The missionary pauses, but just for a moment. “I’ll never forget that day. And I’ve never looked at the impact of spending fifty dollars the same again. I still have the roses on my shelf that the women handed me as I entered that room.”
I have the sense that he might move to asking for donations to the ministry he works with, but he doesn’t go there. Instead, he dives into the heart of his message. “We live in a fallen, broken, stunning, and breathtaking world. We can tell we’re from here but don’t belong here. We’re meant for more than this. We are dust and bones and blood and dreams, skin-covered spirits with hungry souls. We are nurses and terrorists, lovers and liars, suicide bombers and little grinning children with milk mustaches. We are both the thorns and the roses, the harlots and the children of the king.”
The paradox of life on this planet.
The paradox at the heart of human nature.
A woman can be a loving mother of her two sons and then one day decide to murder them and kill herself.
An angel and a devil wrapped up into one.
He goes on, “Chesterton called us ‘broken gods.’ Pascal called us ‘fallen princes.’ Philosophers have long wondered how we fit into this world, somewhere between the apes and the angels. To make us into one or the other is to deny the full reality of who we are, because we have both animal instincts and divine desires.”
Charlene has often told me that it’s no coincidence when a sermon touches us where we’re at in our lives, that it’s evidence of a bigger plan at work. And now, this missionary’s words naturally make me think of the discussions I’ve had over the last couple days with my friends about people merging with machines, about souls and life and what makes us human after all.
Then the missionary concludes his brief message. “A friend of mine told me that followers of Christ are each Cinderella in the moment of transformation — half dressed in ashes and rags, half clothed in a royal gown ready to meet the prince. We are far worse than we would ever on our own admit, and loved by God more deeply than we would ever dare to dream. We are both worthless and priceless, terrorists and saints, lost and homeward bound. Without the love of Christ we are lost, mired in our past, in our selfish choices, in our ruthless pride. With faith in him, the Bible tells us that we will share eternity with God in a place of complete joy and glory. We want to love and be loved, and we ache for the eternal. We hunger for the things that the physical world doesn’t offer. And we wither and die inside when we don’t find them.”
When he ends his talk, silence pervades the auditorium. From attending here with Charlene before, I know the sermons are typically much longer than this. There’s an awkward moment while he gathers his notes, and I get the sense that the band and the lead pastor don’t really know what to do.
The missionary turns hastily to leave the stage, and finally the minister hurries up to take his place. He leads a prayer and the band must be taking their position while he’s praying, because as he finishes the music begins again.
We sing a few more songs, and the service draws to a close twenty-five minutes early.
Afterward, I want to talk to the missionary about some of the things he said, but there’s a substantial line at the front of the church. I linger for a few minutes, but in the end I decide we should probably be leaving for our meeting with the FBI agent.
At the car, Charlene asks me, “Well, what did you think of that?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“I thought it was no coincidence that we were here today.”
Colonel Derek Byrne and Calista were in their room at the Arête, and now their captive sat in a chair, still drugged from the night before.
While Calista stroked the man’s hair, Derek contacted Jesús Garcia to notify him that Tomás Agcaoili had been arrested the night before, but Jesús had already heard the news.
“He doesn’t know enough to be a threat to either of us,” the cartel leader told him.
“I would still prefer that he doesn’t remain a loose end. I’ll take care of it.”
“No. I know some people in the department. I’ll deal with it. Let me make a few calls.”
After hanging up, Derek watched Calista gently caress Jeremy Turnisen’s cheek.
“When is he gonna wake up?” she asked.
“Not for another hour or so, not with what I gave him last night. A syringe full of that drug will put someone out for at least six or seven hours. I’ll let you know when we can start trying to rouse him.”
He was secured to the chair, his wrists and ankles duct-taped to it.
Derek had some very specific things to ask this man, but he wanted him to be fully awake and coherent when he spoke to him. So, for now he let him sleep until the drugs wore off completely.
They had all day. For the moment at least, there was no rush.
Together, he and Calista spread out the plastic sheet around the base of the chair.
Then Derek made sure he had enough black thread to last through the afternoon.
Timeline
Vegas resorts and casinos are famous for elaborate buffets, but on Sunday mornings there are almost always long lines, so Charlene chooses Hash House a Go Go, a favorite local restaurant, for the meeting.
However, when she calls Special Agent Clay Ratchford, he tells her that he’s changed his mind and doesn’t want to meet in a public place after all. “We’ll meet in the lobby of the federal building.”
He’s waiting for us when we arrive.
After unlocking the door, he ushers us to a semicircle of leather chairs.
Ratchford is a studious-looking man who immediately gives me the impression of someone who might be more comfortable sitting behind a desk than chasing down criminals on the street. Stylish glasses. Hair carefully parted on the side. Small, pebble-like, inset eyes.
“Good morning, Miss Antioch.”
“Good morning, Agent Ratchford.”
He doesn’t look especially happy to see me, but Charlene informs him that I’ll be able to help answer his questions. “Jevin knows more about everything that’s going on than anyone else does.”
Agent Ratchford’s handshake is less than firm.
When he doesn’t take a seat, neither do we, and the three of us end up all standing somewhat uncomfortably in the middle of the lobby.
No guards.
No one else around.
The lobby smells vaguely of the overripe lemon scent of a hospital. From where we’re standing, the sunlight that angles in through the tinted windows misses us completely, and Agent Ratchford is standing in a shadow, backlit by the breezeless day outside.
The air conditioner isn’t on, making it warm and stuffy in here, and I find myself wishing we’d been able to meet for some food in Hash House a Go Go after all.
Instead of bringing up the USB drive, Ratchford jumps right in and asks us about our past experiences with Akinsanya.
We summarize the crazy events that happened in Philadelphia in October, when we ended up averting an assassination attempt against the president that Akinsanya was apparently behind.
Agent Ratchford shakes his head slightly. “Last evening I did some checking. There’s no official record that the president was ever in any danger.”
“I know,” I tell him. “The administration denied any of this happened.” That was something that only served to confirm Xavier’s views of the government. “But still, ever since then the Bureau — your Bureau — has been following up with us to see if we know anything about Akinsanya, or if he’s contacted us.”