by Ken Hansen
Just take a look at her—do not believe
The Word begot from altar writers past.
We do believe, but just the simple Truth.
We pray within The bawd, where only He
Did soar so high above three centuries.
Now cherish deep within our words of Lord
The times her forlorn shrine has been restored:
The main lies here all split apart in two,
While source of thee doth hold a simpler view.
He had emerged from a long search in the cold darkness only to find himself surrounded by a dense fog.
“Son of a bitch!” Kadir screamed.
The stress in Kad’s voice told some little part of Huxley’s conscience mind that he had just won a point. He flashed a big smile.
Kadir shook his head. “I do not know why I bother serving so finely to you today, Hux. I hardly need it. Damned service fault just cost me a point.”
Huxley shrugged at Kadir with a “Sorry you suck so bad” look, grabbed the little rubber ball, walked over to the service box and announced with pride, “Three-nine.”
His smugness lasted only a few seconds more as Kadir quickly disposed of his serve with a perfect squeeze boast down the left wall. “Ten-three, game and match point,” Kadir announced with quite appropriate in-your-face airs. The match ended in another five seconds with Kadir showing his big white teeth planted firmly inside a huge sarcastic smile. “Game and match for the Alumni Championship, my friend, unless you want to suffer through another one today? No? I did not think so. It was not exactly your best effort, was it? You getting out of shape or have you lost your edge?”
“Sorry.” Huxley flashed his best deferential smile. “I know I didn’t give you much of a game, master of the universe.” He held his two arms straight in front of his body and bowed deeply toward Kadir.
Kadir laughed, grabbed Huxley around the shoulders and rubbed his head. “Now that is proper respect for one of your lowly station, Sko-B.”
Huxley gave Kadir a quick pinch in the abdomen with his free arm, and the large man jumped and released him. “Sorry I allowed myself to be distracted by other thoughts during today’s beating, master.”
“Well, show some focus next time. You know it is hard to enjoy giving a good beating when your target fails to cringe from the pain.”
“You always were a Kad, you son-of-a-bitch,” Huxley responded.
They laughed and Huxley enjoyed the glow for a long time. That was why he played the man. The force of Kad’s personality could make you feel like you really enjoyed the beating after all. A few days later, you were unsure why, but during those few moments with him everything felt a little lighter.
Thirty minutes later, the two men were seated in their favorite post-squash restaurant, eating American breakfasts, sipping coffee and comparing stories from the last month. “Have you seen Hanna lately?” Kadir asked.
Huxley winced. “You haven’t mentioned her for years, so why now? You want to re-establish your Jewish relationships? I thought you forgot her ten minutes after you dumped her ass just before graduation.”
“That is about right—the forgetting part, I mean. No big deal. I just thought I caught a glimpse of her a few weeks ago leaving a bar near the Capitol. I figured maybe she was in town to see you.”
Huxley had a funny look on his face. “Not a chance. Haven’t seen her since well before my mom died.” He rubbed the back of his head.
Kadir drew back. “I am sorry I brought it up. How stupid of me. And just to set the record straight, I never dumped her, not exactly. I simply solved a little career problem with some adept diplomacy.”
“Career problem?”
“Could you imagine how far I would have risen as an Arab diplomat with a Jewish wife? It doesn’t matter that she is an atheist—where I come from she is still the enemy. So when the Harvard party was over I simply told her our backgrounds were incompatible with marriage, but we could still be ‘close secret friends’ if she liked. I knew she would fly away. I think she called me a ‘Stinking Arab Pig’ and stormed out. Not one of her more innovative nicknames, yes?”
Huxley laughed. “Sounds a bit too familiar. I wonder what she’s up to these days?”
“You looking to renew your acquaintance?”
“Not a chance.” Huxley tilted his head at Kadir. “You might as well know that I have a new target for my covertly-complicated, salaciously-sensitive, romantic affectations.”
“Whoa. The Scholar Boy arises again. Where do you get that crap?”
“Women’s magazines. You wouldn’t believe the odd shit you can learn.” They laughed.
“Who is this new mystery gal?” Kadir asked.
“An artsy Italian. You know you can’t steal her because she is way too sophisticated for you.” They laughed a bit harder.
“An Italian, you say? Then no doubt she would fall for my Arab-American accent and my amazing Arab visage. Most of the Mediterranean women do, you know.”
Huxley choked and involuntarily spit his eggs out and onto his plate. Then they both roared in laughter. After a few moments, Huxley regained his composure. “Why haven’t you married? You too busy enjoying your playboy life? I imagine there are quite a few Arab women who could look beyond your putrid appearance and find some merit in your station in life?”
“Oh I have to fight them off, mostly because of my appearance, though. ‘Putrid?’ You have obviously been out of Harvard for too long, Sko-B. I am quite certain you must have meant ‘heroic.’”
“OK, I admit a few woman might find you attractive, but then I suppose they would find out your nickname fits you, Kad-man.”
Kadir grinned. “That is when I reel them in with the Ambassadorship and they discover I am actually a breath of fresh air. Every woman loves a man of peace.”
“Is that your full title, Ambassador of Peace?”
“Close enough. Sure, my official title is still the United Arab Emirates’ Ambassador to the United States, but do not forget I also helped found the Brotherhood of Arab Nations for Peace. All I have to do is combine the two and slur it a little and there is your magnanimous title.”
Huxley shook his head. “You are a peace all right—a piece of work.”
“Hey, you forgetting all the tips I have handed over to you Americans the last few years? You know I get crap from my own family for helping you so much. At least you could give me the title.”
“Okay. Henceforth, I shall call thee, ‘Ambassador of Peace.’” Huxley bowed deeply with great panache.
Kadir looked taken aback. “Like hell you will.” They laughed again.
Huxley leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Speaking of terrorism, you haven’t helped me out much lately. Care to give it a try? Maybe you’ll free my mind for a better squash game next time.”
Kadir’s voice turned more serious. “Always glad to help, Hux. What have you got yourself into?”
“You remember when we used to participate in those elaborate scavenger hunt contests in Cambridge, the ones sponsored by Adams House?”
“Sure. Hey, we almost won our junior year until you decided you had to go study for a mid-term. The team fared none too well at that shit without you.”
“It was plenty fun when it didn’t matter, but now that it does matter, it kinda hurts.”
Huxley told his buddy generally about the clues and where they had taken him. Since the investigation was still secret, he saved most of the details, but gave enough of the picture to get another perspective.
When Huxley finished, Kadir sat a long time with his palms together in front of his chest, his finger tips bouncing off of his closed lips, obviously lost in thought. After raising his head and eyes back to Huxley, he said, “I do not believe I can help you much. You seem to be making pretty good progress on your own. I will give it some thought and call you if something occurs to me. Right now, nothing. Sorry, Hux. I may be the Alumni Squash Champion, but it seems you remain the Alumni Scavenger
Champ. Good luck.”
Chapter 30
Sonatina’s hand felt soft and warm and supple. Huxley pulled it up to his lips and kissed it lightly, and then let their clasped hands drop between them. He saw her smile gently out of the corner of his eye, and he felt a touch flush.
After dinner, they had slowly strolled back toward the Vatican, finally crossing the Tiber at the Ponte Umberto I. The river gleamed both with white-yellow lights from the Ponte Sant’ Angelo spanning the river ahead and with nearly a rainbow of reds, greens, blues and purples reflecting from the nighttime markets along the river’s right edge. Above to the right in the foreground stood Castel Sant’ Angelo, a nearly two thousand year old Roman mausoleum for Hadrian that had been converted over the years into a Roman Catholic fortress, prison and residence. Despite Sant’ Angelo’s massive size, it was still dominated by the majestic dome of St. Peter’s Basilica ten blocks beyond, its cupola glowing in the night, infusing the atmosphere all around with self-assured awe.
Sonatina turned toward Huxley and grabbed his other hand. “Thank you again for dinner, Chris. And to think you did not even demand any secrets of me this time.”
“Ah, but the night is young.”
“That it is. What shall we do with the rest of it?” Sonatina smiled coyly, but as he leaned in toward her, she gracefully twirled and danced over the bridge, dragging him behind her with their still conjoined hands.
“Well, I suppose we could find a place to dance,” he said.
She winked at him. “Let’s just keep walking on such a beautiful night.”
As they made their way through the open-air night market, Huxley released Sonatina’s hand as he turned to pick up and examine a bauble offered by one of the rugged merchants. In the periphery to his left, a dark figure moved quickly about fifty yards away. He straightened up and tried to find the figure under the streetlights beside the river. Had the man, if it was a man, darted behind a tree or bush or sign? He waited about thirty seconds, but nothing moved.
When he turned back, he realized Sonatina had disappeared. When he scanned through the myriad of booths and lights dangling down, he saw her nowhere. He took a few hurried steps toward Sant’ Angelo. Just when he began running, he saw her stand up from the other side of a kiosk not ten yards away. He slowed and walked around the kiosk, where he was surprised to see the face of a young boy grinning and gazing back up at her.
“Prego, prego,” Sonatina said to the child, gently patting him on the shoulder. She nodded to the elderly woman standing behind the kiosk before she saw Huxley approach. “Oh, there you are, Chris.”
“I thought I’d lost you. Did you see the man behind us by the bridge?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“I should go check it out.”
Huxley began turning back, but she grabbed his shoulder and turned him. “Not tonight,” she whispered. “Can you give it a rest for one evening? The whole world is not out to get you, you know.”
“Maybe.” He looked at the little boy spooning something into his mouth. “What’s with the kid?”
“He looked sad, so I bought him a little gelato. He looks much happier now, no?”
“You know him?”
“No. Why would you think that?”
Huxley smiled, the warmth flowing slowly through his body. Yes, he would give it a rest this evening. He had hoped to end the night quite differently, but something inside told him to slow down. She’s far too precious for that. So his first real date with Sonatina ended at her doorstep, with a simple peck on her cheek. The warm smile she bestowed upon him in return told him he had made the right move.
As the morning sun peeked over a nearby building, Anwari finished working the clay-like material carefully into the cable-connector box. The C4 felt natural in his hands. He had only produced a few actual bombs by himself, but he had defused many more during his days with the Afghan Army and the Americans. Once you removed the detonator, the shit was so stable you could light it up and heat your lunch with it and it still wouldn’t explode—but you wouldn’t want to stomp on it when it was lit. It needed both heat and enough pressure, but when they were both properly supplied by a detonator, all hell would break loose. So you could always be damn comfortable shaping the clay to fit your particular explosive needs—just keep the detonator away until you were finished. He had only learned how to do that after he had met Pardus and taken some specialized training, but already he had become a master “munitions expert” for the group.
Anwari closed the box and walked to the back of the van marked with the same logo as his overalls—the logo familiar to customers of a local cable TV provider. He pulled the electronics package out of the rear of the van and returned to the box. This was where he had to be careful. He mounted the controller on the inside cover of the box and then delicately inserted the detonators into the C4. He closed the box and looked around as naturally as he could. He had verified earlier that no cameras covered the narrow residential street. That was critical. Now he glanced around furtively and saw no one. Of course, someone could still be peering out a window, but with his cap, glasses and repairman uniform, he blended in perfectly, so any wandering eyes would not bother to look closely enough to identify him later.
Huxley felt the vibration on his buttocks from the toilet seat as the Trenitalia train rumbled down the tracks toward that triumph of the Italian Renaissance—Florence. Although it was somewhat unsettling going to the john on a moving platform, it gave him time for reflection. Florence boasted some of the greatest art the world had ever seen—from Michelangelo’s David in the Academie d’Arte to da Vinci’s Annunciation in the Uffizi, to Brunelleschi’s red-brick masterpiece dome of Il Duomo di Firenze—but none of these were his destination. He was travelling to the home of Dante Tocelli to confirm what seemed to be yet another dead-end.
Huxley had obtained the address during his meeting with the Swiss Guard. At Sonatina’s request, Colonel Zaugg had met with him yesterday and was joined by the Director of the Corps of Gendarmerie of Vatican City, Antony Cepini. The existence of this organization had surprised Huxley. In his naïveté, he had thought the Swiss Guard took care of all police matters within the Vatican. It turned out the Swiss Guard mostly protected the pope; conversely, while the Corps of Gendarmerie provided additional security for the pope (and had machine guns at its disposal), it mostly protected the Vatican City properties. Its officers were the uniformed police stationed in the city. But it turned out they were much more than that.
Director Cepini had admitted that Dante Tocelli had been employed by the Corps in a “special investigatory role” within the Unità Antisabotaggio, or Anti Sabotage Unit. The unit acted somewhat like the Vatican’s own tiny Homeland Security branch. As an investigator with U.S. Homeland Security, Huxley figured he would have known about this little sister organization. Then again, he had not worked closely with the Vatican offices, even when he had foiled the attempt to blow up the Sistine Chapel.
After some poking and prodding by Huxley and a carefully placed reminder about the Sistine Chapel affair, Director Cepini had given him more details of Dante Tocelli’s “special investigatory role.” Tocelli had been recruited his first year as a Sapienza student. The Vatican had received some reports of radicals at the school planning demonstrations at the Vatican. Tocelli had been recommended by a trusted Vatican official, whose name Cepini and Zaugg refused to give. Tocelli managed to infiltrate the radical student group and discovered that the intel was overblown—a drunk student shooting off his mouth during a house party that happened to include various members of the group.
Now, a couple years later, Tocelli had been sent on a more dangerous mission. The Vatican had received an anonymous tip about a terrorist attempt to blow up all of Vatican City. Though alleging a Muslim extremist plot, the tip explained more could be discovered at Tel Megiddo. Tocelli’s archaeology background made him the perfect undercover investigator. When Huxley had pointed out that undercover investigat
ors acting outside of their own national boundaries are sometimes called spies, Director Cepini had scoffed: “He wasn’t investigating another government or anything like that, for goodness sake.”
Whether foreign spy or undercover investigator, Dante Tocelli had never relayed any terribly useful intelligence. Oh, he had reported a few times that there seemed to be something to the tip and that perhaps the Ramat David Airbase was somehow involved, but it was all vague and general. He needed more time to dig, and not just to uncover old staircases and stables. Then Director Cepini had received a coded message from him stating that a leopard may be involved. This had piqued Huxley’s interest, and he had asked if Tocelli had used the name “Pardus.” Yes, it is “leopard” in Latin, had come the reply. Tocelli had been expected to return soon and make a complete report. Unfortunately, they never received the final report nor heard from Tocelli again. According to the immigration officials, after Tocelli had re-entered Italy, he completely disappeared despite the Corps’ extensive search for him. Yes, they had interviewed Tocelli’s family in Florence, but the family had not seen him since he left for Israel. The Corps had never shared any of this information with U.S. Homeland Security because there did not seem to be any hard information to share. They had not wished to appear as fools, tilting at windmills.
The news disappointed Huxley. He had been looking for a terrorist but found just another terrorist hunter. At least it confirmed that Pardus had some involvement in the matter and that Tel Megiddo had served as some type of staging or planning post. Now, if he could discover what Dante Tocelli had planned to put in his report, he might have something tangible. It had made a trip to Florence worth the expense and time.
If this proved to be another dead end, he could track down Anwari and start pushing those buttons, but he seriously doubted that tactic would get him too far at this point. It might be easier to solve the poetic riddle he had discovered in the contacts list. The first two lines of the poem had been easy: