"And get on with our lives."

He picked up a photostat of a newspaper story.

CARDINAL'S DISAPPEARANCE.

REMAINS A MYSTERY.

rome, italy, February 28 (AP)--Vatican officials and Rome police remain baffled five days after the disappearance of Cardinal Kninoslav Pavelic, influential member of the Roman Catholic Church's central administration group, the Curia. Pavelic, seventy-two, was last seen by close associates after celebrating a private mass in the chapel of his Vatican living quarters Sunday evening. On Monday, he had been scheduled to give the keynote address to a widely publicized conference of Catholic bishops on the subject of the Church's political relations with Eastern

European communist regimes. Authorities at first suspected right-wing terrorists of abducting Cardinal Pavelic to protest a rumored softening of the Vatican's attitude toward any communist regime willing to ease restrictions on Church activities. However, no extremist group has so far claimed responsibility for Pavelic's disappearance. Drew finished reading. He turned to Arlene, who'd leaned forward to read past his shoulder. "What can a newspaper story tell you that isn't better substantiated in the primary documents Father Victor had?" she asked.

"Right now, I'm interested in what isn't in those other documents."

Drew's hand tightened on the photostat of the newspaper story. "You said Father Victor had covered every angle--religious, political, criminal? But one angle's missing."

"Missing?"

"It might be the reason Father Sebastian wanted us. Wanted me." He had trouble speaking. "It used to be my specialty." Again, unbearably, he suffered through the memory of the explosion that had dismembered his parents before his eyes, the rage that had turned him into an instrument of vengeance and had ultimately driven him to the penance of the monastery. 'Terrorists." The word made bile rise to his mouth. "The newspaper story mentions the possibility that Cardinal Pavelic was abducted by them. But where in these other documents has that possibility been investigated and dismissed? Is that our direction?"

The morning sun fought through a veil of smog. Escaping the blare of traffic. Drew entered a pay phone near the Colosseum and dialed a number he hadn't used in almost eight years. He felt an unnerving sense of deja vu. A man, whose raspy voice Drew didn't recognize, answered in

Italian. "Forum Dry Cleaners." Drew replied in Italian, "Mr. Carelli, please."

"No Carelli here."

"But can you relay a message to him?"

"/ told you no Carelli. I never heard of him." The man hung up. Drew replaced the phone on its hook and leaned against the glass wall of the booth. Arlene stood just outside. "Prom the look on your face, I gather you didn't make contact"

"Apparently some changes have been made."

"Eight years. It isn't surprising. Relays are changed as often as every week."

"I guess I'd hoped we could do this easily."

"Who is Carelli?"

"A pseudonym for a man called Gatto. In the old days, when I was an operative, he was a middleman. Sometimes we used him as a backup, in case a mission went sour. More often, we bought information from him."

The look in her eyes made clear she understood. Terrorists usually operated in small groups independent of one another. This tactic gave them the advantage of secrecy, but it also meant they had no network to depend upon for weapons, information, and safety routes. After all, an assassination required careful planning. Unless a terrorist group was engaged in a suicidal mission, they needed "clean" weapons, never before used, untraceable to them. As soon as a mission was completed, these weapons would be disassembled and either destroyed or discarded in widely separated areas, preferably at sea. Such virgin weapons were expensive. But even before an operation, the victims had to be located, their daily schedules determined, their moments of exposure discovered.

This information was costly to acquire. After the mission, of course, the terrorists would need to go to ground. Alibis, escape procedures, safe houses--these too were expensive. A first-class mission, one which by definition meant that the terrorists would survive un apprehended and be able to kill again, had a minimum price tag of $150,000. The money was supplied to terrorists by various governments committed to causing chaos, and the terrorists in turn paid the money to middlemen, sometimes called brokers, who provided the weapons, information, and safe houses, no questions asked. As far as the middleman was concerned, what his clients did with the services he made available was none of his business. Carelli, a. k.a. Gatto, had been one of these middlemen.

"He had professional ethics," Drew said. "You mean he was careful."

"Exactly. The information he gave us never exposed his clients," Drew continued. "But he had no qualms about accepting money in exchange for what he knew about terrorists imprudent enough not to have hired him."

"Sounds like a charming fellow." 'To tell the truth, if you could forget what he did for a living, he was."

"And of course you hated him."

"Him and the hate he fed off. But if anyone might know if terrorists abducted Cardinal Pavelic, it's Gatto."

"Or it would have been Gatto eight years ago. Ether he's changed his conduit system since then, or he's left the business," Arlene said. "Of course, there's a third possibility. Maybe he knew too much and became a liability to his clients. Do business with the Devil..."

"And the Devil destroys you. In this case--I never thought I'd say it--1 hope the Devil held off."

"It looks like you'll never know." Drew shook his head. "There were alternate methods to get in touch with him. Different phone numbers, different intermediaries." He stepped back into the booth. His next three attempts resulted in similar "no Carelli" answers. Glancing with discouragement toward Arlene, he made his final call. A nasal female voice said, "Pontine Medical Supplies."

"Can you get a message to Mr. Carelli?" Drew asked. The woman didn't answer. "Carelli," Drew repeated. "Can you... ?"

"I haven't heard mat name in almost six months." 'It's been even longer since I spoke with him," Drew said. "I can get in touch with him, who

"Mr. Haverford," Drew told her, supplying the pseudonym he'd always used when dealing with Gatto. "I'll ask around. Please call again in thirty minutes." Drew walked with Arlene toward the Colosseum, back toward the phone boom, back toward the Colosseum. Precisely thirty minutes later, he redialed the number. "I phoned earlier about Mr. Carelli."

"Write down these directions."

Filled with misgivings. Drew urged the rented Flat up a zigzag wooded road. Never, in his many discussions with Gatto, had they met at a residence. The rule was to use a one- time-only public meeting place, a restaurant or a park, a location mat could never be traced to Gatto's organization. You didn't do business at anyone's home. For Gatto to jeopardize the safety of whoever lived here, he must have had an extremely good reason. The moment Drew entered the lavish drawing room in the heavily guarded villa, he knew the reason--Gatto was too sick to leave the premises. The villa was ten miles north of the outskirts of

Rome, situated on a bluff with a view for miles around. Every luxury surrounded him. But the once-robust man, formerly engorged on the fees he earned from terrorist killings, was now a shell, his facial skin hanging loose, his complexion liver-spotted, his loss of hair disguised by a wide- brimmed hat. He slumped on a sofa. "Ah, Haverford." Gatto wheezed. "It's been too long. And such an attractive companion you bring with you."

"Mr. Carelli." Smiling, Arlene grasped the bony fingers he extended.

Her smile didn't waver when he pressed his shrunken lips to the back of her hand. Two bodyguards stood at the narrow ends of the room. "Yes, it's been a while," Drew said. "I had a change of heart... I might say a change of soul... I retreated from the profession." Gatto coughed.

"As did I. Refreshment? Wine?"

"You know I never indulged."

"I remember. But with your permission..."

"Of course." Gatto poured purple liquid into a glass. He had trouble swallowing it. The room smelled of medication. "Now that we've honored the amenities, Haverford, how may I help you?" His grin was a rictus.

"In former times, you used to provide me with information about those foolish enough not to be your clients." Gatto's sagging clothes shook as he laughed. "Those foolish enough." He chortled. "Haverford, have you seen my new Matisse?" He gestured toward one wall. Drew turned, assessing it. "Impressive."

"A million dollars, Haverford. What I sometimes earned on one assignment. How many people died, do you suppose, for Matisse to paint that picture?"

"None... except a part of Matisse." Gatto coughed again. "And even if

I sold it for the magnificent profit due to me, it wouldn't save my life. Come closer, my dear. Sit next to me." With a smile, Arlene complied.

"So tell me, Haverford, in my place what would you do?"

"In your place?"

"If you were dying."