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little leap of logic.
    â€œThe personnel records here are not terribly informative.”
    â€œI’ve never seen them,” Traeger said. “How did you come to work in the Vatican?”
    â€œCardinal Maguire asked for me.”
    â€œYou were both from County Clare.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHad you known him before coming to Rome?”
    â€œNo. I was living in the Irish College when he visited there, as he often did.”
    â€œWhere is that?”
    â€œNear Saint John Lateran.”
    â€œIsn’t that where Tony Blair stayed when he came to Rome?”
    â€œIn one of the cottages on the grounds,” Crowe said. “There are several.”
    Traeger took some papers from a briefcase, then leaned the case against his chair. “Let us go over your colleagues here in the library.”
    It was an uncomfortable exercise. As Traeger said the names and asked the questions, Brendan wondered if it was possible that any of these priests or laymen had aided the killer. Then he imagined them being interrogated by Traeger about himself. And he remembered Chekovsky’s question. Is it you, or must we wait for another? He should have told Traeger of that, but he hadn’t. Why? In the hope that these questions would end, that interest would die. That Traeger would fly off to another assignment. But Brendan knew that that would not happen anytime soon.
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    Traeger’s interrogations resumed the day after Brendan returned to Rome.
    â€œWe must construct the face of the strange priest,” Traeger said.
    The method Traeger used on the first attempt was crude. He had a dozen sheets of paper on which portions of a face were drawn. The portions were put together in various ways. Each time, Traeger watched Brendan for any sign of recognition. The face they ended with looked only very vaguely like the strange priest who had come out of the elevator. The face they later constructed by means of the more sophisticated program on Traeger’s laptop wasn’t much closer.
    â€œWeren’t there any fingerprints?” Brendan asked. “On the knife, on the gun found in the armoire, on the windowsill?”
    â€œOh yes,” Traeger said.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œThe cooperation we would need to check them has not been forthcoming.”
    â€œRussia?” Brendan asked. “Are they stonewalling?” An image of Chekovsky flickered in his memory.
    â€œYes.” From his brusque tone it was clear that Traeger preferred to ask the questions. What a strange task was his. Brendan was almost curious about what led a man into this line of work. Why would a man want to be a secret agent? Traeger was obviously intelligent, and educated. Well read, too. He had known that Somerset Maugham had written a spy novel.
    Finally Brendan couldn’t stand it any longer. “Why did you become a spy?” he asked.
    â€œThings were simpler then,” Traeger said after a long pause. “It was a game played by gentlemen.”
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œIt stopped being a game long ago.”
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    It did not help, as Brendan had half hoped it would, to tell John Burke some of this. When the younger priest began to connect the recent murders to the Fatima apparitions, Brendan suggested they have a beer in the basement bar of the Domus. In the States there are Civil War buffs; in Ireland, those who brood over the Troubles. But interest in Fatima knew no national boundaries. There was Guinness in cans, which Brendan regarded as an abomination. Better Nastro Azzurro, he said, than that.
    â€œMy sister is in town,” John said. “I’ll be seeing her tomorrow. I’ve told you about Ignatius Hannan.”
    Crowe smiled. “I want to hear more about your plutocrat countryman.”

III
    â€œIt’s a bit like the Pentagon.”
    Is there a more beautiful spot on earth? Laura Burke asked herself just before she walked out of the courtyard of the Hotel