Cain (24 page)

She bent her head. "The child lives?"

Marcelle stared. It was impossible that she could know anything of the situation outside these walls, and yet she seemed to know it all. He didn't know how to respond, finally decided to use the truth: "Yes, Mother Superior. The child lives." He paused. "How can you know of this?"

"Always it is children," she replied. "Yes, he wars eternally against children. I have spent too many long nights nursing them to life, and praying with them until they passed, to know any less." The lack of fear in her voice was inspiring. "You must protect the child, Marcelle," she continued. "Is it... a male child?"

"No," he replied. "It is a young girl. And our adversary, Cain, seeks to take her life to preserve his own."

"He is too inhuman to do otherwise," she answered simply. "But you must not fear him."

Marcelle's face tightened. "But ... but I do fear him, Sister. I have met him. And I fear him."

"Fear him not!" she said sternly. "He will use your fear! He will defeat
you with your fear! Remember that he is not omnipotent! He is only a creature! Like us!" She paused, slowly folding hands in her habit. "The eyes of the children who died in my arms, and who understood the love of God with their last breath feared him not ... in the end." She turned her head to the side. "We must have no less courage than them."

For a moment they said nothing and then she angled her head, gently
moving the rosary and crucifix. "I humbly request permission to accompany you, Father," she said. "I perceive it as my duty. And I perceive more: I perceive that if we do not stand together we shall not stand at all."

Marcelle debated, wondering and fearing what
Soloman would say if he did not return alone; they were already on tenuous legal ground. But the decision took only a second as he sensed the old nun's formidable strength inspiring him with the will to carry on.

He nodded. "I will await you outside," he replied.

* * *

C
HAPTER 14

Alone on the steps of the cathedral, waiting for Mother Superior Mary Francis to retrieve her things, Marcelle contemplated all he had heard. And it meant something to him.

It seemed so clear now that he had spent too many years isolated in cold academic thought; too many years acquiring a formidable intellect but somehow losing what had called him here, in the beginning.

Shadowed from within in the full light of day, he wondered how life had brought him to this place and where he'd lost the essence of what he truly was. It had been a terrific loss, he realized; a loss of years and love with so much time spent searching for a treasure that could not be found.

He felt foolish, as if he had wasted decades in abandoned, desolate places, digging with nothing more than rumors and legend to lead him, always disappointed when he could have been building a truer life for himself in a truer world.

Time that could not be redeemed.

He scanned the surrounding buildings as he listened to the distant traffic, the world of men. And it seemed suddenly meaningless to him, more meaningless than it had ever been.

He realized that the old nun knew more than he; knew that whatever was the heart of her faith was far simpler and easier to gain than the fantastic but meaningless disciplines he'd mastered, disciplines that could never build a tower to God. For somewhere in that simple faith lay a truth he had left far behind.

Wind moved over him and it seemed he had never felt it so clear, his skin so sensitive ... to the touch. It was simple and natural and he knew it, yes, invisible but there, always there.

Wind, whispering.

Yes, the evidence of things unseen.

With a thin smile he would no longer search to understand what lay beyond, because he could never know what lay beyond. But he was struck at once with a memory of all the stars and all the nights he had ever seen; a starry host blazing and gazing, alive with life.

He took a deep breath.

Nodded.

It was enough.

***

It was late afternoon when
Soloman finally received a Monopoly game from a somewhat surly FBI agent and winked. "Need some distraction." The agent didn't even reply as Soloman entered the kitchen to find Amy and Maggie sitting at the table. Malo was standing aside, rifle in               hand with the stock set on his hip, chewing a cigar.

"Got it, Amy,"
Soloman said as he sat.

"Great!" She clapped her hands. "I knew you
would do it!"

Soloman
felt a rush that came through the small cracks of his internal armor and didn't try to stop the release—wind moaning from a tomb—as he laid out the game. Confused, he tried to remember how much money was involved but it had been so long that he couldn't recall the rules. Then Amy apparently sensed his confusion and reached out.

"Here!" She laughed. "Let me do it!"

Soloman smiled, leaning back. "Go ahead, kid."

He watched her work, and it was good. Clearing his throat, he narrowly studied the instructions to see where everything was laid. His face
made it obvious that he had no idea.

"Let me help," Maggie said, taking the rest from his hands. She began
laying out pieces, glancing up with a smile. "You play Monopoly a lot, Sol?"

Soloman
scowled. "Uh, no. Not really."

"Well, then, I guess it
’s time to get back into it." She grinned as she finished laying the pieces and leaned back, casting a challenging glance at Malo. "Want to join in, Malo? See how tough you really are?"

Frowning, Malo shook his head. "No, ma'am. I think this is gonna get too mean for me." He chomped down on the cigar. "I probably need to be
… doing something useful."

Soloman
cut him a glance as he walked away, muttering about checking heat sensors and motion ... whatever. He went through the kitchen, leaving Soloman with a very determined looking Amy and her openly amused mother. Soloman focused on the child.

"You sure you know how to play?" he asked, dismayed at how quickly she'd laid out the money.

Something told him he was in trouble.

"Yeah!"
she smiled. "I play this a lot! I even beat Mommy most of the time!" Soloman looked up to see Maggie's laughing gaze and grimaced, clearing his throat. He began, "Yeah, well, maybe we should play a little warm-up game or something, just so we can—"

"Oh, I already know all the rules." Amy laughed and nodded curtly, suddenly serious. "It's your move,
Soloman."

Soloman
met the beaming gaze and glanced at the board. Felt a sense of doom.

"I was afraid of that," he said.

***

Ben wasn't certain if he'd prevailed or not. He perceived from the last few minutes that the team might receive more time but the winds of the career-minded were blowing hot and hunting for heads.

Haggard and gaunt, Archette was constructing an elaborate argument to explain how Soloman’s failure to conform to military norms, his disrespect of lawful behavior and his unfortunate tendency to initiate overly aggressive procedures could be indicative of a dangerous antisocial disorder that might endanger the mission.

To a point, Ben couldn't dispute the accusation
because, despite Ben’s earlier diatribe, Soloman had indeed gone outside regulations at the museum. And if the confrontation had ended in success, it could have been forgiven. But it hadn't. It had resulted in the deaths of six elite commandos, virtually destroyed a national monument, closed down a major thoroughfare, and initiated a massive mobilization of the entire Los Angeles Rescue Squad. Not to mention that virtually every news agency in the world was now scrambling to uncover anything on this very sensitive operation.

Tired, Ben muttered a curse. He wasn't sure how it could get any worse. Until it did.

"Is it not true," Archette asked painfully, "that Colonel Soloman has actually violated the safe-house with unsecured personnel?"

Ben knew he couldn't hesitate at all. Nor could he reveal what Archette so quaintly referred to as "micro-expressions" which, in psychiatric circles, were identified as almost invisible physical tics that expressed emotion far better than words.

"That," Ben said flatly, "is a lie."

Archette s
imply stared a moment before, "I have received reports that a priest is advising Colonel Soloman in this mission. Can you confirm this?"

"The colonel is conducting a classified investigation," Ben answered. "I am not at liberty to discuss whom he has
, or has not, contacted. That would be a breach of security."

"Not if he has violated security parameters of the Trinity Mandate,"
Archette replied steadily, and Ben knew he was right. He'd also known it would be Archette s next response and he'd taken the moment to craft a carefully timed reply.

"Gentlemen," he began, glancing at the frowning faces of Bull
Thompson and Blake Hollman, both of whom had to catch flights to New York within an hour. "I certainly know the security parameters. It is not a compromise of procedure for Soloman to confer, within limits, with anyone that he elects in order to facilitate the execution of this fail-safe. I can assure you that there has been no violation of procedure."

Bull took less time than Hollman. The NSA man, troubleshooter and
general fixer for the State Department, stared at Ben as if he somehow harbingered a plague.

"
Ben, I accept your assessment," Bull said finally. "And I trust that neither you nor your team has violated the security mandate. But, Ben, I'm not going to be able to give you more than another forty-eight hours. If you or your team haven't made significant progress within that time frame, the Trinity Failsafe will be dismantled."

"I understand." Ben nodded. "Give us forty-eight hours."

***

A crimson sun colored tree-strewn cliffs when Marcelle returned in the late evening. It had taken him the last half of the day to reach the safe-house where he found Soloman and Maggie playing Monopoly with Amy, game pieces scattered across the kitchen table, an extensive display of money and houses and hotels and cards claimed by all. It looked like they'd been playing for most of the afternoon.

Soloman
turned as Marcelle entered and saw the old nun, Mother Superior Mary Francis, walking beside the priest. Her hands were folded inside her habit, her head bowed to wordlessly ask his acceptance.

Rising instan
tly, Soloman walked forward, studying the situation. He wasn't surprised at how things kept getting away from regulation. After his discussion with Marcelle this morning, nothing could surprise him. He was aware of Malo's cock-eyed grin at this newest development.

"Sister Mary Francis?"
Soloman reminded himself aloud.

A demure nod. "I do not know that it will avail you anything at all, Colonel," she said quietly. "But, with your permission, I would like to offer my assistance."

Malo smiled—actually smiled—enjoying it. "The general's gonna love this when he gets back," he said.

"All right, Sister,"
Soloman replied. "I guess we can use all the help we can get. Why don't you fix us something to eat? You can ask Maggie and Amy if they want something special, but anything is fine for the rest of us."

Mary Francis nodded and gave him a narrow smile. "Thank you, Colonel. It would be my pleasure." She moved past him.

Unfazed, Marcelle spoke as she entered the kitchen. "You are a man of rare wisdom, Colonel. Sister Mary Francis may be of more use than it would seem."

Not responding,
Soloman headed for the door.

"Take over for me, Malo."

"I don't think that I want to take over for you, Colonel," the lieutenant replied. "No disrespect intended, sir, but your position"—he glanced at Amy and the Monopoly Board before tempering his language—"isn't the best."

Soloman
turned to glare a direct order and Malo reluctantly laid his rifle on the counter. As he took Soloman's position he looked with open admiration at Amy and the large accumulation of money and houses, still chewing the unlit cigar. "You ever done any money laundering, kid?" he asked. "I think you got a real knack for it."

With a smile Amy clapped her hands. "You want to trade all four railroads for Boardwalk, Malo? I've got a hot
el on it. And, by the way, Soloman just landed on Pennsylvania Avenue. You owe me two thousand dollars."

Malo scowled at the board. "Eh?"

Maggie laughed out loud and Soloman smiled as he reached the door, following Marcelle onto the porch. He'd commandeered yet another cigar from Malo and lit it before meeting the darkening air of the forest.

Carefully, Marcelle laid a small black bag of obvious quality and antiquity on a chair. Gold stitching sealed the seams and it was glossy in the dim light. As
Soloman followed the stout priest from the door he spoke. "So, Marcelle, what's in the bag?"

"Artifacts," the priest answered vaguely. His head was bowed in thought. "Holy artifacts that, quite probably, will avail us nothing." He shrugged. "But there is no reason not to hope. It is always better to hope than to despair, as Goethe would say."

Soloman raised an eyebrow. "The poet?"

"Yes
– the poet who retold the legend of Faust, which dates from the sixteenth century. You, of course, know the story. Faust sold his soul to the Devil for the chance to achieve intellectual perfection. And, guided by Mephistopheles, a type of Satan, he moved from one realm of human experience to another without ever attaining the satisfaction he so desperately sought. For intellectual perfection is forever ultimately unsatisfying."

"Yeah,
” Soloman exhaled thick white smoke, “I've read it. Read it a couple of times, in fact."

"I'm sure you have." Marcelle smiled
, "because even though you are a soldier you are also a scholar. In fact I've pondered whether you missed your calling." He laughed. "You would have made an excellent priest, you know. You have a nature suited for the task."

"I appreciate that."
Soloman gazed around by reflex. "But Goethe's Faust is an interesting work for anyone. Satan loses a wager for Faust's soul because Faust sought only perfection, not pleasure. I've never been certain of the morality, or if there is any, really. I guess it's just a product of the Enlightenment when everyone was rebelling against a tyrannical Church."

Marcelle nodded. "Yes. Tyrannical is the word, I believe."

"A stout thing for a priest to say."

"The Church is multifaceted," Marcelle replied. "There are priests who agree with the Curia, those who do not, and multitudinous positions spanning the extremes. But there was a time, indeed, when the Church was tyrannical. And in some respects remains so."

"But you're not Catholic, right? You're a Jesuit."

"Yes, I am a Jesuit
, and I am a Catholic. As much as we are independent of the Church hierarchy, the Society of Jesus has been an ally of Rome since Pius VII removed the ban imposed in 1773. So our order is pledged to the Archbishop's authority, and many Jesuits have been canonized as saints. We take a lifelong vow of poverty and celibacy and undergo a fifteen-year training period. And our official elected leader, Superior General Anton Aveling, whom I told you of, holds a position of power over the Order."