Page 129 of The Grey Wolf
“I can’t—” Armand began, but Daniel held up his hand.
“It’s okay. I know there’s more at stake than just me. Maybe one day you’ll trust me as much as you trust Mom. As much as you trust Jean-Guy. I want to help, Dad, and if helping means doing nothing, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Armand reached out and placed his hand on Daniel’s cheek. “Thank you.”
It ends now, thought Armand as they walked home in silence. One way or another, Caron would never again threaten his family.
It was four in the morning in Three Pines and ten a.m. in Rome when Isabelle Lacoste walked quickly across Saint Peter’s Square. The Vatican offices had just opened.
She paused to shoot a quick glance up to the famous balcony, to see if the Pope was standing there.
He was not.
The guard had called ahead, then pointed her to the Curia offices across the square. As she approached the curved wall, which acted as a sort of embrace of Saint Peter’s, a door swung open to reveal a nun, all in white. A Dominican. And not just a sister, but the Mother Superior.
“Signora Lacoste?”
“Sì.”
“Sono Madre Beatrice. Benvenuto—”
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak Italian,” Isabelle said in English, assuming that was a language they’d both have at least passing knowledge of.
She was wrong.
“Español?” the nun asked.
“Nein,” Isabelle said before realizing that was German.
“Latine?” Mother Beatrice actually smiled as she asked what they both knew was a ludicrous question. And got a ludicrous answer.
“Nyet.”
“Français?”
“Oui. Vous?”
Mother Beatrice shook her head, and they both wondered why the Mother Superior had bothered asking.
The nun contemplated her unexpected visitor. What to do with someone who just showed up and with whom she could not communicate? The interview with this Canadian journalist seemed doomed. Unless…
She gestured, and Isabelle, with relief, followed Mother Beatrice through the door and down the long marble corridors. Like many magnificent old buildings, the guts were considerably less impressive than the skin. The deeper they went, the more like a rat’s nest it became. Many they passed were not clerics but civilians, doing the work of running one of the most powerful and wealthy organizations on earth.
As she hurried to keep up with the long, hidden legs of the Mother Superior, Isabelle glanced into offices, scanning for Frère Sébastien.
There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of people working there. Unless she got lucky, she’d never just spot him. She’d need to be more direct.
The nun finally stopped and pointed Lacoste into a small, windowless room where another nun was working. Before she went in, Lacoste brought out the photo of Frère Sébastien and showed it to the Mother Superior. She looked at it and shook her head.
“Suora Irene,” said Mother Beatrice, then said something in Italian that Lacoste took to be an explanation of who she was.
“I go away,” said Beatrice.
“Grazie.” Isabelle had been a breath away from sayingdankewhen the Italian sprang to mind.
“Mother Beatrice tells me you’re doing an article on women’s ascension in the Curia,” said the nun in perfect English as she waved Isabelle to a seat. “Normally it would take weeks to get permission to get inside the building and do an interview, but the Holy Father is anxious that people know about the changes.”
Like Mother Beatrice, Sister Irene was a Dominican. Not surprising since this was the Office of the Doctrine of the Faith.
