Promethea (8 page)

             
Adam knew he was withdrawing out of his Schuster credit, but he wholeheartedly deserved it. Without him, the local officers would have still been scratching their heads, on an absurd manhunt for Gandalf the grey.

             
As a gesture of good faith, Schuster instructed one of his minions to escort us back to the hotel with a copy of the letter sent to the Austrian Church. My drained partner just nodded submissively, as he had barely slept in days. The Senior Councillor stepped outside his office and kept a watchful eye on us until he made sure we all took the elevator down to the ground floor, thus confirming our departure. As the door slid shut, I caught a glimpse of yet another shaky junior officer who was covertly speaking to him, handing out an enveloped written report as he listened attentively. From where we stood, it was impossible to decipher the true nature of their conversation. It was dimly faint, completely inaudible.

             
“Sir, that signal you asked us to track.”

             
“Yes, what about it?”

              “We’ve got him.” Reported the officer.

              Bauer and Russo had both just left the last round of meetings with the delegates of the ‘Call to Disobedience’ content and relieved. They abandoned the rest of the clergymen and bishops chatting peacefully on the rather large negotiations table: A scene that had not been witnessed in over a decade. They marched triumphantly together in a long marble corridor, adorned with impressive religious icons, paintings and insignia. The Romanesque inspired pathway led to a spacious curved balcony overlooking a vast frost-covered public park. Its massive trees screened a frozen pond that appeared in the not so distant backdrop. It refuged people who gathered from all walks of life, skating passionately on the reflective, pearly-white frozen water surface. Children chuckled as they chased each other and took turns on the overly decorated horses of an old merry-go-round, which was erected at the park overnight. Others amassed in front of a red local stall selling mouth-watering baked pretzels.

             
“It seems we have finally made it. We’re getting very close now.” Smiled Russo.

             
“We only needed someone who was willing to listen, to converge our points of view. Pope Francis was one of their favourites; they admired his views about atheism and the existence of Hell. He was a good humble man and the current Pope is walking in his footsteps. He does favour open sincere dialogue.” Bauer opened to Russo who gave him a mischievous gaze; he was completely missing the point. There was something immensely more important that Bauer was unintentionally oblivious to.

             
“I did mean our
other
errand.” Russo elaborated. “Bringing the woman over was a nice touch. She almost believed it was her idea; relocating the spear of Rome. All we need now is a formal request from the Interpol so the Pope wouldn’t get too suspicious.”

             
Bauer bowed his head quietly. On any other day and in any different given circumstances, he would have never involved Hélène. It simply would not have been his ideal strategy. He loathed all manners of deceit and the impending seeping lies, even if it was all for a greater cause, a common good. The American woman actually charmed him. He wished he could change the way she perceived things. He would have preferred her a willing ally rather than a mislead minion. Her contribution to the cause would have been far greater, under these perfect conditions. Yet in their case, time was a resource of utmost importance and value; it would have been a luxury they could barely afford.

             
God does work in mysterious ways
, he comforted himself. He would not have sent her if he had not willed this course of action. It was a golden opportunity that almost spoke to him. One that only a complete idiot would turn down.

             
The Italian bishop understood his friend’s fears, even if he could not have possibly shared them. He was always exhibiting a characteristically relaxed, laid back temper, deserting the bulk of his indecisiveness the moment he answered the call. It was a petty price to pay to fulfil God’s will, and no matter the pricey compromises may be: Their ultimate goal had to be accomplished.

             
“Did he contact you? Did you tell him everything was going as planned?” Bauer asked worryingly.

             
“Not yet, but I’m sure he would soon enough.” Russo comforted his friend.

             
He placed his hand on Bauer’s shoulder. It was a subtle indication that his part in the story was about to come to an end. His official purpose of visit had just concluded and he had just run out of excuses preventing him from returning to Rome. It was Bauer’s turn now to take charge. He greeted his old colleague with a warm vigorous handshake and stepped away from the balcony heading back inside, leaving the Austrian bishop lost in his contemplations. Yet as the dimness of distance started swallowing him away, he turned around for one last piece of advice.

             
“It is imperative to work on making her send that letter, Max. It would help things move a lot smoother.”

***

              Adam and I had already pre-booked two separate rooms at a nearby hotel before coming to Vienna. The Hotel Das Tigra was strategically situated somewhere between the police station and the crime scene and as such it did not take us long to reach the masonry clad structure. Lights were already slightly dimmed when we walked into the relatively quiet building and there were not a lot of movement around the lounge. I spotted a lone old lady heavily invested in watching an Austrian talents show and sipping off a glass of white wine.

             
“Do you want to have a drink before going up?” Adam intruded. “I know I could use one.”

             
His concern was genuine and soothing that it caught me off-guard. I sighed to him that I have always craved their famous apricot Schnapps before heading to look for a comfortable sitting. Just across the room, a seemingly comfortable black and white patterned fabric couch whispered to me that I walked all the way, throwing my whole weight over it. By the time he came back, I was already immersed in one of my typical daydreaming sessions.

             
“Do you want to talk about it? How it happened?” He caringly asked as he put our drinks down softly on a round wooden table between us.

             
His words ushered for a moment of revelation and self-discovery. My initial instincts had always restrained me from talking personal matters out. That is why I found it strange when I uncharacteristically lost control, raving about what has been tormenting me ever since I received the news. I amassed whatever strength I had left that day and acknowledged an irreconcilable bitterness.

             
“The world is not fair!” I objected.

             
It is satirical how I had always considered similar pleas as nothing more than a weak, pathetic worn-out cry for help. A cowardly excuse for the weak-minded that dared not face reality. I now feel humbled by those I had always patronized, considerate to their agonies, more understanding of their grief.
She was only twenty-five years old for heaven’s sake
.

             
Did they not promise us rapture as we settled well into the twenty first century, the midst of the Age of Aquarius? Astrologers, priests and men of Gods they were all the same. They see patterns where there should be none. They assured us cleaner, fresh virtues, a new take on moralities, idealisms and humanitarianism as mankind came out of age. Instead, we grew alarmingly more apathetic. We paraded our indifference to others’ miseries with numbing arrogance. Genocides and famines, the suffering and disease of tens of thousands of men, women and children across the globe have become pathetic formalities, pitiful daily occurrences. That is until a certain day drags along, and you fall prey to a customized tragedy that is meant to slit your eyes open.

             
The attack on the Westgate mall in Kenya in 2013 was just the beginning. It inspired an avalanche of dread and melancholy that plagued the whole continent for most of the past decade. Armed militants targeted crowded public places with an unusual devious twist. They segregated between victims based solely on their religious affiliations. On that dark day, unsuspecting shoppers were put to a decadent test. They were shot at point blank the second they struggled with rigid, faith-bound interrogations. Women, children; they did not discriminate. Only a chosen few were ever given a chance of survival.

             
Six long years have paved the way to Emily’s more intimate tragedy. She had volunteered as an elementary teacher in a Catholic school for girls in Nigeria, completely oblivious, perhaps even indifferent, to the extent to which she had been carelessly tempting fate. Yet, her routine fieldtrip to Abuja’s Children’s Zoo was, by far, her last stretch.

             
By the time Sun peaked at its zenith, masked gunmen got off their military jeeps and randomly opened automatic fire. The zookeepers were helpless. They tried to fight back, armed with nothing but tranquilizer guns and hunting rifles, but they simply were outnumbered and overpowered. The sadistic attackers then unleashed the zoo predators from their cages, feeding the on-going creative chaos. I imagined her trying to stop them. Prevent them from killing her terrified 8-year-old students but instead they showered them all with bullets. None of them made it.

             
By the time authorities arrived, there was simply nothing left of them. The released carnivores had already finished maiming most of the victims beyond recognition. Police had told us she was long gone before that happened… She did not feel a thing. They told all families the same official story to curb their pain, but I know for certain that this was never the case. In similar situations, authorities had to choose from pre-assigned statements to soothe public damnation.

             
I found myself facing my hotel room’s door by the time my story came to a conclusion. Adam was also present, standing close by. He looked deeply into my eyes before leaning over, stretching his neck timidly trying to kiss me. I put both my hands on his chest and pushed him gently.

             
“I am not yet that vulnerable, Adam.” I retorted smugly.

             
He pulled himself away, in avid disappointment. I could almost literally see him pacing away, with his tail between his legs, dragging along the carpeted corridor leading to his room. He glanced at me one last time before slipping his cardkey into the door and walking in. He was inspecting me still, clinging to the unlikeliest of chances that I may yet change my mind, which to my resolve I did not.

             
I released a frustratingly loud audible groan, as I walked into my room, tossing my coat and handbag on an adjacent chair and lobbing my stilettos somewhere across the bed. My body ached and curled on the velvety soft sheets as I stared blankly across the window.

             
Adam kicked his room’s chair on his way in. “STUPID!”
He felt like he almost had her back
.

             
Hélène was hardly the emotional type. Seldom has she been open the way she was downstairs. It must have been exceptionally hard for her. He reached for the chair, readjusted it to its former upright position, before sitting down and trying to breathe more steadily, trying to recapture his previous quiet self.

             
He reached for the remote to switch on the TV, but three soft knocks reverberated his door.
Has she changed her mind?
In a whim, he rose up rashly, looked in the mirror to fix his shirt and opened the door.

             
“Sir, your luggage.” The bellboy announced, and as so Adam had let him in. He laid some heavy bags on the floor in a neat stack and left merrily after receiving a handsome tip.

             
Adam retreated to his chair and sank his face deep into the palm of his hand exhaling heavily.
Could this moment get any worse?
He leaned back and noticed a piece of paper projecting out of one of his bags.
The letter Schuster gave us on our way back.

             
“Let’s see what we have here.”

             
He pulled both letters and moved to a nearby desk. He then stretched his arm, switching on an adjacent work lamp and placed both documents in front of him. The similarities were uncanny; they had sparked his interest. He rolled up his shirt’s sleeves and balanced his elbows on the desk’s wooden surface, crossing his fingers in an attempt to concentrate.

             
The documents seemed to indicate a planned sequence of thefts that started yesterday here in Vienna and would apparently conclude in Rome. The Vienna letter was hinting at an Alpha, a first and a beginning and the one received in Rome forecasted an Omega, a last and an end. Adam saw a pattern, a sinister plot. One that was dark enough, bleak and ominous. It led him to a shivering hypothesis: Whoever was behind this did not have an immediate plan to stop. It was all part of a grand scheme. He foresaw a purpose and a sense of direction. There was nothing left to chance.

             
Yet, what fascinated Adam the most was the manner in which those documents were devised. They were exceptionally peculiar, bold and consistent. They gave the Frenchman a sneak peek into the mastermind’s head. He was certain that their author must have a sense of flair and a desire to generate intrigue. He must have also been decisive and arrogant, lecturing the Church using quotes and sentences from their very own Bible. It almost felt as if he was…
preaching
.