A smile crept across Zahn’s lips. “Finally.”
“I will admit,” Ra’ad said with a grim smile of his own, “I did not trust you. Until the church.”
Zahn shrugged. “Words prove nothing.”
Ra’ad nodded in agreement. From his demeanor, not to mention his worn turban and clothes, no one would believe the power the man wielded. After all, most Muslims believed his reputation to be more akin to a ghost than a man. And it was a distinction that no one ever wished to find out.
Ra’ad studied Zahn as he always did. He would never have imagined that a westerner would come to him with this kind of a plan, and certainly not a bureaucrat. Never in his lifetime would he have thought it. He put his hands together in front of his chapped lips. “You are sure he will come?”
Zahn smirked. “Of course he will. There will be no choice.” He watched Ra’ad light another cigarette. “When will your men arrive?”
“Two days,” Ra’ad replied, dropping the match into the ash tray. “And then they will be yours, for whatever you need.”
Zahn understood Ra’ad and, more importantly, he understood his men. They were not trained in silly desert camps using wooden planks and jungle gym equipment. Instead, Ra’ad’s men were converts of the deepest kind. They were all trained in a special forces group before being turned. All highly trained, thoroughly disgusted with the evil western empires of greed and sloth and now happy to share every piece of their expert training with those willing to take a stand. More importantly, they believed in Ra’ad, a man who rejected every form of self-indulgence, ate the rotten rice that his men ate and drank the same dirty water. He knew the history and struggle of his people almost verbatim. He knew the difference between taking a side and taking a stand. And Ra’ad was about to take the ultimate stand.
Yes, Zahn trusted Ra’ad and his men. He knew what they were capable of. After all, his man Sarat, who was sitting to his left, used to be one of Ra’ad’s best.
Zahn smiled again at Ra’ad, who was still watching him very carefully with his dark eyes. His rough and leathery face was a testament to what he was willing to endure for his people. Zahn admired the man’s determination, his righteousness, his faith. What he had promised Ra’ad was going to shock the world, and it was a promise he fully intended to deliver upon. Yet if Ra’ad could see deeper into Zahn’s eyes, if he could only read his mind, he would never have imagined what was to come after that.
23
The New York Archives stood less than a mile from the Simon & Meyer law firm that Griffin and Buckley had visited in Albany. Established in 1971, but not open to the public until 1978, the massive building housed 200 million public records dating all the way back to the 17th century which meant it held nearly the entire history of New York state on microfiche.
The man sitting in front of one of the microfiche machines slowly moved through the images, the large monitor creating a dull glow that reflected off of his tanned, bald head. On the table next to the machine were twelve large boxes of the special film and a small laptop with its screen displaying a list of historical documents.
A young clerk walked by with an armful of books and glanced over at the man again. It didn’t look like he had moved since she started her shift almost seven hours ago. The clerk wondered what he was looking for. Usually people asked her for help on a topic, but this man simply kept asking for more boxes of film. She shrugged and kept walking.
The man at the table suddenly leaned in and studied the screen carefully. He wrote something down and then turned to his laptop, bringing up a new window filled with names and dates. He scrolled carefully down the long list until after several minutes he spotted what he was looking for. He held a finger to the computer screen and looked back at the microfiche data. He compared them both several times and then jotted more down on a piece of paper.
The man removed the microfiche from the machine and looked around. He gently slid it back into the small storage box, putting it into the middle of the deck. Stacking all of the microfiche boxes neatly together, he shut down his laptop and put it back in his bag.
As the man walked to the exit, the clerk glanced up and watched him leave. Strange man, she thought. I wonder what kind of a name Bazes is.
The man named Bazes approached a black Mercedes in the parking lot and pressed a button on his keychain to open the trunk. It was late in the evening. He casually removed his coat and placed it into the trunk alongside his laptop. When his phone rang, he removed it from his shirt pocket and answered it.
“Yes?” He listened for a few moments. “What happened?” He continued listening and looked around the parking lot, which was almost empty, and glanced at his watch. “Where?”
“I’ll be right there.” He reached up and slammed the trunk closed. He walked forward and slipped the phone back into his pocket as he opened the driver’s door, then slid in behind the wheel. As the engine roared to life, he pulled the door closed and dropped it into gear.
24
Christine slowed the old Dodge Charger, looking back and forth between her phone’s navigation system and the dark road in front of her. A dark forest surrounded her on all sides making it impossible to see anything that might give her even a clue as to where they were. Even the stars were completely blocked by the giant trees.
She turned and looked at Sarah in the back seat, curled up and asleep. She gazed over at Smith who she had barely managed to push into the passenger seat after he passed out. She stared at his chest looking for movement. His breathing was very weak, but he was still alive.
What the hell have I done? She thought to herself. Some guy shows up, gets himself shot, tells me to drive to god knows where, and I just say yes? Well, she hadn’t just said yes. The fact was that she sat contemplating what to do before getting behind that wheel. She had no idea who he was or how he had found them, but he did save them. Had he not arrived just in time, and twice now, she was sure they both would have been kidnapped or dead.
She snuck a peek again at Sarah who even in an uncomfortable position looked like an angel. Her blond hair was covering part of her face with her tiny hands resting together under her cheek.
Even as innocent and helpless as Sarah was, now many hours later, Christine’s anxiety was really beginning to set in. It had been years since she’d been around kids, much less in charge of one. Slowly but surely, the emotions were beginning to flood back, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to contain them. But Sarah needed help. She was all alone, and even if it wasn’t her, the poor girl needed someone.
Christine peered hard past the bright glow of her phone but could barely see anything. Her phone’s navigation program was telling her that she had arrived, but she had no idea where she was or what she was looking for. She looked at the fuel gauge. Less than a quarter tank left.
Exasperated, she finally stopped the car and turned off the engine. She pushed the button forward and killed the headlights, then turned the screen off on her phone. After letting her eyes adjust, she quietly opened the door and stood up on the old, gray, asphalt road. She looked around for anything -- a driveway, a mailbox, a sign -- anything that might give her some comfort that they were not lost or, worse yet, in another dangerous situation.
She heard a noise on the far side of the road and froze. She heard it again. Something was moving through the brush under one of the trees. It sounded like it was something large and moving slowly. It also sounded like it was moving directly toward them.
Christine ducked down a little closer to the door and gripped the steering wheel with her right hand. She shifted her weight and got ready to jump back inside the car.
Just as she was about to launch herself back into the seat, something appeared out of the darkness. It was the barrel of a gun.
She froze again. The barrel inched forward until the outline of a man’s face appeared. His short white hair and face eased slowly out of the darkness followed by his body. He was holding what appeared to be a scary loo
king shotgun.
“You alone?” he asked in a low voice.
She nodded, careful not to move anything except her head. She continued to remain still, watching as he approached the car and the passenger’s door. The man shined a red flashlight into the car and spotted Smith’s still figure.
“What happened?” He looked surprisingly calm.
Christine spoke quietly. “He’s hurt.”
The man gave her a sarcastic frown. “I can see that. How hurt?”
“Bad,” she answered. “He’s been shot.”
The man looked at Sarah, asleep in the back seat. “Is she hurt?”
Christine shook her head.
He finished looking the car over and turned back to her, placing a finger over his lips for her to be quiet. He looked back down the dark road and stood very still.
After a long silence, Christine realized that he wasn’t looking for something, he was listening.
Satisfied, the man lifted his Mossberg shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. He leaned against the car door and released the handle, letting it open quietly. He then reached in, pulled back Smith’s jacket and examined his makeshift bandages.
He placed a hand on Smith’s right side and let the door swing fully open. “We need to get him inside quickly.” He motioned to Sarah. “Get the girl.” With that, the man grabbed Smith’s arms and pulled him out in a rolling motion. In one quick movement, he ducked down and pulled Smith over his own shoulder, lifting him up and away from the car.
He looked at Christine who was watching with wide eyes. The man looked like he was in his sixties or seventies and yet he put Smith’s body over his shoulder with little effort. “Are you going to get her?” he asked, standing motionless with Smith.
Christine blinked and nodded nervously, then circled the car. Through the open passenger door, she flipped the seat forward and pulled Sarah forward into her arms.
The old man waited and when Christine was ready, he turned and peered down the dark road once more before leading her back the way he came. “Be careful,” he said and slipped back into the shadows.
She could barely follow him through the darkness, even with wisps of moonlight fighting their way down between the thick forest of trees. She stumbled several times and began picking her knees up higher with every step. After several minutes of tromping through knee-high grass and with her arms beginning to ache, Christine spotted a small lit window in the distance. As they got closer, she could see the larger outline of a cabin, and when they reached the front door, she leaned against the railing for support.
The old man checked over his shoulder and quietly opened the door. He stepped inside and waited for her as she took a deep breath and lifted Sarah again. She walked into what appeared to be a dimly lit living room and moved to an old couch set against the wall. With her arms beginning to shake, it took all she had to set Sarah down smoothly.
Christine looked back as the man pushed the door closed. His leathery face told her she was right about his age, but he still seemed barely uncomfortable carrying Smith.
“I need to get a look at him. With a lot of rest, he may make it.” He locked the door. “I’ll go back out to hide the car when I’m done.” He nodded toward a cedar chest against the wall. “There are blankets in there. You should both be able to sleep comfortably on the couch. In the morning we’ll talk.”
Christine instinctively began to nod but suddenly stopped. “Wait.” She glanced around the old living room and noticed the kitchen off to the side. “Where exactly are we?”
He was headed for the hallway when he stopped and turned back. “Someplace safe.”
Christine awoke with a start when she felt something brush her arm. She opened her eyes to a dark room and the old man leaning over Christine. He was quietly laying a blanket on top of her. She looked down to see Sarah curled up against her, breathing easily and quietly. He removed her tennis shoes and pulled the end of the blanket over her feet.
“How is he?” Christine whispered.
The man stood up and gave a sigh of relief. “He’ll be alright. Thanks to you. If you hadn’t driven him here…”
Christine wasn’t sure if he could see her grimace. “I almost didn’t.” She stared at him for a moment. “I still don’t know what the hell is going on.”
“Well, you had the right instinct.”
She glanced down again at Sarah to make sure she was asleep. “Why are they after her?”
His head shook in the darkness. “I don’t know.”
She thought about his answer, then changed the subject. “I don’t know your name.”
He smiled. “Sorry. The name is Avery, Jonathan Avery.”
She smiled back and carefully wiggled her hand out from under the blanket. “Christine Rose.”
He shook it gently with his rough hand. “Pleased to meet you Christine Rose.” He smiled down at Sarah lying against her. “You’ve done well.”
Christine almost scoffed. “I don’t know about that. All I’ve been doing is running without any idea what I’m doing.”
She could see Avery shake his head again in the dark. “No, Ms. Rose, what you’ve done is keep that little girl alive.”
Christine looked down again and gently stroked Sarah’s head.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
Christine smiled. “How about a couple toothbrushes?”
Avery chuckled quietly. “My pleasure, young lady.” He leaned down and patted her leg. “Now get some sleep.”
25
Chaplain Wilcox looked out the window as the 737 banked and began its decent into Washington D.C. A sickening feeling welled up inside him when he saw the smoke visible, even from twelve thousand feet up. The sun was rising in the east and casting an eerie shadow across most of the city. Only as they dropped further could he begin to see the site clearly.
Within just minutes of each other, another two cathedrals had been attacked in the middle of the night, and like Saint Patrick’s, they had been utterly destroyed. The first target was the Washington National Cathedral in Washington D.C., one of the largest and most historic cathedrals in the world and a national icon that had hosted many U.S. memorial services.
The second collapse was the Old Saint Mary’s Church in Philadelphia, the second oldest Roman Catholic church in the city. It was founded in 1763 and had a particularly significant history as a frequent meeting place of the Continental Congress.
Both attacks, just days after Saint Patrick’s, had instantly set off a panic among the public that was already spreading across the nation as people woke up to the horrifying news. Fortunately, the loss of life was again small, but even the dozen or so casualties were enough for the media to latch onto. The news channels were quickly billing this as an attack against Christianity. A generalization that the chaplain feared may be too narrow and premature.
With the panic spreading quickly, Wilcox was one of a dozen chaplains asked to help assist in trying to bring any comfort possible to the scene and to the community.
As the plane continued its decent, the chaplain thought about Cheryl Roberts. She had not returned his phone calls, and he was beginning to grow concerned. It was not like her. He hoped he would have a message waiting on his cell phone when he reached the ground.
There was no message waiting, but Wilcox was quickly distracted when he and four other chaplains were whisked away upon landing. Their first stop was an early morning mass at a nearby church where several public figures were giving speeches, including the vice president. This was the first time he had welcomed having politicians at the scene in a long time. The public desperately needed to be calmed.
When they arrived at the nearby Saint John’s Church in Lafayette Square, it was a little after 9:00 am, and the place was already a zoo. Located across from the White House, both H and 16th streets were completely blocked off. Over a hundred police officers tried to keep the crowd orderly with barricades while dozens of television reporters and their crews were
already set up and broadcasting.
The chaplains were quickly ushered out of their van and into the church’s side entrance where a sizable group of parishioners had already gathered and were overflowing through the double doors in front. Many of those inside were sitting in the benches, crying and holding each other while pastors moved through the large crowd hugging and consoling as many as they could reach. Chaplain Wilcox jumped right in.
Hours later, reinforcements arrived and gave some pastors a chance to take a break. Several, including Wilcox, volunteered to go to the National Cathedral to look for anyone else.
When he arrived though, Chaplain Wilcox was dumbfounded. He climbed out of the van and stood staring at the site from a distance, thunderstruck. If he thought Saint Patrick’s was horrible, then the National Cathedral was beyond words. In New York, the damage to Saint Patrick’s was truly terrible, but here the damage was total. It was gone, the entire cathedral was simply gone, leveled completely to the ground.
Everything was smoldering and a thick cloud enveloped everything and everyone within a two block radius. Everyone except the search and rescue teams met and operated out of a large plumbing and parts warehouse four blocks away.
Wilcox sat and held parishioners who had come to see for themselves. Most broke down immediately into tears. He held their hands and prayed, quoting many verses in the bible explaining that God was still watching over them. More than anything else, Wilcox sat and listened.
Eventually, he was able to visit what was left of the Cathedral itself. The smoke rose into the air in giant thick columns, then slowly widening and spreading out overhead. Unlike Saint Patrick’s, where some of the walls had remained standing, nothing at the National Cathedral was still vertical. Considered to be the national house of prayer for all people, nothing was left standing at all. Both the famous Gloria in Excelsis Tower and Pilgrim Observation Gallery were reduced to mere rubble.
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