And then he saw it, recognizing the familiar silhouette slicing across the valley. It was a Bell UH-1611Y, a recent incarnation of the iconic workhorse of countless wars. Skimming the trees on the opposite ridge, it suddenly banked and was now headed straight toward him. He knew he'd been spotted. He felt his muscles tighten as he quickly ran through the possibilities of who could be on board: either Tess had done what she'd said she would do and alerted the authorities to his presence, or the shooters from the lake had found him. He sensed it was more likely to be the latter. He scanned the immediate surroundings, his mind coolly seeking out the most strategic points, but he decided against taking cover. They were armed and he wasn't and, besides, he didn't have what they were after. More to the point, he was tired and angry. He just didn't feel like running.
He watched the helicopter circle overhead and saw the markings on its tail, a circular red and white bull's-eye-like insignia. He relaxed a little, realizing it was a Turkish air force chopper. It dropped down onto the clearing, kicking up a blinding cloud of sand and spray. Covering his eyes with his hand, Reilly approached it hesitantly. Its door slid open and through the shroud of dust, he saw a small figure moving lithely toward him over the rough ground. As he got closer, he could see that the man wore khaki cargo pants and a dark Windbreaker and sported sunglasses. The man was almost within touching distance before Reilly recognized De Angelis.
"What are you doing here?" Reilly's eyes were darting around, taking in the helicopter, trying to make sense of the apparition. A dying gust from the rotor wash flicked back De Angelis's Windbreaker, and Reilly glimpsed a holstered Glock handgun under it. Momentarily stunned, he looked into the cabin, where he spotted the sniper rifle by the feet of a man who sat huddled there, lighting up a cigarette with the insouciance of a bored tour guide. Two other men, soldiers in Turkish military fatigues, sat across from him.
Conflicting thoughts flooded his mind as he scrutinized the monsignor. He pointed at the chopper.
"What is this? What the hell's going on?"
De Angelis just stood there, impassive. As he took off his shades, Reilly noticed that the monsignor's eyes looked different. They held none of the self-effacing kindness that the priest had exuded in New York. The grimy spectacles he had always worn there had somehow concealed a menace that was now radiating unmistakably from him.
"Calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down," Reilly burst out. "I don't believe this. You damn near got us all killed.
Who the hell are you and where do you come off taking potshots at us? Those men back there are dead—"
"I don't care," De Angelis snapped, interrupting him. "Vance needs to be stopped. At any cost. His men were armed, they had to be taken out."
Reilly's mind was reeling in disbelief. "And what have you got planned for him?" he fired back.
"You gonna burn him at the stake? What, are you lost in a time warp or something? The days of the Inquisition are over, Father. Assuming that's what you really are." He pointed at the sniper rifle by Plunkett's feet. "Is that standard issue in the Vatican these days?"
De Angelis fixed him with an unwavering glare. "My orders don't just come from the Vatican."
Reilly took in the army helicopter, the soldiers in it, and the civilian sitting with a sniper rifle by his feet. He had seen that cold, impervious look before. His mind raced through the events since the armed incursion into the Met, and suddenly the pieces fell into place.
"Langley," he blurted out as he shook his head, staggered. "You're a goddamn spook, aren't you?
This whole thing . . ." His voice trailed off before coming back assuredly. "Waldron, Petrovic . . .
The horsemen in New York. It wasn't Vance. It was you all along, wasn't it?" He suddenly lunged forward, grabbing De Angelis and pushing him back with a hard shove. He moved in, reaching for the priest's throat. "You've been—"
He didn't have time to finish the sentence. The monsignor reacted with lightning reflexes, deflecting Reilly's hands while grabbing one of his arms and twisting it in one fluid, agonizingly painful move, bringing him down to his knees.
"I don't have time for this," he rasped, as he held Reilly at bay for a moment before flinging him off onto the ground. Reilly spat out the dirt in his mouth as the pain in his arm throbbed. The monsignor took a couple of steps, circling around the fallen agent. "Where are they? What happened here?"
Reilly slowly pushed himself back onto his feet. He caught a glimpse of the man in the chopper, who was looking on with a mocking grin on his face. He felt a fury rising from deep within. If he had been wondering about the extent of the monsignor's personal involvement in the murders in New York, that little demonstration of the man's physical prowess quickly dispelled any doubts he might have had. He had seen it before; the man had hands that could kill.
He dusted himself before staring at De Angelis. "So what are you exactly?" he asked bitterly. "A man of God with a gun, or a gunman who's found God?"
De Angelis remained impassive. "I didn't have you down for a cynic."
"And I didn't have you down for a murderer."
De Angelis breathed out as he seemed to mull his response. When he finally spoke his voice was laced with indifference. "I need you to calm down. We're on the same side."
"So what was that, back at the lake? Friendly fire?"
De Angelis studied Reilly with cool, insolent eyes. "In this battle," he stated flatly, "everyone is expendable." He paused, seeming to wait for its significance to fully sink in with Reilly before continuing. "You've got to understand something. We're fighting a war. A war we've been fighting for over a thousand years. This whole notion of a 'clash of civilizations' . . . it's not just a fanciful theory coming out of some Boston think tank. It's real. It's happening as we speak, and it's growing, becoming more dangerous, more insidious, more threatening by the day, and it's not going to go away. And at its core is religion, because, like it or not, religion is a phenomenal weapon, even today. It can reach into the hearts of men and make them do all kinds of unimaginable things."
"Like murder suspects in their hospital beds?"
De Angelis let it go. "Twenty years ago, communism was spreading like a cancer. How do you think we won the Cold War? What do you think brought it down? The SDI, Reagan's 'Star Wars'? The Soviet government's stunning incompetence? Partly. But you know what really made it happen? The pope. A Polish pope, reaching out, connecting with his flock, getting them to tear down those walls with their bare hands. Khomeini did the same thing, broadcasting his speeches from Paris while he was in exile, igniting a spiritually starved population thousands of miles away, inspiring them to rise up and kick out the Shah. What a mistake that was, allowing that to happen . . . Look where we are today. And now, Bin Laden's using it too . . ." He paused, frowning inwardly, then fixed on Reilly sharply. "The right words can move mountains. Or destroy them.
And more than anything in our arsenal, religion is our ultimate weapon, and we can't afford to let anyone disarm us. Our way of life, everything you've been fighting for since you joined the Bureau, hinges on it . . . everything. So my question to you is simple: are you, as your president once put it so eloquently, with us ... or against us?"
Reilly's face hardened, and he felt his chest constrict. The wall of doubt he'd hastily erected was obliterated by the monsignor's mere presence. It was an unwelcome substantiation of everything Vance had said.
"So it's all true?" he asked, as if emerging from a fog.
The monsignor's answer came back dry and fast. "Does it matter?"
Reilly nodded absently. He wasn't sure anymore.
De Angelis looked around, scanning the bare ground. "I assume you don't have it anymore?"