The Psalter Page 23

  Romano had jerked the barrel from Desmoulins’s chin with his right hand, and his left delivered a crushing blow to Hassan’s ribs. The Arab doubled over, yet managed to hold on to the automatic. They struggled for the gun, whirling and jerking until Hassan headbutted the priest, striking his cheekbone. Romano saw stars, but knew from his days on the streets what it was like to have his bell rung, so he held on. He clenched the Arab until the netherworld between consciousness and a knockout passed.

  Hassan struck him in the mouth and followed with a short hook to the chin. He cocked his arm for another punch. A spark of light revived Romano’s senses. He ducked and countered with a combination jab to the nose and roundhouse to the temple. Hassan staggered, his legs rubbery. Romano grabbed the automatic’s barrel, but Hassan yanked with all his might and wrenched it from the priest’s hand. He leveled the gun at Romano.

  Three shots rang out in rapid succession, and Hassan’s eyes bulged. He slumped to his knees with an expression of wonder, then fell to the ground. Romano spun as wisps of smoke rose from the barrel of Del Carlo’s gun. He rushed to Hassan’s side and knelt. A trickle of dark blood oozed at the corner of the Arab’s mouth. The priest recognized him as the attacker in the Héber’s apartment and wanted to ask why, but the young man’s time was up. Romano made the sign of the cross as Hassan’s eyes went blank, his soul’s last breath fleeing to whatever heaven awaited.

  The lieutenant rushed up with three gendarmes, machine guns at the ready. Del Carlo inspected the burn on Desmoulins’ face. “I’m alright,” Desmoulins reassured him. “Have some men fan out outside the wall. We still have one bird loose.”

  “I’m sorry, mon Capitaine.” The lieutenant was horrified that the operation had not gone flawlessly and his captain nearly paid the price.

  “The fault is mine. I didn’t think to leave men outside. Now, go find the other one.” Turning to Del Carlo, he said, “I ordered you to shoot.”

  “You would’ve died.”

  “Perhaps, but we would have dictated the situation, not him.”

  “Sometimes Capitaine,” Del Carlo grinned, “you have to play defense.” He helped Desmoulins to his feet.

  “Is this the man who attacked you in Paris?” Desmoulins asked Romano.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you couldn’t see his face.”

  “I can tell by the way he moved. He telegraphs his punches.”

  Desmoulins frowned. “I told you to stay in the car.”

  “I’m not very obedient,” Romano said.

  “I misjudged you, Father. I’ve never met a priest who was a man of action, not just prayers. You have my thanks and my respect.” He held out his hand. “If you ever decide to change jobs, call me.”

  “My boss wouldn’t approve.”

  The lieutenant sprinted back. “I think you had better look at this, Capitaine, in the basement.”

  Desmoulins expected to find automatic rifles, perhaps AK-47’s, the weapon of choice for terrorists because they were cheap and effective. He also thought they might discover plastic explosives or perhaps more sophisticated gel. Since they were in farm country, manure and ammonia could be procured easily to create low-tech bombs with massive power. Instead, the basement housed garden tools, bottles of water, and shelves of canned goods. A rack on the wall secured a row of shotguns and a second one held hunting rifles.

  What captured his attention however, were maps, photographs, and handmade sketches of a nuclear reactor on the coast. On another table lay a schedule of ferry crossings from nearby Dieppe to Newhaven, with photos of ferry interiors, particularly the hold that carried automobiles. “Oh my God,” Desmoulins said, “the reactors, the ferries.” Turning to the lieutenant he ordered, “Notify the port authority.”

  Desmoulins allowed Romano in the basement. The priest had earned his trust, and Romano walked around the room glancing at the guns and shelves holding supplies. He noticed nothing unusual until a stack of photocopies on a work desk attracted his attention. Leafing through the pages, he called to Del Carlo. “Colonelo, it’s the Psalter.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They’re only copies,” Romano replied, “but I would know the script anywhere. The book is definitely here. At least, it was.”

  27

  Sayyid

  Rashid sat with his head resting on the steering wheel in the old Peugeot, deep in despair. He had pulled off the freeway at a rest stop outside Paris. Tractor trailers filled the parking lot, and light from the café spilled out on the sidewalk. Phosphorescent hands on the car’s dirty clock pointed to nine forty-six. Forty-five minutes late, he thought. The imam was supposed to call before nine p.m. with instructions. Something’s happened. Those police cars surely went to the farm. Now, all is lost.

  Rashid hadn’t wanted to leave without a definite plan or at least directions, but the imam had insisted he leave immediately. He must have known disaster was about to fall and wanted the book and Rashid gone. Yet now, he had no directives, no contacts, and nowhere to go. Perhaps he should poke around the Mosque, but he had been warned to stay away.

  He stared at the ancient book wrapped in wax paper. A clue might be inside, he thought. He set the bundle on his lap and tugged the paper free. Opening the faded red cover, worn through in places, an ornate illustration depicted a gaunt, bearded man hanging from a cross, wearing only a loincloth. Spikes had been driven into his hands and feet, and his head hung down. Blood dripped from his brow, pierced by a wreath of thorns. Rashid loathed that Christians revered such a gruesome execution scene.

  Jesus had been a martyr like Mohammad’s cousin, Ali, who had also been murdered by his own people. Muslims, however, didn’t make paintings of executions. Not only were such images disgusting, he reflected, they were forbidden, even according to the Bible. He turned the pages and skimmed the Latin words drawn in elaborate calligraphy. Maybe instructions had been slipped inside, he thought, turning brittle vellum sheets. He was about to give up when an electronic chime made him jump. He fairly shouted into the phone, “imam, are you alright?”

  “Listen to me, Rashid, and don’t hang up. The imam has been arrested.” The caller spoke in Farsi.

  “Who is this?”

  “Are you listening? I need your complete attention,” the caller said.

  An overwhelming impulse told Rashid to press the end call button.

  “Don’t hang up if you want instructions.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Will you listen now?”

  Rashid didn’t answer.

  “I’m the one who called the imam to warn him the police were coming. He was sending you to me to deliver the book.”

  “Why didn’t he save himself?”

  “He knew he could not. Besides, the book is more important.”

  “Who cares about a silly old book? We must save the imam.”

  “So we will, but the book isn’t silly and plays a crucial role in the imam’s plans,” the caller said. “Weren’t you taught this? Are you not a child of the book?”

  “Yes,” Rashid said.

  “Then don’t blaspheme it. You must bring it to me now.”

  “How can I tell whether these things are true?”

  “Who gave me your telephone number? How would I know you possess this book?”

  Rashid thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do, Rashid al-Ansar, and I was also told you’re to be a warrior in the days of justice. Now listen, and I’ll tell you where you’re to meet me.”

  He was to rendezvous with his contact at a bistro not far from Paris’ Mosque, which made Rashid uncomfortable. The imam had drilled him to avoid places where Arabs congregated, except at the busiest times, when he might find anonymity in a crowd. It would be nighttime in the fifth arrondissement, one of the expensive and chic districts in Paris. An Arab would be conspicuous even though the mosque was only a few blocks away. Fortunately, he wore slacks and had fetched a black sport jacket from his bag s
o he could blend in better. Still, his skin crawled with uneasiness as though every eye watched.

  He sat just inside the door rather than at one of the small sidewalk tables and ordered an espresso from a waiter who eyed him suspiciously. He had arrived fifteen minutes early because he wanted to size up his contact. After all, he was turning over the book that held such enigmatic importance, and there could be no mistakes. He would make no mistake.

  The appointed time came and went. Another ten minutes passed and still no one. Rashid scanned the sidewalk as the waiter carried wicker chairs and tables inside and stacked them. He went over every point in the caller’s instructions. He was at the right bistro at the right time.

  Rashid stood up and stepped outside. He looked up and down the street, but realized the futility. Sitting back down, the waiter gathered up his demitasse and asked if he wanted another espresso. “No,” Rashid answered, looking at his wristwatch. He must have misunderstood or the caller had decided not to come.

  Rashid felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked in surprise. “Do you mind if I sit?” The dark man had appeared from nowhere. Actually, he came from the one place Rashid hadn’t suspected, deep inside the café. “You are indeed Rashid al-Ansar, are you not?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me if I startled you.”

  Rashid noted the man’s dark face and curly graying hair, and recognized the Lebanese accent. “I expected you earlier.”

  “I was already here when you arrived but wished to be prudent. The imam said you were clever and wouldn’t be followed, but one can’t be too careful.”

  Rashid found himself oddly reassured that the man displayed such wile. “Would we be less conspicuous if we spoke French? I’m sorry, how should I call you?”

  “You may call me sir or monsieur or sayyid and we can speak in French if you like, but our work is better done in private, and Farsi will give us that.”

  Rashid narrowed his eyes. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

  “The imam described you well.”

  “Shall I give you the book now?”

  “Tell me first, have you read it?”

  “A few lines, Latin prayers I think.” Rashid knew the text was Latin and understood the little he had read, but he didn’t wish to sound smug.

  “But you have no idea what it’s about?” the man probed.

  “No, but it’s very old.”

  “Indeed, over a thousand years. Since the imam told you nothing, I shall be the one to reward you for your obedience. You carry a common Christian prayer book of no particular importance except for what’s hidden underneath the words.”

  Rashid was intrigued. “What do they hide?”

  “Secret things.”

  “Have you read these secrets?”

  “Oh yes, Rashid. I have.”

  “Tell me what they say.”

  “They tell us how to destroy the false Christian religion.”

  Rashid lifted the Psalter from his lap and laid it on the table. “Read it to me so I may learn how to wipe out these infidels.”

  Sayyid scooped up the book with one arm. “I don’t need to. I already know what it says and so shall you, very soon.”

  It was nearly midnight in Paris as they drove up the wide Boulevard Magenta through the intersection with Boulevard de Rochechouart, passing the Metro then rolling toward Château Rouge. The sidewalks were still full of North Africans and West Africans and Arabs who overflowed into the cobblestone streets. Vendors stood on corners, hawking corn on the cob grilled on braziers set in the baskets of metal shopping carts. Drunks huddled together on curbs with large cans of beer, while the occasional beggar squatted against a stone building. Rashid spied a wrinkled man in a thobe and short vest, fingering prayer beads and muttering what were surely scriptures from the Qur’an.

  Sayyid had ordered Rashid to leave his car near the mosque and drove him here. “You won’t attract attention if you stay in this quarter. Did you bring clothes that are a little more…foreign?”

  “Of course.”

  “Blend in. This will be your home for awhile.”

  “Won’t the police be looking for me?”

  “I think not. You weren’t identified. Nevertheless, don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  Sayyid pulled onto a narrow unlit side street and double-parked the car. The apartment building was old, not like the upscale Haussmanians or the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings. These apartments had been built in the 1920s and ’30s and were old because they were uncared for like their occupants. Faded paint peeled from the walls in curls and aging shutters had missing slats or hung precariously from a single hinge.

  Sayyid led Rashid up a steep, circular stairway one flight then two and three to the top, sixth, floor. He pulled a key from his trousers, slid it in a lock, and turned twice. The latch clicked and the heavy door creaked. Flipping a switch, the single bulb hanging from a wire spread a dim light as dingy as the walls.

  “It’s only a studio,” Sayyid said, “but I’ve bought everything you’ll need. Towels are in the bathroom and soap and disposable razors. Sheets and blankets are on the bed, but you’ll have to do your own shopping for food. Do you have money?”

  “Some.”

  “Here’s five hundred Euros.” Sayyid handed Rashid a stack of small bills.

  “Five hundred. How long will I be here? I need to get back to my job in Rome.”

  “Perhaps two or three days, but we’ll speak often. We’re going to be allies and I hope good friends because we share a common cause.”

  “And the imam, we must help him escape.” Rashid said.

  “He won’t be in jail long, so we don’t need to do anything for the moment.”

  “How can you foretell these things?”

  “Because, dear Rashid, all has been accounted for, nothing left to chance. Now give me your cell phone.” Rashid pulled a black phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sayyid, who dropped it on the floor and stomped.

  “Hey, what’re you doing?”

  Sayyid offered him a shiny silver one. “This one uses a prepaid card, no names, no identification. When you run out of time, buy another card. Use cash.”

  “My friends, my contacts, they were programmed in the phone.”

  “Don’t call your friends until we’ve finished our mission. Do you understand?”

  Rashid nodded. Sayyid was right, although he was galled that this complete stranger gave orders and felt he could somehow replace his master. However, the imam had trusted him enough to give him Rashid’s number. “Just what is the operation?”

  “A little more patience. I realize this is hard. Your imam was arrested and you’re forced to listen to someone you’ve never met. But notice I said, your imam and not ours. He and I follow the same master, but not the same path.”

  Rashid thought of the Mahdi, the guided one, the redeemer of Islam, but said nothing.

  “Give me a few days and you’ll be able to judge for yourself whether I speak the truth. Until then, trust me because I’m keeping you safe.”

  “I suppose I have no choice,” Rashid said with resignation.

  “One always has a choice. You can choose to follow the will of your imam or you can turn from the path of righteousness.”

  “I’ll give you your few days, then I’ll see for myself.”

  Sayyid laughed. “Well spoken. Now tell me, have you been trained?”

  “Yes.”

  “Completely?”

  Rashid answered with confidence, “I can do whatever is required.”

  “Then I’ll leave you for tonight. Sleep well and put your mind at ease because we’ll change the world in ways that will astound even the most cynical unbelievers. Good night, Rashid al-Ansar.”

  Sayyid drove toward the airport, pleased with himself. The imam would be out of the way for awhile and now he had his most valuable operative under his control. Best of all, he had the Psalter. He steered the rental car with one
hand while pulling a white plastic tab from the side pocket of his jacket and sliding it into inserts in the collar of his black shirt.

  28

  Yokes and Plows

  Pope Sergius sat glumly on a cushioned chair, his sagging chins resting on his fist, listening to Benedict and Theophylact recount their heroism in the bloody battle with the Saracens. The patriarchum was filled to overflowing. Priests crammed into every corner and deacons lined the walls. Cardinals sat in the center, spellbound by Benedict’s magnetic voice. Sergius, however, listened with increasing skepticism. “So where is the church’s treasure?”

  “Alas, Holiness, the wicked Saracens are liars and deceivers. They feigned a parley then attacked, catching us unaware. They have stolen the gold and silver. Our men fought like Romans of old, but the heathens had the superior force. We were lucky to escape with our lives. I know I disobeyed your Holiness, but I hope I’ve redeemed myself with my valor. Had we left unarmed priests to the task, they would have been slaughtered to a man.”

  “Yet you have not a single wound between you,” Sergius said.

  “The Lord protects the righteous.”

  “Is the library saved or lost?” the Pope leaned his aching body forward.

  Benedict turned to Theophylact, not knowing what to say. The count only shrugged. “Dear brother, it’s surely safe, for how would they carry all those books? So in the end, we’ve succeeded. We must have, although we had hoped to save our treasure as well. Alas, I fear our beloved brother, Johannes, is dead.”

  The assembly gasped in shock.

  “He was brought to the battlefield as a hostage, yet he fought them like a lion. Then we lost sight of him.”

  “I witnessed the heathens seize him and take him from the field,” Theophylact said. “They surely butchered the poor soul, but he battled courageously. As well as any soldier.”

  Priests wept at the loss of their dearest brother; however, Sergius was unconvinced. “Johannes is a cultured man of letters, unskilled in the use of weapons. With what did he fight?”

  “He fought with…his bare hands, Holiness, and with…great courage,” Benedict sounded less confident.