by Vince Milam
The entire conversation revealed more of Cole’s thought processes and deep beliefs—information she relished. Francois’s assertion that he would bring the heavenly mojo gave her more than a little concern, although he’d certainly demonstrated sufficient ecumenical whup ass in the Cardiff encounter.
“Okay, let’s say I get nothing from him. Nothing which helps me,” said Cole. “He still caused the deaths of an awful lot of people. So let’s talk justice.” He paused to sip his bottled water. “Specifically, let’s talk shooting the bastard.”
“Then shoot him,” said Francois as he selected a piece of the sweet cheese pastry called künefe. “Shoot him multiple times, mon ami. It will perhaps satisfy your American inclinations.”
Coffee arrived. She and Cole exchanged incredulous looks. Nadine emitted a raucous laugh loud enough to draw the attention of fellow diners. “My, my,” she said. “We’ve turned you into Clint Eastwood, instructing Cole to spit lead. Whatever would the pope say?”
Francois slurped some thick coffee to wash down the künefe and smacked his lips. “His Holiness would concur. It is a useless activity, all of this spitting of the lead. But I do comprehend you feel you must do so. So do it. It will have no effect.”
They all drank coffee. Francois and Nadine smoked. Nadine experimented holding the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, butt toward the palm, in an affectation from a silent movie as she tapped the ash on the ashtray. One, two, three.
“So what happens when you need help?” she asked of Francois. “Let’s say God isn’t using you as a conduit that day. What then?”
“It’s a matter of faith,” said Cole, squeezing her hand. “Faith doesn’t vacillate for some folks. Francois is one of those folks.”
“You are growing, mon ami,” said Francois.
She took a deep breath and added, “My faith is growing, but it’s not enough right now. Not to face Moloch. Is yours, Cole?”
Cole released her hand, shifted, and took another sip of water. “I don’t know,” he said.
They remained silent until Nadine said, “I just want you both to know this is the most meaningful thing I’ve ever done. Bar none. That whole thing about living life to the fullest never made sense before, but it does now. And I owe you two for opening my eyes.”
Neither of them responded, so she added, “I also want you both to know I love you.” She left it on the table.
“Bon. You as well are growing,” said Francois. “This love, which I share, is natural and God-given. It is what Jesus instructed us to do.”
Cole remained silent, clearly uncomfortable with the conversational theme.
“And I’ve developed a special kind of love for you,” said Nadine as she leaned toward Cole. “It wasn’t on purpose. It just happened. I need you to know this before we take off on the midnight express.”
Cole cleared his throat and nodded at the tabletop.
Nadine had sufficient social skills to recognize Cole’s discomfort. She turned to Francois and asked, “Why do men get so uncomfortable with this type of discussion? It’s from the heart. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Francois lit another smoke, signaled the waiter, and asked for another coffee as well as a cognac. “An excellent question. Many factors play a part in this. A man such as our friend Cole is, perhaps, fearful. Such a discussion could create an opening of the heart, not an endeavor a man takes lightly.”
“But he should be comfortable with this setting. Good grief. We both love him. Does he think we will jab an ice pick in his heart if he opens it?”
“He fears the opening, not the situation once it becomes opened. This is one perspective. Perhaps he lacks emotional development. Another possibility.”
Cole turned to look for the waiter and showed an empty brandy snifter. “You folks realize I’m sittin’ right here, right?”
“Do you think he can only express matters of the heart physically? He gave me an incredible kiss in Cardiff. Deep and loving. Not lustful,” she said to Francois.
“A possibility,” said Francois. “A man finds more comfort in action. Action allows him to express through an emotional filter.”
“Still sittin’ right here,” said Cole. “Not deaf. Wishing the damn subject would change.”
“Am I obligated to pull emotion, particularly love, out of him all the time? It would exhaust me,” said Nadine.
“Then perhaps it’s a matter of training. Of awareness. He surely can be taught such things.”
“One would think. But at the end of the day, I guess I don’t know him all that well,” said Nadine.
“This is great, folks,” said Cole. “Why, let’s keep this going for hours. A dinner dissection of ol’ Cole. Good times, good times.”
Nadine and Francois exchanged identical shrugs. She had developed an expertise at it.
“Here’s your cognac,” she said to Cole as the waiter placed a new snifter on the table. “Sorry if the conversation caused you any discomfort.”
“Oui. My apologies, my Texas friend. Would it provide relief for you to shoot some people?”
Francois chuckled, Nadine’s raucous laugh erupted, and Cole looked relieved. The subject changed.
After dark, they loaded the Land Cruiser and waited for midnight. On the couch, Cole shut his eyes and got a couple hours of sleep. Francois did the same in one of the bedrooms. Nadine spent the time on one of her laptops, too excited to sleep.
At midnight, they assembled at the vehicle and held hands, forming a circle and smiling at each other in the faint light of the hotel parking lot.
“And so,” said Francois.
“Well?” asked Nadine.
They all squeezed hands tighter. Cole nodded at them both. “Let’s ride.”
Chapter 31
The smugglers’ trail rose into the highlands, far from the paved roads ribboned across the flat desert near the border. They made slow progress. Deep ruts and the occasional small boulder lay across the trail. The stars shone bright, reflecting off the white rocks in a moonscape view that allowed Cole to turn off the headlights. Nadine rode shotgun and managed the small GPS and its backlit topographic map while giving Cole directions.
“We’ll curve to the right in half a mile and dip into a ravine,” she said.
“Got it.”
Conversation was minimal. Nadine gave occasional instructions in a quiet voice, Cole acknowledged them while he focused on the dim trail, and Francois remained silent in the back seat. Twice they perceived campfires in the distance.
After three hours at slow speeds, Nadine checked the GPS and softly announced, “We’re in Syria.” Neither man responded.
The trail stayed on the edge of rises and utilized ravines. It never exposed its travelers to profiles against the night sky. Cool desert air covered the area. They rode with the windows down and listened to the tires crunch over shards and stone. A jackal watched them pass, its ears high and curious. Cole stared back as the vehicle passed within a few paces of the animal.
“Another two miles and we’ll drop to the southeast and intersect an actual gravel road,” said Nadine. “I’ve programmed in the location of the convent and we can get there on unpaved roads the entire way. We’ll be a few miles from Idlib, so if we need supplies we might be able to shop there.”
The city of Idlib lay six miles from the highlands they descended. When they made a final sharp turn out of a ravine, the Idlib plain stretched before them. In the predawn hours, Idlib was recognizable not by its city lights but by the vivid explosions of mortar and artillery shells and the small pinpoint lights of small arms firing. Cole stopped the vehicle and they all got out.
“Holy shit,” said Nadine.
They stood and watched the fireworks as the low rumble of artillery echoed across the plain. Small blasts within Idlib marked artillery return fire. Some of the shells landed several miles to the east of where they stood.
“This is madness,” said Francois. “Absolute madness.”
/> “There goes the shopping trip,” said Cole.
Nadine explained Assad’s troops occupied the city, and various jihadist groups attacked them. Since the assorted attack groups also intended to kill any competing jihadists, random patterned crossfire also occurred.
“So they lob shells at the government troops in Idlib?” asked Cole.
“Yes,” said Nadine.
“And the government troops lob shells back?”
“Yes.”
“And the jihadist groups toss a mortar or artillery shell at each other for good measure while they shoot at the government troops?” asked Cole.
“Welcome to Syria,” said Nadine.
Cole and Nadine huddled over the GPS unit and studied the tracks leading to the convent. The deep reverberation of explosions continued unabated, washing the Idlib plain with sound. Cole stared in the direction of the convent and commented to Nadine that the general area of the convent did not have much action. This observation gave him some small measure of relief. His arms ached from his death grip on the wheel the last several hours and he rolled his shoulders to loosen up.
The cracks of automatic gunfire came from their right, somewhere nearby.
“A little too close for comfort,” he said. “We can either turn back or move forward, but I don’t think staying right here is a good idea.”
Nadine noted daylight would soon begin creeping over the mountains to the east. Francois returned to the backseat, pointed a hand forward, and said, “Allez!”
Cole looked at Nadine in the starlight and asked, “What did he say?”
“His version of ‘Wagons Ho!’”
The next litany of sharp cracks from automatic weapons came much closer from behind them and to the right. Nadine ran around the front of the Land Cruiser and jumped into the passenger seat while Cole leapt in and fired the engine. He threw it into gear and glanced at the rearview mirror. Bright muzzle blasts came from all directions behind them. Several bullets gave their distinctive angry bee sound as they whizzed past the vehicle’s windows.
“Get down!” Cole yelled as he slammed the accelerator to the floor and took off toward Idlib. Nadine complied and lowered her head to the area between the two front seats and looked through the back window. Cole’s side mirror reflected the illuminated gun blasts of the fighters, several of whom appeared to run after them. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder at Francois. The priest sat stoically, looking straight ahead. “Dammit, Francois, get the hell down!” The extra jerry can of gasoline perched behind Francois became an instant concern. A stray bullet into that thing would not be good. Not good at all.
“Please get down, Francois!” said Nadine, clearly desperate to have him make less of a target. Another angry bee sound flew past her window.
Cole glanced back to see Francois respond with a repeat of the forward hand gesture and another “Allez!”
“Sweet Jesus!” said Cole.
“Exactement,” said Francois with no excitement.
Cole continued to hammer the accelerator as he alternated between looking through the windshield and watching the side berm of the gravel road as a marker to confirm he still traveled on some semblance of road. Heart pounding, he focused on the immediacy of finding the convent. He kept the headlights off.
“You may want to notice we’re heading straight toward Idlib,” he said, speaking over the racing engine. “That ain’t good, Nadine.”
Nadine stared at the GPS, tracking their progress. “There’s another dirt road, fifty yards ahead. Turn right,” said Nadine.
He threw frantic glances to the right as the vehicle flew along, prepared to swerve hard once he spotted the other road.
“We missed it!” said Nadine, holding the GPS unit inches from her face.
Cole slammed on the brakes and skidded to a sideways stop. He threw the vehicle in reverse and turned to drape an arm over the back of the seat and look through the back window as he accelerated backward. The red glow of the taillights turned on once he began in reverse.
A mortar round landed thirty feet away, sending shrapnel in all directions.
“Are you shittin’ me?” yelled Cole, using the taillights to try and find the missed intersecting road.
A second mortar round landed close enough to rock the vehicle as it still plowed in reverse.
That did it. He slammed on the brakes, threw it into first gear, swung the wheel to the right, and took off across the ruts of the road and onto the desert floor. He switched on the headlights as a third mortar round landed nearby.
“There!” said Nadine, pointing ahead.
A second later he recognized the road she pointed to and turned the headlights back off as the vehicle swerved onto the new gravel road and accelerated through the gears until wind and engine noise filled their space.
“Turn right in a mile and a half,” said Nadine. She leaned toward Cole as she spoke, to ensure she could be heard. “And a half a mile on that road and we’ll be there!”
The dirt road accommodated speed and he kept the accelerator floored. “I don’t want to miss the next road, Nadine. Give me some warning.”
“Then maybe you’d better slow down a little!” she said, trying to focus on the GPS and their progress on the tiny electronic map.
“To hell with that!” said Cole, loud and adamant. “Just give me enough warning.”
Nadine counted the distance to the next intersection with hundred yard increments. When she gave the final hundred-yard warning, Cole took his foot off the gas and prepared to make a hard right. Those red backup lights weren’t coming on again.
“There!” she said.
“Got it!”
This road, little more than a track, forced him to downshift and go much slower. The Land Cruiser bounced over ruts and rocks as it ascended a small rise. Half a mile later they could discern a large wall in the starlight. Cole pulled alongside it, kept the engine running, and could just make out the crumbled remains of the roof and three walls.
“Is this our convent?” he asked.
“No,” said Francois. “This is what remains of the monastery. The convent surely will be nearby.”
He turned off the vehicle. The distant sounds of artillery shells drifted through to combine with the light ticking of the Land Cruiser’s stressed engine as it cooled. If they were close by the convent, they could wait until daylight. He explained this to the other two and added the vehicle itself made a target. They would hunker down among the monastery rubble until they could see and make their way to the convent. Nadine and Francois accepted without comment.
Once the three left the vehicle, Cole opened the back door and pulled the backseat forward to reveal Wilczek’s special compartment. He grabbed the shotgun and handed it to Nadine.
“You remember how to use it?” he asked. He kept his voice low, hoping it wouldn’t carry.
Nadine nodded, her action just visible to Cole in the dark.
He removed the M-15, chambered a round, and pocketed two extra clips. He shoved the .45 into the back of his pants.
“This, too, is madness,” whispered Francois as he watched Cole and Nadine arm themselves.
Cole led the way into the stones and bricks that lay jumbled next to the lone standing wall. They managed to stumble their way into a protected area surrounded by stones. They sank to the ground, to wait for sunrise.
“We are on a hill, no?” whispered Francois.
“Yes,” said Cole.
“And, shall we say, sufficiently surrounded by these stones?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Bon.” Francois’s lighter sparked into life and he lit a cigarette.
“Are you out of your freakin’ mind?” asked Cole in a loud whisper. It didn’t help when Nadine asked for one. Francois promptly lit hers and passed it through the dark predawn.
They all leaned back and struggled to find a resting spot for their backs among the sharp rock edges. Cole’s adrenaline began to subside. What absolute madne
ss had entered their lives. The three of them had just been shot at by rifles and mortars and now they sat among rubble on a Syrian hill hoping to take sanctuary at a convent sitting somewhere out there in the dark while civil war raged a few miles away. And all this after having flown to Wales and become immersed in mass murder, not to mention the involvement of a demon-like creature he’d talked to up close and personal. Five days ago I was having breakfast at Shorty’s and wondering where to go fishing this weekend, he thought. You damn sure can’t say you’re bored, son.
The first signs of daylight began to emanate from over the eastern mountains. The Land Cruiser’s engine continued to send cooling-off metallic ticks. With decent visibility for the first time, they inspected their surroundings. The monastery of St. Anthony had not covered a large area. Olive trees came to the edge of the fallen structure and the birds occupying them began their morning calls. The distant fighting had tapered off. It appeared the dark of night was the preferred time to wage battle.
He turned and told the other two to stay put while he made his way to the olive trees and gathered a view of the surrounding area. He carried the M-15, kept low, and moved with caution to avoid stumbling. At the edge of the olive grove, he squatted to wait for further daylight, the automatic rifle across his lap, finger on the trigger.
The sounds of war continued to diminish. A distant mosque began the call to prayer through loudspeakers. The gunfire stopped.
Cole jerked the weapon up when a voice close by yelled in Arabic. A tiny woman dressed in a white tunic and a black scarf, clearly upset, stood with hands on hips and yelled at him again. Cole lowered the weapon and stood, at which point she changed to French. The verbal assault did not diminish. He shook his head, which prompted her to change to English.
“Are there not enough guns?” she yelled. “Do you feel an obligation to add to the killing? Do you take joy doing this? Go to Idlib! There is a lot of killing there! Go!”
Cole held out a free hand, palm facing her. Before he could speak, Francois exclaimed from a distance, “Bonjour! Bonjour! Comment allez-vous?”