Obadiah nodded in affirmation. “There’s no need to concern yourselves with Ms. Cohen,” he stated. “She will be dealt with and the problem will be quashed.”
“If I may ask, how so?” This came from Hector Guerra of Venezuela, a man with soft, doughy features and a pencil-thin mustache that complemented a set of equally thin lips. His collar was so tight around his neck, folds of flesh curled over its edges.
Obadiah hesitated, seeking a politically correct response that would allay these inquisitive concerns. Apparently the Russian and Venezuelan sources were quick and accurate. And these men were well-armed with damaging information.
“It’s true that Ms. Cohen is looking beyond the box, but that’s her job.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Guerra insisted.
“Let me finish,” Obadiah said, raising a hand. “I assure you, I assure all of you, that Ms. Cohen will be factored out of the equation by the American principals.”
“And the CD?”
Obadiah was startled by this question but tried not to show it. Apparently their sources produced as well and as quickly as Mossad, who was the best in the business. To know about the CD was impressive. “We’ll have the CD in our possession soon,” he said.
“And the copies?”
“There are no copies. Our people at the CIA intercepted all incoming data from the Mossad leak and destroyed it. And the leaks themselves have been dispatched. The backup copy within the vault of the FBI has also been destroyed. The only disc in existence is the one Ms. Cohen possesses.”
Ostrosky measured Obadiah with eyes so black they were seemingly without pupils.
“Gentlemen, please relax,” said Obadiah. “Everything I tell you is the truth. Within a year there will be no more economic hardships for our countries and no more dependency upon Arab states. Our industries will flourish and enjoy the full support of the international community. ”
“And Yahweh?”
“He continues to be the forerunner in the cause and will use the United States to spearhead the change, since alternative fuels are still fifteen to twenty years away.”
Ostrosky leaned back in his chair. “And you can guarantee our anonymity?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s good,” said Ostrosky, “because I would hate for history to remember me as a monster rather than a prognosticator of a better future.”
“The pope’s death will not be tied to any man in this room. I assure you.”
“You better, Mr. Obadiah, because our political reputations, if not our lives, would be in jeopardy if the truth of our participation was known.”
“I agree.”
“If that CD is worth the life of the woman who possesses it,” said Ostrosky, “then it must hold damaging evidence, a record of what we are doing.” Suddenly his brows dipped sharply over the bridge of his nose, punctuating his point. “You must not fail to repossess the CD before she has a chance to turn her battle into a crusade.”
“Trust me,” Obadiah said. “Ms. Cohen will never get that opportunity.”
“Make sure that she doesn’t.”
Hector Guerra reclined in his seat. “There is also the matter of a Venezuelan leader who is quite anti-American. Bringing him into the circle will be impossible.”
Obadiah was quick to respond. “Our American constituencies will see to it that a Venezuelan leader who is pro-American will be in place within ninety days of the pope’s assassination.”
The Venezuelan nodded. “I don’t think I want to know how that’s going to happen.”
“Let’s just say that everything has been examined from every possible angle. Any more questions?”
There were none.
“Then let’s talk about the future of our countries.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The last trails of light from the sun’s westward trajectory dispelled into magenta twilight. It was a magnificent view apt even for an artist’s canvas, but Shari didn’t notice the beauty of the colors painting the heavens as she made her way home. Her eyes were focused elsewhere beyond the road, her movements to steer the car in the right direction governed by reflex and habit alone, since she had driven the same course for years.
Since her debacle meeting with Abraham Obadiah, she made constant calls to Mossad and got nowhere. She even went as far as to talk to the Director of Mossad, who was no different from Abraham Obadiah, just another stone wall who denied everything.
For the first time in her life she felt like she was spiraling downward into an abyss that held nothing but a deep despair. The actual mindset of ‘not knowing’ terrified her.
As soon as she turned into her neighborhood her eyes focused the moment she spotted her brownstone. After turning into the garage she knew that she should regroup and train her thoughts on her family. But she found it impossible. So she sat there with her mind working to the point where her thoughts detained all the vagueness of a drunken stupor, that sense of feeling utterly lost and alone.
As brilliant as she was, she stood by alone in this political nightmare.
And for a moment she felt a deep and shameful pang of self-pity.
In her mind’s eye she could see her grandmother’s hardened face that was much older than her given years. Yet her voice was strong and gentle and carried the weight of courage and resolve. It was a voice recalling a moment when the sky over Auschwitz rained ashes for days on end — the buildings and camp becoming laden with gray soot, the image somewhat ghostly and pale, the demeanor somber and cold. And of course there was the repugnant odor of burning flesh, which no one dared to speak of. Yet she never became hollow, always propelling herself mentally, believing that willpower overcame the abhorrence of those who cruelly bound her. In the end, she was right.
Shari closed her eyes and pulled deep with her nostrils, taking a lungful of air to soothe her, then released the air in an equally long sigh. She had no right to feel dismayed when her grandmother had suffered through much greater. So she admonished herself quietly and thanked her grandmother for all the stories that held lessons to draw from in moments like this.
Reaching for the key in the ignition, she saw the crumpled business card in the ashtray, untouched since she placed it there earlier. Grabbing the card and unfolding it, she smoothed out the creases. It was just a simple business card — no fancy fonts or styles — just sophomoric typeface with the phone number of the D.C. Archdiocese. She brought the card to her brow as if she might glean something from it through osmosis and tried to recall the man who gave it to her. For a brief moment she struggled for clarity. Then it came to her: Kimball Hayden, a name from the past she had heard before only in whispers, forgotten until now.
Approximately six years ago as an upstart in the counterterrorist program, Shari was in the company of men who didn’t realize her presence until after the name of Kimball Hayden was spoken with a measure of reverence and referred to as “a man who was as deadly as he was without conscience.” When the attorney general at the time and top-ranking official from the Joint Chiefs realized her presence, they immediately drew upon another topic. But Shari had already taken in snippets of conversation that had painted Kimball Hayden as a brutal killing machine.
She placed the card back into the recess of the ashtray. This man, professing to be an emissary of the Vatican, couldn’t have been the same Kimball Hayden. The man she recalled was an unrelenting and remorseless killer.
With the thoughts of Kimball Hayden ebbing, she decided to research data on the CD and scrape together whatever information she could. At best, she may open a gate that would lead her down the right path. At worst, she would resign herself to the fact that there was nothing she could do to save the pope. It was literally a crap shoot.