“Yeah, I remember what Cain said in the museum,” Soloman conceded. “I’m just not sure what it means. Or what all this means about the moon and planets. I agree that it sounds like some kind of Black Magic but that could just be superstition. Some of it could have some substance – I don’t know. But I don’t know that it does, either. There’s no way to know whether any of this is real.”
Marcelle spoke with certainty. “Black Magic, or superstition as you term it, has endured so many centuries because there is something true and real at the heart of it. And, if it will ease your mind, I have learned that belief in a supremely evil, supernatural being that wars with God is a dominant theme among all the world’s people and religions. Everyone, it seems, tends to believe in Satan even though they may not believe in God. But, then, as Milton demonstrated, the Devil is more interesting.”
Soloman glanced behind himself; yeah, good, they were alone, though he knew they could switch to German or French if someone approached. He turned back with a whisper: “Marcelle, if anybody knew we were talking about this, they’d lock us up.”
“And yet this theme dominates the earliest sacred writings of man, Colonel. It was held sacred by the Celts, the Druids, and even the Norsemen. And since the beginning of recorded history it has been explored by every nation and tribe, submerged within the varying mythologies. Just as it is a dominant theme of the Church. Yes, history alone grants substantial weight and substance to what intelligent men, in their prideful arrogance and ignorance, tend to ridicule. But what the centuries have held to be preeminent must be respected, regardless of our prejudices.”
For a while Soloman said nothing. “I don’t know if I can agree with you on this, Marcelle. I mean, it’s obvious that Cain isn’t human. That much is clear. But this is a stretch that I’m not sure I can make. There’s not enough evidence. And just to be safe I don’t think we should mention it to anyone. We’d lose credibility, and they wouldn’t believe us anyway.”
Marcelle stared with a faint gleam. “Indulge me for a moment, Soloman,” he said finally, “and I will explain my perspective. And you can accept it or not. For you are correct; I have no means of proving anything. Just as you would have no means of disproving. Logic is merely the beginning in the search for truth, but logic, forever, will end at faith.”
Soloman glanced around. “All right,” he said slowly, “but switch to another language if someone approaches us.”
They began to stroll along the porch, shoulder to shoulder. “Man’s concept of Satan has changed greatly through the ages,” Marcelle continued. “And the Enlightenment fundamentally altered the manner in which modern man looks upon him. From Calvin to Luther and the contemplative mystics, to Augustine, Milton—” He waved. “All of them were involved. Even Voltaire and Rousseau, fathers of modern existentialism, influenced our current concept of what is, and always has been, known as Lucifer.
“It was during the sixteenth century, during the last gasp of the Reformation, that the traditional concept of Satan was absorbed by materialism, making ‘evil’ nothing more than simply opposition to what the majority considered to be ‘good.’ It was simply a dualism of forces that kept the universe in balance.
“Psychologists have a term for it; it is called ‘splitting.’ In scientific terms, it is the means by which men defensively divide the universe into cohabitating halves: Good and evil, harmful and helpful, friendly and unfriendly. And many social mores, if you will, were born from that psychological development. There was the death of the witch craze, the removal of a tyrannical Church, the upheaval of social structures in England and the Continent. And it was an appropriate maturation, I believe, an advance long overdue. But there was also, to our detriment, a distancing from a belief that ‘Satan’ himself exists, allowing Satan to become little more than an impersonal personification of universal evil, somewhat shuffled off to the realm of mythology like Loki or Set.” He paused, grunting at a sudden thought. “But let me ask you a question, Soloman, since you were formerly a manhunter: If you wanted to hide and everyone were hunting you, what would be the wisest course of action?”
Soloman knew it by rote; it was a fundamental procedure of counter-intelligence. “If you want to go under and stay under, you make them think you’re already dead.”
“Exactly,” Marcelle nodded. “For if your enemy believes you are already dead, then they will not search so ferociously for you. And what could be a greater victory for a penultimate being who may desire to design the destiny of every life on the Earth? If men believed in Satan, they would fear him. And then they would seek God for protection. But if men did not believe in Satan, then they would not need God or even believe in God. It is as simple as that. If there is no such thing as Satan, then ...” He gestured vaguely.
Malo strolled toward them, patrolling the perimeter, and Marcelle switched effortlessly to French. “Si on ne cherche pas le Diable, pourquoi cherche leDieu? Maintenant, jepense qu’il n’y apersonne qui cherche, lis se sont tons igares.”
Closing, Malo cast a vaguely suspicious glance as Soloman switched over. “Oui,” he replied, “je connais les mots. ‘Le serpent ancien, appele le Diable et Satan, qui seduit tout le monde.’”
“Le meme,” Marcelle replied pensively.
Malo passed and Marcelle switched again to English. “Yes, Colonel, it would be the same: Satan, the Devil, who deceives the whole world. As you quoted from Revelations.” He paused. “I didn’t know you were familiar with the Scriptures.”
“I’ve read them,” Soloman said simply. “I don’t know what I believe but I’ve read the Bible cover to cover.”
“Good.” The priest frowned. “No man is intelligent if he cannot speak thoroughly on a book that has changed so much of the world just as they should also know the Koran and the teachings of Buddha or Confucius and the subtlest writings of Nietzsche.”
“But what you said a few moments ago is something I’ve heard before, Marcelle. It’s not a new thought.”
“Fundamental truths usually aren’t, Colonel,” he agreed. “The genius of a great thought – “
“– is measured by its simplicity,” Soloman finished, and they fell silent together. Truly, Soloman didn’t know what to believe, but the certainty in the priest’s tone intimated that there could be something substantial to the theory. In addition, Soloman remembered that Marcelle was a man of science; he was not prone to mysticism.
“I believe,” Marcelle said with gravity, “that there are forces in this universe not easily understood. Forces of incredible power. I believe, even, that you may be challenging ... a god.”
“Maybe.” Soloman allowed bitterly. “Whatever it is, I guess I’ve challenged it.”
Marcelle stopped, leaning on the rail. “I gave up all I had for my faith,” he added, suddenly contemplative. “And I’ve spent too many years forgetting it ... until now. It is a long journey, Soloman. I tell you the truth, from faith to faith – from believing to disbelieving, and believing again. From beginning in darkness to find your way through that labyrinth of lies and deceptions, the intentional misuse of truth. It is a journey that has consumed my entire life and still, sometimes, I perceive that I know little more than when I began.”
“No,” Soloman said, “you know a lot more, Marcelle. It’s just that in the beginning you simply believed, so a prayer was just a prayer. But then you began to question. And, after a little while, a prayer wasn’t just a prayer. It was a mystery – questions without answers. But after forty years of answering one question after another you learned that the mystery never ends, so you were back where you began – at faith.”
The priest glanced away and seemed to consider the truth of Soloman’s words. “Perhaps you’re right. But now the circle is complete, I believe. And I do not know if faith will be enough.”
“Why’s that?”
The priest looked at the sun, frowning.
“Because no one has more faith in God,” he said, “than Satan.”
***
Soloman was both relieved and pleased when he reentered the house and saw Amy sitting in front of a big-screen television, watching a video. She had a big bowl of popcorn – a strange meal for so early in the morning. But Soloman expected a lot of leeway would be given in the next few days.
It had been so long since Soloman had seen a movie that it actually distracted him. He stood a moment, staring at the screen. It was amazing how much everything had changed in seven years. All of a sudden, he felt seriously old and out of touch.
Wordless, Amy gazed up. She didn’t say anything, but Soloman suddenly felt the attention. He didn’t care to talk about Cain anymore, and he knew she didn’t either. He pointed vaguely to the screen. “That looks like a pretty good movie.”
She looked back at the screen, munching a mouthful of popcorn. “Yes, sir. I’ve seen it eight times.”
“Eight times?” Soloman was genuinely impressed. “You’ve seen this thing eight times?”
“Yes, sir. Eight times, I think. Maybe more, though. Mommy’s out of town a lot, so I stay with babysitters, and they really don’t know what to do with me. I like games, but they usually put in a movie and do their homework. Mommy says that one day she’s not going to have to work so much.” She paused. “I hope not. I get lonely lots of times.”
Soloman wondered about her father, but discretion prevented him from asking. Still, he felt a wave of sincere compassion, knowing what it was like to be alone and lonely. It was something they had in common. “Well,” he said, “maybe we could play some games in a little while, Amy. Think you might like that?”
She opened her eyes wider. “Monopoly?”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “I’m sure we’ve got a set around here. If we don’t, we can send somebody out to get it.” The sweetness of Amy’s smile broadened as he gazed into the blue eyes, and then he laughed, turning away. “Go ahead and enjoy your movie, and I’ll see what I can do,” he added.
“Thanks, Soloman.” She stared after him. “I think it would be fun.”
“I do, too.” He smiled. “I do, too.”
Soloman understood as he moved that they were becoming comfortable with each other, and he enjoyed the feeling, knowing satisfaction for the first time in a long while.
It was an odd sensation for him because he’d reckoned his internal defenses as complete. And as he walked away he wondered vaguely how a small child could begin breaking down something a man had spent seven years building to such cold perfection.
***
Malo was cleaning the MP5, methodically executing every move with easy familiarity. And Soloman remembered that that was exactly how Delta commandos were trained to disassemble a weapon: start to finish in three seconds. If anybody needed more than five, they were considered a flunky or worse. Soloman had seen some of them simply slam the butt of an M16 on a table and the thing would literally disintegrate, disassembled in the blink of an eye; it was incredible.
Without a glance Malo answered Soloman’s oncoming question. “I got Tony and Drake in the front listening posts, fifty yards out. Magic and Milo are in the back. They got all four angles covered. Gray and Hank and Chemo are getting some sleep.”
Soloman nodded, poured a cup of coffee. He’d need some sleep himself tonight, he knew – or today. But he’d have to catch it in two-hour catnaps because he was in combat flow, and he never truly slept because of the vivid alertness. Usually he would rise before sunrise and count each one, wondering how many sunrises he would still enjoy.
Without turning his head Malo spoke. “I was a little messed up last night, Colonel.” There was no remorse or apology. “Just wanted to tell you that there was no disrespect intended. I was just angry.”
Soloman slapped him on the shoulder as he moved out of the kitchen: “Sorry, Malo. I can’t remember a thing you said.”
The reassembly halted.
“Colonel?”
Half-turning his head, Soloman hesitated.
“Appreciate it, sir.”
A curt nod and Soloman stepped out the back door to reflexively search out and identify two highly concealed single-man listening posts set deep in the surrounding trees. The commandos were masterfully camouflaged, but Soloman, from years of training, could perceive the leaf-like ghillie suits prone in the forest floor. He knew that with their phenomenal discipline they could hold that position for days, using patience that would drive a normal man insane.
Maggie, sitting on the porch, looked up with a smile. A cup of coffee was beside her and a book was laid open, the cover not visible. She appeared tired of reading.
“What’s the book?” he asked, sitting.
“The New Face of War. Found it on a shelf.”
“How is it?”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t call it entertainment.”
Soloman laughed, leaning forward. It was one of the few restful moments they’d shared since they’d been joined in the underground bunker at White Sands. And Soloman thought, strangely, that it was the first time he’d laughed in a long time. Then he remembered Amy and the transparent smile and light in her eyes. It seemed as if he was moving further with every moment he spent with the two of them, and he began to wonder where it would end.
“I can barely see those guys out there,” Maggie said. “Those what-you-call-it suits really make them blend.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “The suits help.” He took a sip. “But those guys are good. They don’t make too many mistakes.”
With a more tender expression, she turned to him. “I’m sorry about what happened to your guys last night, Sol. I feel sorry for their families.”
He paused, frowning. “They were good men, but they knew the risks. Just like the rest of us. They were willing to die for what they believed, and they did. And I think that Cain—or whatever he’s become—remembers a lot about tactical response, counterattack, whatever. It’s like some sort of reflex instinct that his brain retained. He always does the right thing at the right time.”
She gazed at him a long time before she said quietly, “I heard about what you did. Heard the Delta guys talking about it. They said it took a steel spine to pull a stunt like that.”
Soloman shrugged. “It happens. You get caught up in the moment and lose your temper.” He winked, “Just don’t let your temper get you killed.”
She smiled wanly, turned to look out. “I just wanted to thank you,” she continued, “for spitting in Cain’s face.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t finish the job.”
“Have you always been a soldier?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I grew up in New York. My football prowess got me into Annapolis.”
“You played football? Really?”
“Yeah.”
“What position?”
“Halfback,” he replied. “I wasn’t tough, but I was fast.” He smiled. “Ben’s never forgiven me for beating Army my last two seasons.”
She laughed.
“Anyway,” he continued, “after graduation I joined the Corps. Went for Force Recon, qualified. Made captain and major in record time, then commanded in Beirut, the Philippines, Panama. Ran a few companies after I made light colonel.”
“Why didn’t you go ahead and make full bird colonel? Or even general or something?”
“Or something?” Soloman smiled. “Like President?”
She laughed and Soloman felt that she was truly lowering her guard. But then, suddenly, he didn’t really want to talk about his life. He turned to the trees, scanning by zone. He took another sip of coffee, cleared his throat.
“So?” She waited.
He shook his head, staring into the woods. “I didn’t make full colonel because I took early retirement.”
She waited a long time before she followed up with, �
��Am I pushing you?”
He didn’t reply.
“That’s okay,” she said dismissively. “Everyone’s got their secrets.”
“You’ve got secrets?” he said, with a slight smile. “Miss Prodigal Genius with degrees out the wazoo has secrets?”
“Everybody’s got secrets, Soloman,” she said, almost sad. “Especially us goody-two-shoes doctors who act like we’ve got so much control. I knew girls in med school who hooked at night just for a break. Then they’d go into the lab the next day like Einstein-come-again. They were as smart and sweet and gorgeous as could be, and they had entire graveyards in their closets. Big surprise. But they had to get rid of that part of themselves that was so stifled and so dead in the lab. You’d be surprised at the madness I’ve seen.”
Soloman revealed respect. “No, Maggie, I don’t think I would.” Then for a while they said nothing, and Soloman casually crossed a line. “So, what does Amy’s father do for a living?”
She became quiet, morose, and placed both hands under her chin as she answered, “Dave, or Amy’s father, left us to fend for ourselves a long time ago. Found greener grass.”
He grimaced, pausing. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t know.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “Dave was just a weak man. He supported us well enough, I suppose. But he didn’t like being tied down – didn’t like the responsibilities.” She shook her head. “Or the same old thing every night. So I come home from med school one day, and he meets me at the door and says he’s leaving. Just sign the papers when you get ‘em.” Her laugh was sad. “Left me when Amy wasn’t even a year old. She’s never known a father.”
“You’ve done well with her.”
“Well, I think she’s taken it harder than it looks. She’s always wanted a father. And it’s sad, really, because she’s such a sweet kid. Never did go through the terrible twos. Went right over them.”
Soloman understood her pain, just as he understood Amy’s. He wondered if Malo was watching and decided that he didn’t care. Her next question was hesitant as she turned to him: “And you?”
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