Richard Heller - The 13th Apostle

The Professor and Sabbie waited for Gil’s affirmation, which he had no intention of giving. Damned if he was going be carted off to the Middle East at George’s whim.

He wasn’t going and that was that. George could be counted on to go through his typical routine. He would argue that the company needed the revenue and without it, they’d be facing pay cuts or worse, layoffs. When that failed, George would pull some other manipulation out of his hat. The big guy had been alluding to the fact that since Lucy’s death Gil had become a recluse, so he’d probably argue that a little adventure would be good for Gil’s soul.

Good for CyberNet’s coffers, you mean.

Gil shook off the imaginary conversation. He had no intention of going anywhere. It was as simple as that.

“Why would I be going to Israel if the diary is in England?” Gil asked, a bit argumentatively.

“No matter. No matter. That’s where you’ll be doing your work.”

Not on your life, old man.

He flashed the Professor his most sincere look. “You know, considering what’s involved, I think it would make far more sense to bring the diary to CyberNet’s facilities,” Gil explained. “So, with your okay, Dr. Ludlow, I’m going to recommend that CyberNet assign your project our best team here in New York. In that way, you’ll get the best minds…”

“A team!” Ludlow gasped.

“Well, yes, but don’t worry, it won’t cost you any more. Actually, for the cost of transporting and housing me, it might even be cheaper in the long run…”

“Are you out of your mind?” Sabbie asked angrily. “How could you make such a suggestion? Either you’re a fool or you haven’t heard a word Dr. Ludlow has said. In either case, you’re wasting our time.”

She rose, nodded to the Professor, and made her way toward the restrooms. Ludlow mopped his forehead with his napkin, excused himself, and followed in the same general direction.

Gil shook his head in disbelief. What the hell had just happened? Had he really screwed things up that badly? Apparently so.

He slumped into his chair, prepared to offer the required apologies as soon as they both cooled down and made their way back to the table.

By the time the waiter came for their second drink order, Gil knew the bitter truth. Ludlow had walked out. And so had the girl.

Gil’s eyes fixed on Ludlow’s dripping raincoat, still slung on the chair, and his umbrella lay half open on the floor under the table. Everything was exactly as it had been, save for the fact that Ludlow and Sabbie were gone. Gone from the table and, evidently, gone from the restaurant.

Had he thought to look up from the three square inches of tablecloth that occupied his field of vision since their departure, he might have seen them leave. But he had waited, like a schoolboy, for his punishment; ready to make amends, so that he might go home, get some rest, and let George have it—but good—on Monday morning.

Now, it appeared, there was no one left to apologize to. What started out as a bit of a pain-in-the-ass dinner had escalated into the meeting from hell. Gil’s gaze fell on Ludlow’s vacant chair. A single thought brought him to his feet and sent him striding in the direction he had last seen the Professor and Sabbie disappear.

Sabbie would never have allowed the old man to leave without his coat and umbrella. Not on a night like this.

A few minutes later

Hotel Agincourt

“Do you think we should leave him alone in there?” Aijaz asked anxiously. “I mean, he could just leave with the money. The stuff in the envelope could be worthless, right?”

Maluka glanced at the bedroom door that separated them from Ludlow’s assistant in the living room and motioned Aijaz to keep his voice down.

“No need to worry, my friend. Peterson isn’t going anywhere until we’re done with him. He may require our financial help again in the future and he knows it.”

Ajiaz waited for clarification.

Maluka tossed the thick envelope onto the bed. “This is of little importance. What I want isn’t in the envelope. What I want lies within the man in the next room.”

Aijaz nodded, desperately trying to keep up.

“Getting what you desire is easy once your adversary thinks he’s already given it to you,” Maluka explained.

The big man looked down, not knowing what to say.

“It’s okay, Aijaz. I take care of my part. You take care of yours.”

Aijaz smiled with gratitude.

“Now we wait just long enough. Another three minutes should do it.”

Persuading noncooperative people to take seriously their moral obligations was Maluka’s forte. As a boy in Halab, Syria, he had been obsessed with playing “monks and demons,” a game that dated back to the fourth century. Having convinced one of his many cousins to dress in rags, Maluka would don his carefully assembled costume and assume the role of the holy man. With great ceremony, the young Maluka would summon the evil spirit that lurked within the heart of his playmate and challenge it to combat. Though small for his age, Maluka had been remarkably muscular, able to pin down a child several years his senior and to extract, at his demand, confessions of iniquity and promises of repentance. In so doing, Maluka invariably succeeded in exorcising the evil spirit and making the world safe for the Pure of Heart.

Once having played the game with him, a child would rarely do so again. Maluka couldn’t have cared less. Having savored victory over any particular foe, he had no need for a rematch.

Now, decades later, Maluka had transformed the physical game of his childhood into the psychological game he used in the service of his Faith. Whenever he had to resort to physical persuasion, however, he preferred to delegate that responsibility to Aijaz.

Both men returned to the living room. The still-unopened envelope remained where it had been tossed on the bed.

Ludlow’s assistant rose from his seat, waiting for Maluka’s judgment on the envelope’s contents.

“Excellent. Excellent. You have managed to obtain some very useful documents,” Maluka began.

A look of relief crossed Peterson’s haggard face and betrayed what Maluka had suspected. Peterson was frightened Maluka would discover that he had been given information that was virtually useless. Although Peterson must have included some of Ludlow’s personal notes on the diary, as Maluka had requested, and perhaps some background history on the Monastery at Weymouth where the diary was found, in all likelihood, Peterson had not included anything of any real importance. Maluka smiled with satisfaction. If there was one thing that he knew, it was people. He had no illusions about them, he could always expect the worst, and they rarely ever disappointed him.

“So, you’ve met your part of the bargain and we’re all set,” Maluka concluded with a studied good humor.

Peterson’s fingers reflexively patted the package of money in his jacket pocket. He smiled gratefully, stood, and walked toward the door, most likely convincing himself that he had been concerned over nothing.

Maluka offered the handshake that had not been forthcoming at Peterson’s arrival. Peterson responded in kind and turned to go.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Maluka said offhandedly. “What is this business about a copper scroll?”

Peterson’s smile faded.

Before Ludlow’s assistant could respond, Maluka probed a little deeper. “I’m sure it’s not really significant or the Professor would have mentioned it in his notes more than that one time. I was just wondering if you included it because you thought it might be important.”

This was the part Maluka enjoyed the most. He’d set the trap, caught the rat, and now he got to watch him slowly wriggle. Best of all, with each squirm, Ludlow’s assistant was providing Maluka with exactly the information he wanted.