by Rachel Lee
The tarh l—the removal—was madness, yes. But in the madness, Ahmed knew, lay the seeds of what Saif must become.
18
Mannheim, Germany
M onsignore Giuseppe Veltroni rode the tram standing. He had forwarded Steve Lorenzo’s message to a trusted aide to the Papal Nuncio in Washington. He had to trust that the aide would get the message to Steve’s friend, Miriam. In the meantime, he had other work he must do.
His mission troubled him sorely, not because of the men he was to meet, but because of the mission’s very cause.
The Sultan Selim Mosque in Mannheim was widely known as the “glass mosque” because of its open-door policy. Opened in 1995 to serve some nearly 2,500 Muslims in the area, the mosque practiced a tradition of remaining open all night in order to act as a museum, welcoming the curious to a tour and an explanation of Islam and the prayer services conducted there. While the government had originally been reluctant to permit its construction, and some had decried it as the end of the western world, the mosque and its members had done much to foster cultural and religious understanding in the local community.
Part of him wished he had been invited into the mosque. He felt it would make his position much clearer if he set foot inside, but the men he was meeting all felt that the adjacent church would be a safer meeting ground.
After he exited the tram, it was impossible to ignore the extraordinary number of Polizei on the streets approaching the mosque and the nearby church. This was a protection zone, and the monsignore was twice asked to produce his identification. Hesitation on the part of the police lessened when he explained he was going to meet Herr Pfarrer Stoll, the local parish priest. Still, he could feel their eyes on his back as he continued to walk toward the church. Not good, not good at all.
The mosque rose across the street to the left of the Liebfrauenkirche, Church of our Lady, which was fronted by the traditional medieval Marktplatz. Each building occupied a corner, either a friendly juxtaposition or a gulf, depending on one’s point of view. The church was an old and elegant building, painted white, with contrasting dark brown ornate woodwork. The mosque was huge and modern, yet no less beautiful in its own way. Veltroni had looked at pictures of the interior on the Internet, and he had been impressed by its beauty. No expense had been spared to create a serene place of worship.
The mosque reminded him that Jews and Muslims were in many ways closer in their practices than were Jews and Christians. Jews had a ritual bath for cleansing, and the mosque had a washing room, with a beautiful fountain where all who came to pray washed their faces, hands, forearms and feet. For the Catholic Church that cleansing had been reduced to a baptismal font and holy water for blessings. In the mosque there were no graven images, just as in a synagogue, while the Catholic Church reveled in its statues and paintings.
What many failed to understand was that the Church’s use of statuary and paintings had begun in the dark ages, a time when few could read, even priests. Lessons had been taught with tableaux of art, and the statues themselves were meant only as reminders. Certainly none of them were worshipped.
At the curb he paused and looked upward. The minaret and steeple seemed to vie with each other to reach the heavens. For an instant Veltroni thought of the Tower of Babel, though he understood the purpose of these towers was quite different. The one called the faithful to prayer with a bell, the other with a muezzin.
He sighed and reminded himself that he wasn’t making this trip to remember the past or to study architecture. He was here to prevent the past from repeating itself.
Just inside the narthex he found der Pfarrer, the priest, Hans Stoll, and two other men waiting for him. All three wore suits, although Stoll had not abandoned his clerical collar. The second, Veltroni thought, must be the rabbi, to judge by his sidelocks and hat. And the third, also bearded and wearing a knit cap, must be the imam.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Veltroni said, shaking Stoll’s hand.
“Only a little,” Stoll answered with a smile. “Gentlemen, this is Monsignore Veltroni from Rome. Monsignore, please meet Rabbi Lev and Imam Zekariah.”
Veltroni smiled and shook hands warmly with the two other clerics. Together they strolled through the church and across the grounds to the small parish rectory. Stoll ushered them into the front room and poured them very strong coffee. For a few minutes the three Germans observed the customary niceties, chatting generally about their duties, their congregations, even the weather. Veltroni listened intently, though he said almost nothing about himself.
But then the cups were set down, and the priest looked at Veltroni, encouraging him to lead the conversation.
“This removal,” Veltroni said, “is a dangerous thing.”
The three men nodded. The imam, Ismail Zekariah, sounded almost relieved to have a chance to speak his mind. “I am sorely troubled by it. My brothers and their families are moving here from all over southern Germany. There is not enough room. They are being forced to share dwellings with several families. Yet they are afraid not to come.”
“Ja,” Lev said. “It is bad.”
“But at least here,” the imam said slowly, “they are protected by police, as they are not in other places. As difficult as this is, as angry as it is making our young people, most of those who come are grateful for the safety. Europe has become a very dangerous place for Muslims.”
Lev sighed. “It is true. The ugliness is appalling.”
“It is without excuse,” Stoll said flatly. He refilled their cups. “I preach against it at every Mass. But…few enough Germans practice their Christianity any longer.” He turned to Veltroni. “And too many of my fellow priests remain silent, as well.”
Veltroni nodded. “The Vatican is aware of that. This is why I am in Germany, and why I will go to every country in Europe, if need be, to visit the bishops and make clear that the Church cannot allow this to continue. There is no justification for what is happening. None.”
“None?” the imam repeated. “You do not agree with those who believe that we are a threat to Europe? Islamist terrorists have done awful things, Herr Monsignore. Even I cannot deny that.”
Veltroni smiled. “My prophet says one must turn the other cheek. Besides, the few do not represent the many. They never have. And as you have so deftly phrased it, the terrorists are Islamist and not Islamic. Their faith is a far cry from the many good Muslims I have come to know. It is the same among our people: some are Christian, some I would call Christianist. They don the mantle but ignore the teachings.”
The imam nodded. “So sad and so true.”
“Always it is thus,” said the rabbi. “There are always those who would misuse the power of faith.”
“But,” said the imam, “in fairness, I must speak well of the German government and people. The government seeks to repay our financial losses, and a surprising number of the German people have raised their voices against this removal.”
“We have learned,” Stoll said with a shrug. “Most of us, at least. Unfortunately, while objections are growing in this country, they are not growing elsewhere.”
The others murmured agreement. “But,” said Stoll, turning to Lev, “you said you had a concern you wanted to talk over with us.”
Lev paused, clearly gathering his words.
“I thought on my way here that I should perhaps have written down the things that are occurring to me, but…” Lev shrugged. “Perhaps it is wisest not to write some things. You know I come from Russia. The words that occurred to me as I rode the tram were these—I am an old Jew, and I can smell a pogrom in the wind.”
The imam’s face creased with concern, and he looked at the priests. Both Stoll and Veltroni frowned.
Finally Stoll said, “But, Avner…this is only temporary.”
“So they say.” Lev again sipped his coffee. “There were times when my people would know of a pogrom only when the armed men came riding into our villages. Without warning they would come and kill everyone t
hey could find. But other times…” He laid a finger alongside his nose. “Other times, my friends, you know it is coming. You hear it behind the words that are being spoken. You read it in the eyes. It will not end here.”
Veltroni leaned forward. “Are you certain of this?”
“Yes,” Lev said. “Monsignore, they say they do this to end the violence. But why do they not protect Muslims wherever they are? Instead, they must move. It is the law. ‘Take what you can and go to the safe zone.’ Even if they are compensated, as the German government promises, it is no different. And other governments are not offering any compensation. My people have seen this before. The Muslims of Europe are being gathered the same way one gathers a herd.”
“Perhaps your predictions are too dire, Avner. It is, after all, easier to protect those who congregate in one place, rather than trying to protect individuals everywhere,” Zekariah said.
Lev shook his head. “It is also easier to persecute those who are congregated in one place. Now I hear talk that Muslims should be expatriated to Muslim countries, rather than allowed to remain in Europe.”
“It is true,” Stoll said, bowing his head. “I heard this today, but I thought it merely the half-baked notion of some politician looking to win votes.”
“So far,” agreed Lev, “that is all it is. But neither of you needs me to remind you how hard it has been for Muslims to gain acceptance here. I do not have to remind you of the riots in Germany over Turkish workers. Or how the imam and his people had to fight to gain permission to build this mosque. It is strange, but I, a Russian Jew, am more welcome here, perhaps because they feel guilty about us. So now the hatred transfers. Ach.”
He waved his hand and sat back in his chair. “I’m getting old. Perhaps I remember too much. Perhaps I am imagining that it could happen again.”
“It?” said Zekariah.
Lev’s blue eyes settled on him. “A Holocaust.”
For a long time silence lay between the four clerics, each lost in his own unhappy thoughts. Veltroni was the first to speak.
“What do you suggest, Rabbi?”
“Prepare,” said Lev. “Men of faith cannot be as the lamb when a wolf stalks among us. We must be as the lion.”
Zekariah looked down. “Avner, there are not enough Muslims to be the lion. We would be crushed, just as we were in Serbia and Bosnia, just as is happening to us in Chechnya. And when we fight back, it merely confirms the worst that people think of us. The Prophet, peace be upon him, taught us to respond to an attack with love.”
Lev nodded unhappily. “I understand. And there are not many of my people, either. But…” He turned to the monsignore.
“Yes,” Veltroni said. “We are many. Right now we stand by and watch as Muslims are put onto trains. Fine trains, to be sure. Not cattle cars. So far, it is all with great courtesy. But it will not always be thus. I fear the rabbi is right.”
Lev offered a smile of acknowledgement. “Thank you. So what will the Lions of Rome do? And will the millions of European Catholics follow?”
“That is always the question, is it not?” Stoll asked, looking at Veltroni. “You know Rome does not have the firm hand it once had, not here in Germany, not in France. It is good that Rome will act, but we must act in concert or it will be for naught.”
“Be ready,” Veltroni said. “Rabbi Lev has convinced me that my suspicions were correct. And, Ismail, while I understand and agree with your exhortations that Muslims must remain peaceful, neither can you stand by while your people are gathered for a slaughter. Be ready to act.”
“What will you do?” Zekariah asked.
“I will speak with the Holy Father when I return to Rome,” Veltroni said. “I will see him personally, even if I have to climb into his bedroom to do it. He is a wise man. He will find a way out of this. Pfarrer Stoll, I will call you personally when I have an answer. I trust that you can contact our friends here.”
“I can,” Stoll said.
Veltroni looked at Zekariah. “You are not alone, Imam. Never forget that. You are not alone.”
19
Béziers, France
B éziers was awash in history, including having once been a killing ground during the Albigensian Crusade. Miriam Anson strode quickly to the Place de la Madeleine, map in hand, thinking how much she would love to spend a week or two here. Around every corner there was another surprise for anyone interested in architecture or history. Roman remains. Churches built in the dark ages and others built in the Middle Ages with their slender, rising architecture. A bridge that had survived since the first century and was still in use.
Since receiving the drawing from the Vatican envoy in Washington, Miriam had been busy. She had, as requested, run the photo through the CIA’s face recognition software, hoping for the best but not expecting to find a hit. She had been surprised. Apparently whoever had drawn the face had both an excellent memory and a skilled hand, for she had received back an eighty percent match.
At first she had thought to send that information back through the channels from which she had received it. But the name that matched the face had given her pause. He was not a criminal, but rather a contract security agent for the European Union. The more she thought about that fact, the more it gave her pause.
Ultimately she had gone to Grant Lawrence with what she had and explained that she needed to go to Europe to check out the lead for herself. After the usual lecture about how she was a cabinet secretary and no longer a field agent, he had assented. The simple fact was, there was no one else she trusted with this contact. She’d made promises to Steve Lorenzo, and she intended to keep them.
She’d fed Steve’s code—“God will know his own”—into an Internet search engine, and out had popped the city of Béziers. Taking this as a clue to where Steve wished to meet, she’d booked a flight to France and had her sources perform a hotel search of the city. Only one hotel had an American tourist accompanied by a “dark foreigner,” and she had left a message for Steve at that hotel.
Now she had to hope her message had indeed reached him, and that he would meet with her.
In the meantime, she herself was little more than a tourist. The age of the buildings here was astonishing. “Old” in the United States meant at most a couple hundred years. It gave her chills to walk on a piece of pavement that dated back to the first century, to see a wall built by Roman hands. To walk on the very ground where the Cathars had died so long ago.
Then there was the Madeleine. An all-white church built of limestone from the sea, it had stood since the tenth century, although from her brochure she gathered it had needed some repair after the crusaders attacked the city. It had been built by a viscount for his personal use. She could hardly imagine a nobleman building such an edifice for his own chapel.
She stared up at it with awe, then looked around the gardens filled with potted olive trees and rose laurel. The fragrance invited one to step within, so she did.
Madeleine, her brochure informed her, was the Magdalene. Many churches in southern France were dedicated to her, because, as the story went, she was believed to have fled to this area from Judea after the crucifixion. Her daughter had become Saint Sarah, another very popular saint in this area. Some claimed that the Cathar heresy—which denied the divinity of Christ—traced to these old local legends.
Whether it had or not, their teachings had been positive otherwise, for according to her brochures, the Cathar leaders—the perfecti—practiced poverty and love of one’s neighbor to an extreme degree. They owned nothing and shared everything. Miriam could easily see how that had arisen from Christ’s teachings, and how it would have stood in stark contrast to the medieval Church, with its focus on earthly power and treasure.
Perhaps it was that, more than anything, which had made the Cathars such a thorn in the Church’s side that a crusade had been announced to eliminate them, though that wasn’t exactly what Miriam thought of when someone spoke of the crusades: Christian against Christian.
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br /> She found a limestone bench in the garden and sat, watching as a tour group moved through. They’d lowered their voices almost reverentially, barely disturbing the peace of the garden.
Then one man, clad in jeans and a sweatshirt, separated from them and walked toward her.
Steve! She almost said his name and leapt to her feet but caught herself just in time. Two strangers might admire the garden from the same bench, and an observer, if there was one, would think little of it.
He sat on the end of the bench without acknowledging her and snapped some photos of the area with a disposable camera. Then he turned to her with a charming smile and asked her to take a photo of him in front of the church.
Of course she agreed. Smiling, she accepted the camera and felt a slip of folded paper pressed into her palm along with it. Still smiling, she took a couple of photos of him, then passed the camera back with her other hand.
He waved and headed back to join the tour group. Miriam resumed her seat, picking up her map and brochure and studying them for a few minutes before she tucked them, along with the paper Steve had given her, into her coat pocket.
Then she wandered inside the church, no longer drinking in the beauty of her surroundings. Her senses stood on high alert for any suspicious movement. Judging by his behavior, Steve thought he was being followed.
Walking slowly, pausing when appropriate, she toured the church. When she stepped back out into the sunshine, her eyes hurt for a moment and she had to stop, blinking.
Not until she was safely away and tucked into a corner inside a café did she bring out the papers from her pocket. The map she placed on the tablecloth, the historical brochure on top of it. Then her hotel room key and a few receipts, which she spread out as if reviewing her expenses.
Then the paper Steve had given her.