Mr. President, the ground option simply is not militarily viable. It would be a bloodbath, worse than Iraq, and the American people would not stand for it.”
Rice nodded slowly. “Okay. And conventional bombs? We have twenty-thousand-pound, armor-piercing bunker busters. We used them in Iraq. Why not there?”
Bentley shook his head. “They are designed for man-made structures, sir. Not for mountains. This is our only viable military option.”
“Our only viable military option,” Rice echoed. “You want me to blast a hole in Pakistan—an ally—with nuclear weapons.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Bentley said. “With nuclear weapons.”
Cairo, Egypt
Guiseppi Veltroni strolled along Midan Talaat Harb, admiring the neoclassic architecture. Despite its haze, Cairo was still a beautiful city. When he had first met Nathan Cohen, years before, Cohen had offered to take him to the Valley of the Kings and the Giza Plateau. But to Veltroni, that was “tourist Egypt,” too far removed from the experience of the common Egyptian. Veltroni preferred Cairo or Alexandria, where he could watch the comings and goings of ordinary people, gauge their moods and feel the pulse of their nation.
During the day, Cairo hummed with a rhythm as old as time. Men and women shopped at outdoor markets, bargaining for the best prices on vegetables, meats, clothing and other necessities. It was this sort of human push and pull that had first drawn Veltroni from the tiny village of his birth to the sprawl of Rome, and while he still went home to visit, his heart remained in city life.
His Arabic was barely passable, but he could still learn much from facial expressions and body language. The woman at the lemon stand, for example, seemed untouched by the events of Black Christmas. In her weary face, he saw a woman for whom life was not global in its reach. Not for her the machinations of power or the whispered schemes of men who would do whatever they thought necessary to gain an advantage. Her life was simple, and in that simplicity, he saw a beauty he had long since forsaken.
“You are probably right, my friend.”
Veltroni turned to see Cohen standing beside him. As always, the man seemed to appear out of nowhere. Perhaps more irritating, and also as always, Cohen seemed to be able to read his thoughts.
“One day I will learn how you do that,” Veltroni said, not extending a hand in greeting.
“It would be better for all of us if you did not,” Cohen replied. He pointed to an outdoor café across the street. “Come, let us have fine Turkish coffee and talk. There is much we need to discuss.”
“Perhaps,” Veltroni said, following Cohen to a table. “If you had news of my brother priest in Guatemala, I would be more inclined to listen to the rest of what you say.”
“Ahh yes,” Cohen said, sitting. “That would be Father Lorenzo, no?”
Veltroni nodded. “As always, your knowledge of my activities exceeds my knowledge of yours.”
“And that, too, is probably for your own good,” Cohen said, before switching to Arabic to order for both of them. After the waiter had gone, Cohen turned to Veltroni. “The good Father Lorenzo is alive, my friend, or was when last my sources heard of him. He and the villagers of Dos Ojos have gone into hiding in the mountains, hunted by both the government and the rebels. And also by your enemies.”
Veltroni’s heart squeezed. While he and Lorenzo had taken the same oath for the preservation of the Faith, an oath that bound them even unto death, he had no desire to test the limits of that commitment, for himself or for his friend and protégé.
“And what can your…sources…do to protect him?” Veltroni asked. “Some quid pro quo would not be amiss.”
Cohen shook his head. “Even our reach has its limits, Monsignor. If I could guarantee your friend’s safety, I would. But that is not in my power to do.”
“And Black Christmas?” Veltroni asked. “Was that in your power to prevent?” It was almost an accusation, a sign that his diplomatic abilities were becoming strained by his concern about recent events—and by Cohen’s opacity. Veltroni forced himself to draw a steadying breath. Like it or not, he couldn’t afford to offend any contact, least of all one about whom he knew so little.
“I wish it had been,” Cohen said. “What happened last week served only the basest of human impulses. That horror will only beget more horror. Even now, there are those who are discussing the most awful of consequences.”
“Your choice of words is disturbing, Mr. Cohen.”
“It should be, Monsignor. There are those who will pause at nothing to pursue their ends, and who will use these attacks as a way to justify more bloodshed.”
Veltroni felt chilled despite the warmth of the Cairo afternoon. Time. All of a sudden it seemed there was no time.
“When?” he asked numbly.
Cohen shrugged and sipped his espresso. “The sword must be rattled first. You will hear it rattling.”
Veltroni closed his eyes, suddenly wondering how it was that he could be sitting here on a sun-drenched street in Cairo, watching ordinary people go about their ordinary lives and discussing the unthinkable.
“Monsignor,” said Cohen, leaning toward him, “I will give you something to think about.”
Veltroni’s eyes snapped open.
“Consider whether you are protecting your Church or your faith. They are not one and the same. As for the Codex you sent your young friend to find…you would be wise to pray that he does not find it. You have no idea what events you and your enemies have set in motion, Monsignor. No idea at all. For myself…” Cohen shrugged. “Armageddon will happen. Now or later.”
He rose and threw some money on the table to pay for the coffee. He paused and spoke one more time. “There is a reason, Monsignor, that your Church holds no specific doctrine about whether Yeshua ben Yusef was married. Your Church has shown wisdom in that, and you ought not ignore that wisdom. Be willing to let the truth be the truth.”
Then he turned and disappeared into the crowds on the street before Veltroni could say another word.
At that point, if the sky had darkened and lightning had begun to shoot from the clouds, Veltroni would have been no less disturbed. Nor felt any less that he was on the cusp of a division between realities.
His head suddenly rang with Pilate’s infamous question: What is truth?
And for the first time in his life, Giuseppe Veltroni wondered if he had ever known the answer.
Frankfurt, Germany
Jonathan Morgan rarely came to Frankfurt these days. He was getting too damn old for international flight, even on a private jet. Eight hours in cramped quarters seriously annoyed him. At his age he’d earned the right to spend time fishing and tending his collection of orchids.
Instead, he’d been summoned to a meeting in no uncertain terms. It was all his son’s fault, he thought grimly as he stretched stiff joints before attempting to climb down the stairs to the apron. If Edward hadn’t screwed up and needed to be eliminated, he would have been the one making
