Authors: Juan Gomez-Jurado

Contract With God (43 page)

BOOK: Contract With God

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‘I can hear you coming, priest.’

There was a red flash and a shot rang out. The bullet missed Fowler by quite a long way, but the priest remained wary and rolled quickly to his left. A second bullet hit the place where he had been just seconds before.

He’s using the flash from the gun to orientate himself. But he can’t do that too many times or he’ll run out of ammunition
, Fowler thought, mentally counting the wounds he’d seen on Pappas and Eichberg’s bodies.

He probably shot Dekker once, Pappas maybe three times, Eichberg twice, and he’s fired at me twice. That’s eight bullets. The gun has fourteen bullets, fifteen if there’s one in the chamber. That means he has six, maybe seven, bullets left. He’ll have to reload soon. When he does, I’ll hear the clicking of the magazine. Then . . .

He was still calculating when two more shots lit up the opening to the cave. This time Fowler rolled away from his original position just in time. The shot missed him by about four inches.

Four or five left.

‘I’m going to get you, Crusader. I’m going to get you because Allah is with me.’ Russell’s voice sounded ghostly inside the cave. ‘Get out of here while you still can.’

Fowler grabbed a rock and threw it inside the hole. Russell took the bait and fired in the direction of the noise.

Three or four.

‘Very clever, Crusader. But it won’t do you any good.’

He hadn’t finished speaking when he fired again. This time there were not two but three shots. Fowler rolled to his left and then to the right, banging his knees against the sharp rocks.

One bullet or an empty magazine.

Just before he rolled the second time the priest lifted his head for a moment. It was maybe only half a second but what he saw in the brief light from the shots would remain in his memory for ever.

Russell was standing behind a golden box of giant proportions. On top of it two roughly sculpted figures shone brightly. In the flash from the pistol, the gold appeared uneven, creased.

Fowler took a deep breath.

He was almost inside the chamber itself, but he didn’t have enough space to manoeuvre. If Russell shot again, even if it was just a shot to see where he was, he would almost certainly hit him.

Fowler decided to do what Russell least expected.

In one quick motion he jumped up and ran into the hole. Russell tried firing, but the hammer made a loud click. Fowler took a flying leap and, before the other man could react, the priest had thrust the whole of his body weight against the top of the Ark, which fell towards Russell, the lid opening and the contents spilling out. Russell jumped back and narrowly avoided being crushed.

What followed was a blind struggle. Fowler was able to hit Russell several times on the arms and chest but Russell somehow managed to stick a full magazine into his pistol. Fowler heard the weapon being reloaded. He felt around in the dark with his right hand, holding Russell’s arm with his left.

He found a flat rock.

With all his might he slammed it against Russell’s head and the young man dropped to the ground, unconscious.

The force of the blow shattered the rock into pieces.

Fowler tried to regain his footing. His whole body hurt and his head was bleeding. Using the light from his watch, he tried to find his bearings in the dark. He directed the thin but intense shaft of light on to the overturned Ark, producing a soft glimmer that filled the chamber.

He had very little time to admire it. At that moment Fowler heard a sound that, in the struggle, he hadn’t noticed . . .

Beep
.

. . . and understood that while he had been rolling around to evade the shots . . .

Beep
.

. . without meaning to . . .

Beep
.

. . . he had activated the detonator . . .

. . . that only sounded in the last ten seconds before exploding . . .

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Driven by instinct, not reason, Fowler leaped into the blackness outside the chamber, beyond the Ark’s faint light.

At the foot of the platform, a nervous Andrea Otero was biting her nails. Then suddenly the ground shook. The scaffold swayed and groaned as the steel absorbed the impact of the blast but didn’t collapse. A cloud of smoke and dust billowed out of the opening to the tunnel, covering Andrea with a fine layer of grit. She ran several feet away from the scaffold and waited. For half an hour her eyes remained glued to the entrance to the smoking cave, although she realised the wait was futile.

Nobody came out.

ON THE ROAD TO AQABA

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

Thursday, 20 July 2006. 9:34 p.m.

Andrea reached the H3 with the shot tyre where she’d left it, more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. She found the jack exactly where Fowler had said, and mentally recited a prayer for the dead priest.

He is certain to be in Heaven, if such a place exists. If you exist, God. If you’re up there, why don’t you send a couple of angels to give me a hand?

Nobody showed up, so Andrea had to do the work herself. When she had finished, she went to say goodbye to Doc, who was buried no more than ten feet away. The farewell lasted a while, and Andrea was aware that she had howled and cried out loud several times. She felt she was on the verge - in the middle - of a nervous breakdown after what had happened during the last few hours.

The moon was starting to rise, lighting up the dunes with its silvery blue light when Andrea finally got the strength to say goodbye to Chedva and climb into the H3. Feeling faint, she closed the door and turned on the air-conditioning. The cold air hitting her sweaty skin felt delicious, but she couldn’t let herself enjoy it for more than a few minutes. The fuel tank was only a quarter full, and she’d need everything she had to reach the road.

If I’d noticed that detail when we climbed into the vehicle this morning I would’ve realised the real purpose of the trip. Maybe Chedva would still be alive
.

She shook her head. She had to concentrate on driving. With a little luck she’d reach the road and find a town with a petrol station before midnight. If not, she’d have to walk. The important thing was to find a computer with a connection to the Internet as soon as possible.

She had a story to tell.

EPILOGUE

The dark figure walked slowly on his journey back home. He had very little water, but it was enough for a man like him, who had been taught to survive under the worst conditions, and to help others survive.

He had managed to find the route through which the chosen of Yirməyáhu had entered the caves over two thousand years ago. This was the darkness into which he had flung himself just before the explosion. Some of the rocks that had covered it had been blown away with the blast. It took a ray of sunlight and several hours of backbreaking effort for him to emerge into the open again.

He slept during the day wherever he found shade. He breathed only with his nose, through an improvised scarf he had made from discarded clothing.

He walked at night, resting ten minutes every hour. His face was completely covered with dust, and now as he saw the outline of the road a few hours’ away, he grew increasingly conscious of the fact that his ‘death’ could finally provide the liberation he had been seeking all these years. He would no longer have to be a soldier of God.

His freedom would be one of two rewards he had received from this undertaking, even though he could never share either of them with anyone.

He reached into his pocket for the fragment of rock, no bigger than the palm of his hand. This was all that was left of the flat stone with which he had hit Russell in the dark. Across its surface were the profound but perfect symbols that had been etched by no human hand.

Two tears ran down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the dust that covered his face. His fingertips traced over the symbols on the stone and his lips turned them into words.

Loh Tirtzach.

Thou shall not kill
.

In that instant, he asked for forgiveness.

And was forgiven.

Acknowledgements

I want to thank the following people:

My parents, to whom this book is dedicated, for avoiding the bombs during the Civil War and for giving me a childhood so different from their own.

To Antonia Kerrigan, for being the best literary agent on the planet with the best team: Lola Gulias, Bernat Fiol and Víctor Hurtado.

To you, the reader, for making
God’s Spy
, my first novel, a success in thirty-nine countries. I truly thank you.

In New York, to James Graham, my ‘brother’. To Rory Hightower, Alice Nakagawa and Michael Dillman.

In Barcelona, Enrique Murillo, editor of this book, both untiring and tiring since he has one unusual virtue: he always told me the truth.

In Santiago de Compostela, Manuel Soutino, who lent his considerable understanding of engineering to descriptions of the Moses Expedition.

In Roma, Giorgio Selano for his knowledge of the catacombs.

In Milan, Patrizia Spinato, word tamer.

In Jordan, Samir Mufti, Bahjat al-Rimaui and Abdul Suheiman, who know the desert like nobody else and who taught me the
gahwa
ritual.

In Vienna, nothing would have been possible without Kurt Fischer, who provided me with information on the real butcher of Spiegelgrund, who died on 15 December of a heart attack.

And to my wife, Katuxa, and my children, Andrea and Javier, for being understanding about my trips and my schedule.

Dear reader, I don’t want to end the book without requesting a favour. Go back to the beginning of these pages and reread the poem by Samuel Keen. Do it until you memorise every word. Teach it to your children; send it to your friends. Please.

The original Al Qaeda manual comprises 5,000 pages in several volumes, and contains detailed information concerning operations carried out in the past by the terrorist group, as well as the correct methods for recruiting new members; training; creating cells, preparing and using explosives against military and civilian targets; assassinations with all sorts of firearms, poisons and knives; espionage and counter-espionage; and resistance to interrogation and torture. In terrorist hideouts there is always a smaller version some 180 pages long. It is strictly forbidden to take the manual out of the house and the head of the cell has orders to destroy it at any sign of danger.

Homosexual in Arabic.

Your mother committed adultery with a monkey.

International Service Liaison, link between international espionage services.

Gossipy woman in Yiddish.

A neurotic housewife who is obsessive about cleanliness, what others might think, and good manners in the series
Desperate Housewives
.

Oh, merciful God, who art in Heaven, permit the souls of our friends to rest in the wings of your divine presence; in the divine heights of your purity and holiness accept the bright spirit that approaches you.

Jewish Law.

Blessed art thou, oh God, the Eternal, Universal Presence, who makes bread grow from the earth.

BOOK: Contract With God

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