The handcuffs fastened the black briefcase to the foreigner’s wrist as if it were an extension of his body.

Anyone else would have asked where they were going, but not Abu Rashid. We can almost make out a satisfied smile on his sweaty, beat-up face.

They climbed the path up the mountain aided by the light of a flashlight that dimly penetrated the veil of obscurity. The foreigner pointed the light slightly in front of Abu Rashid’s feet.

“We’re getting there,” he let him know almost cordially.

“I know that,” the Muslim replied.

A few feet ahead, another jab in Abu Rashid’s ribs made him fall to the ground this time. The foreigner was alarmed and poised for action. He hadn’t used enough force to cause that reaction, he was sure of that. Something, or someone, had caused the fall.

Abu Rashid was on his knees with his head down. It was hard to tell if he was kneeling toward the Kaaba in Mecca, given their disorientation, the cover of night without stars, and the lack of a mihrab, but certainly the Muslim had adopted the position of prayer, strange in those hours before dawn, but who could criticize a believer for prostrating himself in a moment of affliction?

The foreigner could. Not only from his role as captor, but because that position always made him feel a certain nausea. All that submission, the abrasive demonstration of the faith of Allah, All-Powerful God, disgusted the foreigner. Not even the ordination of new priests could compare to this lying flat out, when the candidates stretched out on their bellies, kissing the floor, almost under the feet of their colleagues, and gave their lives to the Roman Catholic Church, the only true faith, no other. Nothing was more repulsive to the foreigner than this twisted gesture of Abu Rashid with his bound arms on the ground and his head beside them.

The foreigner wanted to put a stop to it as soon as possible, but hesitated, perhaps because this wasn’t the typical hour of Islamic Sabah, although it was known to vary from one place to another. He decided to wait a moment, not out of respect for an erroneous belief, but out of suspicion. So much the better that only he and Abu Rashid were present here in the middle of this Polish forest, a cold wind chilling their bones, more his than the Muslim’s, which was also irritating.

For a minute nothing happened, Abu Rashid on his knees on the ground and the foreigner on foot watching him impatiently.

“There is still hope,” Abu Rashid said without moving.

“Hope for what?”

“Hope for you,” the other replied from the same position. “There are always two paths, as I told you already.”

“Come on, get moving. We have to keep going. It’s not the time to pray,” the foreigner grumbled, ignoring the comment and giving him a light shove in the ribs with the flashlight, as if dealing with the unforeseen behavior of an animal. His other hand was on the revolver in the holster he carried under his jacket. One never knew; one couldn’t be too careful.

“Every hour’s an hour for prayer, but don’t worry. I’m not praying.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m listening,” the old man declared.

The foreigner looked around uncomfortably. He didn’t feel or see the presence of a living soul. He squeezed his fingers tighter on the handle of the gun, insecure. Sacrilege. Sacrilege.

“There’s no one here,” he said, hiding his suspicion that she was looking at him unfavorably.

“Don’t be uncomfortable. She’ll always love you, no matter what you do. If she should blame you, there’d be no reason for the existence of free will. The beauty of life is that we can always choose.”

“Shut up. Get up and keep going,” he ordered.

Abu Rashid raised his body, remaining on his knees. His eyes were open, shining, looking into space.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the foreigner insisted proudly.

“You are what I don’t want to hear,” Abu Rashid said.

Silence fell under the cover of the night, joined by wild animals that stopped their whimpers and calls at the exact same instant, as if everything felt the presence of a superior being. Only the foreigner was unable to feel anything despite being a devotee and believer in the Virgin. No, she couldn’t be there. It went against everything he believed.

“Calm yourself, Tim. Let yourself feel the positive energy of the universe. Don’t live under pressure, frustration, doubt.”

The foreigner was astonished. Had he heard right?

“I’ve never told you my name,” was all he could get out.

“I know that, Tim. I’ve known you since long before you were born.”

“Who told you my name?”

“She. Who else?” Abu Rashid was imperturbable.

“Cut the shit. Who told you?”

“The other one asked exactly the same question.”

The foreigner, baptized as Timothy, took the gun from the holster and pointed it at the Muslim’s head, squeezing slightly. He was losing his mind.

“What other one?”

Abu Rashid turned toward him despite the cold barrel pressing against his head.

“This isn’t the time, Tim.”

52

Geoffrey Barnes was confused by what he’d just heard from Harvey Littel about the individual named Abu Rashid, Israeli by nationality, Muslim by birth, resident of Jerusalem.

“It’s too surreal,” he finally said after thinking for a minute. “Is there any evidence to confirm it?”

“Some, considering the sources.”

“We need to know more.”

“He’s disappeared.”

“Yeah, and the other one died,” Barnes added. “Do you think someone’s throwing down the gauntlet?”

Littel shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard to say. I know there’s no trace of the man. We have people on permanent surveillance, but nothing.”

“I imagine there are plenty of people who want to find him,” Barnes said thoughtfully. “And even more who want to do away with him.”

“True,” Littel agreed. “But imagine if he’s hiding and then one day shows up here and starts talking.”

“No one would believe him,” Barnes asserted.

“Except his people.”

Barnes made a sign with his lips suggesting his doubts.

“I don’t think it’d take much to stir up religious conflict. From there a disastrous war is only a step away,” Littel warned.

“That’s a little apocalyptic.”

“That’s what they pay us for, Barnes. To analyze and think up scenarios. That’s what I see.”

“We have to find a way to bring him out. He has to show signs of life.”

“If he’s alive.”

“If he’s not, all the better. Case closed.”

“But we need to be certain.”

The two men looked at each other circumspectly and with respect. Until a body appeared, everything was left hanging.

“A Muslim who performs miracles and has visions. This would not occur to anyone,” Barnes sighed. “How did they know about it?”

“Who?”

“The religious orders.”

“Those guys know everything.”

“And what is it that interests them?”

“Everything is of interest to those people… even that which is not of interest.”

“It could be of interest to the orthodox,” Barnes suggested.

“For what? To blackmail the Vatican? That game’s over. History.”

“You never know. A more ambitious priest. He hears things here and there. A Muslim miracle man who knows secrets about the Catholic Church.”

“Presuming it has secrets.”

“It’s enough. Presumption has always served as an excuse for a lot of things. Even torture and killing.”

“I don’t think it’ll start from there.”

“If you have people taking care of that, all we can do is wait until something happens. Aside from that, we have more important things to take care of.”

“We have to resolve this mess as soon as possible. Very strange things are happening,” Littel said.

“You’re telling me.”

At that moment they heard the tumult of the Center of Operations outside the office again. The two men looked at the door and saw Staughton with his hand on the knob.