Father Petride turned to his brother. «When you picked up the train, did you speak with anyone?»
«Only the dispatcher. Naturally. We had black tea together.»
«What did he say?»
«Words I wouldn’t offend you with, for the most part. His papers said the cars were to be loaded by the fathers of Xenope in the outlying yards. He didn’t ask any questions.»
Father Petride looked over at the second freight car, on his right. In minutes all would be completed; they would be ready for the third car. «Who prepared the engine?»
«Fuel crews and mechanics. Yesterday afternoon. The orders said it was a standby; that’s normal. Equipment breaks down all the time. We are laughed at in Italy… Naturally, I checked everything myself several hours ago.»
«Would the dispatcher have any reason to telephone the freight yards? Where supposedly we are loading the cars?»
«He was asleep, or practically so, before I left his tower. The morning schedule won’t start—» the engineer looked up at the gray black sky «—for at least another hour. He’d have no reason to call anyone, unless the wireless reported an accident.»
«The wires were shorted out; water in a terminal box,» said the priest quickly, as if talking to himself.
«Why?»
«In case you did have problems. You spoke to no one else?»
«Not even a drifter. I checked the cars to make sure none were inside.»
«You’ve studied our schedule by now. What do you think?»
The trainman whistled softly, shaking his head. «I think I’m astounded, my brother. Can so much be … so arranged?»
«The arrangements are taken care of. What about the time? That’s the important factor.»
«If there are no track failures the speed can be maintained. The Slav border police at Bitola are hungry for bribes; and a Greek freight at Banja Luka is fair game. We’ll have no trouble at Sarajevo or Zagreb; they look for larger fish than food for the religious.»
«The time, not the bribes.»
«They are time. One haggles.»
«Only if not haggling would seem suspicious. Can we reach Monfalcone in three nights?»
«If your arrangements are successful, yes. If we lose time we could make it up during the daylight hours.»
«Only as a last resort. We travel at night.»
«You’re obstinate.»
«We’re cautious.» Again the priest looked away. Freight cars one and two were secure, the fourth would be loaded and packed before the minute was up. He turned back to his brother. «Does the family think you’re taking a freight to Corinth?»
«Yes. To Navpaktos. To the shipyards on the straits of Patrai. They don’t expect me back for the better part of a week.»
«There are strikes at Patrai. The unions are angry. If you were a few days longer, they’d understand.»
Annaxas looked closely at his brother. He seemed startled at the young priest’s worldly knowledge. There was a hesitancy in his reply. «They’d understand. Your sister-in-law would understand.»
«Good.» The monks had gathered by Petride’s truck, watching him, waiting for instructions. «I’ll join you at the engine shortly.»
«All right,» said the trainman as he walked away, glancing at the priests.
Father Petride removed the pencil light from his shirt pocket and in the darkness approached the other monks at the truck. He searched out the powerfully built man who was his driver. The monk understood and stepped away from the others, joining Petride at the side of the vehicle.
«This is the last time we speak,» said the young priest.
«May the blessings of God—»
«Please,» interrupted Petride. «There’s no time. Just commit to memory each move we make here tonight. Everything. It must be duplicated exactly.»
«It will be. The same roads, the same orders or trucks, the same drivers, identical papers across the borders to Monfalcone. Nothing will change, except one of us will be missing.»
«That’s the will of God. For the glory of God. It’s a privilege beyond my worth.»
There were two master padlocks on the truck’s panel. Petride had one key; his driver held the other. Together they approached the locks and inserted the keys. The irons sprung; the locks were lifted out of the steel hasps, the hasps slapped up, and the doors opened. A lantern was hung high on the edge of the panel.
Inside were the crates with the symbols of the crucifix and thorns stenciled on the sides between the strips of wood. The monks began to remove them, maneuvering like dancers—robes flowing in the eerie light. They carried the cartons to the loading door of the third freight car. Two men leaped up into the heavy-beamed deck of the car and started stacking the boxes at the south end.
Several minutes later half the truck was empty. In the center of the van, separated from the surrounding cartons, was a single crate draped in black cloth. It was somewhat larger than the cases of produce and not rectangular in shape. Instead, it was a perfect cube: three feet in height, three in width, and three in depth.
The priests gathered in a semicircle in front of the open panels of the truck. Shafts of filtered white moonlight mingled with the yellow spill of the lantern. The combined effect of the strange admixture of light, the cavernous truck, and the robed figures made Father Petride think of a catacomb, deep in the earth, housing the true relics of the cross.
The reality was not much different. Except that what lay sealed inside the iron vault—for that was what it was—was infinitely more meaningful than the petrified wood of the crucifixion.
Several of the monks had closed their eyes in prayer; others were staring, transfixed by the presence of the holy thing, their thoughts suspended, their faith drawing sustenance from what they believed was within the tomblike chest—itself a catafalque.
Petride watched them, feeling apart from them, and that was how it should be. His mind wandered back to what seemed only hours ago, but was in reality six weeks. He had been ordered out of the fields and taken to the white concrete rooms of the Elder of Xenope. He was ushered into the presence of that most holy father; there was one other priest with the old prelate, no one else.
«Petride Dakakos,» the holy man had begun, sitting behind his thick wooden table, «you have been chosen above all others here at Xenope for the most demanding task of your existence. For the glory of God and the preservation of Christian sanity.»
The second priest had been introduced. He was an ascetic-looking man with wide, penetrating eyes. He spoke slowly, precisely. «We are the custodians of a vault, a sarcophagus, if you will, that has remained sealed in a tomb deep in the earth for over fifteen hundred years. Within that vault are documents that would rend the Christian world apart, so devastating are their writings. They are the ultimate proof of our most sacred beliefs, yet their exposure would set religion against religion, sect against sect, entire peoples against one another. In a holy war… The German conflict is spreading. The vault must be taken out of Greece, for its existence has been rumored for decades. The search for it would be as thorough as a hunt for microbes. Arrangements have been made to remove it where none will find it. I should say, most of the arrangements. You are the final component.»
The journey had been explained. The arrangements. In all their glory. And fear.
«You will be in contact with only one man. Savarone Fontini-Cristi, a great padrone of northern Italy, who lives in the vast estates of Campo di Fiori. I, myself, have traveled there and spoken with him. He’s an extraordinary man, of unparalleled integrity and utter commitment to free men.»