The giant with the dark, piercing eyes smiles smugly. “I am proud of my little Zara. Be honest with yourself. You were waiting at home, bored, hoping I would pull you out of your silly retirement. A woman like you cannot sit back and not take action when the world needs her compassion, her wisdom, her leadership, her bias for action.”
As much as anyone, Zara likes being stroked, even by a man she so despises, who knows her buttons all too well. She will never again let a man get so close to her, to know how to woo her, to move her, to manipulate her. Neither him, ever again, nor the priest, and especially that Peter boy. If she has to loose that Zara again, she will to protect herself.
Knowing his real-life chess game all too well, she pushes her pawns into play. “When you asked me, as a hostage trapped in your jet, to help you, I said under protest, under duress, that I would take them there safely and find what you wanted. Did I not? And there was nothing in my promise about taking care of them after getting them there.”
She pauses, folds her arms across her chest and moves her queen into position. “Nor bringing them back alive. Only finding and retrieving the object. And for that, you promised—you swore to meet my two requests. We said nothing about mating with your precious Peter. You know all too well the strength of my renewed faith and what I will and will not do.”
At first with an annoyed face, he smiles and strokes her cheek. “My little Zara, is it not said, ‘If you are an anvil, be patient; if you are a hammer, be strong’? You have been a hammer for the last five years since coming back from your miraculous escape. Who but me has been your greatest supporter during these difficult times? Now it is time for you to be an anvil again, with Peter. Be patient with him. Be someone solid he can lean on. He needs your support. He needs to know you will be there for him, as I have been there for you. I ask nothing but this. Can you do this for me, my little Zara?”
Striking the giant in the lower gut with her fist, she says, “I am not the woman you once loved, Sasha. She is dead. You killed her.” She pulls back away from him, with a stern matron look beyond her years. “And don’t give me that family talk. We are so beyond family now. I do this last thing for you because I love my great-grandmother Sara, and then it will be over between us. Forever.”
He grabs her arm with such force she cringes. She strikes his arm with a fierce blow, trying to dislodge her limb, but to no avail. He is a sheer monster who will use any leverage to get what he wants. Even crushing her arm.
“My little Zara. You know there may come a moment when you are at the temple grounds, when those who broke our security yesterday have sent their extraction team, when you are faced with your death, when you will concede to what nature has fated for you. You will intimately mate with Peter. For whether or not you know it now, you have already chosen him.”
He lets go of her arm which she rubs to regain blood flow to her pale hand. “There is nothing you can do to force me to do anything. Not anymore. I have chosen all right. I have chosen celibacy. And that is that.” She takes her packs and rams them into his gut as she leaves.
As she walks to her private car, Alexander waits for Peter as he checks the time on his MoxWrap. Tapping his foot, he too is challenged to be the patient anvil with this boy. The door to the lobby crashes open as Peter tumbles through it. He is challenged to carry only one gear bag, lifting it only a few meters at a time and then dropping to the floor. Out of breath, he says to Alexander, “I’m so sorry. So sorry. This is so heavy. What’s in here? I’ve backpacked the Sierras, the Andes, and my packs didn’t weigh this much.”
“It weighs so much only because so much weighs on your mind,” Alexander says as he helps the hapless Peter by picking up the bag using only three of his giant fingers. “You did well, my boy. Those were very astute and decisive ploys you pulled. And how you manipulated those women to do what you wanted. How you tried to manipulate me. Fabulous. We are more alike than not.”
Blank-faced and panting, Peter stares into his dark, piercing eyes, incredulous at what this man is saying, implying, intimating.
“You and Mei seemed to connect well,” Alexander posits. “You like her, don’t you? Maybe you could love her, no? And you are dismayed that she cannot join you?” Peter nods yes. Yes, with an anxious smile.
“Zara is not Mei. And it would not be fair to her to expect her to be Mei. They are both goddesses, beautiful matrons of the earth in my eyes, but different in their ways. Mei was your mentor, guide, friend, and perhaps more for the past day, wasn’t she?” Peter nods with not so much of a smile.
“Zara is stronger than Mei. You can lean on her, depend on her even more. If you give her room, her compassion will overwhelm you in some surprisingly positive ways. She is the most compassionate woman I know. But do not expect her to be Mei. Or Sarah, Or Ciara. Or Tara.” Peter is stunned Alexander knows his past three girlfriends’ names. But he is the Mr. Murometz, isn’t he? Peter stares into those piercing dark eyes and nods his agreement.
To Peter’s surprise, this gigantic man puts his arm around him like his father used to. Didn’t he just ask Zara to shoot him with some worst-way-to-die bullets?
“My son, in time you will know what I do. You, me, Zara, we are family. And families have good times together. Sometimes they fight and stop talking with each other, but they always are linked by blood and history. And no matter what happens, because family is family, they eventually forgive, albeit sometimes after death. That, my boy, is unconditional love. One day, not too long from now, you will know exactly what I mean. On that day, please remember, we are family.”
With these mysterious words said, Alexander, the world’s richest bag porter, takes Peter’s bag in hand, or fingers as the case may be, and like a proud father keeps his arm around Peter, walking him to his private car. Peter is taken aback at what he sees. It is one of those armored SUVs that ferry around presidents of countries. There are three armed men with submachine guns waiting with several more on the lookout around the property. Outside the gates, there are two more SUVs with more armed personal guards. The cheeky monkey gene pops again, and Peter cannot resist saying, “Expecting company?”
Alexander hugs him, perhaps a little too hard as this one hurts, and says, “Peter, there are many people who would also want this object. There are spies everywhere, and I fear, despite my best security measures, which as you know are the world’s best, information on our project, and possibly about you, has leaked. These people will stop at nothing to beat you, Jean-Paul, and my Zara to the object. They may even try to kidnap the goose that lays the golden eggs—you. As you see, there are three separate convoys taking you three along different routes, all to help confuse anyone seeking to capture you before you reach the airport.”
Peter’s knees go weak. This is for real. Can he turn around and dive into the warm, comforting and, most importantly, safe arms of Mei now? Two helicopters launch from behind the MoxWorld Europe building and take hovering positions over the roadway to the airport. The buzz further unnerves Peter.
He is helped into the car by one of these submachine gun toters. Alexander leans his head in for last words. “As my grandmother would say, ‘Both the hunted and the hunter rely on God.’ Remember Mei’s guidance about your limits. What you are going to find out there, my son, will test your limits, test your faith, and you will have to decide, maybe do-or-die decide, what you truly believe and don’t believe.”
With this odd form of love expressed, the giant closes the door, and Peter shrivels into his seat, in searing fear of what he has gotten himself into.
Surprisingly, Alexander knocks on the window. Peter rolls it down. “Peter, my son. You are good at pattern recognition. Tara. Ciara. Sarah. Ever thought you have some subconscious thing going with your choice in girlfriends? Sarah, Tara, Ciara…Zara. A little something I thought you might want to ponder as you test your faith.” And the SUV rolls off.
Mei reveals herself from behind the giant black monolith outside the lobby, dressed in a plain n
avy cashmere pantsuit with a white silk blouse, fully buttoned up. Her face is devoid of makeup, hair in a rough ponytail. But on her ears still hang the yellow banana slugs. Clearing a tear from her face, she approaches the man she once called boss.
“He’s doomed, you know. You’ve doomed him by pulling me off the mission,” she says.
The giant stares down at her. “He was doomed the day he was conceived. As was I. He and I have only two missions in life. Find it, or create children who will find it.”
Straightening her skirt, she replies, “You could have at least left a condom in that box. You made me into an owned piece of flesh. I can’t believe it.” And with her two-inch patent navy pumps, she forcefully kicks this monster in the groin.
Smiling through the whole act, the giant man merely says, “Feel better now?”
Lifting her injured toes, for that man is like oak down there, she massages them. “I’m not going to be a sexual object for you. That’s why I tendered my resignation. Let me out of that contract.”
He only smiles and points to her MoxWrap.
“What, are you going to show me the gory reminders of those who broke their contracts with you? Those you have disposed of?” cries a distraught Mei.
But instead she watches a video of her father’s brother being released from his seven painful and humiliating years in prison.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” her big boss asks nicely.
She nods, starting to smile again, and tears form for a different reason. Her boss has listened and decisively acted in appreciation and respect, albeit in his own way. And most importantly, she smiles because she won’t be the victim of an unexplained disappearance for trying to deceive him with her porn-acting attempt.
“Your plane is fueled and ready to return to Shanghai, where you will pick up a passenger and go to San Francisco. You may visit your home only to refresh your wardrobe and pick up any other equipment you may need, as you are required in San Francisco as soon as possible. Your uncle will be sent over in another one of my planes, and you can help him settle into his new country.”
He puts his giant hands around her cheeks and lightly kisses her forehead. “Never say that I do not honor my commitments, especially to my most favored and dutiful employee.”
Alexander looks up at the sky and says in a philosophical voice, “San Francisco, Mei. San Francisco. No matter where you go, your destiny follows you.”
He turns back to Mei and affirms her recent suspicions. “It was never your destiny to go with Peter. It was always Zara’s.”
PART II
I am neither of the East nor of the West, no boundaries exist within my breast.
—Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī,
thirteenth-century Persian Sufi mystic
Chapter 21
I have loved Thee with two loves,
a selfish love and a love that is worthy (of Thee).
—Rabi’a al-Adawiyya,
eighth-century Persian philosopher and mystic
7:20 p.m. GMT+1, May 15, 2021
Infirmary, MoxWorld EU Headquarters, Luxembourg
Pureness. The purity of silver. Swinging on a chain above his heart. Zara fixates on the former Father’s cross.
I know these Jesuits. All too well. The good and the bad. Which one is he? Need I ask? He’s with Sasha. And how did I let him talk me into this? But a milk run, he said as he kidnapped me. And I have not slept in two days as I madly caught up with his newest land and avionics security systems.
Sitting diagonally from the good priest in the four-passenger section in Alexander’s custom armored security jet, Zara stares at the good priest, confidant of the man who once dominated her life, who she thought for a moment, when they first met, that she could trust. But now, she has reasonable doubts as he failed to stop Alexander’s denigrating that poor Mei. It was not this priest who stood up for her defense, but a lesser man. Peter. It was incomprehensible that a man of God would be party to his protégé being bullied into sex with a complete stranger at the mere command of that giant.
But a part of her remembers his kindness, his sageness, his words of love for God. And if things were different, she might have fallen for him in that moment. Further proof of her impaired mindset in this moment. She cannot, will not, must not, give her intimate trust to any man ever again. But maybe he is different. A man who would forego physical intimacy with a woman because he valued prayer with her more. If only such a man existed—in her time.
Decisively, she devises a plan to test him and the nature of his inner convictions. She says, “Ad majorem Dei gloriam. Isn’t it?”
He looks up and smiles. “For the greater glory of God. You know Saint Ignatius, do you?”
With terse eyes staring into his, she replies, “No, I do not. I only know you sacrificed your mentee, an honorable woman who looked up to you. Sacrificed for the greater glory of God. In this case, you have traded your God for Alexander.”
And she can see the shame sweeping across his face. Transparent and clear.
“Priest, you should know there are those where we are going who might not appreciate your overt Catholicism. Some might be more, how should we say, more violent as they question your faith’s corruption of the true words. The incorporation of pagan rites and gods into what was once the true faith of the prophet Jesus. Diluting his wise words to us from God. And the debate that took three centuries to happen in Nicaea, and longer in Constantinople, over the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit, and how God is all three.”
She pauses to let him react, and the good Father simply gazes at her serenely. So she continues, “The Prophet clearly stated there is only one God. Lā ʾilāha ʾillā-llāh. There is no god, but God.”
Pausing to let the so-called former Father interject, she perceives no reaction to her intentionally prickly theological parries. To close with mutual respect, she proposes, “And those who think this of your faith, they may seek to do harm to you. I would offer that you may want to reconsider wearing your faith on your chest so prominently. I mean no disrespect.”
Serenely, Jean-Paul replies, “No disrespect taken. I respect your concern for my safety.”
Now to test for fear in his soul, Zara says, “Are you aware that many of the forty-five thousand Syrian Christian refugees, who fled their country six years ago, found conditions in Turkey not much better, as they were attacked by Muslims there as well? And many pretended to be Muslim to avoid attack. Remember the murdered priests, the Dutch Jesuit priest in Homs, shot by a sniper in his church, and the Franciscan priest, shot eight times in the head in Syria near the Turkish border, whose execution was filmed on a cell phone. Your exposed crucifix may make you a target.”
Jean-Paul smiles serenely at her, blinks methodically, and says, “The Jesuit Order has a long history of persistence towards our missions. In 1646, Father Isaac Jogues was martyred by the Mohawks. He had previously been captured, tortured, and his fingers cut off. After months of this inhumanity, he escaped. After two years’ recovery in France, he insisted on returning to the same Indians and walked into his ultimate death. Father Paolo Dall’Oglio, another Jesuit, who spent two decades in Syria, was expelled by Assad in 2012. He nonetheless returned in 2013, only to be kidnapped by the Daesh, and is thought to have been executed. I can only hope to demonstrate the depth of faith of these Fathers who faced death by fulfilling my life’s mission in the name of the Lord.”
His sense of shame, his conviction, his faith, his obedience matches hers as Zara cracks the first hint of a smile at him, her admiration growing, her trust opening up.
Returning the smile, the good Father calmly says, “Nonetheless, I appreciate your concern for my safety.” He offers his hand out to shake, and she reciprocates.
As he extends his arm out, his tunic sleeve rises up and she spies the scar on his forearm. As she thinks about her own scars, he squeezes her hand in such a way that she fully comprehends his strength, after which he says, “I will not be a hindrance. I am
quite capable, in many ways.”
Zara nods and says, “Understood, priest.”
Jean-Paul rapidly blinks, smiles, and adds somberly, “It’s just Jean-Paul. Simple and humble Jean-Paul. As Alexander may have let you know, I rescinded my vows. I rescinded them for him. I rescinded them for this mission.” She stares at him, processing the implications of what he said and how he said it.
*
After a fear-filled twenty minutes, ten more than what the direct route needed, Peter arrives at the plane, the same size as the one Mei has. Zara must be as important as Mei to have her own plane like this. But this one is different. It has camouflage paint. Four cylinders hang underneath the front fuselage, and what look like doors are mounted in the rear fuselage. He is escorted up to the ramp by many men with heavy guns.
He peeks inside, and to his surprise, it is not luxurious like Mei’s plane. After the boarding door is the galley, of course, albeit it much smaller than Mei’s, but after the galley is a sole four-seat cabin, two seats on each side, facing each other, and what appears to be the lavatory behind it, large enough to be a changing room as well. Jean-Paul points him to the seat across from Zara as he spreads his documents across the table on his side of the plane. Peter sits down in front of her meekly, as she has glared at him all the way since his late entrance. She taps her MoxWrap, and the flight crews prepare the jet for takeoff.
Peter knows he is seriously out of his element, and Zara’s silent stare is not helping any. He avoids her eyes and stares down at her feet. For a few moments, in and outside the prayer room, in the main conference room, he thought they had a connection. But she can turn in a second from a warm and compassionate being into a cold, distant, even threatening entity. She is such a complicated person, for Peter, that is.
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