80

Jorge had been right.

He didn’t take the time to pat himself on the back, though. As a disciplined guerilla fighter, he shrugged off his satisfaction, not letting it interfere with his strategy. He’d followed Pietro’s scent along Via di San Michele to Santa Cecilia and arrived at the perfect moment. He was pondering how to make his incursion—he wasn’t afraid of churches, of course not, no matter how many, and how dangerous, the obstacles the opposition had thrown into his course already today—when the professoressa and the priest came flying out. It was pitiable to watch the priest try to keep up with her, even more pathetic to watch such a graceful and talented Noantri holding herself back for the convenience of a Mortal. Not that any of that mattered. Jorge’s path was clear. Now that they were on the street he’d just trail them to someplace uncrowded, pounce, and wrest the notebook from her. He took off, staying a safe distance behind, ready to drop back if she seemed to be aware of him, or speed up if they turned.

Which they did, left on Via dei Genovesi and left again on Viale di Trastevere. The route they chose, avoiding broad piazzas and skulking in shadows, underlined to Jorge that they were up to no good. That, plus the shamefaced, embarrassed air about them both—the priest more than Pietro, but both—as they exited the church, the way they barely looked at each other and took obvious care not to touch. Jorge didn’t know the nature of their wrongdoing and he didn’t care: Anna would know, Anna would explain to him what all this was about once, in glowing triumph, he handed her the notebook. He wondered where Anna was, whether she was mad he hadn’t waited at the theater, but he decided she must not be because she hadn’t called. She probably knew he’d seized the initiative, taken the opportunity to continue his mission. She had faith in him; she was waiting.

Pietro and the priest rushed through the piazza in front of Santa Maria in Trastevere, keeping to the far side of the fountain from the church, she with her hat pulled down, he pretending to shade his eyes but clearly just hiding his face with his hand. Jorge followed as they worked their way to Vicolo della Frusta and then started on the steps up the Janiculum. He gave them a head start and then trotted up the steps himself. They must be going this way to avoid the road, where they’d be more likely to be seen. Probably, since whatever they were doing involved churches, they were making for San Pietro in Montorio, but a good agent would never assume such a thing. Jorge would catch up with them closer to the top; for now, better to hang back. He let some people pass him. Mortals, they were, huffing and puffing on the steps: a French-speaking couple holding hands, three teenage boys in soccer uniforms (How long had it been since Jorge himself had kicked a ball around? he suddenly wondered), and a thin, hatchet-faced older man who’d find himself able to breathe better, Jorge decided, if he threw away his cigar. Focusing on his task, Jorge realized he must really be spooked, because even though they’d left San Francesco a Ripa far behind, he couldn’t get over the sense that that blond Noantri was nearby. Well, continuing in the face of fear was the mark of heroism. Not that Jorge was afraid. Far from it. His hanging back on the steps was strategic. He could do that because there wasn’t much chance that his quarry would escape him. Actually, there was no chance. Finally, on the Janiculum Hill, Jorge would get what he’d been hoping for.