and Judd, but as he walked, passing apartment buildings and shops, he felt strangely vulnerable, which made him worry about them. Not until he heard from Bash that their dangerous situation was settled and they were safe would he feel right.
Twenty minutes later he reached the piazza and stopped across the street from the trattoria. All seemed normal, but then, tumult was normal to Rome--the streets a cyclone of traffic, bustling with shoppers, locals, businesspeople, cars parked two and three abreast. The windows of the trattoria showed customers inside eating and drinking.
Then he saw Leoni Vincenza, one of his advanced students, hurrying toward the restaurant, a padded envelope under his arm. It was bright yellow, a strange color for the Vatican. Perhaps the monsignore was using up donated stock.
Yitzhak pushed himself to rush, and he crossed at the intersection. "Leoni! Leoni!"
The youth looked up, his long black hair blowing around his face. "Professore, you have been waiting for me?"
Yitzhak said nothing and slowed, catching his breath. When Leoni reached him, he said, "Good to see you, boy. Is that my package?"
"Yes, sir." He handed it to him.
"Grazie. My car is around the block. I'll see you back at the university in a few days."
Leoni nodded. "Ciao." He returned the way he had come.
Yitzhak went in the other direction, feeling smart he had thought to misdirect the student. As he climbed Janiculum Hill, he stopped. His heart was thundering. He had been meaning to lose weight for years. Now it was evident he had better hurry on that promise.
He resumed walking, slowly this time, and finally reached the apartment building. He opened the front door and gazed up at the long staircase. He had to mount two flights, and the second was as long as the first. He hefted the package--it felt heavy, the weight of a book. He would rest a moment, and he was curious.
Ripping off the staples, he pulled out the volume. And stared, surprised. It was a thick collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, so battered it looked as if it had come from a used-book store. Definitely not a first edition. Why would the monsignore send this? He checked for a note but found none.
Shaking his head, he stuffed it back inside the envelope and climbed. Behind him he heard the front door open and close. When he reached his floor, he could hear footsteps on the stairs, hurrying upward. For some reason he found himself rushing down the corridor. As he slid the key inside the lock, he glanced back and froze.
Two men were running toward him, aiming guns.
"Who are you?" Yitzhak demanded, although even to him his voice sounded weak. "What do you want?"
There was no answer. One man was large, burly, and ferocious looking, the other small and wiry, with a mean face. The shorter man grabbed the key from Yitzhak's hand, unlocked the door, and the big man shoved him inside. The door closed behind them with an ominous click.