Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  The next image showed a younger version of the same woman, this time on a college campus and dressed in a graduation gown.

  ‘Daphne Brent was an expert chemist who worked at Infinity Pharmaceuticals until the owner took a liking to her and they got married. When she fell pregnant, Marcus turned her into a housewife overnight. That’s all we know about Fowler’s family, except that young Anthony went to Stanford instead of attending Boston College like his father.’

  Next slide: young Anthony, looking not much older than a teenager, with a serious expression on his face, standing beneath a banner that read ‘1971’.

  ‘He graduated magna cum laude at the age of twenty with a degree in Psychology. The youngest in his class. That photo was taken a month before classes ended. On the last day of the term, he collected his things and walked into the university recruitment offices. He wanted to go to Vietnam.’

  An image appeared on the screen of a worn yellowed form that had been filled out by hand.

  ‘This is a photograph of his AFQT, his Armed Forces Qualifying Test. Fowler scored ninety-eight out of one hundred. The sergeant was so impressed that he immediately sent him to Lackland Air Force Base in Texas where he went through basic training, followed by advanced parachute regiment instruction for a Special Ops unit that retrieved downed pilots behind enemy lines. While at Lackland, he learned guerrilla tactics and became a helicopter pilot. After a year and a half of combat, he returned home a lieutenant. Among his medals is a Purple Heart and an Air Force Cross. In the report you’ll find details of the actions that earned him those medals.’

  A snapshot of several men in uniform at an airfield. At the centre stood Fowler dressed as a priest.

  ‘After Vietnam, Fowler entered a Catholic seminary and was ordained in 1977. He was assigned as military chaplain to Spangdahlem Air Force Base in Germany, where he was recruited by the CIA. With his language skills it’s easy to see why they wanted him: Fowler speaks eleven languages fluently and can get along in fifteen others. But the Company is not the only outfit that recruited him.’

  Another photo of Fowler, in Rome, with two other young priests.

  ‘At the end of the seventies, Fowler became a full-time agent for the Company. He retains his status as military chaplain and travels to a number of Armed Forces bases all over the world. The information I’ve given you so far could have been obtained from any number of agencies, but what I’m going to tell you next is top secret and was very difficult to come by.’

  The screen went blank. In the light from the projector Orville was just about able to make out an easy chair with someone sitting in it. He made an effort not to look directly at the figure.

  ‘Fowler is an agent for the Holy Alliance, the Vatican’s secret service. It’s a small outfit, generally unknown to the public, but active. One of its accomplishments is having saved the life of former Israeli president, Golda Meir, when Islamic terrorists came close to blowing up her plane during a visit to Rome. The medals were awarded to Mossad, but the Holy Alliance didn’t care. They take the phrase ‘secret service’ literally. Only the Pope and a handful of cardinals are officially informed of their work. Among the international intelligence community, the Alliance is respected and feared. Unfortunately, I have little to add about Fowler’s history with this institution. As for his work with the CIA, my professional ethics and my contract with the Company don’t allow me to reveal anything further, Mr Kayn.’

  Orville cleared his throat. Even though he didn’t expect an answer from the figure sitting at the end of the room, he paused.

  Not a word.

  ‘As to your second question, Mr Kayn…’

  Orville wondered for a moment if he should reveal that Netcatch was not responsible for finding this particular piece of information. That it had come to his office in a sealed envelope from an anonymous source. And that there were other interests involved who clearly wanted Kayn Industries to have it. But then he recalled the humiliating spray of mentholated mist and simply went on talking.

  On the screen a young woman appeared with blue eyes and copper-coloured hair.

  ‘This is a young journalist named…’

  7

  EDITORIAL OFFICES OF EL GLOBO

  MADRID, SPAIN

  Thursday, 6 July 2006. 8:29 p.m.

  ‘Andrea! Andrea Otero! Where the hell are you?’

  To say that the newsroom fell silent at the sound of the Editor-in-Chief’s shouts would not be entirely accurate, for the newsroom of a daily paper is never quiet one hour before going to press. But there were no voices, which made the background noise of telephones, radios, televisions, fax machines and printers seem like an uneasy kind of silence. The Chief was carrying a suitcase in each hand, and had a newspaper tucked under one arm. He dropped the suitcases at the entrance to the newsroom and walked straight over to the International section, to the only empty desk. He banged his fist on it angrily.

  ‘You can come out now. I saw you duck under there.’

  Slowly a mane of coppery-blonde hair and the face of a young blue-eyed woman emerged from beneath the desk. She tried to act nonchalantly, but her face was tense.

  ‘Hey there, Chief. I just dropped my pen.’

  The veteran newsman reached up and adjusted his wig. The issue of the Editor-in-Chief’s baldness was taboo, so it certainly wouldn’t help Andrea Otero that she had just witnessed this manoeuvre.

  ‘I’m not happy, Otero. Not happy at all. Can you tell me what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean, Chief?’

  ‘Do you have fourteen million euros in the bank, Otero?’

  ‘Not the last time I looked.’

  In fact, the last time she checked, her five credit cards were seriously overdrawn, thanks to her insane addiction to Hermes bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes. She was thinking of asking the accounts department for an advance on her Christmas bonus. For the next three years.

  ‘You’d better have a rich aunt who’s about to pop her clogs, because that’s how much you’re going to cost me, Otero.’

  ‘Don’t get angry with me, Chief. What happened in Holland won’t happen again.’

  ‘I’m not talking about your room service bills, Otero. I’m talking about François Dupré,’ said the editor, slamming the previous day’s newspaper on the desk.

  Holy shit, that’s what this is about, thought Andrea.

  ‘One day! I take off one lousy day in the last five months, and all of you screw up.’

  In an instant the entire newsroom, down to the last reporter, stopped gaping and turned back to their desks, suddenly able to concentrate on their work once more.

  ‘Come on, Chief. Embezzlement is embezzlement.’

  ‘Embezzlement? Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Of course! Transferring a huge amount of money from your clients’ accounts into your personal account is definitely embezzlement.’

  ‘And using the front page of the International section to trumpet a simple mistake made by the principal stockholder in one of our major advertisers is a royal fuck-up, Otero.’

  Andrea swallowed, feigning innocence.

  ‘Principal stockholder?’

  ‘Interbank, Otero. Who, in case you didn’t know, spent twelve million euros last year on this newspaper and was thinking of spending another fourteen this coming year. Was thinking. Past tense.’

  ‘Chief… the truth doesn’t have a price.’

  ‘Yes, it does: fourteen million euros. And the heads of those responsible. You and Moreno are out of here. Gone.’

  The other guilty party walked in dragging his feet. Fernando Moreno was the night editor who had cancelled the harmless story about an oil company’s profits and replaced it with Andrea’s bombshell. It was a brief attack of courage that he now regretted. Andrea looked at her colleague, a middle-aged man, and thought about his wife and three children. She swallowed again.

  ‘Chief… Moreno had nothing to do with it. I’m the one who put in the articl
e just before going to press.’

  Moreno’s face brightened for a second then returned to its previous expression of remorse.

  ‘Don’t fuck around, Otero,’ said the Editor-in-Chief. ‘That’s impossible. You don’t have the authorisation to go into blue.’

  Hermes, the computer system at the paper, worked on a system of colours. The newspaper pages appeared in red while a reporter was working on them, in green when they went to the managing editor for approval, and then in blue when the night editor passed them to the press for printing.

  ‘I got into the blue system using Moreno’s password, Chief,’ Andrea lied. ‘He had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Oh yes? And where did you get the password? Can you explain that?’

  ‘He keeps it in the top drawer of his desk. It was easy.’

  ‘Is that right, Moreno?’

  ‘Well… yes, Chief,’ said the night editor, trying hard not to show his relief. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The Editor-in-Chief of El Globo was still not satisfied. He turned so quickly towards Andrea that his wig slid slightly on his bald head.

  ‘Shit, Otero. I was wrong about you. I thought you were just an idiot. Now I realise you’re an idiot and a troublemaker. I will personally make sure that no one ever hires a sneaky bitch like you again.’

  ‘But, Chief…’ said Andrea, starting to sound desperate.

  ‘Save your breath, Otero. You’re fired.’

  ‘I didn’t think-’

  ‘You’re so fired that I don’t see you any more. I don’t even hear you.’

  The Chief strode away from Andrea’s desk.

  Looking around the room, Andrea saw nothing but the backs of her fellow reporters’ heads. Moreno came and stood next to her.

  ‘Thanks, Andrea.’

  ‘It’s all right. It would be crazy for both of us to get fired.’

  Moreno shook his head. ‘I’m sorry you had to tell him that you broke into the system. Now he’s so mad he’ll make things really difficult for you out there. You know what happens when he gets on one of his crusades…’

  ‘Looks like he’s already started,’ Andrea said, gesturing to the newsroom. ‘Suddenly, I’m a leper. Well, it’s not as if I was anyone’s favourite before this.’

  ‘You’re not a bad person, Andrea. In fact, you’re quite a gutsy reporter. But you’re a loner and you never worry about the consequences. Anyway, good luck.’

  Andrea swore to herself that she wouldn’t cry, that she was a strong and independent woman. She gritted her teeth while Security placed her things in a box, and with a great deal of effort was able to keep her promise.

  8

  ANDREA OTERO’S APARTMENT

  MADRID, SPAIN

  Thursday, 6 July 2006. 11:15 p.m.

  The thing that Andrea hated the most since Eva had gone for good was the sound of her own keys when she came home and deposited them on the little table next to the door. They made an empty echo in the hallway that, to Andrea, seemed to sum up her life.

  When Eva had been there, everything was different. She would run to the door like a little girl, kiss Andrea, and start babbling about the things she’d done or the people she’d met. Andrea, overwhelmed by this whirlwind that prevented her from reaching the sofa, would pray for some peace and quiet.

  Her prayers had been answered. Eva had left one morning, three months ago, the same way she had shown up: suddenly. There was no sobbing or tears, no regrets. Andrea had said practically nothing, was even somewhat relieved. She’d have plenty of time for regrets later, when the faint echo of keys broke the silence of her apartment.

  She had tried to deal with the emptiness in different ways: leaving the radio on when she left the house, putting the keys back in the pocket of her jeans as soon as she walked in, talking to herself. None of her ruses was able to mask the silence, for it came from within.

  Now as she entered the apartment her foot shoved aside her latest attempt at not being lonely: an orange tabby. At the pet shop the cat had seemed cute and loving. It took Andrea almost forty-eight hours to begin hating it. That was fine with her. You could deal with hatred. It was active: you simply hated someone or something. What she couldn’t deal with was frustration. You just had to put up with that.

  ‘Hi, LB. They’ve fired Mummy. What do you think about that?’

  Andrea had given him the name LB, short for Little Bastard, after the monster had got into the bathroom and managed to hunt down and rip apart an expensive tube of shampoo. LB did not appear to be impressed with the news that his mistress had been fired.

  ‘You don’t care, do you? You should, though,’ Andrea said, pulling a can of Whiskas out of the refrigerator and spooning its contents on to a dish in front of LB. ‘When there’s nothing left for you to eat I’ll sell you to Mr Wong’s Chinese restaurant on the corner. Then I’ll go and order chicken with almonds.’

  The idea that he would become part of the menu at a Chinese restaurant didn’t curb LB’s appetite. The cat had no respect for anything or anybody. He lived in his own world, ill-tempered, apathetic, undisciplined and proud. Andrea hated him.

  Because he reminds me so much of myself, she thought.

  She looked around, annoyed at what she saw. The bookcases were covered in dust. There were leftovers on the floor, the sink was buried under a mountain of dirty dishes, and the manuscript of a half-finished novel that she had started three years ago was scattered over the bathroom floor.

  Fuck. If only I could pay for a cleaning lady by credit card…

  The only place in the apartment that was neat and orderly was the huge – thank god – wardrobe in her bedroom. Andrea was very careful with her clothes. The rest of the apartment looked like a war zone. She believed her messiness had been one of the main reasons for the breakup with Eva. They had been together for two years. The young engineer was a cleaning machine and Andrea had affectionately dubbed her The Romantic Vacuum Cleaner because she loved tidying the apartment to the accompaniment of Barry White.

  At this point, as she surveyed the disaster that was her apartment, Andrea had a revelation. She’d clean up the pigsty, sell her clothes on eBay, find a well-paid job, pay off her debts, and make up with Eva. She now had a goal, a mission. Everything would turn out perfectly.

  She felt a rush of energy through her body. This lasted precisely four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, the exact time it took her to open a rubbish bag, fling in a quarter of the leftovers on the table along with a few dirty dishes that were beyond salvaging, move haphazardly from one spot to another, then knock over the book she’d been reading the night before so that the photo inside fell to the floor.

  The two of them together. The last one they’d taken.

  It’s useless.

  She dropped onto the sofa, sobbing, as the rubbish bag disgorged part of its contents onto the living-room rug. LB came over and nibbled on a slice of pizza. The cheese had started to turn green.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it, LB? I can’t escape the person I am, at least not with a mop and broom.’

  The cat didn’t pay the least attention but ran over to the apartment entrance and began rubbing itself against the door frame. Andrea stood up mechanically, realising that somebody was about to ring the bell.

  What kind of lunatic would come over at this time of night?

  She threw the door open, surprising her visitor before he could ring.

  ‘Hey there, beautiful.’

  ‘I guess news travels fast.’

  ‘Bad news does. If you start crying, I’m out of here.’

  Andrea stepped aside without rubbing the expression of disgust from her face, but secretly she was relieved. She should have guessed. Enrique Pascual had been her best friend and shoulder to cry on for many years. He worked for one of the big radio stations in Madrid, and every time Andrea stumbled Enrique showed up at her door with a bottle of whisky and a smile. This time he must have thought that she was especially needy because the whisky was twel
ve years old and to the right of his smile was a bouquet of flowers.

  ‘You had to do it, didn’t you? The super-reporter had to fuck with one of the paper’s major advertisers,’ Enrique said, going down the hall and into the living room without tripping over LB. ‘Is there a clean vase in this dump?’

  ‘Let them die and give me the bottle. Who cares! Nothing lasts for ever.’

  ‘Now you’ve lost me,’ Enrique said, ignoring the problem of the flowers for the moment. ‘Are we talking about Eva or getting fired?’

  ‘I don’t think I know,’ Andrea muttered, appearing from the kitchen with a glass in each hand.

  ‘If you’d hooked up with me, maybe things would have been clearer.’

  Andrea tried not to laugh. Enrique Pascual was tall, attractive, and ideal for any woman for the first ten days of the relationship, then a nightmare for the next three months.

  ‘If I liked men you’d be in my top twenty. Probably.’

  It was now Enrique’s turn to laugh. He poured two fingers of whisky neat. He had hardly taken a sip before Andrea had emptied her glass and was reaching for the bottle.

  ‘Take it easy, Andrea. It’s not a good idea to end up in Casualty. Again.’

  ‘I think it would be a fucking great idea. At least I’d have somebody to look after me.’

  ‘Thank you for not appreciating my efforts. And don’t be so dramatic.’

  ‘You think it’s not dramatic losing your lover and your job in the space of two months? My life is shit.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue with you there. At least you’re surrounded by what’s left of her,’ Enrique said, waving disgustedly at the mess in the room.

  ‘Maybe you could become my cleaning lady. I’m sure it would be more useful than that bullshit sports programme you pretend to work on.’

  Enrique’s expression didn’t change. He knew what was coming next and so did Andrea. She buried her head in a cushion and screamed with all her might. After a few seconds her scream turned into sobs.