The Psalter (36 page)

“Why do you think I’m calling you? This is the most meaningful job I will ever do and you could be a part. I don’t understand you. Religion was always more important to you than me.”

“I suppose I might rearrange my schedule. I’ve missed meetings before, the absent-minded professor excuse.”

“I love you, Papa.”

“You better be ready for me when I arrive so I’m not hanging around all day with a bunch of priests. I may be old, but even an aging Frenchman needs a few pretty girls in the picture.”

“What about me?”

“You’re not pretty, Isabelle, you’re beautiful; but you’re my daughter and daughters are different.”

“The two Thomases aren’t the same at all,” Pascal explained to his daughter as he poured over printouts in Aramaic. They had managed to squeeze another chair into her postage-stamp office which was already crammed with a computer and camera mounted on a desk-top stand, and Pascal had to share half of her desk. “I wish you’d paid more attention in catechism. This would be much easier.”

“It had nothing to do with paying attention. I decided I was an atheist as a teenager, remember? I played hooky from catechism.”

“Now you’re paying the penance. You’re forced to listen to me instead of the long-suffering curé. As I was saying, the
Gospel of Thomas
says he’s Jesus’ twin brother and Jesus told him the secrets to salvation, which are available to anyone, provided, of course, they can interpret them.” Pascal glanced at his daughter to gauge the impact of what he’d said, but Isabelle’s thoughts had drifted elsewhere. “Hello,” he raised his voice, are you home?”

“I’m sorry, Father. What did you say?”

“I said you’re not listening. You’re not even here. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”

“I’ve never seen you like this. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d fallen in love. But where would you find an eligible bachelor in the Vatican?”

Isabelle burst into tears. “I don’t know how it happened. I’m not sure if it did. Anyway, the whole thing’s impossible.” She wrapped her arms around her father’s shoulders.

The door opened and Father Romano’s head popped in. “How’s everything going, you two?”

Pascal and Isabelle’s heads were pressed together as though they were hatching some sort of conspiracy. Isabelle sat up ramrod straight, looking like a guilty schoolgirl, and wiped her eyes.

“We’re just talking heresy,” Pascal said.

Father Romano shrugged. “I suppose it’s impossible not to with heretical writings scattered around your office. What’re you working on?”

“The
Gospel of Mary Magdalene
.”

“Anything new?”

“No, only what we’ve already uncovered—except the words are in Aramaic.”

“So how do you interpret the book?”

Pascal had a sly look about him. “Mary’s a women’s libber from the Bible days, maligned by traditionalists for her progressive ideas and the most subversive of philosophies that struck fear in the hearts of every man.”

“What philosophy?” Romano asked.

“That mere women would dare to be as spiritual and as smart as men, and that they dared to be equal.”

“Is that why you believe Mary’s Gospel was excluded from the Bible?”

“It should be obvious,” Pascal said. “Men, bah! They think they know everything. I realize you see the scriptures as divinely inspired, and perhaps some are. Nevertheless, many were composed simply to support a position during the religious infighting after the crucifixion. One sect said Jesus was God, while others asserted he was merely a man. Books like
Mary
claimed women were equal to men, but traditionalists insisted on their subordination. To add authority to words, the authors declared their books were actually penned by Apostles. These guys were not so unlike political propagandists who fabricate stories to support their side and malign the opposition.”

Romano raised his eyebrows. “I wish I had the time to dispute your fanciful interpretation, but I have an appointment. What a shame this is only a fragment. I would like to read the rest.”

Pascal was disappointed Romano didn’t take the bait. He wanted to have a man-to-man talk with him, or at least a verbal joust. Alas, he provoked no game today, not even a mild theological defense, and he frowned pitifully, stretching the corners of his mouth down and down like a caricature, a mime, the essence of sadness.

“You’re making me feel wretched, Pascal,” Father Romano laughed, “but I’m late for an appointment. Tonight, no holds barred and you can make as many jabs as you like, and I promise a spirited repartee.”

Pascal turned his lips up in an equally exaggerated infectious smile, making Isabelle and Michael laugh out loud together. “Now, seriously, Isabelle, can I take some of the translations? I need to meet with my cardinal to explain our progress.”

33
Vengeance

I am glad you called, Desmoulins,” Del Carlo said to the GIGN captain as he looked back and forth at the pages of a report prepared by his lieutenant, Moretti, which were scattered across his desk. “I have some interesting developments to tell you. Money is flowing into Rome from Islamic charities and much of it is going into a brass plate company called
Crescent Rural Schools
. Of course it’s a front. Guess whose?”

“The imam’s?” The French captain said.

“How did you guess?”

“Because
Colonelo
, I’m looking at the same reports.”

“Why are you interested in Rome? This is my jurisdiction.”

“Just a hunch. I thought I would do some checking before I called you.”

“Into what?”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,
Colonelo
, but the imam was released from jail.”

The Italian colonel was flabbergasted. “What! You can’t be serious.”

“Believe me, we tried our best to keep him behind bars, but he has powerful attorneys. Most of all, he broke no laws. He had only shotguns and hunting rifles, which are completely legal, and he claims no knowledge of how this Hassan got hold of a pistol. His testimony is that Hassan was a newcomer and wanted to enjoy pastoral peace, meditation, and prayer like the rest of the visitors.”

“But the photographs of the ferries and reactors, the drawings…?”

“The imam claims they were planning vacations,”
Capitaine
Desmoulins said.

“Bah! Ridiculous.”

“Of course. However, his attorneys insist we’re just a bunch of racists, and it gets worse. They filed wrongful death lawsuits, claiming our search was based on misrepresentations and is therefore invalid. I’m afraid it’s become rather a mess, so I decided to follow the money laundering route.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Then why did your attention turn to Rome,
Capitaine
?”

“Which brings me to the second reason for my call. The imam booked a flight to Rome for Friday, and I thought you might be interested. On a hunch, I investigated whether any unusual money transfers had come your way. You may want to find out if this
Crescent Rural Schools
company is legal, but our imam is a shrewd customer and I’d bet it is. There’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Money from the same charities is flowing into another account, a numbered Swiss one.”

“Are the Swiss cooperating?”

“I’m afraid not.”
Capitaine
Desmoulins said. “At least not yet, but I’m about to turn up the heat and make things quite nasty if they don’t. They want evidence the money is laundered or involves terrorist activity. I pointed out our suspicions about the imam, but he was cleared by our own courts and the Islamic charities are legitimate, according to the Swiss.”

“You said the imam arrives Friday?”

“An Alitalia flight.”

“Perhaps I can have a chat with him,” Del Carlo said.

“
Bonne chance
. I hope you meet with better luck than I did. If you need anything at all my friend, I’m at your service. I’m haven’t forgotten that I’m indebted to you.”

“You owe me nothing,
Capitaine
. You’d do the same.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Desmoulins added. “Did you hear the Hébers are in Rome?”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“Thank you again,
Capitaine
.” Ringing off, Del Carlo pressed the button on the telephone’s intercom. “A minute of your time Lieutenant Moretti.” Two short raps sounded on his door a moment later. A tall, uniformed officer entered with no formalities. “Excellent report as usual,” Del Carlo praised his subordinate. “I’ve been informed that money from these Islamic charities is also going into a numbered account in Switzerland. I want the name of the owner.”

“Swiss bankers are tough.”

“So are you, Moretti. Don’t take no for an answer.”

“
Si, Colonelo
.”

“And Lieutenant, I want the answer yesterday.”

Moretti didn’t look back as he exited through the door. “As usual,
Colonelo
.”

“Not at the apartment,” Sayyid told Rashid on the anonymous cell phone. “You’ll find a café across the street and down a little. We’ll have lunch together, say forty-five minutes?”

“Do you truly mean forty-five and not an hour and a half?” Rashid replied sarcastically.

“If you go now, you can see if I’ve already arrived,” he laughed. “Don’t be so suspicious.” Sayyid’s attempt at familiarity irritated Rashid.

“Which café?”

“That side of the street only has one.”

The
rue Jean
is a public thoroughfare in the middle of Paris’s 18
^th
arrondisement
in the center of the
Goutte d’Or
, but the road might as well be blocked off to traffic, for the immigrant merchants and residents have nearly confiscated it. Shops move their wares to the sidewalk, forcing the flood of pedestrians into the street. The sweet smell from the green grocer’s fruits and vegetables mingles with the odor of blood from the butcher’s beef and wafts to and fro like a toxic cloud. Arabs hawk sunglasses and wallets, and African women plop plastic sacks of strange purple tubers onto the pavement to sell to passersby.

Occasionally, police in small groups wander down the lane. Everyone can tell when they’ve arrived because vendors scoop up their goods in a flash and flee in the opposite direction. Woe to the hapless automobile that makes an inadvertent turn onto the one-way street. No one moves aside despite toots on the horn or revving engines. The driver must simply fall into line with the mass of slow-moving, unconcerned immigrants inching forward until arriving at the far end of the road to make a hasty escape.

Rashid navigated the block, weaving around African women whose gleaming ebony skin was wrapped in bright robes of blue and black or green and orange, their headdresses of matching cloth piled in complicated folds. He dodged teenage girls poured into skin-tight jeans and push-up bras and perched on high heels, and men in slacks or ankle-length cotton robes of beige or black.

Sayyid was right. The other side of the street had only one café. It was sandwiched between a wig boutique and travel agency offering discount flights to Algeria, Tunisia, and the Ivory Coast. Seating himself in back, he could monitor the front and everyone who entered the café. Next to his table, a narrow passage led to a back room and door. He grasped the strategic advantage of sitting in the rear where he might examine customers who came in, yet those entering had difficulty seeing the back. Better still, the escape route was right next to him. He could be out the door before anyone noticed.
Yes
, he thought to himself,
Sayyid is a clever customer. He understands this business. I could learn a thing or two, but perhaps I won’t trust him just yet
. Rashid ordered hot tea and added a copious spoonful of sugar, stirring as he waited.

Sayyid made a great show of looking at his wristwatch and tapping the face as he walked toward Rashid. “I’m right on time and now you’re the one who has been watching out for both of us. Are we safe?”

“I’ve noticed nothing unusual.”

“You’re a quick study, Rashid, as the imam said you would be.”

“How do you know him?” Suspicion coated Rashid’s voice.

“We’re not old friends if that’s what you mean, and I’m not part of his congregation. We’re more like…business associates, shall we say.”

“What is your business?”

“To strike at the heart of the infidel and you’re going to help me.”

“You’re presumptuous. I didn’t agree to whatever your plan is.”

“Oh, I think you will,” Sayyid said.

“Why should I? I don’t even know you, let alone trust you.”

“Because, my young colleague, I bring sad tidings.”

Rashid was in a panic. “The imam, what did they do to him?”

“Fear not, the imam is safe.”

“Then what is it?”

Sayyid placed his hand over Rashid’s. “Dear Rashid, Hassan is dead.”

“How can that be?”

“He was killed the night you escaped.”

Rashid was caught off guard. Of all the things he might have suspected, he didn’t expect that. His comrade was gone. As reckless and worldly as he was, Hassan was the only person he could call a friend in Europe. Tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped them before he was shamed by their rolling down his cheeks, like a soft schoolboy.

“There’s no indignity in weeping for a friend, but you should be rejoicing, for Hassan died a martyr. Even now, he reaps his reward.”

Rashid sniffed, “I hope Allah in his infinite goodness saved the most beautiful virgins for Hassan. He would be overjoyed and mock me for not joining him.”

“Is that what you wish, to be one of the holy martyrs?”

Rashid’s eyes grew cold like steel. “I want to avenge my friend.”

“Perhaps you can do both.”

“I’m not ready to be one of the
ishtishhadi
, a suicide bomber, if that’s what you mean.”

“Of course not. The
ishtishhadi
are called by Allah to give the supreme sacrifice. Should you be summoned, you’ll know.”

Rashid nodded, but he knew it wasn’t the whole truth. He had seen boys in the camps schooled by their teachers when he was being trained to serve the will of the imam. While they were taught the Qur’an, their lessons were filled with fanciful stories of the glorious
istishhadi
, lone warriors against the armies of the infidels and the apostate. It was forbidden, of course, to send anyone younger than fifteen; however, these boys were trained from the age of five to fulfill Allah’s divine plan, and they revered the martyrs.