“Has anyone warmed to your crazy theory?” Jordan asked.
Savas shook his head. “No. But the CIA death squad idea is slowly dying. They've rounded up most of those who participated. You can count on one hand those remaining.”
“Certainly they can begin to see the pattern? The similarities in the assassinations and the bombings?”
Cohen laughed. “Our governmental agencies might not, but the Muslim world sees the connection. They are blaming the Western nations. Prominent leaders in the major oil-producing nations are calling for an embargo unless this terrorist group is found and caught. OPEC has signaled that it is considering several of these ideas. The world financial markets are in complete turmoil.”
Jordan smiled. “Well, I guess I'll be trading in my Hummer for a Chevy Volt.”
Savas smiled as well, but Cohen frowned. “It's not just about gas. Few people realize how completely dependent modern society is on oil. Did you know that, at minimum, four out of every five calories we eat come from petroleum?”
Uh-oh, thought Savas, she's in Berkeley mode.
Cohen did not disappoint, launching into a lecture about the fragility of the modern fossil fuel economy. It amused him to see her take on the airs of a college protest leader. But her passion was always real, and he had learned to never challenge her facts. He also had to admit that she often had a lot to teach him.
Savas was curious. “What's food got to do with oil?”
Cohen sighed. “Food is oil, John. At least in this day and age. We have to plow the land to plant, water our crops, fertilize the ground, harvest the crops, process the food, and package and distribute it all over the country. Oil's the primary energy source for all of this. It's the basis for the entire modern world. Now the US and Europe are scrambling to ensure an uninterrupted flow of oil. China and Russia are turning paranoid fast about this.”
Savas nodded. “That's for sure. I've already heard talk about using military force to secure our supplies. We're still the biggest kid on the block, but things have changed.”
Cohen looked at Jordan. “This is quickly becoming one of the most dangerous situations in international relations in a long time.”
Jordan whistled. “So what are you two doing here visiting me? Don't you have some important work or meetings to be getting to downtown?”
Savas nodded. “Well, we did, but Rebecca insisted we come.”
“I know your wife and sons were here, but I thought that it was shameful that no one from the FBI had visited a hero after his return home,” she said with a smile.
Jordan bowed his head. “A noble woman, John. Don't you forget that,” he said, and Savas wondered if it meant more than it seemed on the surface.
“We have a big meeting with the CIA tomorrow,” Savas spoke over his own thoughts. “They will present to us the analysis of the shipping records you obtained in Dubai and Sharjah. I'm hoping something useful will come of that.”
Jordan gestured again to his wounded limbs. “You aren't the only one.”
Savas was silent on the drive back from the hospital. As they crossed the Queensboro Bridge, the falling night in front of them was offset by the skyline of Manhattan behind them, a view always particularly spectacular when driving the opposite direction on the bridge. They were headed to a Greek seafood place he knew in Astoria, but he could not relax for an evening out. Too many things were burning in his mind as he drove. How came to be this man, Husaam Jordan, who practiced, even celebrated a religion that had spawned such hatred and monstrosities? How could any of them stop this new diabolic force that was shattering lives and peace across the globe before the stability of the world itself was threatened?
Not realizing what he was doing, Savas found himself taking the well-known streets in Astoria, but not in the direction of the restaurant. Instead, his car weaved its way to park beside the dome of the Church of the Holy Trinity. He stopped the vehicle and shut off the engine.
“We're walking from here?” Cohen asked.
“I thought we'd make a quick pit stop to see someone first, if it's OK.”
She looked over at him quizzically. “OK, who's that?”
Savas sighed. “Thought I'd see that priest I told you about. Father Timothy. You know, the one I almost shot during church service,” he said dryly.
Cohen stared at him seriously. “OK, John. I'd like to meet him. Anyone who can welcome you back after that is worth meeting.”
He laughed so hard he thought he might break a rib. “Yes, I suppose. He's the only one of the congregation. I tend to make secretive visits to this place.”
She nodded. “I can see why.”
They stepped out of the car, and Cohen followed him toward the church and up the stairs. Inside, it was mostly dark, the shadows deep in the dim candlelight. Holding her hand, Savas led Cohen through the church. It was completely empty and silent. She gazed with interest at the large mosaics of saints and biblical stories spread across the walls. As they passed the icon of Saint Nicholas, Savas whispered, “Santa Claus.”
“What?” she asked, confused.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling, “I'll tell you another time.”
He walked up to the left side of the iconostasis and knocked on the door. After several tries without an answer, he turned to Cohen.
“He must not be here.”
“Home?” she asked.
“Maybe. But he might be around back, in the garden. Want to go check?” She took his arm and smiled up at him. “Sure.”
He led her out of the church and down the steps again, turning toward the right and heading around the building. At the back, a fence ran around the church, perhaps eight feet high and made of metal. Apartment buildings stood on the other side of the fence. Planted at the base of the fence all the way around the church were rows of different kinds of plants — flowering bushes, grasses, even some vegetables. At a point opposite the front doors of the church, directly behind the building, lay a large stone slab with a stone cross at its tip. In front of the slab, on his knees with head bowed, was Father Timothy.
Savas stopped as soon as he saw him, hoping to turn around and not disturb the priest. But the old man had noticed them and stood up immediately, if slowly and painfully, brushing the dirt off his cassock. He looked up and smiled, walking toward them.
“Father Timothy, I didn't mean to bother you…. I can come back…” Savas began.
“Nonsense. John, good to see you,” the priest said, putting a hand on Savas's shoulder. The old priest looked toward Cohen.
“Father Timothy, this is Rebecca Cohen. She's part of my team at the FBI.”
“Pleased to meet you, Father,” she said, smiling.
“You two working so late?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“Ah, well, actually, we are done for the day, and Rebecca had heard me talk about this seafood place, Elijah's Corner, and…” He stumbled over the words.
“Well, I insisted that we go tonight to see if it's all that he bragged about,” she finished for him confidently. Savas looked gratefully toward her.
“Yes, yes. The best Greek food is in Astoria,” said the priest.
“So, I don't want to bother you…” Savas began again.
“No, no. Just praying at the grave of an old friend,” Father Timothy said. “Did you know Brother Elefterios?” Savas shook his head. “He was the priest of the church before I came here. He died nearly ten years ago. He was a monk and lived in that old shack there,” he said, pointing over his shoulder.
Savas had always wondered about that small shack as a child. It hardly seemed able to keep the garden tools dry, let alone house a human being.