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

There was a noise from the path. Nazim listened more attentively. They were coming. He had to be quick. He had to-

‘OK. Throw down the gun. Go on.’

Nazim didn’t even think. He didn’t say a final prayer. He just turned around, pistol in hand.

Albert, who had gone out of the back of the house and had stayed close to the wall so he could reach the gate safely, had found the fluorescent strips on Nazim’s Nikes in the dark. It wasn’t the same as when he’d fired at Kharouf instinctively, to save Orville’s life, and hit him through pure luck. This time he had caught the guy unawares only a few feet away. Albert planted both feet on the ground, aimed at the centre of Nazim’s chest, and squeezed the trigger halfway, calling out for him to drop the gun. When Nazim turned, Albert pressed the trigger the whole way, blowing open the young man’s chest.

Nazim was only vaguely conscious of the shot. He didn’t feel any pain, although he was aware of being knocked to the ground. He tried to move his arms and legs but it was pointless and he couldn’t speak. He saw the one who had fired bending over him, checking the pulse on his neck then shaking his head. A moment later, Watson arrived. Nazim saw a drop of Watson’s blood fall as he leaned over. He never knew if that drop mixed with his own blood flowing from the wound in his chest. His vision was clouding over by the second, but still he was able to hear the voice of Watson, praying.

‘Blessed be Allah, who has given us life and an opportunity to praise him with righteousness and honesty. Blessed be Allah, who has taught us the sacred Quran, which says that even though someone may raise his hand against us to kill us, we shall not raise a hand against him. Forgive him, Lord of the Universe, for his sins are those of the deceived innocent. Protect him from the tortures of Hell, and bring him close to you, oh Lord of the Throne.’

After that, Nazim felt much better. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He had given everything for Allah. He allowed himself to be transported to such a state of peace that when he heard the police sirens in the distance he confused them with the sound of the crickets. One of them was singing next to his ear and it was the last thing he heard.

Minutes later, two uniformed policemen leaned over a young man dressed in a Washington Redskins jersey. His eyes were open, looking at the heavens.

‘Central, this is Unit Twenty-three. We have a ten fifty-four. Send an ambulance-’

‘Forget it. He didn’t make it.’

‘Central, cancel that ambulance for now. We’ll go ahead and rope off the crime scene.’

One of the officers looked at the young man’s face, thinking that it was a shame he’d died from his wounds. He was young enough to be my son . But the man wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. He’d seen enough dead kids on Washington’s streets to carpet the Oval Office. Yet none of them wore the expression on this one’s face.

For a moment he thought of calling his partner to ask him why the hell this kid had such a peaceful smile. He didn’t do it, of course.

He was afraid of looking like a fool.

Saturday, 15 July 2006. 2:06 a.m.

Orville Watson’s safe house and Albert’s apartment were almost twenty-five miles apart. Orville travelled the distance in the back seat of Albert’s Toyota, half asleep and semi-conscious, but at least his hands had been properly bandaged, thanks to the first-aid kit the priest carried in his car.

An hour later, dressed in a towelling bathrobe – the only thing of Albert’s that fit him – Orville swallowed several Tylenols with the orange juice the priest had brought him.

‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. This will help stabilise you.’

The only thing Orville wanted was to stabilise his body on a hospital bed, but given his limited options he decided he might as well stick with Albert.

‘Would you happen to have a Hershey’s bar?’

‘No, sorry. I can’t eat chocolate – it gives me pimples. But in a while I’ll go by a Seven Eleven to get something to eat, some extra large T-shirts, and maybe some candy if you want.’

‘Forget it. After what happened tonight I think I’m going to hate Hersheys for the rest of my life.’

Albert shrugged. ‘It’s up to you.’

Orville pointed at the array of computers that cluttered Albert’s living room. On a table about twelve feet long sat ten monitors connected to a mass of cables as thick as an athlete’s thigh that ran along the floor next to the wall. ‘You have great equipment, Mr International Liaison,’ Orville said, speaking to relieve the tension. Observing the priest, he realised they were both in the same boat. His hands were shaking slightly and he seemed a little lost. ‘HarperEdwards System, with TINCom motherboards… That’s how you tracked me down, right?’

‘Your offshore in Nassau, the one you used to buy the safe house. It took me forty-eight hours to track down the server that stored the original transaction. Two thousand one hundred and forty-three steps. You’re good.’

‘You too,’ Orville said, impressed.

The two men looked at each other and nodded, recognising fellow hackers. For Albert, this brief moment of relaxation meant that the shock he had held at bay suddenly invaded his body like a group of hooligans. Albert didn’t make it to the bathroom. He vomited into a bowl of popcorn he had left on the table the night before.

‘I’ve never killed anybody before. That kid… I didn’t even notice the other one because I had to act, I shot without thinking. But the kid… he was just a baby. And he looked me in the eye.’

Orville didn’t say anything, because there was nothing he could say.

They stood like that for ten minutes.

‘I understand him now,’ the young priest finally said.

‘Who?’

‘A friend of mine. Someone who’s had to kill, and who’s suffered because of it.’

‘Are you talking about Fowler?’

Albert eyed him suspiciously.

‘How do you know that name?’

‘Because this whole mess began when Kayn Industries contracted my services. They wanted to know about Father Anthony Fowler. And I can’t help noticing that you’re also a priest.’

This made Albert even more nervous. He grabbed Orville by the bathrobe.

‘What did you say to them?’ he shouted. ‘I have to know!’

‘I told them everything,’ Orville said flatly. ‘His training, that he was connected to the CIA, to the Holy Alliance…’

‘Oh God! Do they know his real mission?’

‘I don’t know. They asked me two questions. The first was, who is he? The second: who would matter to him?’

‘What did you find out? And how?’

‘I didn’t find out anything. I would have given up if I hadn’t received an anonymous envelope containing a photo and the name of a reporter: Andrea Otero. A note in the envelope said Fowler would do anything to make sure she wasn’t harmed.’

Albert let go of Orville’s robe and began pacing around the room as he tried to piece it all together.

‘Everything is starting to make sense… When Kayn went to the Vatican and told them he had a clue to finding the Ark, that it could be in the hands of an old Nazi war criminal, Cirin promised to put his best man on the case. In exchange, Kayn had to take a Vatican observer on the expedition. By giving you Otero’s name, Cirin made sure that Kayn would allow Fowler to be part of the expedition because then Cirin could control him through Otero, and that Fowler would accept the mission in order to protect her. Manipulative son of a bitch,’ Albert said, restraining a smile that was half disgust, half admiration.