Something quivered deep in Ely’s gut.
The Mexican reached into his pocket and drew out a derringer pistol, silver with pearl grips and two stacked barrels. He aimed the gun at Ely’s face.
“Do not move,” Villanueva said again. He leaned closer, and to Ely the bores looked big enough to climb into. Villanueva cocked the gun. Ely closed his eyes. Villanueva pulled the trigger. Ely heard the metallic snap of a firing pin falling on an empty chamber and gasped. He opened his eyes. Villanueva was grinning. From the derringer’s muzzle issued a small, steady flame.
“Your cigar went out. Allow me to provide a light.”
Ely put his cigar tip just above the flame. His hand was shaking so much that Villanueva had to keep moving the lighter.
Villanueva sat back, laughing hard, his belly shaking. “Heee. It works every time.”
The color was just coming back into Ely’s face. “That is very realistic,” he said. “I’ve never seen one like it.”
“No? I have them made special. For those who depart alive. Here. A memento of your visit.” He tossed the derringer-lighter to Ely.
They puffed in silence for a while. A heavy cigarette smoker, Ely had never tasted a genuine long-leaf, hand-rolled Havana. It was like drinking thick hot chocolate after a lifetime of weak tea.
“You were saying about a straw man,” Villanueva said.
“Nothing bad, señor. It means only that she lied about you.”
“Big mistake. Al-Harani was old, infirm, far away. Powerless. Me, I am young, healthy, close, and very powerful.”
Speaking of his power pleased Villanueva. He took a long, loving pull and sighed out a blue cloud. At length, he spoke again.
“Let us share a toast.” Villanueva snapped his fingers, and a beauty approached. She removed the top from a brass urn on the table between them, put a tablespoon of cocaine on a mirror, and cut six perfect lines. The woman started to leave, but Villanueva said, “Wait. Come here.”
The woman was tall, with chocolate skin and shining black hair. She stood by Villanueva’s lounge. He grasped one of her breasts and squeezed until she gasped. He pinched her nipple between his thumbnail and forefinger until blood seeped out. The woman stood, trembling, silent. Villanueva let go of her breast, waved her away, and looked at his guest.
“You are wondering, Why did he do that?”
Fearing the result of any response, Ely only shrugged.
Villanueva smiled, turned toward the lines. “My finest brown. Ninety percent pure,” he said. “Any stronger would ruin our noses.” He leaned over, snorted two lines, offered a clean glass straw. The guest indulged. The cocaine hit before he settled back into his chair. He went completely away for an instant, then came back to something in his brain like an orgasm without end. His skull felt like a stretching balloon. When he laughed, it was hard to stop.
“Very, very fine,” Ely said, afraid he was floating off the lounge.
“Before you go, I have something to show you. Come along.”
Flanked by bodyguards, they followed a curving forest path to a white cottage with green shutters and a veranda laced with purple vines. Inside, a guard opened the door to the back room. The guest followed Villanueva in, then gasped and jumped back.
A naked man lay on a brass bed, his wrists and ankles lashed to its frame. He had black eyes with no sanity left in them and not an inch of skin on his body. His mouth was open and chest heaving, but only animal moans came out.
“I could hear the screams from my house,” Villanueva said irritably. “So we had to remove his tongue. His name is Poblado. A banker who stole from me.” He flicked ash from his cigar. “The stench is offensive, no? Señor Poblado will die soon, thankfully.”
“The gift did this?” Ely had heard its potential described. Hearing it and seeing it were different things.
“The Russians at Biopreparat did good work. The Pakistanis paid some of their former scientists handsomely for the gift, and I paid better to obtain it from them. They had videos, of course, but who can trust Pakistanis? So I try it on Señor Poblado here.” He snickered. “It works.”
“How long did it take?”
“Twenty-four hours, más o menos.”
“Very impressive.” In the hot, small room, the smell was unspeakable; Ely was trying hard not to vomit. “What is it?”
“I will try to say it right. Streptoleprae pyogene. A leprosy and streptococcus hybrid. Leprosy loves to eat skin and flesh, but slowly. Streptococcus is less voracious but much faster. But who can remember such a name? We call it El Desollador.”
“I’m sorry. What does that mean?”
“The Skinner.”
“I’m assuming it’s not aerosol-transmissible.”
“By contact only. A beautiful thing. I told you I could obtain this. You see that I am a man of my word.”
“I never doubted.”
“Now you must prove to be a man of your word.”
“You will not be disappointed.”
“Reassure me.”
“The woman in the cave will bring your gift back to Washington, where I will deliver it to my friend.”
“And that person can use this to kill Laning?”
“Oh yes.”
“And he will do this because …”
“Because, Señor Villanueva, he hates Laning even more than we do.”
Villanueva nodded slowly, then more quickly.
Suddenly there was a flash, making Ely jump. One of the guards had taken a picture of Poblado with an old-fashioned Polaroid camera. It rolled out a print, which Villanueva examined briefly before handing to Ely.
“Another memento,” he said. “To help you keep your word.”
3
The high altar in Washington, D.C.’s National Cathedral was carved of stone from Solomon’s Quarry near Jerusalem. Hence the creation’s official name, “Jerusalem Altar.” It was ivory-colored, 30 feet tall, 105 feet wide, and its 110 sculpted figures surrounded the radiant face of Christ.
Every weekend, thousands of visitors kicked up storms of dust. By Monday morning, the altar’s pale saints and icons wore dark cloaks of dirt. Cathedral vergers took turns cleaning the altar, and it was not a popular job, requiring them to teeter atop a twenty-five-foot stepladder with feather duster and polishing cloth. Today was Head Verger Henry Backer’s turn. Backer had started as a lowly apprentice sexton — a janitor, really — in 1967 and never left. He could have delegated the chore to an underverger, but the idea had never occurred to him. The cathedral was God’s house, and it was also Backer’s. Medieval vergers lived in their cathedrals, and so did Backer, down on the crypt level in a neat, clean room with bed, table, chair, and bookcase.
He was perched atop that spindly ladder, dusting Saint Benedict’s head, when someone called up, “Henry, may I speak with you, please?”
If it had been anyone else, he would have snapped at them to wait until he was finished. But the Most Reverend Bishop could not be ignored. He climbed down, brushed dust from his gray hair and black suit, and stood before Suzanne Newberry.
“How may I help you, Bishop?”
“There have been complaints about the Resurrection Chapel downstairs.”
“What kind of complaints?”
“Reverend Chase can give you specifics.”
“You asked me to climb down off that ladder for this? I have my hands very full preparing for the president’s visit.”
People did not speak to the Most Reverend Bishop that way. She resisted the urge to snap back and instead thanked God for testing her patience. “I was passing and didn’t want to shout. The chapel will open for visitors soon.”
“I’ve been taking care of it for forty-five years. I know when it opens. It will be ready for visitors, rest assured. Is there anything else?”