The Psalter (29 page)

“Blow it,” Demoulins said. They placed a small plastic charge on the lock and retreated behind the cars. The sergeant pressed a red button on a miniature black box and the detonation shattered the lock. The gate limped open. Desmoulins marched, in alert and focused, his Beretta automatic pistol gripped in his hand. He knew his team was mopping up by the chatter on his radio. They dragged out men still in their underclothes, arms behind their backs and secured with plastic tie wraps. Police pushed prisoners to their knees, then onto their faces.

The lieutenant, seeing his captain in the courtyard, ran to his side. “Report,” Desmoulins said.

“No casualties,
mon Capitaine
. They have three dead and two wounded.”

“Where’s our imam?”

“Inside. He hasn’t been roughed up or humiliated, sir.”

“Good. I don’t want any martyrs…and our suspects?”

“They haven’t been found,
Capitaine
. We’re searching the buildings now.”

“
Merde
! Very well, Lieutenant, carry on.” Desmoulins walked back to the gate, proud of his men. Once again, they’d been lucky; but Desmoulins’s definition of luck was when skill and nonstop training met with opportunity. His teams were skilled and he trained them relentlessly. Their dangerous assignments provided all the opportunity anyone could desire. Still, he was troubled that two had flown the coop, and he thought again of the Peugeot 206. He was making a mental note to contact the owner when he was jerked backward by the collar, the barrel of a gun shoved under his chin. “Make a sound and I’ll blow your face off,” the voice from behind hissed as the captain was pulled to the stone wall. “And drop the pistol.”

“Calm yourself,” Desmoulins said with difficulty. “My men are everywhere. You can’t escape.”

“We’re leaving together or we’ll depart the earth together. The choice is yours.”

The GIGN captain registered deadly intent in the passionless voice. This man felt no fear and no emotion. That was truly dangerous. He didn’t fit the profile of someone who negotiated. For the first time in his life, Desmoulins knew his odds weren’t good. His only hope was to help the man escape. Yet once free, Desmoulins would be a hindrance and eliminated without so much as a passing thought. The faces of his beautiful wife and two little daughters rushed into his thoughts and he was grieved to think of tears in their lovely eyes.

“Drop your weapon!” Colonel Del Carlo shouted, pointing his service Beretta at the attacker from an acute angle. He edged closer to get a more direct shot, but Hassan had his back against the wall and shielded his front with the captain.

“No, you drop yours.” Hassan shoved the automatic harder under Desmoulins’ chin, making him wince. “Or I’ll blow his brains out.”

“Don’t do it, Colonel,” the French captain rasped.

“Shut up,” Hassan said.

“Shoot, Colonel.”

“I don’t have a shot.”

“I’m ordering you.”

Del Carlo moved the barrel micrometers back and forth, searching for a better angle.

Hassan squeezed his trigger finger tighter and Desmoulins felt the hand flex. “Shoot now, for God’s sake!”

“I said shut…” Hassan was saying as the gun fired. The discharge burned Desmoulins’ cheek, and he fell to the ground. His eye stung and he caught only glimpses of a man in black, spinning.

Romano had jerked the barrel from Desmoulins’s chin with his right hand, and his left delivered a crushing blow to Hassan’s ribs. The Arab doubled over, yet managed to hold on to the automatic. They struggled for the gun, whirling and jerking until Hassan headbutted the priest, striking his cheekbone. Romano saw stars, but knew from his days on the streets what it was like to have his bell rung, so he held on. He clenched the Arab until the netherworld between consciousness and a knockout passed.

Hassan struck him in the mouth and followed with a short hook to the chin. He cocked his arm for another punch. A spark of light revived Romano’s senses. He ducked and countered with a combination jab to the nose and roundhouse to the temple. Hassan staggered, his legs rubbery. Romano grabbed the automatic’s barrel, but Hassan yanked with all his might and wrenched it from the priest’s hand. He leveled the gun at Romano.

Three shots rang out in rapid succession, and Hassan’s eyes bulged. He slumped to his knees with an expression of wonder, then fell to the ground. Romano spun as wisps of smoke rose from the barrel of Del Carlo’s gun. He rushed to Hassan’s side and knelt. A trickle of dark blood oozed at the corner of the Arab’s mouth. The priest recognized him as the attacker in the Héber’s apartment and wanted to ask why, but the young man’s time was up. Romano made the sign of the cross as Hassan’s eyes went blank, his soul’s last breath fleeing to whatever heaven awaited.

The lieutenant rushed up with three gendarmes, machine guns at the ready. Del Carlo inspected the burn on Desmoulins’ face. “I’m alright,” Desmoulins reassured him. “Have some men fan out outside the wall. We still have one bird loose.”

“I’m sorry,
mon Capitaine
.” The lieutenant was horrified that the operation had not gone flawlessly and his captain nearly paid the price.

“The fault is mine. I didn’t think to leave men outside. Now, go find the other one.” Turning to Del Carlo, he said, “I ordered you to shoot.”

“You would’ve died.”

“Perhaps, but we would have dictated the situation, not him.”

“Sometimes
Capitaine
,” Del Carlo grinned, “you have to play defense.” He helped Desmoulins to his feet.

“Is this the man who attacked you in Paris?” Desmoulins asked Romano.

“Yes.”

“I thought you couldn’t see his face.”

“I can tell by the way he moved. He telegraphs his punches.”

Desmoulins frowned. “I told you to stay in the car.”

“I’m not very obedient,” Romano said.

“I misjudged you, Father. I’ve never met a priest who was a man of action, not just prayers. You have my thanks and my respect.” He held out his hand. “If you ever decide to change jobs, call me.”

“My boss wouldn’t approve.”

The lieutenant sprinted back. “I think you had better look at this,
Capitaine
, in the basement.”

Desmoulins expected to find automatic rifles, perhaps AK-47’s, the weapon of choice for terrorists because they were cheap and effective. He also thought they might discover plastic explosives or perhaps more sophisticated gel. Since they were in farm country, manure and ammonia could be procured easily to create low-tech bombs with massive power. Instead, the basement housed garden tools, bottles of water, and shelves of canned goods. A rack on the wall secured a row of shotguns and a second one held hunting rifles.

What captured his attention however, were maps, photographs, and handmade sketches of a nuclear reactor on the coast. On another table lay a schedule of ferry crossings from nearby Dieppe to Newhaven, with photos of ferry interiors, particularly the hold that carried automobiles. “Oh my God,” Desmoulins said, “the reactors, the ferries.” Turning to the lieutenant he ordered, “Notify the port authority.”

Desmoulins allowed Romano in the basement. The priest had earned his trust, and Romano walked around the room glancing at the guns and shelves holding supplies. He noticed nothing unusual until a stack of photocopies on a work desk attracted his attention. Leafing through the pages, he called to Del Carlo. “
Colonelo
, it’s the Psalter.”

“Are you sure?”

“They’re only copies,” Romano replied, “but I would know the script anywhere. The book is definitely here. At least, it was.”

27
Sayyid

Rashid sat with his head resting on the steering wheel in the old Peugeot, deep in despair. He had pulled off the freeway at a rest stop outside Paris. Tractor trailers filled the parking lot, and light from the café spilled out on the sidewalk. Phosphorescent hands on the car’s dirty clock pointed to nine forty-six.
Forty-five minutes late
, he thought.
The imam was supposed to call before nine p.m. with instructions. Something’s happened. Those police cars surely went to the farm. Now, all is lost
.

Rashid hadn’t wanted to leave without a definite plan or at least directions, but the imam had insisted he leave immediately. He must have known disaster was about to fall and wanted the book and Rashid gone. Yet now, he had no directives, no contacts, and nowhere to go. Perhaps he should poke around the Mosque, but he had been warned to stay away.

He stared at the ancient book wrapped in wax paper.
A clue might be inside
, he thought. He set the bundle on his lap and tugged the paper free. Opening the faded red cover, worn through in places, an ornate illustration depicted a gaunt, bearded man hanging from a cross, wearing only a loincloth. Spikes had been driven into his hands and feet, and his head hung down. Blood dripped from his brow, pierced by a wreath of thorns. Rashid loathed that Christians revered such a gruesome execution scene.

Jesus had been a martyr like Mohammad’s cousin, Ali, who had also been murdered by his own people. Muslims, however, didn’t make paintings of executions.
Not only were such images disgusting
, he reflected,
they were forbidden, even according to the Bible
. He turned the pages and skimmed the Latin words drawn in elaborate calligraphy.
Maybe instructions had been slipped inside
, he thought, turning brittle vellum sheets. He was about to give up when an electronic chime made him jump. He fairly shouted into the phone, “imam, are you alright?”

“Listen to me, Rashid, and don’t hang up. The imam has been arrested.” The caller spoke in Farsi.

“Who is this?”

“Are you listening? I need your complete attention,” the caller said.

An overwhelming impulse told Rashid to press the
end call
button.

“Don’t hang up if you want instructions.”

“Who are you?”

“Will you listen now?”

Rashid didn’t answer.

“I’m the one who called the imam to warn him the police were coming. He was sending you to me to deliver the book.”

“Why didn’t he save himself?”

“He knew he could not. Besides, the book is more important.”

“Who cares about a silly old book? We must save the imam.”

“So we will, but the book isn’t silly and plays a crucial role in the imam’s plans,” the caller said. “Weren’t you taught this? Are you not a
child of the book
?”

“Yes,” Rashid said.

“Then don’t blaspheme it. You must bring it to me now.”

“How can I tell whether these things are true?”

“Who gave me your telephone number? How would I know you possess this book?”

Rashid thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do, Rashid al-Ansar, and I was also told you’re to be a warrior in the days of justice. Now listen, and I’ll tell you where you’re to meet me.”

He was to rendezvous with his contact at a bistro not far from Paris’ Mosque, which made Rashid uncomfortable. The imam had drilled him to avoid places where Arabs congregated, except at the busiest times, when he might find anonymity in a crowd. It would be nighttime in the fifth arrondissement, one of the expensive and chic districts in Paris. An Arab would be conspicuous even though the mosque was only a few blocks away. Fortunately, he wore slacks and had fetched a black sport jacket from his bag so he could blend in better. Still, his skin crawled with uneasiness as though every eye watched.

He sat just inside the door rather than at one of the small sidewalk tables and ordered an espresso from a waiter who eyed him suspiciously. He had arrived fifteen minutes early because he wanted to size up his contact. After all, he was turning over the book that held such enigmatic importance, and there could be no mistakes. He would make no mistake.

The appointed time came and went. Another ten minutes passed and still no one. Rashid scanned the sidewalk as the waiter carried wicker chairs and tables inside and stacked them. He went over every point in the caller’s instructions. He was at the right bistro at the right time.

Rashid stood up and stepped outside. He looked up and down the street, but realized the futility. Sitting back down, the waiter gathered up his demitasse and asked if he wanted another espresso. “No,” Rashid answered, looking at his wristwatch. He must have misunderstood or the caller had decided not to come.

Rashid felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked in surprise. “Do you mind if I sit?” The dark man had appeared from nowhere. Actually, he came from the one place Rashid hadn’t suspected, deep inside the café. “You are indeed Rashid al-Ansar, are you not?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Forgive me if I startled you.”

Rashid noted the man’s dark face and curly graying hair, and recognized the Lebanese accent. “I expected you earlier.”

“I was already here when you arrived but wished to be prudent. The imam said you were clever and wouldn’t be followed, but one can’t be too careful.”

Rashid found himself oddly reassured that the man displayed such wile. “Would we be less conspicuous if we spoke French? I’m sorry, how should I call you?”

“You may call me sir or monsieur or
sayyid
and we can speak in French if you like, but our work is better done in private, and Farsi will give us that.”

Rashid narrowed his eyes. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

“The imam described you well.”

“Shall I give you the book now?”

“Tell me first, have you read it?”

“A few lines, Latin prayers I think.” Rashid knew the text was Latin and understood the little he had read, but he didn’t wish to sound smug.

“But you have no idea what it’s about?” the man probed.

“No, but it’s very old.”

“Indeed, over a thousand years. Since the imam told you nothing, I shall be the one to reward you for your obedience. You carry a common Christian prayer book of no particular importance except for what’s hidden underneath the words.”

Rashid was intrigued. “What do they hide?”

“Secret things.”