The Holy Bullet Part 30

"True," commented Littel, looking into s.p.a.ce for a few seconds before focusing on Barnes again. "Tell me something. Have you ever heard the name Abu Ras.h.i.+d?"

51.

Abu Ras.h.i.+d continued his personal calvary, his supernatural mission, a captive of the intransigent foreigner whose conscience didn't bother him. The good name of the Roman Catholic Church would always be the foreigner's top priority.

These were the options that everyone chose based on the facts available at the moment; that's how life works, a wheel of selections, of luck and lottery, where intelligence and talent have some weight, but not much.

No, the Virgin would never appear to a Muslim. This was a case for psychiatry, for internment in a hospital for mental cases. It was legitimate and normal to confuse religion with schizophrenia, visions with hallucinations, revelation with fantasy. The best thing was that he'd be able to prove it in a few minutes as soon as they had their feet on the ground again. The foreigner held on to that hope. It would serve as an argument before his superiors, and there'd be no need for execution, speaking of Abu Ras.h.i.+d, of course. That was never his strength. He never did it, but he knew people who'd snuffed out a human life for less reason than Abu Ras.h.i.+d had provided. But those were other characters and personalities, more energetic and less patient men. It was essential to always protect the image and good name of the Church, and thus the existence of those protectors with no lives of their own, angels who covered thousands of miles to fight the threats the world produces. They were called Sanctifiers and, as far as the world was concerned, didn't exist, never existed, and never would exist. They had turned over their souls to the Church, to Christ, and beyond that they knew nothing. Sometimes we find gentler souls among the Sanctifiers, like this foreigner, but the optimists and defenders of human life shouldn't delude themselves. He wouldn't hesitate, if he decided Abu Ras.h.i.+d was truly a threat to his beloved Catholicism, or if he received orders to do so. He'd squeeze the trigger or cut his throat without blinking. Christ always came first, second, and third. There was no higher priority in his life.

When they had landed in Krakow, the plane had been directed to a remote area of the international airport John Paul II, reserved for private planes, where a car waited without a driver, as he'd requested. Not a luxury model with a lot of horsepower, calling attention to itself, but a white Lada, more than twenty years old, with none of the conveniences of today's cars, but which pa.s.sed completely unnoticed in the immense Polish territory they covered that night.

The trip was hardly fifty miles to the south of Krakow, although in the Lada it took longer than he expected. What was important was that they'd arrived, and so we see them following the well-traveled road on foot, Abu Ras.h.i.+d first, with his hands tied, shoved along from time to time by the foreigner, not for walking too slowly, but to remind him he was a captive. Besides a nudge in the ribs, nothing too rough.

The handcuffs fastened the black briefcase to the foreigner's wrist as if it were an extension of his body.

Anyone else would have asked where they were going, but not Abu Ras.h.i.+d. We can almost make out a satisfied smile on his sweaty, beat-up face.

They climbed the path up the mountain aided by the light of a flashlight that dimly penetrated the veil of obscurity. The foreigner pointed the light slightly in front of Abu Ras.h.i.+d's feet.

"We're getting there," he let him know almost cordially.

"I know that," the Muslim replied.

A few feet ahead, another jab in Abu Ras.h.i.+d's ribs made him fall to the ground this time. The foreigner was alarmed and poised for action. He hadn't used enough force to cause that reaction, he was sure of that. Something, or someone, had caused the fall.

Abu Ras.h.i.+d was on his knees with his head down. It was hard to tell if he was kneeling toward the Kaaba in Mecca, given their disorientation, the cover of night without stars, and the lack of a mihrab mihrab, but certainly the Muslim had adopted the position of prayer, strange in those hours before dawn, but who could criticize a believer for prostrating himself in a moment of affliction?

The foreigner could. Not only from his role as captor, but because that position always made him feel a certain nausea. All that submission, the abrasive demonstration of the faith of Allah, All-Powerful G.o.d, disgusted the foreigner. Not even the ordination of new priests could compare to this lying flat out, when the candidates stretched out on their bellies, kissing the floor, almost under the feet of their colleagues, and gave their lives to the Roman Catholic Church, the only true faith, no other. Nothing was more repulsive to the foreigner than this twisted gesture of Abu Ras.h.i.+d with his bound arms on the ground and his head beside them.

The foreigner wanted to put a stop to it as soon as possible, but hesitated, perhaps because this wasn't the typical hour of Islamic Sabah, although it was known to vary from one place to another. He decided to wait a moment, not out of respect for an erroneous belief, but out of suspicion. So much the better that only he and Abu Ras.h.i.+d were present here in the middle of this Polish forest, a cold wind chilling their bones, more his than the Muslim's, which was also irritating.

For a minute nothing happened, Abu Ras.h.i.+d on his knees on the ground and the foreigner on foot watching him impatiently.

"There is still hope," Abu Ras.h.i.+d said without moving.

"Hope for what?"

"Hope for you," the other replied from the same position. "There are always two paths, as I told you already."

"Come on, get moving. We have to keep going. It's not the time to pray," the foreigner grumbled, ignoring the comment and giving him a light shove in the ribs with the flashlight, as if dealing with the unforeseen behavior of an animal. His other hand was on the revolver in the holster he carried under his jacket. One never knew; one couldn't be too careful.

"Every hour's an hour for prayer, but don't worry. I'm not praying."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm listening," the old man declared.

The foreigner looked around uncomfortably. He didn't feel or see the presence of a living soul. He squeezed his fingers tighter on the handle of the gun, insecure. Sacrilege. Sacrilege.

"There's no one here," he said, hiding his suspicion that she was looking at him unfavorably.

"Don't be uncomfortable. She'll always love you, no matter what you do. If she should blame you, there'd be no reason for the existence of free will. The beauty of life is that we can always choose."

"Shut up. Get up and keep going," he ordered.

Abu Ras.h.i.+d raised his body, remaining on his knees. His eyes were open, s.h.i.+ning, looking into s.p.a.ce.

"Didn't you hear me?" the foreigner insisted proudly.

"You are what I don't want to hear," Abu Ras.h.i.+d said.

Silence fell under the cover of the night, joined by wild animals that stopped their whimpers and calls at the exact same instant, as if everything felt the presence of a superior being. Only the foreigner was unable to feel anything despite being a devotee and believer in the Virgin. No, she couldn't be there. It went against everything he believed.

"Calm yourself, Tim. Let yourself feel the positive energy of the universe. Don't live under pressure, frustration, doubt."

The foreigner was astonished. Had he heard right?

"I've never told you my name," was all he could get out.

"I know that, Tim. I've known you since long before you were born."

"Who told you my name?"

"She. Who else?" Abu Ras.h.i.+d was imperturbable.

"Cut the s.h.i.+t. Who told you?"

"The other one asked exactly the same question."

The foreigner, baptized as Timothy, took the gun from the holster and pointed it at the Muslim's head, squeezing slightly. He was losing his mind.

"What other one?"

Abu Ras.h.i.+d turned toward him despite the cold barrel pressing against his head.

"This isn't the time, Tim."

52.

Geoffrey Barnes was confused by what he'd just heard from Harvey Littel about the individual named Abu Ras.h.i.+d, Israeli by nationality, Muslim by birth, resident of Jerusalem.

"It's too surreal," he finally said after thinking for a minute. "Is there any evidence to confirm it?"

"Some, considering the sources."

"We need to know more."

"He's disappeared."

"Yeah, and the other one died," Barnes added. "Do you think someone's throwing down the gauntlet?"

Littel shrugged his shoulders. "It's hard to say. I know there's no trace of the man. We have people on permanent surveillance, but nothing."

"I imagine there are plenty of people who want to find him," Barnes said thoughtfully. "And even more who want to do away with him."

"True," Littel agreed. "But imagine if he's hiding and then one day shows up here and starts talking."

"No one would believe him," Barnes a.s.serted.

"Except his people."

Barnes made a sign with his lips suggesting his doubts.

"I don't think it'd take much to stir up religious conflict. From there a disastrous war is only a step away," Littel warned.

"That's a little apocalyptic."

"That's what they pay us for, Barnes. To a.n.a.lyze and think up scenarios. That's what I see."

"We have to find a way to bring him out. He has to show signs of life."

"If he's alive."

"If he's not, all the better. Case closed."

"But we need to be certain."

The two men looked at each other circ.u.mspectly and with respect. Until a body appeared, everything was left hanging.

"A Muslim who performs miracles and has visions. This would not occur to anyone," Barnes sighed. "How did they know about it?"

"Who?"

"The religious orders."

"Those guys know everything."

"And what is it that interests them?"

"Everything is of interest to those people . . . even that which is not of interest."

"It could be of interest to the orthodox," Barnes suggested.

"For what? To blackmail the Vatican? That game's over. History."

"You never know. A more ambitious priest. He hears things here and there. A Muslim miracle man who knows secrets about the Catholic Church."

"Presuming it has secrets."

"It's enough. Presumption has always served as an excuse for a lot of things. Even torture and killing."

"I don't think it'll start from there."

"If you have people taking care of that, all we can do is wait until something happens. Aside from that, we have more important things to take care of."

"We have to resolve this mess as soon as possible. Very strange things are happening," Littel said.

"You're telling me."

At that moment they heard the tumult of the Center of Operations outside the office again. The two men looked at the door and saw Staughton with his hand on the k.n.o.b.

"We have a location," he told them hurriedly.

The two got up.

"Finally," Barnes protested, suddenly animated. "Where?"

"Saint Paul's Cathedral."

"They're pretty brazen," Barnes complained, putting on his jacket. "Going to a sacred place after so much blood. Those people are such hypocrites."

"Are you a believer?" Littel asked, joining Barnes as he left the office at a fast pace.

"In our work we don't have that luxury."

"Why not?"

"It's obvious, Harvey." Thou shalt not kill is hard to avoid.

They pa.s.sed through the Center of Operations, ignoring the busy employees, the running around, the disconnected cries that crossed the room forming the noisy background of voices and equipment that was heard.

Staughton and Herbert joined them with Priscilla and a group of eight agents.

"And the CD?" Barnes asked Staughton.

"It's still being processed."