Father Timothy sighed. “Even after he got too old to run the church and I was brought in, he asked to continue to care for the garden. I said yes, of course. Over the years, this small old man would come out here every day, into his late eighties, tending this garden lovingly. I got to know him well, and came to miss his presence here after his death. Many times when there were problems in the world, or inside the church, I would come and speak to him. He seemed to have this stunning peacefulness about him, born out of prayer or temperament, I will never know.”
The old priest smiled sadly. “So, I still come here to speak with him. These attacks…” he shook his head. “The world seems poised to begin a terrible spiral of violence that will lead to great suffering. I talk to my old friend. I just wish I could hear him now.”
Savas and Cohen traded glances, unsure what to say. “That was why I came, Father. All this has been weighing on me, too. I wanted to ask you to pray for us, for what we are doing.”
“John, if you are trying to bring an end to this growing madness, you have my prayers, certainly. But more importantly, I think I can hear the host of saints praying for all the souls of the world as well.”
35
On the highest floor of a tower of glass and steel, a man gazed through a large window. His partial reflection displayed a tall and lean form, with pressed gray hair and sharp-rimmed glasses, peering over the sprawling city below him.
Contrasting with the open expanse through the glass pane, where a step would drop him hundreds of feet to the concrete below, he sensed behind him the solidity of his grand office. It was the size of a tennis court, decorated and trimmed with the best that was to be had. Like an anchor, the presence of his enormous cherry-wood desk rooted him inside the room, its bulk framed by the solid sheet of glass revealing the heart of the city.
He pulled on the cuff of his expensive suit, glancing at a timepiece of Swiss manufacture. With mild annoyance, he returned his arms behind his back, clasping them tightly, military-style. The lights were off in his office; he required time for contemplation. Staring into the sky, he counted more than twenty planes in the air at once, small dots like yellow stars moving across the night sky over the three local airspaces. The city appeared like some pharaoh's tomb decorated in one hundred thousand jewels of light, the bridges as streaming necklaces across the waters.
His computer blinked and issued an alert tone. He turned around and stared at it. The screen displayed a security code algorithm, establishing an untraceable connection. Events were moving forward. He took several steps toward his desk and sat in his chair. He pressed ENTER and waited. The image of a chiseled face filled the screen, blond hair and crew cut etched like stone into the LCD.
“Connection is secure, sir,” said the blond man.
“You're late, Rout,” snapped the older man.
“I was delayed.”
“You are ready to proceed, I assume?”
“Yes, sir. Phase One was maximally successful. All targets were destroyed without compromise of personnel or mission. World media and governments have reacted in a panic, and this has had the intended effect. Training for the next several missions has nearly been completed, and all resources and elements are in place. We await your word on this.”
“Investigations?”
“There are too many to name or for us to keep track of. Notable are CIA, FBI, MI6, SIS, European groups — China, you may be interested to know, along with Russia and some others. Everyone is scared shitless, and it's not clear if it's the Arabs, or the Western governments that need them, who are more worried. This is threatening to blow up into a real international situation.”
“Then let us pour gasoline on this small fire we've kindled. Proceed to Phase Two.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Finally, the broken arrow in our quiver. We need to make sure there are no connections to us, no way to surmise how we plan to end this. He has gone his own way for too long now.”
Rout stared coldly into the screen, no movement of flesh betraying his inner thoughts. “He will be missed, sir. He was a real soldier.”
The gray-haired man nodded imperceptibly. “It is a link that must be cut. We cannot afford to leave any bridges intact behind us.”
“Understood, sir. I'll see to this one myself.”
“As you see fit. We have to make hard choices, Patrick. Good-bye.”
The man broke the secure connection, and the screen went dark. He pressed his fingertips together and rotated his chair around to face the skyline once more. Clouds had moved in slowly from the west, and the orange-light pollution from streetlamps seeped upward, giving them a slightly hideous color, like sick flames descending.
It was appropriate, he thought. Ragnarök is coming.
36
The morning broke with the last clouds from the evening storm trailing out to sea. The sun rose, slicing through them to give a multifaceted spray of red and orange rays across the sky and water. Philip Jeffrey rolled up the mooring rope and pulled on the halyard, raising the mainsail. The white sheet climbed slowly, and he trimmed the sail to catch the wind, filling and driving the boat forward as the airfoil and dagger boards combined to produce the force of motion. He was quickly under way, as the sun reared powerfully over the cloud line and sprayed its now golden radiance over the harbor.
Jeffrey smiled as the spray of water caught him unprepared. Thank God I bought this boat. The irony was that he thought he'd never have time to use it. That was before Liam had called him one fateful night in 2003. He shook his head. Liam's nickname had come from his Irish mother, even though he resembled in appearance and character his father, a Swede; an immigrant family whose son had done more than well.
They had gone way back, to some of the early days of Liam's rise in business, when he still controlled half of the defense contracts for the air force in one way or the other. It was more than just a profitable business relationship — the money to Liam, the promotions to Jeffrey — but a friendship had developed, based on a mutual connection that was rare for men of their ambition. How many nights along the Sound had he entertained Liam and Judy on his older vessel? And the long cruises to the Virgin Islands — those had been special times.
Then a Tuesday in September 2001 had changed everything. Nineteen terrorists flew two planes into the World Trade Towers and brought those buildings down. Everyone changed after that day, but some more than others. Liam became estranged. He had stopped calling and had hardly spoken to him at the memorial service. Rumors circled that he was retiring or had suffered a nervous breakdown. Jeffrey could only guess. After nearly a year and a half of silence, he had begun to wonder whether the pain of that loss had forever separated him from his friend.
But a phone call in late February changed all that. Liam had called and asked to visit Jeffrey at his beach house on Long Island. Like old times. But the Liam that appeared the next weekend was a creature different from the man he had known before. This was a man with a fire lit within that made his previous ambition to succeed seem a faint light. Liam spoke passionately that evening about the world, the evils of nations, and our need to fight, of not using the outdated strategies of the past. He scoffed at conventional war and diplomacy, convinced that radical efforts were demanded.
And Philip Jeffrey had been converted.
Truth be told, he was never a good fit at the Pentagon. His hard-line beliefs about the changing nature of conflict, so in harmony with Liam's own, did not buy him popularity within the changing power structure in Washington. The neocons had such a naive faith in technology! Jeffrey knew that it was men's hearts, as much as their weapons, that dictated the course of battle. What he and Liam saw brewing in the world was a conflict of men more than machines.