Juan Gómez-Jurado - Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

‘You think it’s not dramatic losing your lover and your job in the space of two months? My life is shit.’

‘I’m not going to argue with you there. At least you’re surrounded by what’s left of her,’ Enrique said, waving disgustedly at the mess in the room.

‘Maybe you could become my cleaning lady. I’m sure it would be more useful than that bullshit sports programme you pretend to work on.’

Enrique’s expression didn’t change. He knew what was coming next and so did Andrea. She buried her head in a cushion and screamed with all her might. After a few seconds her scream turned into sobs.

‘I should’ve brought two bottles.’

Just then a mobile phone rang.

‘I think it’s yours,’ Enrique said.

‘Tell whoever it is to go fuck themselves,’ Andrea said, her face still buried in the cushion.

Enrique snapped open the phone with an elegant gesture.

‘A Torrent of Tears. Hello…? Hold on a moment…’

He handed Andrea the telephone.

‘I think you’d better handle this. I don’t speak foreign languages.’

Andrea took the telephone, wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and tried to sound normal.

‘Do you know what time it is, you idiot?’ Andrea said through gritted teeth.

‘I’m sorry. Andrea Otero, please?’ said a voice in English.

‘Who is it?’ she answered in the same language.

‘My name is Jacob Russell, Ms Otero. I’m calling from New York on behalf of my boss, Raymond Kayn.’

‘Raymond Kayn? Of Kayn Industries?’

‘Yes, that’s right. And you’re the same Andrea Otero who pulled off that controversial interview with President Bush last year?’

Of course, the interview. That interview had had a big impact in Spain and even in the rest of Europe. She had been the first Spanish reporter to get inside the Oval Office. Some of her more direct questions – the few that had not been agreed beforehand and she had managed to sneak in – had made the Texan more than a little nervous. That exclusive interview had relaunched her career at El Globo . At least briefly. And it seemed to have rattled some cages on the other side of the Atlantic.

‘One and the same, sir,’ Andrea replied. ‘So tell me, why does Raymond Kayn need an excellent reporter?’ she added, sniffing quietly, pleased that the person on the phone couldn’t see the state she was in.

Russell cleared his throat. ‘Can I count on you not to tell anyone at your paper about this, Ms Otero?’

‘Absolutely,’ Andrea said, amused at the irony.

‘Mr Kayn would like to give you the greatest exclusive of your life.’

‘Me? Why me?’ Andrea said, making a writing motion to Enrique.

Her friend extracted a notebook and pen from his pocket and handed them to her with a questioning look. Andrea ignored him.

‘Let’s just say he likes your style,’ Russell said.

‘Mr Russell, at this point in my life it’s hard for me to credit that someone I’ve never met is calling me up with such a vague and probably unbelievable offer.’

‘Well, let me convince you.’

Russell spoke for quarter of an hour, during which the astonished Andrea continuously scribbled down notes. Enrique tried reading over her shoulder, but with Andrea’s spidery writing it was no use.

‘… that’s why we’re counting on you to be at the site of the excavation, Ms Otero.’

‘Will there be an exclusive interview with Mr Kayn?’

‘As a general rule, Mr Kayn doesn’t give interviews. Never.’

‘Maybe Mr Kayn should find a reporter for whom rules matter.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Andrea crossed her fingers, praying that her shot in the dark would hit its target.

‘I suppose there could always be a first time. Do we have a deal?’

Andrea thought about it for a few seconds. If what Russell was promising was really true, she’d be able to get a contract with any media company in the world. And she would send that son of a bitch editor at El Globo a copy of the cheque.

Even if Russell’s not telling the truth, there’s nothing to lose.

She didn’t give it another thought.

‘You can make a reservation for me on the next flight to Djibouti. First class.’

Andrea hung up.

‘I didn’t understand a single word except “first class”,’ Enrique said. ‘Can you tell me where you’re going?’ He was surprised by the obvious change in Andrea’s mood.

‘If I said the Bahamas, you wouldn’t believe me, right?’

‘Very nice,’ Enrique, said, half annoyed and half jealous. ‘I bring you flowers, whisky, I scrape you off the floor and this is how you treat me…’

Pretending she wasn’t listening, Andrea went into the bedroom to pack.

VATICAN CITY

Friday, 7 July 2006. 8:29 p.m.

The knock at the door startled Brother Cesáreo. Nobody came down to the crypt, not only because access was restricted to a very few people, but also because it was damp and unhealthy, despite the four dehumidifiers that hummed constantly in each corner of the enormous space. Pleased to have company, the old Dominican friar smiled as he opened the security door, standing on tiptoe to embrace his visitor.

‘Anthony!’

The priest smiled and embraced the smaller man.

‘I was in the neighbourhood…’

‘I swear by God, Anthony, how did you manage to get this far? This place has been monitored by cameras and security alarms for some time now.’

‘There’s always more than one entrance if you take your time and know the way. You taught me, remember?’

The old Dominican massaged his goatee with one hand and patted his large belly with the other, laughing heartily. Under the streets of Rome was a system of more than three hundred miles of tunnels and catacombs, some of them over two hundred feet beneath the city. It was a veritable museum, a maze of winding, unexplored passages that linked almost every part of the city, including the Vatican. Twenty years earlier, Fowler and Brother Cesáreo had dedicated their spare time to exploring those dangerous and intricate tunnels.

‘It looks like Cirin will have to revisit his flawless security system. If an old dog like you can slip in here… But why not use the front door, Anthony? I hear that you’re no longer persona non grata with the Holy Office. And I’d love to know why.’

‘Actually, now I may be a little too grata for some people’s taste.’

‘Cirin wants you back in, doesn’t he? Once that low-rent Machiavelli gets his teeth into you, he doesn’t let go easily.’

‘And old guardians of relics can be stubborn too. Especially when speaking of things they’re not supposed to know about.’

‘Anthony, Anthony. This crypt is the best kept secret in our tiny country, but its walls echo with rumours.’ Cesáreo waved his arms at the surroundings.

Fowler looked up. The ceiling of the crypt, supported by stone arches, was black from the smoke of the millions of candles that had illuminated the space for almost two thousand years. In recent times, however, a modern electrical system had replaced the candles. The rectangular space was roughly two hundred and fifty feet square, part of which had been hewn from the living rock by pickaxe. On the walls, from ceiling to floor, were doors that concealed niches containing the remains of various saints.

‘You’ve spent too much time breathing in this horrible air, and it certainly doesn’t help your clients either,’ said Fowler. ‘Why are you still down here?’

It was a little known fact that for the past seventeen hundred years in every Catholic church, no matter how humble, a relic from a saint had been hidden in the altar. And this site housed the largest collection of such relics in the world. Some of the niches were almost empty, containing only small fragments of bone, while in others the whole skeleton was intact. Each time a church was built anywhere in the world, a young priest would pick up a steel suitcase from Brother Cesáreo and travel to the new church to deposit the relic inside the altar.