by Bunn, Davis
When she came downstairs, Elena found a gray-suited man standing in the empty reception area. “May I help you?”
“I’m Gerald, ma’am.”
“Yes?”
“Your day man.”
“My what?”
“Bodyguard, driver, I understand you may be needing a receptionist.” He had a thin smile that matched his almost toneless voice. “I’ve been used as a butler. And a repairman. I draw the line at gardening. Never did have much time for flowers and such. The only green things I’m interested in are the ones on my plate.”
The front door opened. Sandra Harwood shut her phone and said, “I see you’ve met.”
Elena said, “Could you step into my office, please?”
The front entrance led into a smallish parlor. The narrow hallway led to a kitchenette, a secretary’s office, and a larger room overlooking the rear garden. The view through the curtainless windows was dismal. Bare stems of dead vines climbed a crumbling brick wall. A cracked fountain rose from a carpet of dead weeds. Overhead, clouds formed a ceiling the color of slate. Elena asked, “What is he doing here?”
“You already know the answer to this. Nigel’s group will do what is necessary to keep us safe.”
“Do I have to go in that Mercedes?”
“That is the car they’ve been trained in.” Sandra responded in the same calm tone she had used when speaking with her husband. “Nigel’s men log hundreds of hours of defensive driving.”
“Who is paying for all this?”
“The same interests who will finance the new institute.” Sandra stood there in the empty room, waiting. When Elena did not speak, the ambassador’s wife prodded gently, “But that is not the real issue, is it.”
Elena’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “I’m sacrificing everything I’ve built up. I don’t have anything left. No life, no privacy, nothing.”
Sandra’s gaze tracked her around the room. Cracks ran up the side walls from floor to ceiling. In the place where a chandelier had once hung was a gaping hole. The carpet was the same dingy brown as upstairs. The room’s only furniture was a phone set on the windowsill. Sandra Harwood said, “It’s almost as bad as the deal handed someone who could have been the President’s right-hand man.”
“You two chose this life. I didn’t.”
Sandra went on, “Or a banker from Rome who is still suffering from the loss of his wife, torn from his comfortable position and sent to Brussels. A city where he knows no one.”
Elena opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.
“Or a wife who was dragged to the point of insanity by forces over which she had no control. Or a young woman—”
“All right. I understand.”
“Do you?” This close, Sandra Harwood’s perfectly coiffured appearance revealed tight crow’s-feet by her eyes and mouth. Tiny wrinkles around her ears and neck, evidence of the strain that could not be painted over, not even by a professional’s hand. “Simply because the sacrifices you’ve been asked to make are different, do you truly fathom the pressure and risk faced by others?”
Elena did not respond.
“Do you feel it in your heart? Are you able to reach beyond where you are and what you feel and how frightened you are about your own state, and share with others their needs and fears?”
Elena remained silent.
“For the first time since the nightmares began, I feel a sense of being exactly where I should be. Doing precisely what I need to be doing.”
Elena said, “You should be leading this group. Not me.”
The edges of her eyes and mouth tightened slightly. “I’m quite satisfied with the person God has set in place, thank you very much.”
Elena had five appointments that day. Between patients, she went through her records with Fiona. Those patients whose progress was firmly wedded to their time together, she placed in one pile. Added to these were patients who risked stalling or even regressing if shifted to another therapist. Everyone else was to be reassigned. Elena moved through the files in a coldly analytical frame of mind. She began making the calls over her lunch hour. Her detached firmness remained a subtle undertone, like a hidden shield against all the uncertainties and unknowns. She held to the same manner when she met with Jeremy that afternoon. She did not ask his permission. She just laid it out, the move next door and the new institute and the proposed leave of absence. Then she waited.
Jeremy protested, “This is all rather sudden.”
“What you mean is, you dislike having control of the situation taken away.”
“Hardly a surprise, wouldn’t you agree? I’ve only spoken with the chancellor twice in my life. The first was when I received an award that he bestowed. The second was when he phoned yesterday and ordered me, ordered me, to do whatever you requested.”
“You were going to fire me.”
He lifted an aristocratic eyebrow. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Fire, dismiss, order me to take a sabbatical. It’s all the same thing.”
At least he had the decency not to deny it. “What else was I to do with you? The risks just kept growing. They threatened our safety, and that of our patients.”
“This is the best solution for everyone. Tomorrow I’ll arrange movers to shift my office next door. Fiona has agreed to schedule all appointments related to patients. You will be kept apprised of any further changes.”
“I see.” He fumbled with his watch chain. The gold spun back and forth between his fingers, flickering hypnotically in the light. “Will you be coming back?”
She felt her entire body clench with the sudden urge to cast it all away. Throw herself on his mercy, beg him to forget she had spoken at all. But all she said was, “The very instant this is over and done.”
Jeremy turned to the rain-streaked window. “All I can say is, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
26
MONDAY
The entire weekend remained gray, windswept, and wet. Gerald, the daytime bodyguard, made a little place for himself in the garage. He emerged at regular intervals to patrol her yard. He refused to come indoors, he declined offers of food and coffee, he seemed utterly indifferent to the weather, and he spoke hardly at all. The night man, Charles, was even quieter. Elena remained firmly planted at home, emerging only for church on Sunday. As she left the house she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. She saw the strain around her mouth, the tense muscles in her neck, the almost frantic light to her eyes. Gerald drove her into town in her car, which she found both silly and somehow comforting. She went to the late service and sat with Janine, Brian’s fiancée, and refused an invitation to join them for lunch. The rest of her weekend was spent reading before the fire and resting and pretending that she was okay with the great sweep of changes.
Monday morning Elena went into Oxford and saw to her three morning appointments. By the time she left for London, the rain had passed. Miriam was standing inside the bank’s entrance when Elena arrived. They embraced and walked downstairs and entered the vault. Elena waited until the guard had opened the safety deposit box and returned to his position by the security desk to ask, “What happens if I lose another one?”
“You have more,” Miriam replied. “The book is not the issue, and you know it.”
“I feel like I’ve let your great-grandmother down.”
“How, by fulfilling the invitation she passed through me to you?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I know you are concerned about nothing.”
“Losing a priceless artifact is not nothing.”
“You worry too much. It is not healthy.”
Elena lifted out the remaining duplicate books, not touching the original. She set them on the padded top of the wheeled metal table. All three books were wrapped in coverlets that had gone black with age, and were vacuum-sealed inside plastic cases.
Elena asked, “Which one do I take?”
“I numbered them when I sealed t
hem inside those bags. That was what, thirty years ago.” Miriam lifted her spectacles and inspected the little orange slip of paper inside the plastic casing. She shook her head and turned to the next one. “This is the one you want.”
Elena returned the two older books to the box and slid the box back inside the vault. “How old is this one?”
“The missing book was three hundred and fifty-nine years old when my great-grandmother passed it on. I was nine. That makes it, let me see, four hundred and thirty-one years old. This one was two hundred and sixty years older.”
“Six hundred and ninety-one years old.”
Miriam smiled. “Something like that.”
“And the others?”
She shook her head. “Legends told to a child. I forget.”
“I can’t get over how casual you’re treating this.”
“You will understand,” Miriam said calmly. “In time.”
Elena carried the book out of the bank, where the bodyguard sprang from the car and opened the rear door. Miriam said, “Is this yours?”
“Sort of. Gerald, this is Miriam.”
“Ma’am.”
“You certainly do look the professional.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
When they were settled in the rear seat, Elena said, “The embassy, please.”
“Certainly, Dr. Burroughs.”
Elena lowered her voice. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
Miriam’s voice retained the same confident calm. “You feel led to these actions?”
“Vividly.”
“To question a divine invitation borders on the unseemly.” She patted Elena’s hand. “Come. Let us enjoy being chauffeured by this fine young gentleman.”
“Miriam—”
“Shah, my dear one.” She turned glittering dark eyes to the side window. “Isn’t it a lovely day.”
The embassy of the United States of America occupied one side of Grosvenor Square, two blocks off Hyde Park. The square was rimmed mostly by redbrick buildings dating from the Georgian era. The embassy, however, was a steel and concrete behemoth that had offended three generations of gentrified city dwellers. There were so many mistakes embedded in the design that most Londoners pretended the building did not exist at all. The street fronting the embassy was closed to traffic and rimmed by concrete triangles known as tank-busters. All visitors were required to enter a new bulletproof hut, one of two that now squatted in the middle of the street. Police in full riot gear and armed with submachine guns patrolled the perimeter. Elena submitted to the inspection and the registration and the metal detector and the x-ray of her belongings. But she drew the line when the guards wanted to unseal the plastic case.
The guard said, “I can’t let you in until this has been inspected.”
“Call the ambassador.”
“Ma’am, you need—”
“Tell him Dr. Burroughs is downstairs. She has a package that is for his eyes only. Otherwise I am leaving.”
The guard did not like it. But he did as she instructed.
Five minutes later, Sandra Harwood hurried down the embassy’s front stairs. Sandra entered the hut and pointed at the case, now resting in a tray beside the x-ray machine. “Is that it?”
“Ms. Harwood, I can’t—”
“Have you x-rayed it?”
“There are shadows I can’t identify.”
Elena said, “It contains a book that is seven hundred years old. The writing is done in gold leaf and perhaps other metals. That’s probably what you picked up.”
The ambassador’s wife gaped at her. “You brought it? Here?”
Elena sorted through several possible answers and settled on “It is important.”
Sandra turned to the guard and said, “I’ll sign for it.”
“Ma’am, my orders—”
“If the ambassador has to personally come downstairs and deal with this, he will. But this book is coming with us. And you’re not opening it.”
The older man running the machine said, “Let them pass.”
“You know as well as I do—”
“Did you hear the lady? The ambassador is waiting. That package is going up. The question is, are you keeping your job or not.” He gave the other guard a chance to respond, then slid the tray over. “You’re good to go, Ms. Harwood.”
“Thank you. Come on, Elena.”
27
The ambassador’s office was located on the embassy’s seventh floor, just below the infamous rooftop eagle, which the British had mistakenly built facing the wrong direction. The outer office was flanked by three desks. One belonged to Angie Cassels, his chief aide. The others were staffed by secretaries. The atmosphere was both august and slightly seedy. The wood paneling gleamed, but the royal-blue carpet was worn down to gray nubs in places. The chairs and desks were battered. One window by the senior secretary’s station was cracked. In two years the embassy was scheduled to move into a new structure on the opposite bank of the River Thames. Very little was being spent on repairs.
The ambassador’s office was suitably large, but the shabbiness was still evident. Everything Elena saw, from the drapes to the desk to the corner sofas, was well beyond its sell-by date. As they entered, Lawrence Harwood and Antonio d’Alba were deep in a heated discussion. Both men looked drawn and fierce and very tired. As they rose to their feet, Elena had the impression that both men were reluctant to let go of their conversation. Antonio was accompanied by two aides whom Elena had last seen in his Rome office. He greeted her with a smile that did not touch his red-rimmed eyes.
The ambassador pointed to Elena’s package and said in greeting, “What is this?”
His wife said, “She’s brought us the book.”
Antonio’s gaze focused sharply. “The book? Here?”
Lawrence said, “I thought you told us it was stolen.”
“I went by the bank and retrieved another one.”
Both men stepped forward. But no one made a move to touch it. Antonio asked, “How old is this one?”
“About seven hundred years.” Elena gestured to Miriam. “This is my friend Miriam Al-Quais.”
It took a moment for the name to register. “The lady who …”
“Yes.”
Lawrence asked, “You agree with her letting us see this?”
“I do.”
“I thought, well—”
Antonio finished, “This is a sacred secret.”
“There is nothing and no one who deserves the term sacred, except our Lord,” Miriam replied.
Antonio smiled. “Well, well.”
Sandra asked her husband, “Do you have scissors?”
“I brought some.” Elena set the package on the coffee table and knelt on the carpet. The others stood around her. No one sat down. She carefully cut away one side of the plastic cover. The air became full of the scent of crushed flowers.
Miriam said quietly, “It was springtime when I did this. I pressed roses from my garden inside the cover.”
The coverlet was as frail as an old lady’s skin. Elena slowly untied the catch and slipped her hand through the opening. She drew out the book and brushed away the faded petals. The petrified olive-wood cover had different swirls, but there was a sense of bone-deep familiarity. For some reason, Elena felt her eyes fill with tears.
Miriam must have noticed, for she reached into her purse and came out with a tissue. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.” Elena cleared her vision, then opened the cover. The page was yellow and darkened and the bottom right corner had become frayed by generations of fingers. But the initial image was precisely the same. “This is the Aramaic word Abba, or Father.”
She turned the page and recited, “Our Father, who art in heaven.”
Elena kept her gaze fastened upon the page. The ability to focus was becoming easier. She had not noticed it before now. Probably because the change had come in subtle measures. But the swirl of conversation did not touch her. She studied
the now-familiar image and felt only calm. Only a rightness.
As she reached for the page, Miriam huffed a single quiet sob and fumbled in her purse for a second tissue.
Antonio asked, “Do you feel this is wrong?”
“What?” Miriam blew her nose. “Oh my, no. Not at all.”
“It’s just, well …”
“I am so very happy.” Miriam needed another tissue. “I have not seen this next image.”
Lawrence barked, “What? Never? Why on earth not?”
“It’s a long story.” Miriam cleared her throat. “Another time.”
Elena turned the page.
“The people asked the Savior, how are we to pray?” Elena touched the page. “He answered with these words.”
The vellum was soft beneath her fingertips. The image glowed with a fire undimmed by time. Her own heart felt ignited by the sight. The image was a mixture of gold and silver. Up close, it was possible to see brushstrokes in the drawing.
“Jesus did not declare this to be a mystery. He did not say it was only for a certain few. He started with the most intimate of terms for Father and went on from there.” She tapped the page. “This was meant for all of us.”
Beyond the ambassador’s closed door, the embassy hummed with activity. Phones rang. Feet beat a constant rhythm in the neighboring corridors and offices. Inside the wood-lined chamber, however, all was hushed. Intent. Sandra Harwood’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “But you told me this was a secret.”
Miriam replied, “It might have been. But who knows? Certainly there were others who knew of its existence. A wealthy patron of my great-grandmother gave her a quilted book cover with gemstones for buttons.”
Antonio said, “The Lord promises that everything will work to the good of those who love him and seek to do his will. Who knows. Perhaps there is a reason why any former rules have been lost.”
Elena took that as an invitation to ask him, “Will you tell me what has made you so upset?”
Antonio replied, “I am facing opposition. The moment I accepted the appointment, they attacked.”